Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Summary:  Set after "Camera," Logan tries to adapt to life without money. Max tries to help. Will he survive?
AN: 1) Thanks so much for all the feedback. Trying humor was a little nerve wracking (for the world's worst joke teller) so I really appreciate all your comments.
2) Thanks to Sister Moon for the cleaning idea.
3) It has been pointed out by my beta (right before she fell asleep on paragraph nine) that I have been picking on one political party. In the interest of fairness, the next chapter, assuming I will survive this one, will poke fun solely at the Democratic Party (but come on you don't need me for that—they do so well all by themselves.)
4) Standard warning re bad taste applies.

This Makes No Sense Whatsoever
Chapter 4: Clean Up

He had just read the complete works of Nietzsche and now he was starting on Kafka. He was really glad he had saved his grandmother's box of books for bedtime reading. They certainly had a very calming effect, in fact . . . he checked his wrist . . . no, he was still alive. But it would take more than German literature to cheer him up after the excursion to Snips last week. He sighed, knowing where this would lead . . . right to that case of Nora Roberts novels he had hidden under the kitchen sink and that, of course, would lead to hard liquor.

He still couldn't face Max, so he had locked himself in the apartment and concentrated on bettering his mind. However, at this stage, he suspected that might require bleach and large amounts of sulfuric acid.

To make matters worse, Max had arrived at his skylight last night, looking bedraggled and muttering something about leading a raid on the fish market, and could she take a hot shower to clean up. Of course, he'd let her and he had tried to concentrate on the dehumanization of the humanities in pre war German society as he had heard her rustling around in the bathroom. However, his imagination had gotten the better of him again, and he had spent thirty very uncomfortable minutes with his head in a sink full of cold water.

It was a miracle he hadn't drowned, although drowning may have been a mercy. She had left in a huff, yelling something about being attacked by mold in the shower stall and that she would be back the following evening with a couple of gallons of Lysol and rubber gloves and he had better be ready to help clean up this pig sty. God he loved her when she was angry, it just made him want to throw his arms around her and teach her everything he knew about . . . the complete works of Bertolt Brecht.

There he went again. Why couldn't he control his thought process around this woman? He liked to think he was an enlightened male, able to treat members of the opposite sex with the dignity and respect they deserved. It was as if in her presence his reptilian brain was fed large amounts of Miracle Grow and any semblance of his usual suave and debonair self dissolved into a goopy porridge.

Maybe he was trying for too much control. What if he loosened up a little—like James Bond perhaps? Suave, debonair, respectful and horny as hell—no, playful . . . yes, that was the correct word, playful as hell.  He was done with mind control. Tonight he would adopt a new strategy. He cocked an eyebrow and cracked his most charming smile, . . . the name was Cale, Logan Cale. And if that didn't work, he could always lock himself in the bathroom. He was on his home turf, what could possibly go wrong?

A noise on the roof brought him scooting over to the skylight to welcome the beautiful, enigmatic female about to drop in. THUD! Good God, that industrial sized bucket of disinfectant had almost solved all his problems. He tried to resurrect his delish grin as Max followed the cleaning supplies into the apartment.

"This place is a dump." Ah, she was trying to resist his charms already. Uh-oh, now she was peeling off her skin-tight leather jacket and revealing a skimpy piece of white cotton applied to her upper torso that she probably called a T-shirt: typical Bond female, trying to distract him while all the time planning his downfall. Now she was going to dazzle him with witty repartee and make him confess his innermost thoughts. "Can I borrow an old shirt to clean in?" Well, maybe the interrogation came later—he could always hope.

His grin became even wider. She could have her pick of his shirts, all of which were freshly cleaned and pressed, and hanging neatly in his closet. He, Cale . . . Logan Cale, had recently solved his laundry problem by hacking into Super Suds' mainframe and billing his weekly laundry to the National Republican Party. He felt this action was justified given his increased expenditure on hair gel, for which he held the right wing completely responsible. (See chapter 3, line 2086.) Maybe Super Suds had been a little suspicious at his request to drop his bundle of clothes on a park bench every Friday afternoon, but he felt sure nothing would be said—you had to say this for the Republicans, they were excellent tippers.

