Of Hell and Hand Baskets
Squirrel Agents
I once slapped a bumper sticker on the back of Golda that read "Where are we going, and why are we in this hand basket?" Hobbes was not amused, but I thought it was appropriate. The bumper sticker could have also contained the old adage: "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."
Now I know for certain we're both on greased skids to that fiery destination of legend. Our epitaphs will no doubt read "They meant well."
Called on the Carpet Burns
The Official sat behind his desk like a smoldering volcano. His Agents' last case report was open on this desk. He was sorting through the pile of receipts for damages and conferring in hushed tones with his able aide and bean counter, Eberts.
It wasn't bad enough that Fawkes and Hobbes had messed up. They KNEW they'd screwed the pooch, big time, on this fiasco of a mission. But the worst part was that it threatened the very foundation of the Agency itself, such as it was.
The partners sat like truant 12 year olds in the Principal's Office, with their hands limply on their laps. Their physical injuries had been minimal. Hobbes' hand was bandaged loosely, and Fawkes had some scrapes on his face.
"What is this expense?" He asked them levelly.
"To replace the couch, sir." Bobby responded almost inaudibly.
"What? I didn't hear you." demanded the Official gruffly.
"To replace one of the couches, that was burned, sir. It was part of the furniture bill." Hobbes responded.
The large older man again conferred with Eberts. They spoke in whispers and exchanged several pieces of paper.
"And this one. Emergency veterinary services?"
"Yes sir." Bobby's voice dropped lower again.
"The creature in question being Vietnamese Pot Bellied Pig?" The Official pursed his lips in and out.
"Yes, sir." Hobbes grimly intoned, and felt prompted by the Official's questioning eyes. "A beloved family pet. Unfortunately, it passed away."
"Of course. This?"
"For the Ambassador's hair piece." offered Eberts, to Hobbes' relief.
"Yes, Ambassador Steele. And, this one?"
"Haz-Mat Disposal fees."
"Disposal fees. For disposing what exactly?" he asked sharply, repressing a snarl on his upper lip.
"Ah, there was a misdirected shipment of radium."
"Uh huh. And, the last and still my favorite." He waved the bill in the air.
"Poultry Transport."
He paused, looking up over his glasses at the boys.
"$45,000 damages for loss of business and live stock." He took off his glasses and ran his hand roughly over his face and eyes.
"You destroyed a bless-ed chicken truck! Your parents would be so proud!" he said through clenched teeth.
He glared at his two crack agents, his eyes piercing them like laser beams. There was no sound except the ticking of a clock, a far away hollow sound.
"You've been unusually quiet, Mister Fawkes. Do you have anything to add?"
Ouch! "Mister" Fawkes, just like when you're in really big trouble and mom uses your full name. If Fawkes ever really wanted to be invisible in his life, it was right this minute.
"No sir. I don't. But."
"But what? But WHAT? Do you two have any idea of the repercussions from your incompetent, lame-brained, muddle-headed, idiotic actions?"
Fawkes winced and Hobbes squeezed his eyes shut. "Just shut up, kid." Hobbes thought. "This isn't the first time we've been taken to the woodshed with the belt collection, and if we're LUCKY, it may not be the last!"
Official Charles Borden rose slowly pushing himself up with his hand planted squarely on his desk. He walked out from behind it, rearing up like a grisly bear stalking a beached salmon. He brought his face down at level with Darien's.
"One more question, Fawkes. Just one more.
"Before you commandeered and subsequently crashed the helicopter did you raise your arms and say 'Hey Hobbes, watch this!'?"
Darien's face reddened and he couldn't help but slouch into his chair.
The Official pulled himself up to his full height and glanced toward Eberts who was cowering in the shadows. Eberts was not being chewed out, of course, but his boss's constrained wrath was enough to make him want to be anywhere but here. Given the mood the boss was in, he would eventually take it out on the hapless accountant.
The Official towered with menace over his agents.
"Do I need to remind you two of the dire consequences this entire project faces in the coming weeks?"
No really, he didn't. But sure, he was going to.
"This could mean that the entire I-man Project may be disbanded. Hobbes may be relieved permanently and never work in any government agency again, not even in a janitorial capacity!
"Claire will do well in pharmaceutical research and Fawkes.
"Fawkes." he paused.
"Fawkes! I can sell you for PARTS!"
Darien cringed. The Fat Man was NOT kidding.
"Fawkes will either be "reassigned" into the clutches of another agency or worse. You think you have it bad here, kid?" He wagged a scolding finger at Darien. "Wait until you see what some other agencies will do with you! Or maybe you don't like daylight and regular meals! **
"Or, the gland could be "harvested" and you'll be left with whatever fallout that would precipitate including your own death or irreparable mental and physical disabilities.
"Though given this recent fiasco, I'm not sure anyone will notice any mental deficiencies.
"But worst of all gentlemen, I will be disgraced, a laughing stock, forced to early retirement on a limited fixed income. Do I make myself clear?"
He paused and took a shaking breath in as if to wind up again, but thought better of it. He could feel his blood pressure rise into the danger zone. He tamped at his face and forehead with a folded handkerchief.
"You are BOTH relieved of duty for the remainder of the week, without pay. I'll decide what to do with you next week, if indeed, there IS a next week for any of us."
The two agents sat in stunned silence.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of here, and don't let me catch hide nor hair of either one of you until Monday morning. And I might add Fawkes, PUNCTUALLY, on Monday." He sputtered, finally beginning to openly lose it.
Finally! Descent to Hell, Part Seventeen, was over and the partners beat a hasty retreat toward the door. They smashed into each other, did an "after you" "no after you" routine, ran into each other again, and finally pushed together out of the room. Under any other circumstances, they world have laughed at their impromptu Stooges gag, but they didn't even realize it had happened.
