You know the drill… Please, please don't bite. It's not nice.
The next morning, Heat was fighting off the most powerful hangover in history while trying to navigate his way through the Internet. Strike managed to find the name of the company that manufactured the briefcase; it was engraved in an obscure corner. Strike was in between smoking, eating, and polishing his guns lovingly.
"Hey, Strike," said Heat, a frown of frustration on his face. "What's that guy's name that you're working for?"
"Kinoshima. Why?" he asked.
"Doesn't he have his own company?"
"Several. What's up?" Strike got up to get a look-see at the computer screen.
"Well, it says here that he just opened a new company… the one that happens to have manufactured this briefcase we've got here," declared Heat.
Strike looked at the screen carefully. "I see he's changed his logo around," he muttered, turning up his nose. The new logo was a picture of a happy looking-ass rat. "Does it say what material the briefcase is made of?"
"Gimme a sec…" Heat attempted to click onto the 'product description' icon. Seconds later, he got a screen saying, "We're sorry. But you cannot access this information from your screen ID."
"Da fuck?!" scowled Heat. "Please, this is HEAT'S screen ID…. EVERYTHING is accessible to me!!" He furiously began typing away, trying to see if he could somehow bypass the screen, to no avail.
"Don't you have another screen ID?" asked Strike, representing 'The People's Eyebrow'.
"HELL no… I AM HEAT, damn it!!" He was obviously losing it.
Strike only watched on. It wasn't often that Heat got like this, so he let him go through his rant.
"You know, I get people BEGGING me to endorse shit like this little shit-ass briefcase! Who the hell are these people to deny ME access!!!…."
Strike went to the bathroom to piss, heated a couple of burgers, and smoked a quarter of another fattie (bom-battie) before Heat finished.
"You know you can get an aneurysm doing shit like that," said Strike, ever so calmly.
"Man, fuck you, a'ight? Nobody isolates me—"
"Okay, Sir Rant-A-Lot," interrupted Strike. "Why do you think you got that message?"
Heat stopped, stuck at the question. "Because they don't want me to get hold of this information…"
"You think? But why?"
"Well… everybody in the world knows that we hang tight and shit…" He snapped his fingers. "That's gotta be it, man… this dude knew I'd try to check this info, for you! He's trying to make sure that you don't get that briefcase open!"
"That son-of-a-bitch! But why is he pulling this shady shit wit' me, as many times as I've done favors for him?"
"Sounds like some ol' 'Okey Doke' to me," muttered Heat. "Didn't you say that this was your biggest job ever for this cat?"
"Yeah, but that ain't shit, you know? I'm a man of my word. Kinoshima knows this. There's something bigger going on," mused Strike, starting to get pissed again.
"Think it's a set-up?"
"Could be. Right now, I don't trust this dude as far as I can throw him. But hell, as long as I'm out here, I'm still going through with it all. I think I'll just create my own little insurance policy." Strike smirked and put his hands together in a meditative fashion…
That afternoon, Strike and Heat sat atop a tall building overlooking a private grade school, with binoculars, food, drink, music and of course, Hamm's Maui Wowie. The day was rather long and it gave them the chance to make back-up plans…
Heat was busy tapping into different phone calls made in the area. When Kinoshima's daughter made a phone call to him via cell phone, he picked up the frequency and got the number. He switched and scrambled the frequencies on Strike's cell phone and gave him a voice modification headpiece. (Yeeeaaah, baby, Heat's got gadgets!)
"You sure this is gonna work?" asked Strike, looking skeptically at the equipment, putting on the headset.
"Of course. Who am I?" asked Heat, turning slightly red at the fact that Strike was questioning his divine technological know-how.
"Why can't you talk to the little girl? I'm not good at that type a' thing."
"Because you're the one who works for ol' dude… I don't know his vocal mannerisms," responded Heat, smugly.
"Yeah, yeah… Listen, the lunch bell's ringing."
"I bet that's the only thing you miss about school, isn't it?"
"Suck a fat one," sneered Strike. He dialed the number. His phone was hooked up to Heat's laptop for a speaker effect in case Heat had to rectify any problems with the voice modifier.
"Hello?" a cute little schoolgirl voice answered sweetly.
