Danny's POV:
"KEMPLEEEEEEEEEER!"
"Best friend!" Kempler, the strangest ghost I've ever had the misfortune to meet, squished me tighter in his bear hug. The dude is friend-deprived, and has got it into his head that everyone out there in the world wants to be his friend. His number one target?
. . . well, let's just say that if I was in pain from all the slapping from earlier, I'm awful close to dying right now.
Taking a deep breath, I prepared for my Ghostly Wail. Normally, I save it for extremities and emergencies, but the way I've been feeling all day . . . yeah, this is my equivalent of twenty emergencies. Okay, so it's more like 3, but really . . . kill a guy for being dramatic. Wait, scratch that . . . I'm technically already half-dead, so that kinda ruins the purpose . . .
Thank youuuuuu, Ghostly Wail! As soon as I released it upon Kempler, he was blown away. Yes! Oh, sweet blessed air . . . I shall never shy away from Mom's death-grip ever again . . . even that lets me get more air than Kempler . . .
I sucked the friend-deprived ghostie into the fenton Thermos, relaxing automatically as I let two blue rings appear around my waist. They seperated to turn me back from Phantom to Fenton. "Finally, I get to go home . . ." I turned around, only to meet the stern gaze of a police officer. "U-uh . . . hi?"
"Hello. Aren't you out quite a bit past curfew?"
" . . . curfew?"
"Didn't you know? It was announced last week that, due to the power and might of the most recent ghost attacks, all peoples under age 20 must be inside a building of some sort and supervised by 8:30 PM."
"Yeah, w-well . . . I . . ." If only it weren't for that stupid potion . . . then I'd be able to say I was 21. Might as well give it a go . . . "See, I'm not a kid . . . I'm 21 . . ." It worked? YES!!! I'M FREE!!!
The policeman gave me a stern-er look. This appeared to be quite hard for him, as he seemed to be fighting to keep a straight face. Okay, so I don't look exactly 21 . . . wouldn't 20-and-a-half work? I can do 20-and-a-half . . .
"Okay, okay, so I'm only 20-and-a-half . . ."
Okay, now the guy just looked constipated.
"Sorry, bud, but it's 10:00 and I don't think you're 20-and-a-half."
"Um . . . 20-and-a-month?"
. . . I didn't think it was possible for a police officer to look like he had to pee really bad and constipated as well . . .
" . . . wouldja settle for 20-and-a-hour?"
Great. Constipated, potty-break and fightin' for a straight face.
" . . . all right, so I'm still 14. What're you gonna do, book me?!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . wow, I just had to go and open my mouth, eh?
And here I am, sitting . . . in the damp . . . in a jail cell . . . waiting for the officer to let me make my phone call so I could beg Jazz to bail me out . . . and trying to inch myself as far away as possible from the very large and very muscular prisoner next to me. Yeah, this was the life . . . just what I always wanted.
"All right, boy--" The officer, still looking constipated-potty-break-and-fightin'-for-a-straight-face-ish, told me, keys jingling as he unlocked the cell.
"Danny." I interrupted. If there's anything I hate more than being called a kid, it's being called 'boy'. Above that, there's only one other name I despise with all my heart . . . Daniel. Uuuugh . . . insert shudder here, if you please. Why, oh why did my parents name me that?
. . . then again, why oh why are they so . . . them? Honestly, who in their right mind would put the On switch for the Fenton Portal on the INSIDE of said portal?!
"Right then . . . Danny." Oooh, joy. I only made him look more constipated. "You can make your one phone call now."
"Gee, thanks mister." I pretended to be all cute and cuddly, then grinned and ambled over to the phone. A row of chairs rested against the wall next to it. At least I'd be able to sit while explaining to Jazz. This might take a while . . . in order to hurry up my doom and get it over with, I punched in the numbers as fast as possible.
"Hello, Fenton Household, Jazmine Fenton speaking. Jack and or Maddie Fenton can't come to the phone right now, but if you'd like to leave a messa--" Jazz started reciting the stupid answer we had to use anytime anyone called. It'd been drilled into us time after time . . . since age 4.
