Special THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!
My Date (And Not Joey or Jamie's) With Quinn!
By Jeff Bonder
(Transcribed by Steve Brown)
It had all the trimmings of being just another average day. Then the bell rang and school was out for the weekend. I gathered my things and put them in storage while other, younger – heck, they were just kids – students flew out the school doors. As I closed my locker door, two students swaggered up towards me.
"Hey, Jeffy," the first one said, pulling his hands out of his pockets.
"James," I replied with a nod.
"Hey," said the second one, looking around for someone.
"Joseph," I responded. Ah. There was who Joey was looking for. A cute redhead. Her name, Quinn Morgendorffer. Two guesses as to what they wanted to do to me to impress her.
"Now!" yelled Jamie as he took a swipe at my head. Joey threw a punch towards my stomach. Same old boys. Same old tactic. You would have thought by now they would have learned.
I ducked beneath Jamie's punch and caught Joey's fist with my two hands, jarring his shoulder and pulling his arm up so he was off balance when his now re-directed punch landed into Jamie. Since he was already off-balance, his momentum carried through and the two of them went down in one heap.
They struggled to get up quickly and have another go at me, so I karate-chopped each on the base of the neck. Down they went with not-so-subtle moans.
"Really, you two," I said. "You've got to get some new moves. Pardon me." I walked over them and headed towards the cute as a button Quinn. "You know," I started, "they only do that when you're around."
"I know," she confessed. "That's why I try to keep them away from me. I didn't really want to see you get hurt. We cute people have to stick together. Even if you are cuter than me."
"Me? Cute? I'm not cute. Handsome, but not cute."
She giggled at that.
"Um," she started, "would you like to go out with me tonight, Jeffy?"
"Now, Quinn," I admonished. "Call me old fashioned, but I think it should be the man asking the woman out and not the other way around."
"Sorry," she shrugged her shoulders.
"Now that we have that out of the way, would you like to go out with me tonight, Quinn?" I asked mainly to annoy the two waking, sore lunkheads behind me.
"Sure. My treat?"
"How can I say no to women's lib? How about Chez Pierre? I hear they have French food like French fries and French bread."
"Sure," she glowed.
"I'll pick you up at 7:00 tonight."
"I'll wait for you," she said, her breathing a little fast. "All night if I have to, Jeffy."
I knew she would. After all, how could she resist his manly charm and excellent physique? You know, sometimes it was hard just being me.
*****
I revved the motor in my car to get the oil circulating and then tore out of the parking lot, taking the speed bumps at an even speed of 55 mph. I noticed the traffic light. It just turned green. That is, green for the other direction. A bright red light was steadily showing my direction. Normally I would have waited at the light – but today was no ordinary day. I was a man with a mission. I needed to get home.
All this went through my head as the cars in the other lane began to lurch forward with their green light. I threw the car into high gear and squealed the tires as I took the corner, as it turns out in front of some drivers who didn't see it my way that I was on a mission.
"Gah-dammit! You lousy punks need to learn how to drive!" shouted one irate driver, his fist shaking out the window. Really, he had to learn to take it easy or he'd be a prime candidate for a heart attack. "Gah-dammit! Now look…" his voice faded into the distance as I wove expertly through traffic. I took another glance at him. He looked familiar. Ah, I had it. He was the guy with the hotdogs at school. Jake Consulting or something.
I lost track of him as I cruised through more lights (I forget what color they were) and took a curve at a good speed to lose the flashing pursuit. I knew I shouldn't have gone this fast, but it wasn't that often that I got to go out on a date. And this time I was going out on a date with Quinn Morgendorffer herself. Inevitable as it was.
A block from home I slowed down to an agonizingly slow 30 mph. I pulled into my house's garage and closed the door before any of the flashing pursuit could see my car or run the plate. I quickly noticed that the other space in the garage was empty – meaning that my parents weren't home. I walked into the kitchen and noticed the board on the refrigerator. A message was on it.
Kids:
Mom and I are going out to yoga class and then dinner. Call for pizza for yourselves. Cash is in the drawer. NO PARTIES! Love and kisses.
