Disclaimer: Naturally, I own Jack! In fact, I own less than Jack, I own what Jack would sneer at in contempt. I own what Jack throws away and laughs. Except this computer, which is ni-ice! PS: spoilers for 'Bodies in Motion', 'Room Service', and '4x4' present. (I also don't own Tupac Shakur or John Entwhistle (rest their souls.))
Notes: An (apparently) much sought after continuation of my surprisingly popular parody, They're back, is what this is. The format has changed somewhat, in that it is no longer in the form of a script, and this isn't really based on one single moment of epiphany, as my last chapter was, but on a series of things that tweaked my interest in the season 6 episode "Room Service". So those are my reasons for this one perhaps not being as good as my original short piece. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for reading and reviewing on my first story.
To knadineg, M2S, Chickie Baby, Jaye Black, FanFicAddiction, The Sounds of Silence, AzureHart, alwayswrite05, sherryw, thatTaylorgirl, rozzy07, frickangel, AngelKougaeri, kalan porter fan, and karmine, my heartfelt thanks! Whew! Okay, enough chatter, on with the show!
McSteven's Farm, 3 miles outside Las Vegas, 11.00am.
Standing resignedly at his latest crime scene, Warrick braced himself for the answer. "So, Griss, what're you thinking?"
Grissom looked up from the body, turned his head slightly (so the camera got his best side), and spoke with the emotion of one who has spent five years watching paint dry.
"I'm thinking the killer must have parachuted in, used this tyre iron as a fulcrum, and levered the bus onto the victim's head, crushing it."
Warrick winced. Looked around at the lack of a parachute, a tyre-iron, or a bus. Here we go again…
"O-kayy…Grissom, about some of your recent theories…"
Grissom nodded. "Hmm?"
"First, we have a car flying through a trailer. Then we have shotgun pellets playing pinball. After that, it's a married couple, having sex with each other in two different beds."
Grissom looked blank, which could mean anything from 'I'm scared', to 'I'm having an orgasm'. In this case, it meant "Yeah? So?"
Warrick pressed on. "Wasn't there a time when your motto was 'Concentrate on the evidence, and skip the theories'? I mean, what evidence is this theory based on? What evidence were any of those theories based on?"
Grissom looked frantically towards the exit. "Well, err…look! Catherine with no top on!"
"Where?" Warrick whipped his head around frantically.
He knew he'd been duped before he heard the Road Runner style 'zip' and saw the Grissom shaped cloud of dust heading for the horizon.
Warrick considered chasing after his eccentric boss (the cloud of dust I mentioned was only heading towards the horizon at something like two miles an hour), but realised that Grissom could have threatened to send him back to Subplot Basement D instead of wussing out. Considering himself lucky, he turned his attention back to the crime scene.
Meanwhile, Officer Carlson made his way over. "Okay, 'Rick. Scene's clear. Let me know if you need an assist."
Warrick held up a hand. "Whoa, whoa, just a sec. You cleared the scene?"
"Yeah…"
"The WHOLE scene?"
"Yyeahh…?"
Warrick's eyes narrowed. "You did learn something from that time we found a girl in a shower in a scene you'd already cleared, right?"
Officer Carlson snorted. "Come on Warrick, give me some credit, will ya?"
The door at the other end of the barn swung open, disclosing about half a dozen obviously dead bodies, two fairly embarrassed chickens with a rooster, and a blood-soaked chainsaw. Attached to the other end of it was a gentleman whose disposition could best be described as 'Bates-like, with just a tinge of Lecter.'
Making a mental note to either fire Carlson or have his head inserted noisily into Grissom's bug collection, Warrick yelled out. "Cath! Little help in here!"
"Not now, Warrick. Kinda busy." Replied Catherine, applying makeup.
As the esteemed psychopath with the large logging implement uttered a word that contained no audible vowels but was clearly an epithet, and revved up his chainsaw for good measure, Warrick added. "There's someone else trying to get into your crime scene."
The near wall exploded as a redheaded blur crashed into the barn and began pummelling the now-terrified intruder with a combination of a baseball bat, and mace spray.
Mere psychosis stood no chance against the eye-scratching, territorial horror that now confronted the poor man. He surrendered without a fight.
As Officer Carlsen (under Warrick's instructions) stood in a corner, and Detective Sophia Curtis led the burbling former lunatic away in cuffs (checking for weapons and chemically induced erections along the way), Warrick turned to Catherine.
"Whoo! Nice job, Cath!"
Catherine, now in full battle mode, spat out "Go tell it to Tina, Mr. Pussy-whipped." and headed off to pee a circle around her crime scene, setting up a few machine gun posts along the way.
