I watched again Juliet Takes a Luvvah, and seeing Jules freaking out about a bricolage moment this idea just popped out from my head. Heavily inspired by Real Life experiences. I sincerely apologize to Sweden and Swedish people, but it's not me. It's the characters' fault.

Basically, fluffy (sort of) Bromance between my dearest detectives. Beware, next chap will be pretty tough.

Tim Guster and the IKEA Conspiracy

Back to the beginning, it had seemed a pretty simple plan. Mom had to go to the Ikea, she found the perfect bookshelf, they found Uncle Carlton seeking a blower after Uncle Shawn used it to shoot water balloons. She asked nicely if he could help her, he answered nicely that he would. It was a Billy, the easiest friendliest furniture ever. Practically foolproof. They would be done in a moment.

It had not been a moment.

-O'Hara, read it again. Slowly, this time.-

-Carlton, we've done it a zillion times. It's not like reading it well would magically put the damn screw in place.-

-You don't articulate well the words, this is the problem. Articulate, for God's sake.-

-It's not a poem, it's a stupid instruction book.-

Tim sighed, shacking his head. His mother and his uncle, yes, the ones who could look a murderer in the eye and rimontare a gun in less than ten seconds, were currently crouched on the living room's carpet, surrounded by poor wood relics like shipwrecked and looking pretty much as distraught. From the moment they opened the packaging they had in order: babbled about the simple joys of bricolage, read the English instructions, not understood a word, drunken three tons of coffee, tried the Hindi version, blamed the other and the world and everything from the dawn of time on. Now they were soaked with sweat and looked on the edge of tears, or of murder.

Or both, knowing them.

-Ah, you guys wanna something to drink?- Tim asked tentatively. Retreat now, now NOW.

Their eyes shot toward him, gleaming with feverish fervor. -No- they grumbled together.

-Ah, uh, okay. Sure you don't need a han...-

They leapt over the mess of Swedish brilliance, like they should defend an harmless child from a particularly wicked serial killer. -No!-

-O, okay.- Tim repeated, slower. He exchanged a glance with Mina, nodded, and saw her stealthily saunter along the corridor. Out of earshot.

-Okay, okay O'Hara, I get it, I get it. We were putting the A thing in the C stuff while fastening the K doodad, but it was wrong, because what we should do is putting the C stuff in the K doodad while turning the A thing. See, see, it's working, it's working.-

-Carlton, the K doodad doesn't exist.-

Uncle Carl let out a sound between a locomotive and a dying seal.

He afflosciarsi on the carpet, followed almost immediately by Mom, staring at the ceiling with the contemplative despair of a fallen hero. Tim checked his watch, sighing. How was he going to explain Erin why he was so late for their date?

Meanwhile, the definitively-not-factotum detectives hadn't moved. His uncle took a dramatic breath, carefully. -It's physically impossible that two great detectives, two skilled, experienced professionists with our curriculum are unable to built a damn bookshelf. Physically impossible and morally unacceptable. So there is just one option left.- He sprang up suddenly, one vein pulsing so hard Tim really feared the stroke. -A conspiracy.-

Oh my.

Mom beamed. -Yes, of course, a conspiracy. It's not possible to built this thing because they don't want it to be built, they want us to get crazy.-

-And invade us afterwards. You know Sweden was a Nazi alley in World War II?-

-Little grubby Swedish. And their cookies are so good they have to be suspect.-

-You're starting to understand, O'Hara, you're starting to understand. But we have caught them. They won't ever spread mayhem again, not with us around.-

-I'll get a warrant for tomorrow, we'll call the SWAT. We'll bring them down.-

-And we'll take all the cookies.-

At the cookie part Tim started to get alarmed. Luckily, his sister heels clacked back along the corridor. Mina stopped beside him, the cell in one hand and the pink-lipsticked lips parted in a perfect disconcerted "O". Poor kid didn't remember the fridge ordeal of 2015.

He crossed his arms.

-Have you made the call?-

-Yeah. Uncle Buzz would be here in ten minutes.-

After all, sometimes all you can do is calling backup.