Dad
I smiled at the note. I was glad my parents weren't home now as they usually had a lot of questions they wanted answered. Where had I been? Where was I going? Who was I going out with? Was I smoking pot and all that. I was glad they were concerned about my welfare and all but how could I tell them that I'd been recruited two years ago to join a spy network and was now one of their top agents? How did I let them know that when I usually went out for non-football events I was usually armed to the teeth and ready for battle? How did I let them know that the protection talk they gave me a few weeks ago was already old news? God, I hoped they never found out about that. They would freak. So would Sandi.
Glancing at my watch, I noticed I had just enough time for my usual long shower. I didn't bother with my homework as I'd already done it in class today. I turned on the handles and jumped in when it got good and steamy. I had begun lathering my well-muscled body when the darned watch began beeping.
"On," I said to the micro-microphone in the watch. This wouldn't be good. It never was when HQ interrupted me when I took a shower. I was pretty sure they had a temperature control switch on this watch and when it registered a hot and steamy environment, they knew when to call. Bastards.
Sure enough, the digital readout disappeared and was replaced by a real-time video shot of one George Smith. A.k.a., my boss.
"Sorry to interrupt you, Bond, but we need you. You weren't doing anything hot and steamy were you?"
Bastard. "Just taking my customary shower, George. You know that. You always call me when I'm in here."
"Yes, well, if these darn temp readouts…" he started, then stopped. "Er, something's come up."
"I'm busy," I replied, rinsing the shampoo out of my hair.
"But you're the best agent we've got," he implored.
"Still busy."
"I'm afraid I have to pull rank on you, 007. I need you to take this assignment this evening."
"Can't one of the other agents to do this?" I asked, rotating the dial on the shower massage. "I've got a date tonight. A hot date, old chap."
"Hot and steamy?" he suddenly asked.
"Could be," I led him on.
"Er, I'm afraid not, Jeff. You see, we've already sent in other agents – 008 and 009. But they've gone missing. You're it, 007. Not only are you the best, but you're also the last one available in the area."
"But it's Quinn Morgendorffer we're talking about here, man."
"Quinn?" George's eyes went wide. "Really? Red-head, right? Um, I mean, we still need your services."
"The fate of the free world hangs in the balance and all that, I presume. Okay, what is it?"
"It's Dr. Evil No. He's escaped from maximum security again and this time says he's going to show the world who're they're messing with."
"You'd think for an evil genius he'd learn not to end sentences with a preposition," I muttered.
"What was that, 007?"
"Nothing, nothing. Look, just give him a million dollars and tell him to call back when it runs out. We'll catch him. Whoops, dropped the soap."
"Oh, god, don't ever pick up the soap again, agent 007. Anyway, we at HQ suspect he's in your area…"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you suspect he's in my area?"
"Um, our intelligence boys are really sharp with this sort of thing," he weasled.
"Whoops, there goes the soap again, George."
"All right, 007. He sent us an e-mail and we tracked it back to your hometown. We sent in 008 and 009 on a recon and they never came back."
"Now we're getting somewhere," I said. "So what's the rest of the scoop on this whack-job?"
"We believe all the missing plutonium from Russia has been smuggled into the US…"
"He gloated about it in his e-mail, didn't he?"
"Er… right. Anyway, we think he's up to his old tricks."
"He does tricks? You mean he's a hooker?"
"No!" George replied hotly.
"Just messing with you, George. Give me the gist of it. I'm almost out of hot water."
And he did. There wasn't much to tell other than some offshoot branch of his gang sprung his lousy ass out of prison and it was going to ruin my evening.
Or perhaps, maybe not.
*****
After a quick press of my tux, it was time to go. I went downstairs. My parents still weren't home (always a good sign when I didn't want to talk with them and have a repeat of the "protection" speech) and my sister was in the back yard with the dog. I grabbed the keys to my corvette and hit the road.
