Agent Klutz – The Secret Diaries of Wendy
Summary: Tripping over your shoe is one thing. But when you walk, unharmed, away from an accident that should have killed you, people begin to get a little suspicious. Next thing you know, Mr. Gentleman and his sick sense of humor are promoting you to field agent with the most useless ability known to man.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, I'm sure they hate me. :o)
March 11, 2001 - Sunday
Dear Diary,
The weekend is nearly over, and a new week is upon us; a week full of new possibilities that will probably fail utterly to pan out into anything useful, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?
Sadly, I have once again done absolutely nothing at all useful, constructive, or even particularly fun and relaxing with my Saturday and Sunday. While others were visiting friends, falling in love, having meaningless-yet-fun one-night stands, getting drunk off their arses, and dancing like mad fools, I stayed in and reorganized my bookshelves.
This didn't take long, since, working in one of the largest libraries on the planet (and one of the most active in matters of the continuation of life on said planet), I feel little need to own more than about forty-three books.
After that, I could have wriggled into a tight skirt, slapped on some make-up, and allowed my poor, neglected friends to drag me from my apartment and forcibly introduce me to some of the nice, exceedingly good-looking boys built like Roman lust gods that they apparently know (but oddly enough, never date themselves).
Instead, keeping with the theme of reorganization, I moved onto my CD collection.
Somewhere between organizing the canned soups in my pantry and organizing my closet according to colour, season, and occasion, Sylvie and Julie called, demanding to know why I had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet as of late. I replied that it probably had something to do with the planet's weakening gravitational pull, which annoyed Sylvia so much that she bid me a frosty farewell and hung up straight away.
She hates it when I say something clever.
Luckily for her, it doesn't happen very often.
It was at this point that, left blessedly alone to my own devices, I decided that I was bored and went to bed.
Today was scarcely better.
The highlight was going to the store to buy some milk, because the carton in my fridge had turned a strange shade of green and was on the verge of a hostile takeover of the vegetable crisper.
I don't suppose it would find many subjects to rule over with an iron fist.
I haven't had a fresh vegetable in the house since Mum visited last autumn and stocked the thing. Or rather, since I threw out a bunch of rotten vegetables that I never got around to preparing, last winter.
Honestly, who has time for gourmet cooking when they arrive home at approximately eight o' clock each evening, and has usually eaten by the time they get there?
Mr. Joker may be a little too quick to assume that his secretary hates spending time in her home as much as he apparently hates spending time in his, but I will say this for the man: he can take a hint.
All I usually have to do is tell him that I'm going to throw something at him if he doesn't get some fresh air, take a walk, and perhaps eat something sometime today, and he catches on immediately! And then, in either gratitude or reluctance to leave me to my own devices for fear of what shambles he might return to find his office in, he buys me dinner, too.
I'll also say this for the man: he makes rather impressive starring roles in my dreams three nights out of five.
Oh, come now, what's a diary for if not this?
Yes, it is surely a sign of trouble when a person comes to look forward to Monday mornings because they're bored silly after two little days of weekend.
And because they miss their boss, but we shan't go any farther into that than we have already.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
March 12, 2001 – Monday
Dear Diary,
Well, so much for a fresh new week, filled with the possibility of something exciting happening. I was entirely right when I cynically predicted that they would fail utterly to pan out.
It's only Monday evening, and already I'm longing for the weekend, and with it, the breaking of the monotony of the work week.
I know that this is ridiculous, when just yesterday, I was longing for the week to begin to break the monotony of the weekend.
This is how people end up wishing their lives away, and before they know it, they're lonely old women in rickety houses with forty cats who devour their carcasses when they die because they've been too senile for the last five years to remember to buy food.
Ah, well. Perhaps I'm just a little out-of-sorts because I've spent all day at close quarters with Mr. Joker, working on a research project of some sort – involving a lot of books with names like "Illegal Human Experimentation Made Simple", and "How to Make the Perfect Carrier for Obscenely Old Men's Boundless Knowledge in Ten Easy Steps", and "Beadwork for Fun and Profit" – and despite my greatest and most blatant efforts at flirtation, the most intimate thing he's said to me was,
"Pass me a Post-it Note, will you please?"
Hmph! Post-it Notes, indeed! Just see how much you like your Post-it Notes when I go and fall madly in love with that nice Steve boy on the janitorial staff!
Have thought better of this, as making one's boss, with whom one is already madly in love, angry, seems like a tenuous basis for a relationship, to say the least.