Max was reappearing in the hallway having walked into his bedroom . . .  into his bedroom, and slipped into one of his flannel shirts . . .  into one of his shirts. Oh God, bathroom or Bond—decide quickly.

"Like a martini? Shaken, not stirred." She was looking at him funny—yet again.

"Quit messing around . . . and why do you keep grinning like that?" She was perfect—agent Guevarretsky—down to business, determined, direct, dangerous  . . . yeah, remember that Cale, one false move and she'll snap you like a twig. "Let's start in the kitchen."

Yes ma'am. He resisted saluting and contented himself with obeying Lesson 1: always listen when Max speaks.

Actually, the kitchen wasn't that bad . . . as long as no one opened the dishwasher. Ooops . . . too late. Now she really did look dangerous . . . but cute, even under 28 days of dirty dishes.

"Here, start cleaning the oven." She was remarkably controlled, but he did notice her hand shaking a little as she handed him a can of . . . what was that exactly? She was watching him. Remember . . . Sean Connery.

"Ah, oven cleaner. Why don't I: one, preheat to a temperature of 200 degrees; two, shake can vigorously; three, apply in even layer over all interior surfaces having first turned off oven." Man, he was glad he was wearing his glasses. Oven cleaner . . . you had to clean ovens? (He vaguely remembered now--self-cleaning ovens were outlawed years ago by the EPA and the National Society Against Nitpickers in Dark Angel Fanfiction.) Maybe that explained why half of the city's firefighters--and God bless them every one--had arrived at his apartment the last time he had preheated in preparation for baking his lemon, poppy seed muffins. OK heat, shake, apply . . . wooah, what was this stuff? He stopped abruptly.

"It's foam cleaner Logan. You know, like shaving foam."

What? She was looking at him funny--again. Well of course he knew what foam was--did she think he was a complete idiot? --But shaving . . .?

Half an hour later, he was getting bored with a capital B. All this polishing and wiping and scrubbing that Max insisted he engage in was doing nothing for his new Bond persona. And, he suspected, she was enjoying making him slave away while all she did was empty the refrigerator—not all of it into the waste disposal either. It was time to exert his manhood, take charge, and liven things up a little.

***

He was really starting to dislike agent Guevarretsky. Where did she get off telling him to get his butt out of her way and go clean the bathroom? OK, maybe he had been a little too enthusiastic in applying the liquid cleansing wax to the living room floor, but it made an excellent lubricated course for curling (his grandmother's favorite Olympic event, not to mention the Scottish national sport—Sean Connery would have approved.) And maybe he shouldn't have used his mother's best silver tea service, but they were his family heirlooms dammit. To be fair, he probably shouldn't have tried to impress her by following up his curling prowess with a demonstration of wheelchair tobogganing, but he seriously doubted her contention that the hole in the kitchen wall was too large to plaster over.

"Here's the ammonia, here's the bleach and be sure not to mix the two." She'd sounded like Joseph Stalin on a bad day. Did she think he was a complete idiot? Why would he use two cleaning agents when it would only take half the time to apply one? Well to hell with it, and to hell with Lesson 1, he was going to vacuum the bedroom instead.

***

Logan smiled his best Bond smile as he ran the vacuum back and forth. This really was very restful, not to mention efficient. The appliance had picked up all the junk littering the floor with the exception of his dirty socks—just as well, the Republicans may choke on the cost of Super Suds extracting them for cleaning.

Only the walk-in storage closet left to do. What a mess! Obviously, his faithful cleaning lady hadn't cleaned this out in the last decade or so. Oh well, let the Dirt Devil do its damnedest. Oh no, it was eating his paint on black velvet picture of Elvis. He'd always meant to hang it, but it had clashed with the Hocking.

NO, stop, stop . . .now it was attacking his father' s life sized portrait of George W. Bush, Jr.-- not that he had ever thought of hanging that. No, it reminded him too much of Bilbo Baggins, and that brought back memories of his grandmother's nightly readings of Lord of the Rings, during which she would portray all the major characters in full costume and make up. It really was very impressive, but scary nonetheless. Anyway, it had all come to an end during her famous reenactment of the Final Battle for Endor, after which his mother had confiscated all three volumes of Tolkien--at least until the walls had been repainted and grandma had promised she wouldn't use the flame thrower again.

