Special THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!
My Date (And Not Jamie or Jeff's) With Quinn!
By Joe Green
(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. Two students who were also my best friends.
"Hey, Joey," 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.
"Jeffry," I responded. Ah. There was who Jeff 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. Jeffrey threw a punch towards my stomach. Same old boys. Same old tactic. You would have thought by now they would have learned. But they were a couple of numbskulls.
I ducked beneath Jamie's punch and stood back up, grabbing Jeffrey's wrist, continuing his momentum to the wall that he so conveniently punched.
"Oh, a wise guy, eh?" Jamie muttered.
"You got a problem with that, tough guy?" I asked, poking him in the eyes with two fingers.
"Oh, ow, ow, ow!" he yelped, covering his face with his hands. I used that moment to my advantage and grabbed Jeffrey's hair and yanked up.
"Yahh-aaahhh-ahhhh!" he yahh-aaahhh-ahhhhed, but came up along with the hair. He was off balance as I poked him in the eyes as well and then pushed him into Jamie. 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 numbskulls," I said. "You've got to get some new moves. Now get out of my way." 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."
"Wow, déjà vu. I mean, 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, rugged, outdoorsy, intelligent, your perfect guy, but not cute."
She giggled at that. I forgot that I was also adorable.
"Um," she started, "would you like to go out with me tonight, Joey?"
"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.
"But what the hell? It's the 21st century so why shouldn't we change a few outdated concepts? If you want to go out with me tonight, at 7pm, wearing your best outfit, and ready to make out in the back of my Chevy, who am I to say no?" I said 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 bread and French dressing for salads and stuff."
"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, Joey."
I knew she would. After all, how could she resist my manly charm and excellent physique.
*****
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. The car leaped out onto the street, just in front of the traffic that got the green light moments before. I didn't really worry about an accident as my Chevy was able to plow over most cars ever since I'd souped it up to a V12 engine and raised it off the ground by three additional feet to accommodate the tires.
"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 weaved through traffic. I glanced back at him. He looked familiar. Ah, I had it. He was the guy with the hotdogs at school. Jake Consulting or something.
No, it was something else. He looked familiar. Ah! Had it! It was Quinn's uncle or something.
I lost track of him as I made it through more lights 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. Well, a date that I didn't feel was too far beneath me. And this time I was going out on a date with Quinn Morgendorffer herself.
A block from home I slowed down to an agonizingly slow 20 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. Inside, I walked into the kitchen and noticed the message board on the wall by the phone. A message was on it.
Joey:
Dad and I are going out to basket-weaving class and then dinner. Call for pizza for yourself. Cash is in the drawer. NO PARTIES! Love and kisses.
Mom
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? What's this I hear about you poking people in the eyes again? Why can't you get a job? Why, when I was a kid your age… blah, blah, blah. 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 to poke more people in the eyes? 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'd freak. So would Sandi.
Glancing at my watch, I noticed I had just enough time for a long shower. I didn't bother with my homework as I had already done it during classes 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. If they ever got into hand/eye range…
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 conditioner 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, man."
"Hot and steamy?" he suddenly asked.
"Could be," I led him on.
"Er, I'm afraid not, Joe. 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."
"Jeez, all this because some anal bureaucratic a-hole saw that he hadn't paid 12-years worth of parking tickets," I muttered.
"What was that, 007?"
"Nothing, nothing. Look, just give him a get-out-of-jail free card, 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 suspect he's in your area and what with all the missing plutonium from Russia we think has been smuggled into the US these days, we think he's up to his old tricks."
"He does tricks? You mean he's a magician?"
"No!" George replied hotly.
"Just messing with you, George. Give me the gist of it."
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). I grabbed the keys to my Trans-AM 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 and took a hold of my waiting arm.
"My, Joey," 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 football guys, whose names I don't remember, you hang around with at school."
"Please, you're embarrassing me," I replied candidly. "By the way, you look pretty hot yourself, babe."
"Thanks," she giggled. "Um, Joey, 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, Joey."
True, too true. But it was a price I was willing to pay.
*****
The drive to the restaurant was uneventful and I was grateful for that considering the last time I went out on a date I had to shoot the tires out of some quarterback creep in a jeep who thought it was funny to swerve all over the road. Normally I wouldn't have thought twice about doing that, 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.
"Joey?" 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.
"Hey, buddy, this dump looks empty. You open or 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. Her arm was on my arm, I mean, not her face.