Well, he seems to be giving me a curious look, as I've stopped scribbling notes in between page-flipping. Thus, I had best go make an attempt to look like I'm working rather than taking a much needed break for the first time in twelve hours!
Oh, dear.
Mr. Joker has just passed out on his desk from lack of sleep. I suspect that he never bothered to go home this weekend. After all, his hair seemed a little out-of-place, which wouldn't mean a lot normally, but we're talking about Mr. Joker!
Well, now I suppose I have a decision to make.
I can either wake him up and get back to work, wake him up and threaten to throw something at him if he doesn't go home and sleep properly, stare at him in innocent adoration a while longer, stare at him and mentally undress him in less innocent adoration a while longer, or go through his pockets for change and go get a cup of coffee and a muffin.
I'd best go. A decision of this magnitude will take some concentration.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
March 13, 2001 – Tuesday
Dear Diary,
Don't expect too much coherency right now; too bloody tired.
My conscience got the better of me last night, and so I woke Mr. Joker up and left his spare change alone.
Unfortunately, my conscience also led me to offer him a ride home after he walked into the door frame trying to leave the office.
He really ought to sleep on weekends.
Or weeknights, for that matter.
Didn't expect he would accept, or wouldn't have stupidly offered.
Also didn't expect to be tired enough once we reached his home to fall asleep standing up, or wouldn't have watched him sleeping for a time after helping him inside and tucking him in.
Yes, tucking him in.
I like to think of it as the kind of thing that separates people like me from the ordinary, run-of-the-mill secretary.
Although, I have the uneasy suspicion that it just makes me a little bit strange.
Really, really didn't expect to wake up this morning in my boss's bed, next to him, my skirt, shoes, tie, and vest conspicuously absent.
And my shirt conspicuously not mine.
You know, if this happened to any other girl, it would have been the result of a deliciously steamy and indecent encounter.
In my case, it's because I was too bloody tired to leave the room, and Mr. Joker took pity on me when he woke up to find me slumped over him at a strange angle.
No one asked about why we were arriving in the same car, and why Mr. Joker's car was still in the lot. I think Eliot was going to, but Mr. Joker looked at him and he stayed quiet.
Either way, there was little time to be flustered about the curious looks and belligerent grins, as almost the instant we got inside, Mr. Joker got a call from Mr. Gentleman, who wanted him in a meeting, and made a point of telling him that it was only to work the overhead projector.
Poor man. I would have felt a lot sorrier for him, if Mr. Gentleman hadn't also requested my presence at the meeting to take notes because his micro cassette recorder wasn't working properly today.
Yes, that's me. Wendy Earhart. Second-fiddle to a cheap mechanical gizmo.
Of course, this is Mr. Gentleman, and so, second-fiddle to an expensive mechanical gizmo that he likely tinkered around with to make it do a lot of things that it didn't really need to would be more accurate.
The meeting was with the American president.
I don't like the man already. There's just something about him that gives you the impression that he has no bladder control. One doesn't quite get that sense from watching him on television, but it is very apparent in person.
I'm sure the janitorial staff likes him even less.
Mr. Joker warned me in a hushed voice not to stand too near the man, if I didn't want to fall prey to his busy hands.
Mr. Joker says the strangest things when he's tired.
Oh, hold on, I'm thinking of me. Need sleep!
Thank God I was able to fill the page with 'important notes' despite fatigue and half-awareness. There weren't many 'important notes' to take, honestly. I've never heard a group of apparently intelligent men ramble on like that before.
Mr. Joker tells me that's because I've never actually been at one of these meetings before. He says they're all the same, and that's why he's programmed a tiny video-game into his wristwatch. I'm glad he didn't tell me that before the meeting. I would have heard those mysterious beeps and boops that no one could figure out, and burst out laughing.
I think that would stay notably absent from the notes.
"At about the halfway point, Joker's secretary, also acting as the surrogate micro cassette recorder (although she looks much better in a short skirt), went inexplicably insane, filling the air with shrill, girlish giggles."
Er…no.
By the time that bloody boring meeting was over, it was nearing seven o' clock, and nearly every sane person in the building had left.
That's another way of saying that most of the staff was still hanging about.
As for me, I was good and ready to go home, since the meeting had put me in the mood for a nice, long nap.
Sadly, sleep was not to be my fate.
Instead, I spent the next two hours reorganizing this one particular bookshelf that has been plaguing me for a while now, being the only one in Mr. Joker's office that I haven't gotten to yet.