Sighing, Warrick went back to the scene, feeling relief as Nick Stokes walked in. Of all the CSI's on Grave shift, Nick was easily the sanest. Which didn't really make sense, as he had the most reason to act insane, having been locked in an underground ant farm for God knows how long.
Swatting angrily at the halo and aura of light that seemed to follow him everywhere, Nick squatted next to Warrick beside the body (the original, not the other six!)
"Damn aura, followin' me everywhere. I can't even go to the john without it coming with me…"
Warrick made a face. "Didn't need to know that, Nick."
But the Texan criminalist had noticed something. "Speaking of lights, Warrick?"
"Yeah?"
"It's broad daylight. We're in a well-lit building. So you…don't…need…the flashlight."
Warrick's lower lip trembled slightly. "Aw, come on, man!"
Nick extended a hand. "Hand it over…"
Sulking slightly, Warrick surrendered his little toy. "Turns on and off, and everything…"
"Yeah, yeah. What have we got?" Nick enquired as Sara joined them.
Recovering, Warrick began to fill them in "Victim is a Caucasian male, early thirties, no I.D. yet, so we…ah, Son of a bitch!"
The source of Warrick's irritation was instantly obvious, as all present instantly lost about three feet of height and became a lot wider, due entirely to the 'Sliding Doors' style change of camera and audience from one crime scene to the other.
"Relax. It'll be over in a minute." soothed a much shorter and wider Sara. And it was.
"Thank God!" Sara said as she realised the camera was no longer on them. She instantly flipped out a cigarette and lit up. "Do you guys have any IDEA how much of a pain in the ass it is to be PC all the time? I mean, even the hobbits in 'Lord of the Rings' got to smoke weed from time to time!"
Nick, meanwhile, was glaring nastily upwards. "Whose idea was it to have the screen split in two when the audience changes crime scenes? Last time I forgot to duck and banged my head on the edge of the screen."
Sara let out a plume of smoke. "Hey, at least it's not that effect where we go through one storyline, then go back in time to start another one. Remember '4x4'? How many times did I have to go through that damn decontamination shower? And I know for a fact Greg had a video camera running. He didn't need to peek!"
"Hold on. We're all here, right?" Warrick piped up. "So what's the other crime scene the camera's heading to?"
Sara had the answer. "You chased Grissom away, right? Well, what are the odds that he could go five minutes without finding a crime scene or something like it?"
Nick considered this. "So, Gris has got a whole crime scene to himself?"
Warrick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that should suit him. At least until Cath finds out…"
As they packed up and headed back to the crime lab, they could faintly hear on the desert wind "Victim appears to have been strangled with a g-string, and possibly run over by a hovercraft…"
"My crime scene! Mine! MineMineMine!"
The three CSI's looked at each other. Business as usual…
Entering the morgue, Warrick was more than a little disconcerted to find Doc Robbins hunkered over a large book that seemed to exclusively contain photos of dead people. The ex-gambler recalled the Doc's comment during the Julian Harper case about him "having a perfect spot for the deceased movie star next to Tupac and Entwhistle."
Warrick had foolishly pointed out that Tupac and Entwhistle had, in fact, been dead for some time, and weren't located inside the crime lab's morgue. The ever-so-slightly demented grin he received in return had prompted him to shut up and leave quite fast.
"Okay, Doc. You go cause of death?"
"Victim's was hit over the head with a tyre iron," stammered Robbins, hastily closing the book and shoving it into a draw that Warrick hoped wasn't filled with what it looked like it had been filled with "and apparently, then had an extremely large object levered onto his head, something with tyres, possibly a bus…"
Warrick's jaw dropped. "Grissom was right!"
Doc Robbins raised an eyebrow. "Don't look so shocked. Grissom's always right, no matter how insane his theories about cause of death are, and how little evidence supports them. It's only you guys who have to worry about all that 'Follow the Evidence and don't theorise' crap."
Warrick, deflated, continued. "That must make your job kinda redundant."
Robbins looked at him. Then replied "I get paid about forty grand a year to state the obvious. And I get to be on TV. No complaints here."
Noticing the way the Doc's eyes kept flicking towards the now-locked drawer containing his scrapbook and other horrors, Warrick thought it advisable to beat a hasty retreat.
He bumped into Hodges along the way and prepared himself for a barrage of sarcastic remarks and snarky insults.