"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, Joe Bond. Chop-chop, man."
"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?"
"Nah, I don't think so. 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?"
"Gimme a pizza," I said.
"NO! I mean… NO! Look, this is an upscale French restaurant. And you want a pizza?"
"Sure. Oh, okay. Make it a French bread pizza."
"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 pizza and go directly for desert since that is what the decadent 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, Joey. 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 duty 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. Well, not much. 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 it was apparent the department of health never 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. Nor any of the rest of the regular staff who were also tied up and not moving a bit since they were all dead.
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 didn't go down so I poked him in the eyes for good measure. I never hurt to do that. 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 their head.
"Aaaaahhhh!" cried out one faux-chef.
"Dammit, that really hurt!" yelled out another, clutching his skull.
"Man, that's gonna leave a mark," complained the last.
What the heck did it take to make these guys go down? I wrested with that thought for all of one moment before I stepped up to each and poked them in the eyes, a double gouge each. That did it. They went down, one hand covering eyes, the other holding their skulls from popping.
"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. Of course, the cleaver went into one of the fake chefs on the floor and he was no longer concerned about his eyes or skull anymore. In fact, he wasn't concerned about anything.
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. And he was out of eye-poking range. Oh well.
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 turd 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, you waste of skin," I said casually, taking the cleaver out of a dead chef on the floor 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 South Park downloads.
Dr. Evil No's reflexes were pretty good and he ducked out of the way of the blade, coming up with a 10-inch 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.
Klink-klink-klink, slash, gash, POKE!
"NO!! Aaaahhh, you put my eye out, Mr. Bond!"
"Serves you right, you frickin' nutjob. Making me miss out on a date because you're ticked due to outstanding parking tickets."
"No! They weren't my fault! It was my… wife at the time! Yeah, that's it! My wife!"
Poke! "Tell me the truth, you scumball!"
"NO!" Poke. "All right, you thug! I did it! I parked without paying at the meter all those times! Happy?!"
"For the last time, dimwit, you ruined my evening! How the heck can I be happy?! Jeez, all you old creeps are the same!"
"No! Call me what you will, Mr. Bond. 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 geezer! 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, Joey? You look out of breath."
We needed to leave before my cover was blown. "Let's eat somewhere else, babe. 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, Joey. 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? John? Elizabeth? Tell me about Joe Green.
John: Well, I'm pretty sure everyone here can agree on one thing. That this story is a rip-off of the last one done by Jeff.
Geoff: Don't forget – he didn't write any more than he had to.
Nick: A point which we discussed last time, Geoff.
Kara: Was this guy related to that Kevin Thompson moron? A cousin or something?
Bob: I fell like I'm in a time loop.
Colin: You're not the only one.
Nick: Okay, okay, point taken.
Rose: I bet they played football on the same team, didn't they?
Bob: It has to be a job thing where moron-ity spreads.
Diana: Hey!
Diane: Hey!
Debbie: Hey!
Nick: Enough already! No sense going over previous comments. John, why do you think he wrote that story?
John: Well, my first comment to that is, did he actually write that story?
Nick: Explain your question, please.
John: It's simple. This story was basically the same as the last one. Elizabeth and I split the work initially. I'd take the story and she'd go after the author. I reviewed this story and compared it to the last one and sure as I'm only getting 6.35% on my investments this quarter, other than a few lines here and there being different, this was exactly the same story. The characters were the same, the dialog was the same, the pacing was the same.
Bob: So you're saying this was the same story as the last rather than being the same story as the current.
John: What the hell are you talking about, Bob?
Bob: Nothing. Just messing with you is all.
John: Then stuff it.
Nick: No, no, let him talk, John. Bob, tell me what your perspective is on all this.
Bob: Hah?
Nick: Why do you think Jeff Bonder wrote that story?
Bob: Oh. Um, I'd have to say it was because he was lazy.
Barry: Care to elaborate?
Bob: Isn't that a big word for you?
Barry: Maybe. But I'd still like to see you do it. E-lab-or-ate. Expound on the subject. Elucidate if you don't mind.
Bob: You suck.
Barry: Coming from you I'm going to take it as the compliment I'm sure it was intended as.
Bob: …mutter, mutter, lousy, mumble. Fine. I think this author and the last one conspired to write a story together as it was the easiest way to get the assignment out of the way. That's why both stories are the same. It's also the lazy way to do things.
