This idea came about through a conversation with C.S.Y. Shadows in regards to why Gin never attempts to blend in by changing his outfit (seriously, who goes to a theme park to avoid suspicion looking like some wannabe gangster … or a fedora-wearing pedo?). Anyway, these things were pondered, as was the problem of whatever happened to that pipe Gin used to hit Shinichi with on the head. Naturally, the logical conclusion is that his coat has miraculous storage powers à la Link from The Legend of Zelda and can fit pipes and all other sundries inside.

Thus, a crackfic was born.

In Which Pockets Are the Thwarters of Evil

"Found him," Vodka said with a grin.

He pushed the whimpering man onto his knees, then stepped back with a nod to his partner. Gin raised his head, face shadowed beneath the rim of his fedora. The glow of his cigarette burned bright red for an instant, illuminating cold features and even colder eyes; then the light vanished as the tip of his cigarette turned to tumbling ash. Gin exhaled a cloud of smoke and lazily detached himself from the wall, closing in on his victim with slow, purposeful steps.

"P-please," the man begged, practically kowtowing. "I-I'll do better next time. I—"

"Sorry," Gin said coolly. "This is a one-chance only business." Mouth curling into a cruel smile, he reached into his coat and pulled out—

"A hairbrush?" the man said, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

Gin blinked and glanced down at the thing clutched in his hand that was definitely not his Beretta 92. Well, damn. This was awkward.

Vodka let out a small cough. "Ah, Aniki?"

Gin shoved the hairbrush back into his pocket and then pulled out the next hard thing his fingers touched. It was a phone charger. A low growl escaped the blond's lips. He began reaching into his coat with frantic speed, pulling out anything his fingers brushed. Keys, a lighter, a nicely wrapped bento lunch with a little note scrawled on top from the boss ("Have a great day at work!"), some loose change. Damn, damn, damn. Where was that bloody gun?

Vodka scratched his cheek. "Um, Aniki," he tried again.

Gin wasn't listening. He had moved onto the next pocket. Some already scratched lottery tickets appeared in his hand, then gel pens, then a dog whistle (ah, poor Leg Chomper. How they all missed that furry little demon), a can of diet coke, handfuls of glitter, one of Vermouth's bras—

Vodka opened and closed his mouth like a fish when he spotted the lacy bit of lingerie. "T-that's Verboo—Aniki, you didn't?"

Gin just frowned and tossed the bra away, then carried on with his search inside the miraculous storage space that was his coat. He unearthed a long metal pipe (oh, hey, that was what they'd used to bash that detective boy's head), a small orange ball with four stars on top (Vodka instinctively glanced up at the sky in case a monkey boy riding a cloud suddenly appeared … it had happened before. Don't judge). However, Gin didn't even pause, still rummaging inside his coat for his elusive gun. He pulled out mah-jong tiles from his pockets, a box set of Full Metal Panic ("Hey, that's mine!" Vodka exclaimed), and even a fish bowl filled with water, complete with a swimming koi fish.

The man on the ground just sighed. "I don't understand what is going on at all, but this has got to be the most bizarre build-up to an execution ever."

"Shut up!" Gin snarled.

The blond was looking decidedly flustered now: his cheeks were splashed with pink, and his eyes were wild and glittering. The coat that had once been his best partner in crime for its never-ending storage space had now become his greatest foe. How was he supposed to shoot this stupid man in the head if he could not find his gun?

Vodka stepped forward. "Ah, Aniki, you can use my gun if you li—"

"I don't want your gun!" Gin snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

There was a long silence. If Verboobs were with them, she would have told him off for sounding like a whiny child. Fortunately, she wasn't. Gin was thus able to indulge in his sulking fit without any comments from annoying, big-busted females.

"Um," the stooped over man ventured, "are you still going to kill me?"

Gin opened his mouth to retort when they heard the unmistakable sound of girlish chatter and laughter. He froze and exchanged a glance with Vodka, who just shrugged as if to say it was Gin's call. The blond frowned. Much as he wanted to kill the fool at his feet, protecting the secrecy of the Organisation was more important. It seemed their window of opportunity had closed up for tonight. Time to bail before they had to deal with a bunch of witnesses.

Gin collected the fragments of his wounded dignity (and his scattered belongings), and then leaned down so that he was eye level with the man. "Lucky you, it seems you get to live another night."

"D-does this mean I get a second chance?" the man asked hopefully.

"Perhaps," Gin said. "You'll have to prove your worthiness to the Organisation first."

Which was a lie. The moment Gin found his gun, he'd shoot the idiot in his idiot head. Then he would bask in the glory of spilt blood and maybe drink some gin, just for the hell of it. Gotta live up to his name of being a dastardly devil and all that.

Vodka hauled the man to his feet. "Come on, you're coming with us."

The three headed back to Gin's Porsche, away from the herd of females that rounded the corner, who were all chattering excitedly about some "Kid-sama". Idiots. Gin slid into the driver's seat, while Vodka took shotgun and the snivelling man was shoved into the back. The blond started the engine and drove onto the road, still fuming over the fact he had not been able to find his gun. That was when he noticed that Vodka was shooting him a narrowed-eyed look.

"What?" Gin said sharply.

"You said you didn't know where my Full Metal Panic box set had gone," Vodka said, pouting a little.

Gin just clenched the wheel tight between his fingers. Tonight definitely was not his night.

Well, there you go. My cracktastic tale solving the mystery of Gin's coat. Big thanks to Allison for giving me ideas for things Gin could pull out from his pockets.

Next up: Kaitou Kid's true identity is put at risk when a furry detective comes sniffing. Whatever is a phantom thief to do?