"Hi, there, Punkin'," said Strike, repeating the pet name from the previous phone call. He turned up his nose, and he had to fake a slight French accent.
All the little girl heard was the voice of her daddy.
"Hey, Papa!" giggled the little girl, all bubbly. "Are we still gonna go out to dinner tonight? You canceled the last eight times, you know, and you absolutely promised this time!"
"Yes, yes, I know. In fact, I thought it would be fun if we played a little game." Strike was obviously disturbed, talking in such a fake manner.
"Oh, really?! A game, Papa?" The little girl's voice was filled with so much hope.
"Of course, really... I'm going to send a very special friend of mine to come and get you, but you're going to have to leave the building now and find him!"
"(GASP) I get to leave EARLY? Oh, Papa! What does the guy look like?! He'll never know what hit him!"
Strike looked at Heat and made the funniest face, an unimpressed sneer mixed with a look of "Oh Please." Heat tried not to laugh.
"He's really tall, kind of dark skinned and he's got long black hair. He'll have a friend with him and they'll take you for a spin in my new car."
"Oh Goodie! Can I leave right now?"
'Didn't I just SAY that,' thought Strike. "Yes, he'll be across the street from the school… but this is my little prank on the school, you see, so you'll have to be careful that no one sees you. Now hurry, Punkin', I'll see you shortly."
"Okay, Papa. I love you."
Silence. Strike looked at Heat like 'what the fuck'??
"Say it back," hissed Heat.
"Shhheeeeit," mouthed Strike. "Oh, um… yes, Punkin', I know. Now hurry!" Strike quickly disconnected.
"What's with you?" smirked Heat, amused. He knew how Strike despised children.
"Heat, I don't say shit like that, even in playin'. Fuck that."
Heat shook his head and began to pack up his equipment. "Well you'd better get going, hermano. The li'l young'n sounded like she was really excited. I gotta finish packin' up so I can get the car."
"Remind me to kick your ass when we get back to Tokyo," said Strike through clenched teeth, and proceeded to find his way downstairs.
Not even 10 minutes later, a little girl with brown hair pulled into two cute ponytails came bounding across the street. Obviously she had taken time to change clothes, because she was not wearing a uniform. Instead, she was wearing a bright pink and magenta striped shirt with over-sized sleeves, a backwards cap, and some huge overalls with an adorable mouse chillin' in the front pocket. Her eyes were wide and sparkling with energy, her cute cheeks flushed from the sugar rush – er, I mean, excitement of her stealth assassin-like escape from the school. She looked at Strike and knew he was the man of which her Papa spoke. She was scared as shit at first (he was scary lookin'!!), but bounded to him happily anyway. As she was preparing to wrap her short arms around his legs—
A large hand cupping over her forehead stopped her in her tracks. (She was still reaching out though…)
Strike looked down at the young girl in absolute horror that she almost touched him, and you'd better believe it was screwed utterly into his face.
"What's wrong, mister? You don't like hugs?" asked the little girl after she gave up on the hugging concept.
"No… not really. I'm not the touchy-feely type. You must be little Punkin', huh? Your dad said you were full of energy."
"Only my Papa can call me Punkin'," said the little girl. "But you can call me Shorty."
Strike glanced down at the spirited child with an almost condescending look of disdain, only to remember he had to be nice to her.
"Hello, Shorty," he said curtly, giving her a good once-over. She certainly did not look Asian at all, but that's when he remembered her father was an ambassador from France. He thought it would be proper to give himself a Japanese name for the sake of fitting in a little better. "My name is Mr. Hahn, but you can call me Strike for short."
"'Strike?' What kind of retarded name is that?" giggled Shorty. Her mouse seemed to laugh along with her.
Strike's trigger finger was itching eeever-so-slightly against the Desert Eagle he carried in the small of his back…
Shorty's life was saved, only by Heat pulling up in the rental car.
Strike heaved a sigh of relief. "Come on, Shorty, we've got a lot of riding around to do!"
The afternoon was fun for Shorty and harrowing for Strike and Heat. The two of them stayed away from children at all costs, but they had to earn her trust. But soon, it all came to an end after they picked up some food and went back to the hotel. (Of course, Shorty was blindfolded…after all, it was all a part of the game)…
Hope ya'll like how it's coming along… Let me know! Please review.