I do not own Fillmore.
Vallejo once remarked that Danny wasn't qualified to handle a stapler, let alone bodyguard duty (or something along those lines). Thus, this was inspired.
The Stapler Incident
Being Junior Commissioner of the X Middle School Safety Patron meant plenty of responsibilities—one of the worst, in his opinion, was paperwork. Tediously writing up conclusions for each case and adding his signature often resulted in cramped fingers. Vallejo leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen as he eyed the stack of papers with disdain. They were piled in a tower that bordered on precarious. The writing part was finished—the stapling and filing, however, had yet to be started.
"I have better things to do than file and staple until my hands fall off," he grumbled. "But that's what I get for wanting to be Junior Commissioner."
Wait a minute.
While some of the jobs he had to perform as Junior Commissioner were headache-inducing, it also came with perks. The greatest of which was perhaps the ability to pass on the more mundane tasks to his officers.
A crash sounded from the main office, causing Vallejo to jump in surprise. The commotion was quickly followed by a familiar yelp of panic. Vallejo rolled his eyes and glanced towards his window, where the blinds were firmly shut, preventing him from seeing what mess his photographer had gotten into this time.
Well, at least I know who's going to be doing the paperwork, he thought.
Vallejo stepped out of his office and into the Headquarters with the stack of papers in his hands. Danny O'Farrell lay on the floor, tangled in his camera film strips.
"Please tell me nothing important was on those," said Vallejo with a hint of warning in his tone.
"Er, not really," answered O'Farrell sheepishly.
Shaking his head, Vallejo dropped the papers on O'Farrell's desk and helped the redhead to his feet. "You're finishing the paperwork."
"Why me?" O'Farrell whined, shrugging out of the camera strips and shoving them into the trashcan. "Why not Fillmore?"
"Don't try to pass this on me," said Fillmore, not looking up from his computer. "He asked you."
"It's to keep you busy and out of trouble," said Vallejo flatly. "I want this paperwork done by the end of the day, got it?"
O'Farrell shifted his gaze quickly to the clock. "But that only gives me a half hour!" he protested.
"Then I suggest you get moving. The papers are labelled by letter in the corner. File the A to Ds for me, will you? Put the Es on Third's desk, staple the Fs together and bring them back to me."
O'Farrell groaned, but hastily quieted under Vallejo's sharp glare. "Yeah, Boss. Got it."
Vallejo disappeared back into his office and O'Farrell slumped into his seat. He started to separate the papers, meticulously putting the As, Bs, Cs, Ds, Es, and Fs in individual piles.
When he finished, he peered at the clock. He was shocked to see that he only had ten minutes left. "Dang it!"
He seized the papers he had to file and hurried to the cabinets. But there were no stickers on the outside and when he opened one of the drawers, it was empty. He scowled in irritation.
What kind of person doesn't put labels on file cabinets?
"Fillmore?"
Fillmore glanced up from his computer. "What is it, O'Farrell?"
"Where do the As, Bs Cs, and Ds go?"
"Before the Es and Fs."
O'Farrell sighed in exasperation. "I know that! But which cabinet do they go in?"
Fillmore pointed to the top drawer in the last cabinet. O'Farrell yanked the drawer open and crammed the papers in. He silently hoped Vallejo would not check his work—he had taken too long to organize and did not have time to alphabetize. He grabbed the E papers but, in his haste to get to Ingrid's desk, he tripped and they cascaded across the floor.
"Nuts," he hissed, hastily gathering them up and slapping them on Ingrid's desk in a sloppy pile.
Fillmore stared him with a raised brow. "She's not going to be happy about that, man."
"I don't have time to make them neat!" defended O'Farrell. "I'll help her organize them tomorrow. I'll even come in early."
He hurried back to his desk and seized the F papers. He glanced around and nearly shouted, "Tehama! Where—?"
He shot a hand out and caught the stapler, thrown by the purple-haired girl. O'Farrell's eyes narrowed with concentration as he frantically tried to staple the papers together.
"Ouch!" he yelped, accidentally stapling his finger. Removing the metal piece, he sucked on the injury for a second before trying again. He smacked at the top of the stapler fruitlessly, but it did no good. It was jammed.
"Ah man!" Prying it open, he used a pencil to try and remove the twisted staple. The pencil broke in half, and O'Farrell glanced desperately at the clock. Only a few minutes left. He began slapping the stapler frantically. "Come on!"
Fillmore, having abandoned his report to watch O'Farrell lose his mind, grinned. "Having some trouble?"
O'Farrell ignored him. He held the stapler above his head and slapped it again with all his might. A victory yell escaped him as the bent staple shot out from the tip. "Ah yeah!"
Zzzzttt!
"Oh shoot!"
There was a jumble of panicked cries as O'Farrell and every other officer dove beneath their desks as O'Farrell's staple flew straight into a light fixture, managing to shatter the glass. Pieces of glass rained down and the light began to malfunction.
"O'Farrell!" Anza snapped.
"Sorry! It wouldn't come out!" O'Farrell wailed. A door slammed open, banging against the wall, and O'Farrell winced.
"What the heck is going on? Who broke the lights?" Vallejo shouted, keeping inside the doorway and watching in disbelief as sparks began spitting from the light fixture. "Fillmore!"
"It wasn't me!" Fillmore protested.
O'Farrell waved the stapler out from under his desk. "My bad! Sorry! It wouldn't work, and you said I had to finish by the end of the day and time was running out and—"
He let out a yelp as the lights went out completely, rendering the main office pitch black. The officers hesitantly climbed out from under their desks and picked their way towards the door, glass crunching beneath their shoes. O'Farrell's heart pounded when a firm grip fell upon his shoulder.
"O'Farrell?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You are no longer allowed to touch the stapler. And you're on desk duty until the new lights come in. Are we clear?"
O'Farrell flinched. "Yeah, crystal clear."