He always claimed that there was no point to reorganizing something that was already perfectly organized, thank-you-very-much-dear.
Strange how quickly he gave in and let me get my little mitts on it just as soon as he went to reach for a book he needed and it wasn't immediately at his fingertips.
Hmph! And just how did you think your shelves all got that convenient and perfectly suited to your unique style of research, you pompous ass whom I nevertheless love and adore?
So, now it is obscenely late at night, and I am not at all in the mood to sleep, as all that bookshelf-organizing has energized me.
This can't be normal.
And on this note, dear diary, I shall take my leave and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling resentfully for an hour or two before giving up in despair and getting ready for work tomorrow.
Or today, rather. The clock has just struck one o' clock.
Groan. Tomorrow – today – will not be a happy day.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
March 14, 2001 – Wednesday
Dear Diary,
How was your day? I know it's silly to ask a book of loose-leaf how its day was, but it almost has to be more interesting than mine (although, to look on the bright side, I was far more alert and awake than I expected to be).
That's the biggest problem with working for the British Library. When it's interesting – say, perhaps, when the world is in peril from a man who wants to write a song bad enough to make everyone kill themselves – it's very, very interesting, since everyone has a task, even if it's something as simple as fetching everyone cup after cup of tea (my personal favourite). However, when there's no threat to the planet, it can be very, very dull.
We've just hit one of those lovely dull patches, free even of the ridiculous and slightly embarrassing incidents of Monday and Tuesday.
This could last for weeks.
Honestly, although I know that there's a lot to be said for safe monotony, I can't help but wish that something would happen. Or at least that we would get very, very busy around the Library with a lot of menial tasks that have to be done right now. Then maybe Mr. Joker would stop inventing things for me to do.
Yes, sadly, I spent all afternoon realphabetizing the bookshelf I tidied up yesterday, that he "accidentally" disorganized. Hmph! "Accident", indeed! Maybe if he'd put things back where they belong once in a while, we'd be a little freer of "accidents" around there! Stupid Mr. Joker.
I know you must be thinking right now, "She can't have meant that!"
Well, rest assured, I do mean it. And I don't think it's a bad thing. I think it's only healthy to recognize the shortcomings of the one you love. In Mr. Joker's case, he's an unhealthy workaholic, even when there's nothing to do, and he can't reconcile himself to the fact that not everyone around him is the same way, which is why I end up doing the same menial job seven times after he keeps undoing it.
"Just to keep you busy, Wendy. Wouldn't want you to get bored, Wendy."
It just so happens, you great heaping idiot, I think it would be really bloody nice to be bored once in a while! At least being bored sitting still is better than being bored doing the same thing over and over! I feel like that man in Tartarus who had to spend an eternity pushing the boulder up the hill, only to have it roll back down.
Of course, in the Underworld, there were probably no kind smiles and eyes that crinkle a little at the corners and light up with just a little glimmer of laughter along with those smiles, and handsome, distinguished features, and backsides that have no business looking nearly that good in a pair of dress slacks, and…why was I angry at him again?
I suppose I might as well go to bed now before I remember and get too wound up to sleep properly. Which would be bad, as if this whole 'sleeping properly' thing pans out, it will be the first time this week.
And so, good night, dear diary. I'd wish you sweet dreams, but that would about prove that the boredom around the workplace as of late has finally turned my brain.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
March 15, 2001 – Thursday
Dear Diary,
Alright, it's official. Just as soon as a person stupidly complains about the monotony of their life, something too bloody weird for human comprehension happens.
I'm on my lunch break right now – women's intuition told me that this would be the sort of day where I would need to vent a little by the middle of it – and I don't have long, but if I don't write it down now, everything will get jumbled, and it won't make sense when I get to it later.
Make sense! How on earth could any of this make sense no matter how clearly it was explained? And it's not even as though I haven't been exposed to this kind of strangeness. After all, Yomiko Readman could probably make a marching band out of the Sunday sports section if she wanted to (which would be a far better use for it than actually reading it – unless they had something about rugby, of course; rugby's the only sport that has any right to be a sport). I just didn't expect something like this to happen to me.
But I suppose I'll forget it all anyway if I keep rambling, and so here we go. This is what happened, as best I remember it.
I had just arrived at work this morning, and after alphabetizing the bookshelf that Mr. Joker accidentally knocked most of the books off of on his way past last night, he sent me to help some of the boys with some heavy boxes. It's good to know that those years of rugby and the inevitable strength-training they provided haven't gone totally unappreciated. Those men don't know how lucky are to have me around to help. They'd be hopeless without me.