They never came. Instead, Hodges was nodding his head in time to a rhythm playing on his iPod. It sounded kinda like Green Day's 'Welcome to Paradise'. Warrick was halfway down the corridor before he realised that Hodges hated Green Day, not to mention the fact that he hadn't ever seen him with an iPod before.
Lost in this train of thought, he didn't see Greg coming until he smacked into him. Picking up the wad of papers that were now on the floor, Greg snarled "Y'know, there are these wonderful devices at the front of your head, called eyes!" With exclamation-mark sarcasm, he added "They are often used as a, kind of, way to avoid smacking into objects in your path! I'd suggest using them next time!"
Warrick was affronted. "Dude, so-rry!"
Greg gained a strange, almost dreamy look in his eyes. "Ecklie would never just smack into someone like that…"
And that was it! Warrick held his hands up in a big 'Stop!' gesture. "Okay! That's it! Hold everything! I can handle a psychic Grissom and a territorial Catherine, and even a lunatic Doc Robbins, but now Greg's being sarcastic and unpleasant, and is worshipping Ecklie? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!"
"I think I can answer that." Hodges spoke from behind them, looking tired and slightly remorseful, but with an unusual gleam in his eyes.
"Sanders, shut up!" hissed Greg desperately.
But Hodges was sagely shaking his head. "Sorry, man." Then to Warrick "Hodges and I had a personality transplant. We worked it out with the writers."
Warrick blinked. "A what now?"
"Personality transplant. Basically, I became Hodges and he became me for about a week. He pretty much begged for it, said he hated being himself and wanted to try my life out for a while." Continued Greg Hodges, ignoring the spluttered protests of David Sanders.
Now Warrick was nodding his head sagely. "Right. Now it's starting to make sense. I mean, earlier Hodges, er, you," he indicated the man with Hodges' body and Greg's personality "were working so hard you fell asleep, while Sanders" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the sulking man with Greg's body and Hodges' personality "was up in our faces, kissin' Ecklie's ass and doing favours for him."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Nick appeared in a blaze of light and angel song, and interrupted. "That remark you made when we woke up, about you having an '80's beard and your lady loving it? What the hell was that, man?"
Greg Hodges looked embarrassed, yet defensive. "Well, I, err, was trying to think of what Hodges would say in a situation like that. Something lame and stupid, I figured. Just trying to keep up appearances." The man flashed a smile that on Greg would have been mischievous and radiant, but on Hodges' face fell ju-ust short.
David Sanders, however, had remained silent long enough. "Appearances! Oooh, big word! Four syllables and everything. Sure you'll be able to spell it?"
Greg Hodges' smile vanished. "By the way, Hodges, I bumped into Ecklie earlier. I think he was kinda disappointed when I didn't tell him how wonderful he was, and didn't volunteer to wash his car for him!"
Nick and Warrick turned to the man who looked like Greg, but was really Hodges. "You wash Ecklie's car! Oh man, I don't think I can look at you the same way anymore, man!"
The two personality-switched men launched at each other, intent on starting the lab-tech smackdown of all time, but were pulled apart by Nick and Warrick before anything could happen (sorry, slash fans!)
"We've gotta get these two to the writers, man. They can unscramble them, or whatever."
The Greg look-alike with the Hodges personality whined "Can't I get a few more days?"
"Hell no! It's confusing enough in this lab without people trading identities on us!"
"I wasn't confused. I knew all along." No one really knew, or questioned where Grissom had come from. "All I had to do was Follow the Evidence."
"What evidence!" Warrick exploded. "What the hell are you talking about!"
Grissom smiled menacingly. "You want any angst this season, 'Rick?"
"You did it, Grissom!" Warrick struck up an awe-inspired pose so quickly it was spooky, injecting just the right amount of hero worship into his voice. "You did it."
Catherine, meanwhile was starting a private catfight with Sara over who would get to sigh lustily in his general direction. Grissom turned to face the camera, positioning a complaining Nick behind him, making sure that the halo seemed to be over his head, with the aura of light from behind adding just the right amount of flair to his pose.
"I'm the Greatest." Grissom sighed contentedly, not aware of Greg making a 'v' sign behind his head with Hodges' fingers.
Just another day in the life of your average CSI's!
AN: And that, people, is my second chapter. Hope you all enjoyed it. If it fell short of expectations, or was too confusing in anyway, don't hesitate to let me know, and I'll try to improve it. If you liked it, let me know anyway. Reviews make me happy. Thanks!
AN 2: OOPS! How the hell did I do that! I very stupidly put that Tupac Shakur and John Entwhistle were, in fact, still alive, when they both died some time ago under tragic circumstances. Please forgive this moronic error, which I have now rectified.
Sorry!