Defective Detective

Part IV: The Plot Thickens/The 30s!

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        "Now, now," Billy/Harm/Bad Guy murmured to himself, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "how shall I dispose of you, baby sister?"  Various nasty-looking devices that implied painful, gruesome death were spread out before him: devices ranging from a railroad spike to a piece of rope.  "So many choices!  Perhaps a bomb far too advanced for this time?  Or some far-fetched and highly improbable chain of torture devices that will trigger a final deathblow?"  He frowned and shook his head, contemplating the difficult decision he was facing. 

        Truly, he thought, how could one decide on only one way to exterminate the life of another?  It was a sad time when killers were expected to kill in their own constant manner, always using a certain pattern or order.  It made him feel saddened when he thought of all the people who forgot the true art to death.

        (Yeesh.  Intensive psychotherapy, no?)

        "Be quiet," Billy glared up at the ceiling.

        (What?  You can hear me?)

        "Well, duh," he rolled his eyes.

        (Oh, poopie!  I'll be quiet now.)

        "Thank-you."  He resumed his diabolical planning/thinking/internal ranting.

        (Weirdo.)

        "Excuse me?"

        (Shutting up!)

        Rain dripped down on Secret's shoulders, sliding in curving lines down her arms to her slender fingertips, where the droplets plummeted to the harsh cement below, dashing into nothingness.  Her bare feet slapped against the gravelly surface of the sidewalk, eyes half-lidded in resigned distaste as she trailed after Timothy and Lobo.  The air smelled gingerly of sweet rain, the clouds humming silently above as they walked.  This is absurd, she thought despairingly.  We've been walking for ten minutes and we haven't gotten any closer to Billy's secret hide-out!

        And then she noticed something strange.  Something peculiar.  Something that was completely out of place in a black-and-white 20s movie spoof.  Color.  Bright, glaring, flamboyant color.  Timothy's previously dark grey suit was now a rich chocolate-y brown color, his derby hat a pale yellow.  Lobo's suit remained black with mediocre grey stripes and nothing about him seemed to have changed…until she saw him turn his head to look at the sign for a gritty looking bar.  His eyes were…red.  "Sweet heaven," she cried softly, looking down at herself.  Her overcoat was now tan and her hands a soft shell-pink color.  Grasping at strands of her hair, she stared intently at it.  Wheat gold!  "What's happening, Timothy?" she cried, this time loudly.

        Both men stopped, looked at her, looked her up and down, and then at each other.  "My God!" Timothy suddenly yelled.  "We're not in a 20s film spoof anymore!"  Secret gasped in horror and Lobo blinked, a bit unnerved.  (Wow.  Is that possible?)  "We're in the 30s!"

        Lightning flared and thunder growled.

        "Thassit," Lobo cracked his knuckles, hefting his now-silver gun.  "I'm fraggin' the special 'fects man."

        Kelly turned and stared at Jordan, who was trying to tear his "Special Effects Man" patch off of his flannel work-shirt, his motions desperate.

        "Well," she said cheerfully, "nice working with you!"

        "I don't wanna die!" Jordan sobbed in way of reply.