Well, we were on the way down the stairs with one shipment of newly discovered stone carvings to have a look at – the archaeologist said something about prehistoric comic books, but I think he was just having a game to see how much Mr. Frankie would believe. Of course, Mr. Frankie completely believed him and started asking things about Garfield and Marmaduke and Spiderman.
Oh, Frankie, you sweet, adorable idiot.
Oh, dear. I'm off track again.
We were on our way down the stairs, and I was trying to walk backwards down that huge spiraling staircase, which, I would like to stress, is very difficult to do, especially while carrying one end of a box full of bloody rocks
Is it any wonder that I tripped over my own foot on the fourth step from the top? I think anyone could have made that mistake.
And of course, when you're falling backwards down the stairs, it's very difficult to hold on tightly to your end of the box.
To make a long, ugly story into a short, ugly story, I went down the stairs, and the box came right after with me.
This wouldn't have been so much of a problem, if the box didn't end up on top of me at the end of the stairs.
I've dealt with rugby injuries since the seventh grade, but somehow, bouncing down an aggravatingly long staircase and having a five-hundred-pound box of stone plaques land on your tummy puts them in very – VERY – painful perspective.
And that's before one even takes into account what happened after that.
You see, the lobby at the bottom of the staircase is crowded with massive bookshelves upwards of ninety feet high.
One would think that something like this would be fairly difficult to dislodge.
I certainly thought so, until today.
As the box landed on me, though, one of the stone tablets flew out of it and into the nearest bookshelf, shattering into hundreds of pieces.
Then the bookshelf began to wobble.
Then the bookshelf began to tip.
Then the bookshelf next to it began to tip as the first one crashed into it.
This somehow led to five of the things descending straight towards me, although at the time, the box on top of me prevented me from caring too terribly much.
However, a strange thing happened: the five bookshelves somehow fell in just such a way that they propped one another up, leaving a very relieved little me in the middle, albeit a very relieved little me with a box on my chest and every other part of me covered in the books that didn't stay on a tipping-over bookshelf very well.
Nevertheless, I was alive.
That isn't to say that hundreds of thousands – possibly millions – of dollars of damage weren't done.
Or that the box on me didn't still hurt.
And that's why I think I ought to be forgiven for sitting up and swearing a blue streak just as soon as Frankie, Alex, and the delivery man – luckily, much stronger than the other two; almost as strong as me! – waded through the debris and pried the thing off of me, but the way the three of them stared at me, you'd think I'd announced my intention of marrying my pet goat and declaring myself Grand High Empress of the Scarlet Women.
I suppose my outburst must have shocked a lot of people, because as I managed to stand up, I noticed that quite a little crowd had appeared.
And Mr. Joker must have been very worried by his secretary's sudden descent into potty-mouth, because seconds later, he came sprinting around the corner and shoved his way through the crowd and mess worthy of the one in his office.
Honestly, I appreciated his concern, but a bear-hug isn't the first thing a person wants when they've just had their solar plexus introduced to a great bloody load of rocks. Still, I will say that I almost forgot my sore tummy when I noticed that his cologne smells even nicer up close.
I was perfectly happy just to spend the rest of the day like that, but sadly, it was not to be.
I had just began to snuggle in good earnest, when someone that I'm going to kill as soon as I find out who they were, shouted out the fatal words that set everything on its path down the hill of normalcy and into a swamp of silliness:
"Hold on! How the hell did she walk away from that without an injury?!"
Mr. Joker obviously thought this was a good point, because he pulled me away from him and stared at me curiously for a while before asking if I was hurt at all.
Sensing even as I did so, that telling the truth in this case would NOT yield any great reward, I shook my head. Mr. Joker muttered something about having suspected it all along, and then told me with this strange smile, that he was taking me to see Mr. Gentleman.
Whimper.
Now, don't misunderstand. It isn't that I don't like Mr. Gentleman. It's simply that he's a wee bit intimidating to someone who is basically at the bottom of the Great British Library food chain, metaphorically speaking.
Still, there was the concept of pride to be considered, and thus I simply smiled and nodded as enthusiastically as if I'd meant it.
I kept that smile pasted on firmly until, fifteen minutes later, we were standing before Mr. Gentleman, who greeted us both very kindly and made some comments about remembering Mr. Joker's cute little secretary from the preliminary job interviews, and was I still looking after the poor boy? Men needed taking care of, you know, and the roles of secretary and wife had a way of becoming a little muddled at times.