Soon enough I was at the Morgendorffer residence. Quinn's cousin or something opened the door, noticed my wink and nearly passed out with desire. Holding onto the doorknob for support, she called over her shoulder for Quinn. I smiled at the kindness and she swooned again.
Quinn walked down the stairs, nearly tripping when she saw me waiting for her.
She regained her composure and came down the rest of the way without incident. I crooked my arm and she took a hold of it, sighing as her arm slid around mine. I had that kind of effect on women apparently. Except for Ms. Barch who I think didn't really like men if you know what I mean.
"My, Jeffy," Quinn said as I escorted her to the car, opening her door. "You sure clean up nicely. Look how well you're dressed compared to those other two lunkheads you hang around with at school."
"Please, you're embarrassing me," I replied candidly. "By the way, you look pretty hot yourself."
"Thanks," she giggled. "Um, Jeffy, I know we haven't even gone on our date and all yet but do you think I could be one of your Bond girls?"
I looked at her cute redheaded face and said, "I'll think about it."
"Oooohhh, you're the best I can ever hope for, Jeffy."
True, too true. But it was a price I was willing to pay.
*****
The drive to the restaurant was uneventful for which I was grateful. The last time I went out on a date I had to shoot the tires out of some quarterback nut-job in a jeep who thought it was funny to swerve all over the road while downing a brew. Normally I wouldn't have thought twice about doing that (it was my idea of public service after all), but my date kept crying all night as if I'd traumatized her with the shooting. Hmmm, now that I think about it, I haven't seen her back at school since then.
In any event, we pulled into Chez Pierre's parking lot. I had to park up close since the back of the lot was packed tight with big rigs and other large trucks.
"Jeffy?" Quinn asked as I opened the restaurant doors for her. "Isn't this place a little more deserted than it normally is on a Friday evening?"
I looked around. There wasn't anyone else in the place at all. It did look a little light, even for the fashionably-late. The maitre d' came out of the kitchen, a scowl on his face.
"I say, old chap, the place looks awfully empty. You are open, are you not?" I asked of the new maitre d'. He looked a little familiar but I couldn't quite place him. Normally I was very good with faces, but tonight only one mattered and she was on my arm.
"NO!" shouted the maitre 'd. Then, "Um, I mean, yes it is, sir. Open, that is."
"Oh, okay, cool. Anyway, I have a reservation under Bond… Jeffy Bond."
"Oooooohhhhh, I love it when you say it like that, Jeffy," Quinn smarmed.
What can I say? It's a knack.
"NO! Um, I mean, yes, here it is, Mr. Bond. We're a little short staffed tonight so I will be your host as well as your waiter. Would you care for the wine list?"
"No, just bring us a bottle of your freshest wine. And hurry up about it."
"NO! Um, I mean, I'll need to see your ID's first."
"Fine," I said. No sense getting into a fight over underage drinking. Not when I was supposed to be on the side of the good guys. "Do you have Pepsi here?"
"NO!"
A moment went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.
"Oh, okay," Quinn said. "I'll just have a diet whatever then. With star-shaped ice."
"NO! Um, I mean, certainly Madame. Would Monsieur and Madame care to order?"
"What are the specials?"
"NO specials!"
"Oh, okay," Quinn said. "I'll have a salad."
"NO! Um, I mean, what kind of dressing?"
"Ces…" she started, watching him.
"N…" he started, watching her.
"Ita…"
"N…"
"Ran…"
"N…"
"French?" she finished.
"Oui, Madame. And for Monsieur?"
"Burger and fries," I said.
"NO! I mean… NO! Look, this is an upscale French restaurant. And you want a burger?"
"Sure. With French fries."
"NO!"
Another awkward silence went by before I realized he wasn't going to say anything else.
"Then what do you suggest?" I asked.
"NO! I mean, I think you should forget with the burger and fries and go directly for desert since that is what the decadent evil, soon to be extinct French, I mean, the glorious French people make so well."
"Well, now you're talking. How about an ice cream sundae?"
"NO!"
"App…" I started.
"N…" he started.
