Heat was shocked when Strike walked through the door.
Strike was surprised when he walked in. The scene was chaotic to say the least.
Shorty was still blindfolded, sitting bound in the chair. She was a terrible mess with food stains all over her clothes. Food was all over the room, and Heat was on his knees with Columbo firmly gripped in his left hand, fire blazing from his right. His clothes and hair were a mess, and he was clearly irate.
"What the fuck?!?!" yelled Strike. He pulled out his Glock 9 and aimed it at Heat. "You drop that little bastard rat right now!"
"He's not a rat, he's a--" tried Shorty.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" yelled Heat and Strike simultaneously.
"I told you that rodent is MINE, Heat; drop the little fucker and BACK back!!" snarled Strike.
"And you can suck a fat one, Strike!!" yelled Heat. "This little bastard tried to amputate my fingers for the LAST time!!!"
Shorty was giggling to her heart's content. She had no idea what was going on; she thought it was all part of the game. "You guys are so nice to play with Columbo, too!" she smiled.
The tension was so thick you would have to cut it with a sword. This was obviously another testosterone-fueled standoff between the two (it wasn't the first!!).
"Put him down, Heat. Just put him down, nice and easy, and step away from the rat," said Strike, gently tickling the trigger on his Glock.
Heat knew that Strike wouldn't bring or allow any harm to him; the gun-pulling was only on instinct. He shot Strike a defiant look; the flame in his hand grew larger.
Columbo squeaked, squeaked, squeaked, trying to get loose, and finally landed his tiny jaws on one of Heat's fingers… again.
Heat yelped in pain, tossing the rat into the air. Without missing a beat, Strike re-holstered his weapon and leaped into a flying tackle, catching Columbo. As soon as he was about to land, he felt a hand grip his ankle and yank him back. The two tumbled around furiously, wrestling for the custody of the hungry rodent.
"Raise up!!" yelled Strike.
"He's mine!! He bit me… three times…!" growled Heat.
The wrestling continued, and Strike still had his right hand around Columbo. He cupped his left hand over Heat's forehead and tried to push him away, but Heat was persistent. Finally, Strike decided he'd had enough, and ended the whole confrontation with a deadly resounding fart, leg raised and all.
Completely appalled, Heat threw himself back, covering his nose. "You nasty muthafuckah!!!!" he shrieked. "I can't believe you went there, homes!"
Strike pulled himself up from the floor. "Yeah, Heat, WHUT!! I told you EVERY part of my body is a fuckin' weapon!" For a split second, he looked a little blank, and then he started laughing his ass off. "Dude, you should've seen the look on your face!!" he cackled. "That shit was classic!"
"Eeeeewwwww, you guys smell rank…" trailed Shorty before she passed out. Literally.
Heat regained his composure, only slightly. "Well, at least 'sunshine and giggles' is out of our hair for a while. Damn, Strike, you stank. You didn't even have to go there to win," sneered Heat, even though he was laughing himself.
Strike patted his own ass. "Don't be mad 'cause you didn't think of it first. Besides, you know I got that from you."
"Man, fuck you. Damn, now it's a fuckin' fart cloud of death hangin' up in the air and shit," said Heat, still holding his nose and opening a window. His eyes were watering.
Strike fell on the floor laughing.
Boys will be boys…
"So what's the deal, now?" asked Heat. A few hours had passed and the two were sitting by the window chiefing. Columbo was tied up with a twist-tie around his snout, on the kitchenette counter where he wouldn't be a bother. Shorty was still unconscious.
"I got a couple of new developments going," said Strike with a throat full of smoke. "Things have taken an interesting twist. However, I can't help but want to get a couple of other people involved."
"What? I thought you worked alone," sniped Heat knowingly.
"No, more than occasionally, I work with you. You my boy. You my muh-fuckah. Shit, we go way back. You are one of the few people that I trust. However," he said, expelling the smoke, "it's important that we… cover our tracks."
"Okay, 'Mr. Fixer'," said Heat. "Who's life are you gonna ruin this time?"
"Hmmm… that's a good question," mused Strike. He reached into one of his suitcases and pulled out a legal pad.
"Oh, GOD, do you take that with you everywhere you go?" asked Heat.
"Of course," he replied, thumbing through the pad. Three columns of names appeared on the front and back of at least 20 pages. "You never know when you'll have to put another name on the ol' 'Shit List'. Besides, this is the list of people who owe me favors."
Heat took a big hit from his blunt, and chased it with some Tequiza. "Yeah, I thought that was a little too thin to be the real shit list," he mused with a hint of sarcasm.
"Hmm, let's see. Aha, got it. I found someone who can help us out. I'll be making a phone call tomorrow while we're making our rounds."
"Rounds?" asked Heat.
"Yup. Gotta little bitch huntin' to do."
"So who's gonna stay here with these two?"
Strike pulled out huge bottles of Gin, Rum, Tequila, and Vodka. "You ever heard of the 'Nighty-night cocktail'?"
"You're gonna give them alcohol?!" laughed Heat.
"Hell to the yeah," snarled Strike. "This'll keep 'em out of our hair long enough for us to finish our unholy bid-ness!"
Heat put out his blunt. "Yeah, okay. You know what you're doing, and personally, I wish you'd off that damn bastard rat now."
"Nah," said Strike, "I've observed an odd little connection between the two of them. Besides, that's the same rat that Kinoshima used for his new logo on the website. There's something really important about it. After I find out, of course, all bets are off."
Heat sat quietly in thought. He had an idea of what Strike was getting at, but it was too early to jump to conclusions. "I've been hanging around you too long, essa," he sighed with a smile, and got up to fix himself some real food.
Strike looked over to Shorty and her rat. "You just don't know how much you're helping me out," he thought, with a sinister expression on his face. "You just DON'T know…"