Part III: Where DOES That Music Come From?
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An expendable extra knocked, with a quivering hand, on the suitably run-down door, a fold black cloak held under his arm. He checked his colorless (this IS a black-and-white 20s film spoof, silly!) hat and shrunk back as the door opened inward slowly of its own creepy will, creaking eerily. One of the rusted hinges fell off and the door collapsed to the floor (covered with the customary multiple inches of dust, and the ashes of previous expendable extras) with a resounding crash, the weight of the top snapping loose having dragged it to the floor. He jumped.
"Crap," a grating voice muttered. "Have to get that fixed." A tall, looming figure…well, loomed up sinisterly. "Who are you?" he demanded, eyes narrowed evilly.
"Ex-ex-expendable extra," the teenaged boy stuttered, holding up the Bad Guy's cloak.
"Oooo!" the Bad Guy (who we all know the identity of by now anyway) squealed, clapping his hands together happily. "My cloak! You found it!" He snatched the cloak up and hugged it, then paused to sniff it critically. "And you dry-cleaned it." He pinned the expendable extra with a dark look. "I hate dry-cleaning."
Lightning flash, thunder boomed, and the orchestra roared. As usual.
As the glare and the noise faded, it was revealed with great horror and/or glee that the expendable extra was gone.
'Cause, like, he's the expendable extra. Duh.
Once Secret managed to right herself, arranging her overcoat back into place, and Anita stopped accusing Lobo, Timothy reholstered his revolver and took a deep, calming breath. "Lobo, you say you know this guy?"
"Yeah," Lobo shrugged carelessly. "So?" Anita smacked him lightly on his head. "What?"
"What Timothy is getting at," Secret interrupted smoothly before Anita could inflict any more affectionate damage on Lobo (who wouldn't really notice), "is, would you be able to lead us to the Bad Guy's Super Secret Hellhole/Base?"
"Actually," he corrected, pushing away from the bar and absently straightening the coat of his suit, "it's Billy's Really Really Obvious Place of Near Constant Harm." Once more, the orchestra screamed out its warning music and lightning dashed through the sky, thunder sending out waves of rumbling noise. Timothy let out a strangled noise and struggled not to grab his revolver. "Y'know, that is getting' annoying." There was another pause. "And whassup wit' all these cheesy hide-out names?"
"Lack of 20s originality?" Cissie suggested, at the same time as Bart cried, "Infidels! How dare you keep I, Archduke Ferdinand, from my rightful crown!" Cissie barely blinked as she clamped a hand over Bart's mouth. "It doesn't really matter, though, so long as we find the Bad Guy."
"Why is everyone referring to him as the Bad Guy?" Timothy snarled, frustrated. "We know his name! He's Billy! Harm! I don't care what you call him so long as it isn't BAD GUY!"
Everyone in general blinked. (Bart was too busy muttering how "the traitorous scum" would pay for refusing him his throne.)
For some idiotic reason, a flutist started playing an annoyingly chipper little song. Timothy turned, glared, and the flutist squeaked once, then fell silent. "Now," he strained out in a frighteningly calm voice, "let's go to Billy's something-something-something Harm. Lobo?"
The gangster quickly downed his third shot of the amber drink and tossed the glass container to Anita. "Be seein' ya," he grinned, following Timothy and Secret out of the bar.
"Come back to me," Anita sighed.
"Okay, that was schmaltzy," Cissie told her flatly.
"Shut-up," Anita stuck her tongue out.
Noble music played triumphantly behind the trio as they strolled along the sidewalk to the obvious and frightening apartment building that anybody in their right mind would avoid like the Spanish influenza. Lobo was beginning to experience the same things Timothy was: irritation, smoldering anger, and an intense desire to hunt down whoever wrote the repetitive score. Timothy alone, however, had a twitching left eye, and he was verging on losing control once more. Secret walked along to the best of her capability, mentally swearing at the stick-thin high heels as they wobbled threateningly beneath her weight. She wasn't that heavy.
The music swelled, growing louder and braver, displaying a heart-wrenching depth of courage and bravery. In the same instant, Lobo and Timothy pointed guns across at a suspiciously blank building, and the heel of Secret's right shoe snapped off, catapulting her forward.
"Stop playing that music!" Timothy all but screamed.
"Wha' 'e said!" Lobo roared, itching to fire on the building. The music screeched to a halt, leaving only one oblivious violinist playing the music.
"Janet, stop," a voice hissed somewhere in the building and there were mild scuffling sounds, then the violin was silenced.
"I hate these shoes!" Secret wailed.