"Cherr…"
"N…"
"Key Lim…"
"N…"
"You know, maybe I'll just order it when we're done with the meal first," I said, closing the menu.
"NO! I mean, only the refined order desert at the beginning of the meal, right Madame?"
"Um, I guess so. So what do you recommend? The fruit tray?"
"NO! Absolutely not. It is awful. Don't waste your pretty little appetite on it. May I recommend a Baked Alaska?"
"Don't you think that will be a little heavy?"
"NO! It will be a good size. Possibly the size of a mushroom. Heh-heh-heh."
"How's the cheese-less cheesecake look tonight?"
"NO! I mean, we're out."
"You sure I can't have some ice cream?"
"NO! I mean, we're out of that as well."
I sighed. This wasn't my night. "I guess the Baked Alaska will do then."
"N—Very good, sir. I'll have the staff prepare it forthwith." He snapped the menus out of our hands and headed for the kitchen.
Quinn looked at me with a distinct fondness in her eyes. When she realized I was staring back, she said, "Oh, um, excuse me, Jeffy. I need to go to the ladies room."
She got up and went to the other side of the restaurant. At about that time, another couple came in through the front doors which jingled as the bells above the door clanged. The head waiter, that guy with the horrible accent, stormed out of the kitchen on an intercept course. Great. That gave me time to get some work in.
Normally I hated to work when I was out on a date, but my duties to my country made it clear that it was something I needed to do. Besides, I'd heard that Quinn didn't put out on the first date anyway. I got up from the table and headed for the kitchen, squeezing past a barely open door and stealing a quick look.
The first thing I noticed was that there was no way in Hell the Department Of Health ever showed up at this place. After all, it wouldn't have been too hard to notice the bound, lifeless bodies of agents 008 and 009 near the freezer which I'm pretty sure was a health code violation. Same with the rest of the regular restaurant staff that were also bound and not moving a bit since they were unequivocally in need of a post-mortem examination.
There was movement in the kitchen. I saw six men and women wearing Dr. Evil No henchmen shirts worked the lines where the cooks usually hung out. I loved new-age marketing and dot-com registering, especially when it came to t-shirts as the bad guy made it easy for you to know he (or she) was a bad guy when they wore their company's logo. Not that the good guys were above this – quite the opposite – they would if they could. But due to some budget crunches by some cheap ass bastards in the Senate…
Uh-oh. This didn't look good. They were making the salads way too large. If I ate one of those, I wouldn't even be hungry for my entrée, let alone desert. Crouching along, I finally saw was I was looking for – the sure-tell sign of a yellow nuclear box, its box lid up and the box itself empty. The plutonium had gone missing. But where was it?
"'Ey! 'Ou are you? An' whar's your buzzboy uniform?" someone asked me, tapping my shoulder.
I looked up. "My uniform is with my fake French accent, you jerk. Now keep quiet, I'm busy." I just had to find that plutonium. The fate of the free world, as well as the rest of my date with Quinn resided on it.
"'Ou are you, eh?" asked the waiter-ish kind of fellow.
I stood up since everyone in the kitchen was watching us anyway. "You haven't seen any missing plutonium, have you?" I asked. Hey, it might have worked.
It might have but it didn't. I noticed his Dr. Evil No.com shirt right away and sucker punched him in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He went down along with the sack of wet potatoes he'd been leaning on. I'd always wondered what a sack of wet potatoes would sound like when it hit the floor.
Too bad I didn't have time to find out. The rest of the kitchen came towards me. Several of the fake chefs even carried cleavers and long boning knives. One man and two women were the closest so I wrapped my hand around the handle of a dirty frying pan on the dishwasher table and smacked each one along side the head, knocking them into tomorrow.
"Anna!" cried one of the un-katonged chefs. You know, one of those special people carrying a cleaver. Only he wasn't carrying it anymore. He threw it at me instead. My cat-like reflexes saved me as I avoided the cleaver. Now that was just downright nasty. A cleaver with my outfit? That just wasn't going to do.
I pulled out my magnum .44 and aimed it at that dreg on society. "You feel lucky today, punk?" I asked him, sighting down the barrel.