Nick: Very good, Bob. Anyone else wish to e-lab-or-ate?
Colin: I've got agree with Bob on this. Jeff and Joe took the easy way out.
John: Hey, Nick. What happened when Quinn found out about this story? What did she do to Joe?
Nick: What makes you so sure she read it?
Kara: Please, give us a little credit. She read the first one because her sister let her. Stands to reason she'd see this one as well.
Nick: Well, it turns out you're right, Kara, John. She did read it. Here's what happened.
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'm going to kill him too!
Daria: You can't do that.
Quinn: Sure I can.
Daria: No you can't. Orange prison inmate jumpsuits, remember?
Quinn: …you're right. How about if I smack him into next week?
Daria: Didn't you already do that with Jeffy?
Quinn: You haven't seen him for the past week, have you?
Daria: Point.
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: Jeffy, Jehosephat…
Jamie: It's Jamie.
Quinn: Whatever. Can you two be dears and get me a diet coke?
Jeffy: With ice, right?
Quinn: Of course. Now go along you two, shoo!
Jeffy and Jamie leave quickly.
Joey: Um, Quinn, what do you need me to get?
Quinn: Why, nothing, Joey. I wanted you here all to myself.
Joey: Score! Thank you, God!
Daria: I think this is my cue to leave.
Quinn: Why don't you do that, Daria.
Daria leaves.
Joey: So, uh, Quinn, about tonight…
Quinn: Don't go on worrying about tonight, Joey. Let's talk about next week.
Joey: 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 still aren't installed yet, okay? There's something I want to talk to you about.
Off-camera Joey'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
Mike: Major déjà vu.
Colin: Tell me about it.
Bzzzp-bzzzp.
Elizabeth: No, and don't call me here. I'm in class.
Nick: Something you want to share with the class, Elizabeth?
Elizabeth: No.
Larissa: I still want to know why he wrote that story.
Rose: Me too. How about it, Nick?
Nick: How about what?
Rose: C'mon. You said it last week. You know why Jeff Bonder wrote his story. It's probably the same reason Joe Green wrote his. So what is it?
Nick: Debbie? Why do you think he wrote it?
Debbie: No idea.
Nick: No idea as to why he copied your author's work?
Debbie: Nope. My author was a pain, pure and simple. I figure this guy is the same.
Bzzzp-bzzzp.
Elizabeth: No, and quit calling me I said.
Nick: Please activate your auto-op, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth: I have. He's got an override program.
Mrs. Whitmore: Enough, you two. Debbie, what do you mean, a pain?
Debbie: It's… well, it's how I read the other stories. Sure, some were short and others long. But they all showed that some care and thought was put into the writing. Not really this. I'm almost leaning towards Bob's idea that they wrote it together.
Diana: You're siding with Bob?
Debbie: This time only. The rest of the time he's a pain as well.
Nick: When I first got all the stories and was reviewing the material, I came across the similar titles and had some preconceived notions of what was going on like the rest of you seem to have. It took me a while to get this footage which should answer some of your questions. The video is grainy and lousy, but the audio is still perfect. Keep in mind what you said about the authors as you watch this.
The electronic blackboard flickered to life.
BEGIN VIDEONovember 2001.
Location: Lawndale High, coach's office. Time: afternoon.
Inside the coach's office, various figures can be seen standing or sitting. It is a little unclear who is who. The video displays at a slant and the slats of the vent are visible. This shows more shadow than people. The audio is heard clearly.
Coach: Your performance out on the field today was sloppy! Pathetic! What were you ladies thinking out there?! Oh, wait. You weren't thinking otherwise you wouldn't have been so damn worthless today!!
Jeffy: It wasn't our fault, coach, honest.
Joey: Yeah, coach. It's our school work that's causing us to mess up.
Coach: Homework?! But I'd already negotiated this semester's slide-by with Ms. Li! Uh, I mean… uh… oh, screw it! I don't care if you knuckleheads pass or not! I need players! Besides, I know your coursework and you don't have any more than any of the other players. Look at Mack! He manages to get his done, so why can't you?!
Jamie: Maybe because he puts more effort into it since you don't cover up his grades?
Coach: What was that, White?!
Jeffy: It's not our regular homework, coach.
Joey: Yeah, it's this extra special cold capsule thing…
Jamie: Time capsule.
Joey: Yeah. Time capsule thing that Ms. Li has us working on. We all have to do a story and submit it for the future.