Squirrel Agents
I once slapped a bumper sticker on the back of Golda that read "Where are we going, and why are we in this hand basket?" Hobbes was not amused, but I thought it was appropriate. The bumper sticker could have also contained the old adage: "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."
Now I know for certain we're both on greased skids to that fiery destination of legend. Our epitaphs will no doubt read "They meant well."
Called on the Carpet Burns
The Official sat behind his desk like a smoldering volcano. His Agents' last case report was open on this desk. He was sorting through the pile of receipts for damages and conferring in hushed tones with his able aide and bean counter, Eberts.
It wasn't bad enough that Fawkes and Hobbes had messed up. They KNEW they'd screwed the pooch, big time, on this fiasco of a mission. But the worst part was that it threatened the very foundation of the Agency itself, such as it was.
The partners sat like truant 12 year olds in the Principal's Office, with their hands limply on their laps. Their physical injuries had been minimal. Hobbes' hand was bandaged loosely, and Fawkes had some scrapes on his face.
"What is this expense?" He asked them levelly.
"To replace the couch, sir." Bobby responded almost inaudibly.
"What? I didn't hear you." demanded the Official gruffly.
"To replace one of the couches, that was burned, sir. It was part of the furniture bill." Hobbes responded.
The large older man again conferred with Eberts. They spoke in whispers and exchanged several pieces of paper.
"And this one. Emergency veterinary services?"
"Yes sir." Bobby's voice dropped lower again.
"The creature in question being Vietnamese Pot Bellied Pig?" The Official pursed his lips in and out.
"Yes, sir." Hobbes grimly intoned, and felt prompted by the Official's questioning eyes. "A beloved family pet. Unfortunately, it passed away."
"Of course. This?"
"For the Ambassador's hair piece." offered Eberts, to Hobbes' relief.
"Yes, Ambassador Steele. And, this one?"
"Haz-Mat Disposal fees."
"Disposal fees. For disposing what exactly?" he asked sharply, repressing a snarl on his upper lip.
"Ah, there was a misdirected shipment of radium."
"Uh huh. And, the last and still my favorite." He waved the bill in the air.
"Poultry Transport."
He paused, looking up over his glasses at the boys.
"$45,000 damages for loss of business and live stock." He took off his glasses and ran his hand roughly over his face and eyes.
"You destroyed a bless-ed chicken truck! Your parents would be so proud!" he said through clenched teeth.
He glared at his two crack agents, his eyes piercing them like laser beams. There was no sound except the ticking of a clock, a far away hollow sound.
"You've been unusually quiet, Mister Fawkes. Do you have anything to add?"
Ouch! "Mister" Fawkes, just like when you're in really big trouble and mom uses your full name. If Fawkes ever really wanted to be invisible in his life, it was right this minute.
"No sir. I don't. But."
"But what? But WHAT? Do you two have any idea of the repercussions from your incompetent, lame-brained, muddle-headed, idiotic actions?"
Fawkes winced and Hobbes squeezed his eyes shut. "Just shut up, kid." Hobbes thought. "This isn't the first time we've been taken to the woodshed with the belt collection, and if we're LUCKY, it may not be the last!"
Official Charles Borden rose slowly pushing himself up with his hand planted squarely on his desk. He walked out from behind it, rearing up like a grisly bear stalking a beached salmon. He brought his face down at level with Darien's.
"One more question, Fawkes. Just one more.
"Before you commandeered and subsequently crashed the helicopter did you raise your arms and say 'Hey Hobbes, watch this!'?"
Darien's face reddened and he couldn't help but slouch into his chair.
The Official pulled himself up to his full height and glanced toward Eberts who was cowering in the shadows. Eberts was not being chewed out, of course, but his boss's constrained wrath was enough to make him want to be anywhere but here. Given the mood the boss was in, he would eventually take it out on the hapless accountant.
The Official towered with menace over his agents.
"Do I need to remind you two of the dire consequences this entire project faces in the coming weeks?"
No really, he didn't. But sure, he was going to.
"This could mean that the entire I-man Project may be disbanded. Hobbes may be relieved permanently and never work in any government agency again, not even in a janitorial capacity!
"Claire will do well in pharmaceutical research and Fawkes.
"Fawkes." he paused.
"Fawkes! I can sell you for PARTS!"
Darien cringed. The Fat Man was NOT kidding.
"Fawkes will either be "reassigned" into the clutches of another agency or worse. You think you have it bad here, kid?" He wagged a scolding finger at Darien. "Wait until you see what some other agencies will do with you! Or maybe you don't like daylight and regular meals! **
"Or, the gland could be "harvested" and you'll be left with whatever fallout that would precipitate including your own death or irreparable mental and physical disabilities.
"Though given this recent fiasco, I'm not sure anyone will notice any mental deficiencies.
"But worst of all gentlemen, I will be disgraced, a laughing stock, forced to early retirement on a limited fixed income. Do I make myself clear?"
He paused and took a shaking breath in as if to wind up again, but thought better of it. He could feel his blood pressure rise into the danger zone. He tamped at his face and forehead with a folded handkerchief.
"You are BOTH relieved of duty for the remainder of the week, without pay. I'll decide what to do with you next week, if indeed, there IS a next week for any of us."
The two agents sat in stunned silence.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of here, and don't let me catch hide nor hair of either one of you until Monday morning. And I might add Fawkes, PUNCTUALLY, on Monday." He sputtered, finally beginning to openly lose it.
Finally! Descent to Hell, Part Seventeen, was over and the partners beat a hasty retreat toward the door. They smashed into each other, did an "after you" "no after you" routine, ran into each other again, and finally pushed together out of the room. Under any other circumstances, they world have laughed at their impromptu Stooges gag, but they didn't even realize it had happened.