Author's note: My goofy spree had to come to an end sometime. Hope you've enjoyed it.
Greg slipped a CD into the Tahoe's stereo. "Driver chooses the music," he declared. "Universal law."
Tinny synthesizer music spilled out into the SUV as Greg put it in gear and headed down the desert road. Grissom tilted his head to the side. "What is this?" he asked, leaning forward from the back seat with eyebrows raised. "It's the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack," Greg said with a grin.
"Ugh," Sara groused. "That is such a dumb movie."
"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, looking shocked. "It's brilliant. Cutting edge. It's going to usher in a new generation of comedy films."
"I agree," affirmed Grissom. "An instant classic."
Sara rubbernecked around. "You saw Napoleon Dynamite?" she asked.
"Twice," he replied congenially.
Sara decided not to say anything more. She reached for her bottle of water.
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "My water's empty!"
"I dumped it out," Greg said. "You're cut off, Sara."
"We never should have let him drive," Sara sighed to Grissom, shaking her head. "Now he thinks he's in charge of everything."
Grissom reclined, hands clasped behind his head. "Don't look at me," he said. "This back seat seems to inspire a certain 'Zen' attitude. In fact, I may just be up for some Mad Libs." He reached over and opened Greg's kit. Grissom's eyes widened in disbelief as he sorted through the contents. "A Norwegian-English pocket dictionary… Bubble Tape… a pair of socks… Cigar Aficionado magazine? Greg, how do you fit any equipment in here?"
"Hey!" Greg protested. "Stay out of my kit!"
"Bet he has porn in there," Sara grinned, twisting in her seat.
"Don't make me stop this car," Greg threatened.
"Did you know that a Cuban in Havana has broken the Guinness World's Record for the longest cigar?" Grissom asked. "It's 62 feet."
"Let me see that," Sara said, reaching back.
"Greg," Grissom said as Sara leafed interestedly through the magazine, "As much as I find the contents of your kit intriguing, I would also like to eventually locate this crime scene. So what's your plan?"
"I'm getting to it." Keeping one hand on the wheel, Greg reached down to the police scanner that sat below Grissom's GPS. "What are you doing?" Sara queried, looking up. "Setting this thing to CB," Greg answered. He turned down the music and picked up the CB microphone. "Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine," he drawled into it. "This is DNA Daddy out of Divorce City, sending out a mayday to any driver, come back."
Grissom and Sara stared at him, their mouths hanging open. Greg offered a nonchalant shrug. "My uncle Mike's a long-haul trucker. Taught me everything I needed to know."
The CB crackled to life. "DNA Daddy!" came a rugged male voice. "This is the Beefmeister. That's a ten roger on your mayday. What can we do you for?" "Hey there, Beefmeister," Greg said into the CB. "I've got a 10-17 here. My friends and I are unsure of our twenty, over."
"Don't you have a GPS? Come back."
"We do indeed. But that's a negatory on map capabilities. We're at latitude 36.70, longitude 114.90, and traveling southwest on an unpaved road, over."
"Don't tense, DNA Daddy. We've got you covered. Play dead while we check the GPS."
There was a pause. "What on earth did all that mean?" Sara asked in a fascinated voice.
"He's going to get back to us," Greg replied, grinning.
"Hey DNA Daddy, looks like you're on access road 43." Came the voice. "Head on full bore until you get to a four-way junction. Do you copy?"
"Here Sara," Greg said, handing her the microphone. "I need both hands to drive. Ask him what we should do when we get to the junction."
"Me?" Sara asked, eyes wide. "I don't know the lingo!"
"It's all right," Greg said. "Just ask."
"Uh… Mr. 'Beefmeister'?" Sara said reluctantly into the microphone, feeling ridiculous. "'DNA Daddy' here wants to know what we should we do when we get to the junction."
"Well hello, foxy voice," Came the reply. "What're you doing ridin' with an ankle-biter like DNA Daddy?"
"I work with him," Sara replied with a smile. "That's all."
Greg put on an expression of mock-hurt.
"What's your handle, sweet thing?" The CB crackled.
"My handle?" Sara squeaked. "Ummmm…."
"If you don't have a handle, gorgeous, I'd be happy to give you one. Come back."
Eyes pinned on Sara, Grissom grunted, looking discontent. Sara glanced back at him and her smile widened. "I'd love you to give me a handle," she flirted into the microphone.
"My kind of woman! All right, I'm thinking you sound like a Little Darlin'.""Thanks," Sara said, gaining confidence. "So what should we do when we get to that junction?"
"Make a right, Little Darlin'. Then another right when you get to a fork in the road. That'll take you straight to Highway 93, over."
"You're the best, Beefmeister," schmoozed Sara, fully aware that Grissom was still watching her.
"Eighty-eights, Little Darlin'. Follow the stripes home."
"Uh… thank you?"
"Beefmeister over and out."
"Well," Sara said suavely, hanging up the microphone. "He was nice."
Grissom took off his glasses, trying his best not to look jealous and failing miserably.
"He sure was," Greg grinned. "Little Darlin'." He turned up the music.
Twenty minutes later the Tahoe pulled slowly up to the elusive crime scene.
Brass walked down toward the SUV, arms outstretched in supplication as Sara, Grissom, and Greg climbed out, hauling their kits. "Hey!" he called. "Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting here for two hours! Did you get lost?"
"We weren't lost," Sara admonished. "We were temporarily misplaced." She smiled as she walked past him toward the taped-off scene.
"Yeah," Greg said. He hustled after Sara, pulling out his camera. "Until I un-misplaced us. And you're welcome, by the way."
Grissom said nothing, but shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Brass as he walked after Sara and Greg.
Brass shook his head, wandered down to their Tahoe and peered inside.
"Hey, all right!" He said, reaching through the open window. "Mad Libs!"
The End