"Um, no," he replied, frantically looking for another cleaver to throw my way.
Blamm-o! rang out one shot, turning his chef's hat a bright red.
"You got that right, punk. How about, you? You feel lucky?"
"I did before you walked in here," the second fake-chef replied honestly. But he was still a punk.
Blamm-o! rang out another shot, turning that chef's shirt a bright crimson red. So much for that dot-com recognition.
"Maybe so, punk, maybe so."
The third chef stopped in his tracks as I aimed the gun at him.
"Well, punk, what's it going to be? Did you keep track of all the shots I fired? In all the confusion I kind of lost track. Did I fire five shots or six? Do you want to take the chance to find out? This is a .44 magnum, the most powerful handgun ever created. Do you want to make my day, punk? Do you?"
"Um, you only fired two shots, sir," the cowardly chef said, dropping his knife.
Blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, blamm-o, click, click. Little bastard was right as the gun clicked empty.
I made a mental note to not use up all my bullets until I knew all the bad guys were dead as the maitre d' came in. "Okay, I got rid of those other customers. Frankie, what's the status on the Baked…? Frankie? Donny? Alfonso? What happened?"
"I happened to them," I said, patting my pockets for spare bullets.
"No! Um, I mean, ah, yes, Mr. Bond. I was expecting you. But did you have to kill my staff? Such evil help is so hard to find these days," he said, taking off a wig.
"Dr. Evil No," I said. "You're under arrest." Where were those damn spare bullets?
"No! I won't be taken alive!"
"Suits me, chrome dome," I said casually, taking the cleaver out of the wall and throwing it at Dr. Evil No. You know, I should have known he was the maitre d' all along. I have got to start paying closer attention to those video files HQ keeps sending me instead of deleting them from my system in order to make room for those porn downloads.
Dr. Evil No's reflexes were pretty good and he ducked out of the way of the blade, coming up with a 10" long carving knife he found on the floor. "No! My turn, pretty boy!"
"You really think I'm pretty?" I asked, picking up my own set of steak knives from the floor. "I mean, I really wanted to make a good impression on my date tonight."
Klink, klink-klink-klink, slash, klink-klink, slash, gash.
"No! First blood to you, Mr. Bond. I guess you're dressed up okay for your date. But scoping out guys really isn't my thing. Who's your date?"
Klink, klinkity-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, slash, gash.
"Good follow through, Dr. Evil No. You got me fair and square in the arm that time. She's a girl I know in school. Name's Quinn Morgendorffer."
Klink-klink-klink-klink, slash, slash, slash, slash, klinkity-klink, gash.
"No! That's Quinn Morgendorffer? You lucky dog you."
"You don't know the half of it," I replied, catching his foot with mine and forcing him back so he tripped. He went down on the guy with the wet potatoes.
"No! You won't get my Baked Alaska!" he shouted as I disarmed him with a steak knife through the hand.
"I didn't want it to begin with, you whacked out bald creep! Now tell me where the missing plutonium is and I'll let you go!"
"NO! You will just kill me if I tell you, Mr. Bond."
"C'mon, don't you trust me?"
"NO!" No awkward pause this time as I shoved the other steak knife through his eye and into his brain, killing him. "NOO – grrrgglggglaaaaaaaaaaa…" He quit twitching soon enough.
"That's good. You shouldn't trust strangers. Now let's see, if I were missing bomb-grade plutonium, where would I be? Hmmm." I looked around the kitchen for clues. It hit me all at once. I snapped my fingers in comprehension, grabbed some oven mitts and then ran for the oven. I then pulled out something that resembled a Baked Alaska, quickly throwing it into the lead-shielded nuclear box. All was again safe for god and country.
And best yet, I got out without having to pick up the tab or leave a tip. Score!
After a quick call to HQ, I turned out the lights in the kitchen and went back out to the dining room. I put a CLOSED sign in the window and went back to the table only to see Quinn coming back from the powder room. She looked at me curiously.