This effectively turned and kept me bright pink while Mr. Joker, who I could swear looked a little red too, explained what had just happened.
Mr. Gentleman looked thoughtful, and then a lot of long, complex words began being bounced about, the general theme of which had to do with latent abilities of heightened self-preservation as my body's natural defense against the preponderance of misfortunes that seemed to constantly befall me.
Hmph. Mean old man.
Still, Mr. Joker seemed very excited about Mr. Gentleman's long words, confessing that all of them had crossed his mind, too.
Poor Joker. If words like that are running through his head all the time, I don't wonder that he always looks as though he had twenty-seven last-minute things to do, a bus to catch in ten seconds, and a long pole in a certain bodily orifice.
But that's just a part of what makes him so alluring.
Yes, I'm sick.
Either way, Mr. Joker very clearly agreed with Mr. Gentleman's assessment, and then took the whole thing one step further into suggesting that, should they prove able to harness and manipulate this…latent dumb luck, or what have you, I should be sent out as a field agent.
I still can't decide who looked at him with more stunned disbelief: me or Mr. Gentleman. Certainly, he gave me a run for my money, although I think my jaw dropped a bit more.
Mr. Gentleman recovered from his stunned disbelief much more quickly than I did, and sat there, stroking his turtle in the uneasy silence that followed.
I don't know exactly how someone can sit at you, but Mr. Gentleman sat at Mr. Joker very poignantly. There was just something in his posture and expression that suggested very strongly that Mr. Joker was supposed to feel thoroughly chastened.
He asked very calmly and conversationally if Mr. Joker was serious.
Mr. Joker replied rather quickly and tersely that he was.
Mr. Gentleman eyed him sternly and asked, again very conversationally, if he had, by any chance, gone mad.
Mr. Joker replied, again quickly and tersely, that he believed he was quite sane.
Mr. Gentleman noted very kindly and gently that one would never know it to listen to him.
Mr. Joker tried to stand up straighter, and failed miserably, as he was already standing up as ramrod-straight as is humanly possible. He asked, clearly affronted, what was wrong with the idea.
I'm still very proud of myself, that I managed not to blurt out, "Everything!"
It turned out that I didn't need to, anyway, because Mr. Gentleman made a noise remarkably like a snort.
"Besides 'everything', you mean, Joker?"
I stopped laughing very quickly when Mr. Joker frowned at me.
This same trick did not work on Mr. Gentleman, who kept right on laughing, his eyes – well, his eye – twinkling humorously at me, as Mr. Joker asked him stiffly to explain specifically what made the idea of my becoming a field agent so unsuitable.
Oh! What, you ask? Mr. Gentleman covered that already: everything!
But Mr. Gentleman is called Mr. Gentleman instead of Mr. Rude Boorish Lout for more reasons than that the second is too long and unwieldy.
And so, he carefully explained that I would have difficulties adapting to the necessary training, that the idea of harnessing my natural self-preservation as an asset during a mission was a little risky, and that, overall, my talents lay in a different area.
I thought it was all in all a nice little speech that summed things up beautifully, but Mr. Joker just scowled and asked exactly what would make the idea of attempting to harness my "naturally self-preservation" a risky venture, provided it were done in a controlled laboratory setting.
By this point, I was beginning to wonder how many times I was going to have to pointedly think, "Everything!" at the man, and was fully prepared to say it out loud this time.
However, Mr. Gentleman once again saved me the trouble.
"Listen, you ridiculous little boy, the idea is mad! She simply doesn't have the temperament to work as a field agent! At least, I believe that was you, Wendy, who refused to come near my turtle here because you were afraid that he would attack you – very slowly – and bite you, wasn't it?"
I nodded, a little resentfully. Not resentful of being reminded of that incident; that turtle would terrify more people than just me! But rather, despite the fact that my thoughts had been running along the same lines, I was irrationally furious with Mr. Gentleman for calling Mr. Joker ridiculous. It was different when it was me thinking it, though; I thought it out of love.
"She would learn," Mr. Joker insisted.
No, I wouldn't! I really, really wouldn't!
"And what about you?" Mr. Gentleman demanded. "What would you do without her? You would become completely inefficient, because you've forgotten how to do anything simple for yourself!"
This seemed to give Mr. Joker a moment of thought, but he shook his head resolutely and said that he couldn't think of his own personal comfort before a development that might prove genuinely useful to the British Library. Hmm…I had hoped for something a little more…romantic than 'personal comfort' being his first thought.
