Disclaimer: I do not own "CSI" or "CSI: Miami". If I had a nickel for every time I've had to say that, I'd go to the mall and throw them at people.
Ha! You thought I forgot about this little dookie of a parody, didn't you? But really, sorry for the delay! And CSI: Miami bashing awaits you in this chapter.
"Hmmm…" Grissom was staring at an exact miniature model of the crime lab. It was perfect, except of course for the undeniable fact that the Sara doll had multiple pins stabbed in it and had a note on top of it that said "YOU DIE" in red letters. "What could this possibly mean?"
"Does it have anything to do with me?" Sara walked up to Grissom, holding files in her hand.
Grissom looked at Sara, then back to the miniature, then back to her, squinting in thgouht. "No, I don't think so. Are those files on our faceless victim?"
"Yes, they are," Sara shook the files in her hand.
Grissom took them from her and put them in a file cabinet labeled, 'Neglected Cases'. "We have to focus on the miniature killer now, otherwise we'll never get to it before the next season starts and we have to go to your funeral."
"Do we still have to work with those Miami CSIs?"
"For now, yes, but I think I'm going to put them out with the recycling next week. They're just like a lot of fish species: they're best in warm waters and they just stand there with their mouths open. In the instance that you shoot one of them in the chest, aforementioned Miami CSI fishy will flop around until dying. It has come to my knowledge that some of them are endangered. And if you underfeed or overfeed them, they'll die."
Sara raised her CSeyebrows. "Can we flush them down the toilet when they die?"
"No, that would pretty much be illegal to my knowledge." Grissom answered.
"What did you mean by them dying if they get overfed?"
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Greg's job was simple: feed the Miami CSIs. Ryan Wolfe was the last one to feed, and Greg was handing him food out of the refrigerator. "Here's a turkey sandwich."
"Oh, good!" Ryan took it happily.
"And a bag of chips,"
"Chips are good,"
"And an apple,"
"Need my fruit,"
"And a water bottle,"
"Can't go without water!"
"And your dessert," Greg handed him a pudding cup.
"Everybody loves pudding!" Ryan added the pudding cup to his pile.
"Do you want some mayo?" Greg handed him a bottle of mayo.
"WHAT?! NOOO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US WITH SO MUCH FOOD?!"
Greg cringed at being yelled at and looked near tears.
Horatio whipped Ryan once on the back, making him drop his food. "Bad Ryan. If you make Greg cry, we all get punished."
"Yoouu got whiiiiped!" Greg teased the ailing Ryan, who was in tremendous pain.
"Relax, I'm a coroner, I know what I'm doing!" Al the Coroner held up a chainsaw. "And last I checked, you two Floridian CSIs are just plain old, non-interesting CSIs, correct?" He was asking Speedle, who was angered by this question, and Delko, who was just standing there with his mouth wide open.
"Not true!" Speedle argued. "We are actually- OUCH!" he was interrupted by the coroner stabbing him in the arm with a needle filled with embalming fluid.
"Grissom says I have to keep you from falling apart." Al the Chainsaw-Wielding Coroner explained.
"As I was saying, I'm a honey enthusiast, and Delko is something that the author of this fic doesn't care enough about to find out what it is,"
"Whatever," The coroner turned on the chainsaw. The second he put it on the body, it went straight into the lower abdomen and intestines went flying, most of the intestines landing all over Speedle and Delko.
Al the Super Coroner stared at their entrail-laden faces. "Uh... think fast?"
"You're supposed to say that BEFORE!" Delko shouted at him.
"Uh... oops?"
"Never mind. Just get on with what you were doing!"
"Right!" On the chainsaw went, deeper into the abdomen and now splattering bile all over the walls and the other two CSIs.
"WHAT THE HELL! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US YOU WERE GOING TO TURN IT ON AGAIN?!" Speedle demanded.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU THINK FASTER?!" Al the Defensive Coroner replied.
"I got bile in my open mouth," Delko complained.