"-ge for them, I'd be glad to take it. If you have a message for my brother Daniel, he's not available right now either, but I will take a message for him as well. If you'd like to schedule an extortionism, that would qualify under a messge for Jack or Maddie Fenton. If you have information regarding a ghost, please leave include that in a message to Jack and Maddie Fenton. If you wish to schedule a general appointment, I can set that up for you. Yeah, Jazz, I know." I interrupted, finishing the ever-so-long message for her.
"Danny? Is that you?"
"Yep. Look, Jazz I nee-"
"SAM!" I heard her yell. "DANNY'S ON THE PHONE!"
"Nice to know." I told Jazz. "But Sam can't drive, so thus talking to her won't really help."
"Why do you need someone to drive? Just a sec, I'll put you on speaker." A quick beep, and now I could hear both Sam and Jazz.
"DON'T PUT ME ON SPEAKER IF MOM AND DAD ARE HOME!" I bellowed. Quite impressively, I might add . . . heh heh.
"OW! Geez, they're not home, otherwise I wouldn't have put you on speaker. Where are you? You were supposed to be home a good 3 hours ago!"
"Yeah . . . see, that's actually a funny story, that . . ."
" . . . Danny . . . what did you do . . ."
"Um . . . what would you do if I said I got myself arrested?"
Silence.
This does not bode well.
Wait for it . . .
Initiating countdown to impending doom (hold phone a good foot away from ear, if you will) . . .
5.
4.
3.
2.
1 . . .
"You WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"
Oww . . . hence proving my suspicion that Jazz is also in on the conspiracy idea. She's the treasurer, I know it . . . CONSPIRACY!
"CONSPIRACY!" I yelled into the phone, already starting to wave an arm frantically. Yeah, I was spazzing . . . please don't hurt me to make me stop . . .
" . . . . . . wha?"
" . . . nevermind. Look, I'm begging you . . . please bail me out? I don't want Mom or Dad to know . . . especially Mom!"
"Okay, okay . . . luckily, they didn't take the RV." Sam told me, having obviously handed the obviously-hyperventilating Jazz a brown paper bag. "How much is bail?"
"Just a sec." I covered the mouthpiece with one hand, leaning over towards sleeping Constipated Officer. "HEY!"
"AAAAAGH! What is it? Whatcha want?!"
"How much is bail?
"Uh. $200."
"Thanks." I repeated the info to Sam.
"Good, I have just that much on me." Oh yeah. Rich girl. Forgot. "We'll be on our way, just hang on a second and don't hang up."
"'Kay."
"Jazz, where are the keys to the RV?!" Sam yelled, sounding distant over the phone. " . . . whatcha mean, they're not here? The Fentons took them?! You're kidding me!" Turning back to me, she said "We've encountered a problem."
" . . . how big a problem?"
"Um . . . the no-keys-to-drive-the-car kind of problem . . ."
". . . oh. Um, do you know how to hotwire a car?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"Yeah. All right, follow these instructions."
It took a while, seeing as our phone was one of the old-fashioned corded kind. Sam had to get the instruction from me (while I had police officers breathing down my neck, too . . . maybe hotwiring a car isn't the best conversation topic to be discussing in a police station, complete with jail), run out to the garage, follow the instruction, run back, get the next instruction . . . etc, etc, etc.
Finally, she got the car running. While she was running back, a police officer bent down to whisper something in my ear.
Sam says that this is what she heard upon picking up the phone:
"YOU SAID, ONE PHONE CALL! ONE PHONE CALL! YOU NEVER SPECIFIED HOW LONG IT COULD BE! ONE FREAKIN' PHONE CALL! THIS IS ONE FREAKIN' PHONE CALL!"
" . . . Danny?"
I struggled against the police officers, fighting to regain control of the phone. "Sam . . . just . . . hey, let go . . . get down . . . stop that . . . here as fast . . . LET ME GO . . . as you can . . . okay . . . HEY, don't touch me there!" With that, Constipated Officer hung up for me.
As I was dragged (kicking, screaming and fighting all the way) back to my happy little cell, my gaze fell upon a gold square on the back of a chair.
"No . . . freakin' . . . way . . ."
This chair is hereby reserved for one Daniel Jackson Fenton.
Oh, WOW . . .
Hey, God! I meant the PRINCIPAL'S office, not the damned POLICE STATION!
. . . but you did a nice job on the embossed lettering . . .