Finally, he found the off switch and managed to extract the ex-president's left foot from the vacuum cleaner. He placed him back in the corner beside the oil on canvas of Janet Reno and his collection of Neil Sedaka CDs. You know, George Jr. hadn't been such a bad leader. In fact, he had done a great deal to relieve stress in the work place. Yes, the adoption of the 'Little Bush Work Ethic' had really taken a load off the workingman in America, but like so many good things, it had been taken to extremes by the next generation. He really felt the Bush twins--who had taken over the presidency in a particularly bloodthirsty coup back in 2010--had gone overboard in that regard, with the blonde one working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and the dark one Tuesdays and Thursdays—unless one of them had a hangover and then the other one subbed. Of course, the presidency shut down on weekends and public holidays and for the months of August and December. Logan sighed and wheeled to the bathroom guiltily. He shouldn't be slacking; he should be obeying Lesson 1.

***

He couldn't believe it, but he had seen it with his own two eyes as he had scooted into the hallway to pick up the bleach and ammonia. She had rearranged all his cooking utensils, or rather flung them onto the hooks on the kitchen wall in total disarray. It had taken him an entire evening (one she had spent horsing around chasing hoverdrones) to hang them all in alphabetical order. The woman was a sociopath, and a bossy one at that, and he was tired of being mister nice guy Bond.

He barged into the bathroom, cleaning containers on his lap. Swinging open the door of the shower stall, he uncapped the bottles. What had she said? Don't mix the two?  Well he was tired of following Lesson 1. It had brought him nothing but public humiliation and physical discomfort. He'd just throw them both in and have done with the cleaning in double quick time. Uh-oh . . . why was there a gaseous cloud wafting through the air? Maybe he should lean in and turn on the shower before any wafted in Max's direction. Suddenly, he was feeling dizzy, even the ice cold water pummeling the back of he neck couldn't help him focus. Woops . . . the floor of the stall appeared to be approaching at a rapid speed . . .

***

He was lying on something soft, but someone was beating him ferociously about the head. He opened his eyes and Max's face came slowly into focus. Her eyes were full of concern, her brow crinkled with worry, her ivory soft skin pale and wan—she really was perfect. If only she would stop tapping his cheeks gently with her delicate fists of steel.

Wait a minute . . . they were in the bedroom, on his bed. He was flat on his back and she was straddling him. My God, what had happened to him? He had been in the shower stall inhaling toxic fumes and crashing into the fuax granite flooring at the speed of light. Max must have rushed in fearlessly and rescued him. Oh God, he had disobeyed her orders and look what had happened. They had ended up, soaking wet and shaking—he knew it, he knew it—he should have disregarded Lesson 1 weeks ago.

"Can you sit up?" No, he didn't think he could, at least not while Max was in that delicious position. "Can you talk?" Well, maybe he could manage a whisper. She leaned forward to listen, the flannel shirt gapping open, revealing an extremely wet excuse for a T-shirt. She had very obviously taken to heart his discussion of feminist dress codes from last week.

"Logan, Logan . . .can you move?" No, he definitely couldn't move, except maybe to encircle her waist with his right arm, while running the fingers of his left hand gently through her hair and pulling her in to him until her luscious lips were barely centimeters away from a rapturous kiss, their bodies touching intimately, her fingers caressing his hair, his hand moving down her back as she shifted to bring them closer together, her breasts heaving with longing against his drenched shirt, her ragged breathing the only sound in the entire universe . . . except for the fire alarm and the crash of axes through the front door of the apartment.

No, no . . . don't go Max. His eyes watered up as the fumes from the oven cleaner hit. Turn off oven, turn off oven . . . he knew he'd forgotten to do something . . . and he should have know better than to use a product called Easy-Off. Well, he didn't care any more, let the whole building burn down, just get agent Guevarretsky back in here on the double.

NO, no . . . get all those manic firefighters out of here right now. Always at the call, ready to poke their axes into other people's business—he hated them, every one. "Hey you. Yeah you with the big boots, . . . go get me a gallon of martini, shaken, stirred, liquidized, laced with arsenic . . .

 Oh, come on . . . stop throwing those rotten tomatoes. There's always the next chapter, assuming any of you will ever read TMNSW again . . ..