Sometimes it annoys me that people forget that there's more to Team Possible than Kim and Ron. Sure, those two are the obvious faces out in the field, but without the smart one watching their backs (yes, that would be me, thank you), they'd be toast many times over. Just because I'm kind of reclusive, have an appetite for junk food, am a computer whiz, and am waaaaaay smarter than them doesn't mean I'm not just as valuable a member of the team.
Take this one mission, for instance: the Little Old Lady who wanted to take over the world. This isn't one you're going to hear about anywhere else, I guarantee it; there's not much glory in going up against a blue-haired 83-year-old grandma in a walker. But the rest of Team Possible sure ended up being glad that I tagged along on this particular mission.
The lair was old and rickety, in its own block on the outskirts of Lowerton. It smelled like talcum and perfume and incontinent cats. We made our way past the doorbell of doom and managed to sneak past the guard chihuahua. Which wasn't hard, the poor thing. The attack antimacassars were tougher, and the rapid-fire photo albums were a challenge even for Kim. Those razor-edged photos of grandkids and family gatherings were sharp. Eventually we made it deep into the dim lair, approaching the incessant cackling of our adversary. I'll say this for her: she had that cackle down, Drakken could take lessons. Nobody can produce a phlegmy, back-of-the-throat cackle like a woman hooked on Metamucil.
I let Kim and Ron take lead. We all stopped at a short, narrow hallway that was strung top-to-bottom with strands of what looked like yarn. It could've been a trap or a really bad fourth-grade art project, and in this place, it could've been either. Or both. Kim slipped between the wrinkled strands, and Ron slowly followed, while I hesitated.
Good thing I did. Halfway through, Kim brushed a strand, which snapped taut, causing a few other strands to expand and loop around various body parts. Kim started some kung-fu cheerleader mojo, but the more she struggled, the more wrapped up she got. Same for Ron, he got trussed even quicker. I yelled "Don't move!" to the two, but pretty soon they were completely immobile, wrapped in yards of tacky-colored yarn. Kim couldn't even reach for the laser pen in her pocket. I don't carry any gadgets (that's Kim's forte), so I couldn't cut them loose from a distance; it'd have to be done up close.
Fortunately, I had my brain with me, as usual.
During the struggle, I'd noticed that brushing some strands made others extend, while different strands caused the yarn to tighten. There was a pattern. Thinking it over for a few seconds, I was able to isolate which strands loosened the web, and I carefully snipped those. I moved deeper into the web, avoiding the strands I knew would tighten, and continued slicing particular yarn strands until Kim and Ron were loose enough to pull free without entangling us all. "You rock!" Kim told me.
Yours truly saves the day. Again, might I add.
The rest of the mission was anticlimactic. Moist cackling sounded from around a corner, and we went into a room filled with dozens of cats, plus one little old lady on a loveseat. I could've told you that anybody who liked cats that much was a certifiable whackjob.
Turns out she was just lonely, and wanted somebody to come by and visit her. We stayed another four hours, drinking weak tea and eating sugar cookies (which weren't bad - but they didn't make up for the presence of the cat horde). The woman had a truly amazing memory for names of her relatives, and even with my intellect, I couldn't keep up. Kim and Ron were glassy-eyed after three minutes, but Ron's natural charm got them through.
Gee, wonder why nobody visited? Hmm, maybe because she was stark raving bonkers. Either that or all the cats. Your choice.
Later, as we debriefed over nacos at Bueno Nacho, Kim looked straight at Ron and said, "We're never to talk about this mission, ever again." She ignored me completely, which stung. But I guess she had a point.
After all, who'd listen to a naked mole rat?