"What's wrong, Jeffy? You look out of breath."
We needed to leave before my cover was blown. "Let's eat somewhere else, somewhere… with a better desert tray. And with living waiters."
"Living waiters?" she asked confused.
"Um, I mean, a better wait staff. Look at this, they haven't even brought you your star-shaped ice yet." I escorted her out of the restaurant.
"Oh, I'd go anywhere with you, Jeffy. You're so handsome and rugged and strong. Not like those other two lunkheads."
"Oh, Quinn, stop it. You're embarrassing me."
The EndLocation: History 363.
Time: Now.
Nick: Discussion. What conclusions can you draw from this story? Geoff? Debbie? Who is Jeff Bonder?
Geoff: Well, I can tell you that he didn't write any more than he had to.
Nick: Why do you say that?
Debbie: Take a look at the story itself. There were moments when it was interesting, others when it wasn't. He could have expanded the story but instead simply put down the least amount he could.
Kara: Was this guy related to that Kevin Thompson moron? A cousin or something?
Nick: They played football on the same team. That close enough for you?
Rose: Maybe it's a jock thing where moron-ity spreads.
Diana: Hey!
Diane: Hey!
Debbie: Hey!
Nick: People! We're getting off track here. Debbie, why do you think he wrote that story?
Debbie: I really think he wrote that story because he had to. He didn't do any more than he had to either. Sure, he used images of old movies like the Bond series but there's only been 32 Bond movies over the last 90 years so who wouldn't use that if they could.
Geoff: I guess it could have been worse and she could have been more of a protagonist in the story rather than just an old-style Bond girl.
Debbie: True, but how I viewed it, there just wasn't anything special about this story. I caught references to the Austin Powers parody angle but why he'd import images from a 70-year old man trying to put the moves on a woman just gave me the willies.
Bob: I think you have to go back to when he wrote the story, Debs. At the time, there'd only been two Austin Powers movies released and that 70-year old guy was still fairly young at the time.
Mrs. Whitmore: Thank you, Bob. You are correct.
Bob: And you said my knowledge of old movies and TV would never come in handy.
Barry: Um, actually she never said that. I did.
Bob: You suck.
Barry: Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment as I'm sure it was intended.
Nick: Anyone else want to give their input as to why he wrote this story?
Larissa: How about you, Nick? Why do you think he wrote it?
Nick: Actually, that's not fair. I already know why he wrote it.
Anne: And?
Nick: And I can't tell you yet. You'll find out soon enough. Trust me. In the meantime, whatever happened to Jeff Bonder?
Geoff: I was able to get a tracking program to locate him fairly quickly.
Debbie: You?
Geoff: Fine. We were able to find him quickly I mean. We found that he graduated from Lawndale High and went to a community college. He left after one semester. I confirmed later on he left because he couldn't get anyone interested in doing the partying scene as it was a commuter school and there were any frat houses or sorority houses and all that.
Debbie: So he leaves college and takes a course at an OTR Truck Driving school. He graduated and for the past 46 years has been a long haul trucker. We found that he married in his early 20's and current has four kids, one of which is named Quinn which probably wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't had all boys. The kids are all grown and have given him and his divorced wife of nine years 10 grandchildren.
Geoff: We contacted him for our report and he was forthcoming with answers.
Debbie: That was only because you kept leading him on that you were in contact with his old flame, Quinn and he was sniffing around for her phone number.
Geoff: I could have been in contact with her.
Debbie: Whatever you say. Needless to say, once he got wind that Geoff didn't have her phone number, he didn't want to talk to us anymore.
Thomas: Jeez, Geoff, have you thought of going into police interrogation after you graduate?
Geoff: I've given it some thought. But the pay's lousy.
Debbie: I have a question, Nick. Jeff talked about going out with Quinn Morgendorffer. She is also on the list so that means he referenced a real person in the story. Well, at least one real person. Anyway, my question is, did she ever read this story and if so, what did she think about it?
Nick: Excellent question, Debbie. It just so happens I thought along those lines as well and did a little research. This is what I found. Loading… now.