So, a story already far too long made short, Mr. Gentleman grudgingly gave his approval to Mr. Joker's mad little idea, stating that he himself was rather curious to see how this train wreck would play out, and I'm to be closely examined this afternoon. Mr. Joker insisted upon being in the lab; he said he didn't trust that old pervert of a doctor not to take liberties with me, whatever on earth that was supposed to mean.
And thus, dear diary, off I toddle to have heavy things dropped on me to see just how far my supernatural dumb luck can go.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
March 16, 2001 – Friday
Dear Diary,
Sigh. Just sigh. That's all.
What else is there to say when one's life has gone suddenly and inexplicably insane?
The meeting with the doctors and the scientists, by the way, did NOT go well.
Not only did each and every one of them agree that Mr. Joker's idea of sending me out as a field agent with the help of the most useless talent ever was a good one to try – after, of course, a lot more testing ,which will probably take all weekend, thus explaining why poor little Wendy will never, ever have a social life – but Mr. Joker also prolonged the agony by punching the doctor unconscious when the poor man tried to take my (steadily rising by that point) blood pressure.
Oh, he felt terrible about it, of course, and sort of shuffled out of the room, muttering something about the upper arm being the Standard Fictional Female Character Grab Point, and how he panicked a bit.
At any rate, after a few of the staff got Mr. Joker back to his office and made him a cup of tea – hopefully just the way I explained – and after the poor doctor woke up, the testing got underway.
Now, I've been through some strange experiences in my life and gotten out of them a lot more safely than Mum and Grandmum said I'd any right to. A fall off the garage roof and onto my back resulted in little more than aging my horrified cousins by several years. Getting caught in a pen with several severely annoyed pigs who managed to knock down and trample a six-year old girl with as much ease as one might expect that day at Uncle Pat's farm caused them a lot more harm than it did me; my largest concern was that my previously white dress was no longer so, and Mum was going to be furious. There's still an odd story told about my having escaped from Mum and Dad and jumping off a moving train, only to land on someone's fence. Again, I escaped unscathed. The fence did not.
A wealth of stories very similar to these exist within my childhood. I had always assumed that they were just part of being a child. After all, most of us have no right to survive some of the things we do in our younger years.
However, escaping injuries in childishly stupid adventures is an entirely different experience than being strapped into a chair and having a bowling ball dropped on your head, just to see what will happen.
I swear, I will complain to Mr. Joker the next time I see him.
Of course, I wasn't hurt at all; the scientists tell me that bowling ball just sort of…bounced off.
Not off my head, of course. That would be silly, and would quite likely qualify as me being hurt. It bounced off the air just surrounding my head.
They called Mr. Joker back in to watch as they dropped the bowling ball on me again. He seemed extremely pleased at the results, and I was struck with the fierce urge to strap him into a chair and drop a bowling ball on his head, just to see how much he liked it then.
Of course, there are always better things to do when you have the man of your dreams strapped into a chair…
Like rifle through his pockets for change!
After the bowling-ball exercise, they tried something a little more based on a situation I might actually possibly face as a field agent. After all, unless you come across a really watered-down James Bond villain, there isn't much of a chance that you'll be strapped into a chair and have to think of a way to escape before the bowling ball lands on you.
So instead, the scientists all drew paint-ball guns and started firing at me.
I know they were angry with me when I accidentally destroyed most of their equipment by stepping back in startled fear and tripping over my own shoe. Still, due to the lack of equipment, they couldn't do any more testing, and I finally got to go home. Ah, home! At last the weekend can begin!
It has just occurred to me that I am very, very bored.
And lonely.
I wonder if Mr. Joker would come over if I told him my computer was broken and I had no idea how to fix it, but that I was thinking of taking it apart to see what was wrong.
It worked last time, which bodes well for this time, but he might start to catch on if I use it too much, and so I think I'll save it for an emergency.
Until then, dear diary, a very lonely girl bids you good night.
Your faithful servant,
Wendy.
End Notes: Oy. You know, I've gotta stop with these stories before someone gets mad at me. :o)
Anyway, the intention is for this to be the first chapter of several, all done in the format of Wendy's diary, documenting…well, stuff. Silly stuff. Stuff that happens. And never fear, Yomiko and Drake (and possibly Nancy, if I decide to disregard canon, which I likely will, as it is quite clearly humor even sillier than the OVA) will have large roles, too. Very soon, I might add. Really! I swear! :o)