"Get back to work, you load of shirkers. Remember: I giveth and I can damn well taketh away again!" the bearded figure boomed.
The crew genuflected reflexively and obediently chorused "Blessed be the name of Shane." And then scuttled off out of sight. They knew their place.
"Funny," Deeks said. "I never thought God would have an Australian accent. I'd always thought he'd sound more like Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments."
"That was Moses. Not God."
"Mr Picky today, aren't we?"
Kensi studied The Creator curiously. "He's a lot shorter than I thought he would be." She'd never actually seen Shane in the flesh before, as he rarely granted audiences to mere mortals. Consequently, she had begun to wonder if he was just a figment of everyone's imagination. This visitation proved she was wrong, in the same way as the Babel Fish proved that God (the other one) didn't exist. However, it was rather disappointing to see that he didn't wear long flowing robes though. "But at least he's got a beard. That's something, I suppose."
"And at least his beard doesn't have bald patches in it." Callen looked pointedly at Deeks, who immediately clapped his hand over the right side of his neck.
"It's not a bald patch. It's just not quite as full as the rest, that's all. Not unlike that bare spot just at the crown of your head, Callen."
"What is it with you guys and razors?" Shane bellowed. "Never heard of them?"
"Tribute to you," Deeks said smoothly. "Sir."
"Crawler," said a voice that sounded very like Callen's, only his lips didn't move. Deeks wondered if being a ventriloquist was another of the many and varied, not to mention implausible, aliases Callen kept referring to in a casually offhand way that fooled absolutely nobody.
"You're the blond one all the sheilas fancy," Shane said, looking at Deeks. "No accounting for taste, but there you go. The viewing figures don't lie after all." He pointed at Kensi. "And you're the female totty that kicks arse. Which is fair dinkum. You do have a nice arse. You're a pair of spunks, you are." Finally, he turned to look at Callen. "Remind me who you are again?"
"Callen. G Callen. No first name. We have met before. I'm the star of the show – remember?"
"Of course I remember. You're the short one. You stand out like a shag on a rock." Shane was somewhat blunt, but then he believed in speaking the truth – the unvarnished truth. Why beat about the bush? They had an awful lot of bush in Australia, after all. You could be out there in the outback for centuries, beating around aimlessly and what would be the point in that? No-one would appreciate all your hard work, except the odd kangaroo or wombat, and as neither species was exactly renowned for watching television or for their spending power they were of no interest to Shane. "And there's another one, isn't there? Or did I kill him off?" Shane looked around the set. "No, there was definitely another one. I remember that. He wanted to wear a hat, but I soon stopped that nonsense. Built like the proverbial dunny, he was."
Nobody quite liked to ask exactly which proverb he was referring to and decided the phrase probably lost something in translation.
"He's called Sam and he's just a bit overawed," Deeks lied smoothly. "He's really very shy, you know. And modest."
Kensi nearly choked at that. Sam was many things, but modest was not one of them. He'd made blowing his own trumpet into somewhat of a speciality.
Shane frowned. "I don't remember writing that into the character description. Still, it could work. Big guy, afraid of his own shadow. Contradiction in terms." He rubbed his beard reflectively. "That could work. Something completely different. Maybe he could be a functional mute in season three?" And it would certainly help to keep the costs down if the chap wasn't speaking. He could save a fortune there.
"Brilliant idea!" Callen seized upon the fact that this would undoubtedly mean more lines for himself and, correspondingly more screen time. Which was only befitting, seeing as he was the star of the show. This would put it beyond all doubt.
"You – blond boy." When you were in as exalted a position as Shane, little things like names didn't matter. "That list of yours – let me see it." Shane really did know everything, it seemed.
Deeks turned the laptop around meekly and The Creator scanned the screen. A rare smile crept across his face and it was as if the sun was suddenly shining. Then again, it might have been one of the lighting guys switching on a spotlight to illuminate him properly.
"Mmm. Looks like those strides are a hit with the ladies. Might have to get you into a pair of budgie smugglers next season."
"Sorry?" Deeks wasn't sure if this was very good, or very bad indeed and looked to Callen for help.
"Strewth – don't any of you speak 'Strine?" Shane enjoyed playing the stereo typical Australian as much as the next man, especially if it meant confusing the Yanks. He actually spoke the purest Queen's English, and merely affected his colourful slang to throw people.
"She speaks Spanish and Portuguese, Sam speaks Arabic and I speak several Eastern European languages, plus French and German."
"What about surfer boy?"
"He just speaks gibberish most of the time."
budgie-smugglers = Speedoes. So-called for obvious reasons.