Coach: So what's the big deal? Copy something out of a magazine!
Jamie: Won't work. Daria Morgendorffer is editing the stories and she'll recognize it right away.
Coach: Who?
Jeffy: The brain with the glasses.
Joey: Quinn's sister.
Coach: Look, I can't have you jugheads out on the field when your mind isn't on the game! And we've got a big game coming up next week! Can't you come up with any story ideas?!
Jeffy: I came up with an idea, but Joey stole it.
Joey: No I didn't. You stole mine!
Coach: Quiet, both of you.
Jeffy: Look, Joey, writing about my date with Quinn was MY idea and you both know it.
Coach: Shut up! Look, why don't you all write about having a date with Quinn. And get it done fast because if I don't see any improvement on the field, you won't be playing since I need players – not thinkers!
Joey: You mean, we all write the same story?
Coach: Just write up one story and then each of you take it and add your own personal touches to it. That way it is an original story. Got it? Then turn it in and get ready to play some football!!
VIDEO ENDS
Nick: As we could guess with the last author, I'm sure we don't need to surmise the following week for Joe Green. John, Elizabeth? What was in the time capsule?
John: Well, unlike a rich find that Geoff got with the watch, we got stuck with a bunch of crap. He left behind a bottle of dried up hair-gel, contents toxic at this point. An empty diet cola can with writing on it that said, 'This was the 1st soda Quinn asked for – and I got it for her! I'm the best! I'm sure Quinn remembers. Joey.' And lastly, he left behind a muscle-man magazine with articles highlighting the use of steroids to increase muscle mass. He could have thrown this all in the garbage heap and gotten just as much biodegrades out of it.
Nick: Okay. Miss Thaler? What can you tell me about Joe Green?
Elizabeth: You want to know about Joe Green, you jerk? Okay, I'll tell you about him. He graduated in 2003. He didn't get a scholarship and instead attended a community college. That apparently didn't last long as he dropped out in 2004. He then got a job driving a semi rig.
Debbie: That sounds familiar.
Elizabeth: But that didn't last long either as he caused a wreck on the interstate, crashing into some cars during a snowstorm. Not like he could have died and made things easier for me, oh no! He had to go on living!
Nick: You okay, Liz?
Elizabeth: But I'm just getting to the good part. After being fired from the company he worked for, he went back to school. Not a community college or even a real college. He went back for specific training.
Bzzzp-bzzzp.
Elizabeth touched her laptop's screen.
Elizabeth: Not interested!
Nick: Liz, if you…
Elizabeth: Don't interrupt! Where was I? Oh… so this training he got enabled him to get a new job. A job which he's held for the past 45 years.
Mrs. Whitmore: Miss Thaler, if you'd like to do this another time…
Elizabeth: He's an insurance salesman! Once I contacted him through a secured line, he was able to backtrace my call and has been hounding me ever since to buy insurance. Have you thought of purchasing a memory policy he asks. Or of taking out some bionic insurance in case something should happen down the road. Why not get the deluxe package and protect yourself from clone attacks. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I thought this was going to be an interesting assignment considering all the other reports so far, buy my life's been nothing but hell since he got my name and number. This assignment sucks!
Bzzzp-bzzzp.
Elizabeth: That's him again! You set this in motion, Nick! Make him stop.
Elizabeth's head thunked down on the desk as she sobbed.
Nick: Bob, you still able to get into secured financial records?
Bob: You know I can.
Nick: Plug this account over Elizabeth's.
Bob: I'm on it. But you know the system will boot it out within 3 minutes and replace her with the correct ones.
Nick: That'll give us enough time. Elizabeth, answer the call and accept his offer. Then give him your account to reference. He'll see it and quit bothering you.
Elizabeth: Sniff Who's numbers are these, Nick?
Nick: Mine. They don't get much lower than that. Just do it.
Elizabeth unplugged her laptop from the desknet and left the classroom for privacy. She returned a few minutes later with a less stressed look on her face and sat down at her desk.
Nick: Elizabeth, I'm truly sorry about this. If I'd know what you were going to face, I'd never have put you into this position. Good job, you two. Let's call it a day. Who wants to go next for story-time?
Two students raise their hands.
Nick: Nicole? Ben? You two ready to go? Good enough.
NEXT: Jamie's story: My Date (And Not Jeffy or Joey's) With Quinn!The class does a collective moan.
Nick: C'mon, it's not all that bad. Trust me.
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.