The electronic blackboard flickered to life.
BEGIN VIDEODecember 2001.
Location: Lawndale High, hallways. Time: morning.
Daria is standing at her locker, waiting. Quinn is standing next to Daria's locker, reading some papers. She finishes and looks up.
Quinn: Cuter than me? I wonder if it'll be embarrassing when I kill him?
Daria: You can't do that.
Quinn: Sure I can.
Daria: No you can't. If you did, you'd go to jail and have to wear orange prison inmate jumpsuits.
Quinn: …you're right. I don't look good in orange. How about if I smack him into next week?
Daria: There you go.
Off-camera Voice1: Quinn?!
Off-camera Voice2: Are you busy tonight?
Off-camera Voice3: I was going to ask her that!
Off-camera Voice1: Quite both of you! I was here first!
Joey, Jamie and Jeffy come on camera, pushing each other out of the way to get to Quinn first.
Daria: And speaking of next week…
Quinn: Joey, Jared…
Jamie: That's Jamie.
Quinn: Whatever. Can you two be dears and get me a diet coke?
Joey: With ice, right?
Quinn: Of course. Now go along you two, shoo!
Joey and Jamie leave quickly.
Jeffy: Um, Quinn, what do you need me to get?
Quinn: Why, nothing, Jeffy. I wanted you here all to myself.
Jeffy: Score! Thank you, God!
Daria: I think this is my cue to leave.
Quinn: Why don't you do that, Daria.
Daria leaves.
Jeffy: So, uh, Quinn, about tonight…
Quinn: Don't go on worrying about tonight, Jeffy. Let's talk about next week.
Jeffy: Huh? Next week? I don't get it.
Quinn: Oh, but you will. Believe me, you will. Let's take a stroll down this deserted hallway where the lighting isn't so good and Ms. Li's cameras aren't installed yet, okay? There's something I want to talk to you about.
Off-camera Jeffy's voice: You need help on your homework?
Off-camera Quinn's voice: You might say it's more along the lines of non-verbal communication.
VIDEO ENDS
Nick: Okay, I think we can all guess as to what happened next. So what was in his time capsule?
Geoff: He put in an honest to God Timex watch. The kind that rolls around with a number to indicate the day of the month. Made with virgin plastic of all things.
Debbie: He may have been a lousy writer but at least he had sense to put a Timex into the time capsule. We've already had it appraised and gotten some offers for a half million already.
Nick: You do realize that you don't get to keep the artifacts, don't you?
Geoff: (triumphant grin fading) What?
Mrs. Whitmore: They've already been registered under the school's Tax ID. Have been since the time capsule was opened and cataloged.
Debbie: What?
Nick: And an insurance policy was set in place against it. The reason I gave you two the project was that I knew your trusts had sufficient funds to cover the loss of the watch should anything happen to it. Once the assignment is over, you have to give it back. This isn't finder's-keeper's. Nothing's happened to it has it?
Geoff: Um… no.
Debbie: It's not like we've set up an auction or anything for this Saturday.
Geoff: Um… no, nothing like that at all.
Nick: That's good to hear. I wouldn't want you to be in violation of your class contract, clause 23. That would not look good on a transcript.
Geoff: Whoa, look at that. My pager's going off. How about that – it's my financial lawyer. Do you mind if I take this call out in the hallway?
Mrs. Whitmore: I'm charging you an early-exit fee, Mr. Roberts.
Geoff: Not a problem. I really need to make… I mean, take this call.
Mrs. Whitmore: Then by all means, knock yourself out, Geoff.
Geoff exits the classroom, cell phone in hand.
Nick: Good job, you two. Let's call it a day. Okay, who're my next victims for story-time?
Two students raise their hands.
Nick: John? Elizabeth? You two ready to go? I thought you might be after today. Good enough.
NEXT: Joey's story: My Date (And Not Jamie or Jeffy's) With Quinn!Contact me if you want:
jwbandsb@cs.com
Disclaimer
Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).
Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.
The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright.
The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam… er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.