fandomhigh | Detention [Saturday, November 21]

"Move! MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!" Max waved his Luger at the detainees, trying to push them out of the rickshaw, into the school, and in through the door of the Danger Room. "Step to it! Don't make me get violent!" He fired into the ceiling a few times. "No, you know what, MAKE me get violent!!!"

"I don't think anybody has to make you get violent, little buddy," Sam said cheerfully. "Hello, boys and girls! And welcome to Gun Safety. Today we're going to be teaching you how to properly clean and store handguns, pistols, and even some old-fashioned muskets we found laying around. Does anyone here know how to pack gunpowder?"

Max, in the back of the throng, started jumping and waving his hand in the air. "Oooh! Oooh! Pick me! Pick ME!!!"

"Not now, Max," Sam said in a stage whisper. "I'm lulling them into a false sense of security, so they forget they're in Detention."

Max sighed and shook his head condescendingly. "Sam, Sam, you forget they've got two raving psychotic lunatics waving GUNS at them. They're not going to be lulled into ANYTHING." He shrugged. "...So, we should just shoot them now."

"I don't think we're supposed to kill them, Max," Sam said, scratching his temple with the end of his gun. "They can't be our future if they're filled with bullet holes. Oh, I know! You know what would be educational and fun?"

"A bathtub filled with spaghetti and the collected works of Stephen Hawking?"

"This isn't Tuesday, Max," Sam reminded his pal gently. "I was thinking we should deputize these fine boys and girls and teach them how to be Freelance Police! Give them a taste of our cases. Show them that working with the law is always better than breaking it. Although it's usually best to do both at the same time."

Wasn't this going to be exciting? It was! And it wasn't like the students had a choice about it, anyway!

Welcome to Detention, Sam and Max style.

(OOC: the post for getting arrested (if you choose to do so) is here. Detention, ahoy!)

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Well, if nothing else, that meant it would all the more easy to hit, right?

Jono gave the handle a swing, making solid contact with the can.

And he braced himself for the impending mess.

[Please forgive me. I need to use this icon. I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THIS ICON. I need an intervention.]

SPLOOOSH!

And the can went flying. It cracked open, sending frothy cheap beer out in a thick arc. Sam ducked as the can got a little too close to his face for what he'd consider comfort.

(NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR ICON ABUSE. YOU ARE AMONG FRIENDS.)

Jonothon officially liked Fizzball.

He was also covered in beer. He'd need a shower for this.

... Bollocks.

//And now I smell like th'front step of a college dormitory on a Friday night. Brilliant.//

[It is a current character of mine, punching a potential IN THE FACE. That is only one of a million reasons why I adore it so.]

"That. Was. BEAUTIFUL!!!"

Max bounced up to Jono with a big grin on his face and tried to go in for a hug. "Good JOB, Creepy Mute Guy! You're a NATURAL!!!"

There was a rabbit. A rabbit trying to hug him. The crazy rabbit who had been trying to shoot him, earlier.

And Jono did Not Do Hugs. Not with rabbits or otherwise. (Didi was a special circumstance, damn it.)

And that would be why the creepy mute guy was holding out his arms in front of himself, attempting to fend the bunny off.

"No biting the students, Max," Sam called out, before waving amicably to Jono. "Don't worry, he's had most of his shots. And he's right, you're a natural. You could go pro!"

//Dare I ask,// Jono mused, his arms still up defensively because there was no way in hell that he was letting the rabid rabbit cling to him, thank you, //what exactly 'going pro' might entail?//

He was pretty certain that he would have at least heard of a National Fizzball League, if such a thing actually existed.

"We could probably get you a government grant," Sam offered. "Funding for the arts. We embezzle money for things like that all the time."

Your tax dollars at work.

Someone else's tax dollars, really. Jono was kind of running under the radar, to some extent. And really, he wasn't certain that Fandom even technically counted as part of the USA, did it?

It wasn't as though he'd ever been asked for proof of citizenship, or anything. And considering that there were people here who weren't from Earth to begin with...

//Oh, it's an art, then, is it?//

That absolutely explained why Jonothon was going to be sticky with booze until he could figure out a way of showering without flames licking up over the side of the shower stall for any bloke stopping into the bathroom to see while they stopped in to have a slash.

"Lots of things are 'art' if you fill out the paperwork right," Sam said brightly. "Then Max here signs a presidential order and the next thing you know, you've got piles of cash going to your friends and business associates."

Oh, yeah. Max was the President.

Exactly who you wanted with your finger on the nuclear button.

... Now there was an America that Jonothon never wanted to find himself living in. Ever.

He was going to convince himself that the dog and the rabbit were just delusional. Yes. That explained things nicely.

//And do yer do this sort of thing often, then?//

"It's been a while since I signed a Presidential order," Max pointed out. "Those were the days," he sighed. "But that was before Congress ran us out of Washington. With pitchforks."

He was proud of that part.

//... Why am I not surprised?//

How many ballot boxes did they have to stuff to get him voted in, anyhow?

It was a long story. One that involved the re-animated marble statue of Abraham Lincoln and a mud-slinging campaign.

Incidentally, the licensed psychotherapist was now dating the Abraham Lincoln statue. Well, his disembodied head, as that was all that had survived the tactical nuke. Still: cute couple.

"I was surprised," Sam admitted. "I would have thought Congress had lackeys for that kind of thing."

Detention [Saturday, November 21]

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