An Enchanted Evening

*Dedicated to everyone who is taking this journey with me. May there be many more adventures.

When Tinkletoes looks in on Writer Lady she is sitting in the great room in a wing back chair wearing a dress that brings out the color of her eyes and accentuates...things. Daemon the Demon rises from his seat in a nearly matching chair. Daemon’s chair is a lot bigger because well...he is.

Daemon passes Tinkletoes as he exits the room smiling. Diomedes quickly takes the demon’s place at Writer Lady’s side.

“How are things moving? Do I look okay?”

Tinkletoes turns his attention to the source of the inquiries. Carp stands next to the self-proclaimed mercenary. The assassin-in-training is dressed to the tens. Dressing to the nines is for amateurs as far as Carp is concerned.

“Yeah. You look fine.” Tinkletoes gestures to the scene before them with a toss of his head. “What’s going on?”

“Reflecting.”

Tinkletoes looks at Carp and waits for more information.

“When a milestone takes place with something that’s been going on for a long time those who have participated in some way, helped with its creation, or enjoyed some benefit of the result like to get together and reflect on their favorite memories.”

Tinkletoes shakes his head.

Carp continues explaining, “It’s a way of saying thanks for doing this, I enjoyed this, I had fun being a part of things, it meant a lot to me, and sometimes it’s even a way to say ‘I love you.’”

The pair watch as Diomedes and Writer Lady stand. The woman and the dragon share a brief hug. The dragon blushes. Dragons get that way about their creators sometimes. Diomedes is a sensitive soul.

“Are you going?” Carp asks.

“Going where?”

“Up to see Writer Lady?”

Tinkletoes does not answer. He shifts his stance looking irritated. “No.”

“I can’t wait to go up. I have my speech all ready. It starts with a brief history of our time together, we’re BFFs you know and then moves into her terrible mistakes that I have forgiven her for and my advice on how to repair things with Monitor Man.”

“Not that again.” Tinkletoes grumbles.

“He was perfect for her.” Carp sings.

“Did it ever occur to you that if he was the right man he would have been around...all the time? I’m a guy, know these things and although Monitor Man needs to you know...learn how to be more of a guy...he would have been around all the time if he liked her.”

“You mean like you?” Carp asks.

“Yeah like me only, you know, acting like a boyfriend acts and stuff. You need to let go of it already. She has.”

Diomedes leaves Writer Lady’s side. The dragon wipes a tear from his eye with a linen handkerchief, stopping in front of the pair he says, “She’s the kindest creator I’ve ever had. Such a lady.” Diomedes continues on into the bonus room and the evening’s entertainment.

“Diomedes is a gentle giant.” Carp comments.

Tinkletoes glares in Diomedes’ direction. “He’s a fictional character how many creators can one character have?”

Carp rolls his eyes. “Just relax and be a part of things already.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary growls.

“You’re special to her, you know.” TP says as he pops in next to Tinkletoes. “We’re all special to her.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because we came into her life during the hours when she needed someone the most.”

Tinkletoes looks at TP.

“We had adventures with her, we made her laugh, and smile. We make her happy.”

“We?”

“I came to visit first, then you.” TP says. “We have been here from the beginning.”

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady. He notices Dobby is curled up on a cat bed next to her side. “I guess it would be rude not to say ‘Hello,’ to Dobby.”

“It would.” TP agrees.

Tinkletoes looks at the faerie, “She has been putting up with you for eight years.”

Carp opens his mouth, closes it, opens it to say something.

TP looks at Carp covers his own mouth with his hand stifling a giggle.

“Let’s go!” TP says.

“Okay let’s go.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary, the assassin-in-training, and the faerie greet their favorite writer lady together.

There is a strange sound. The group notices a bright light in the far corner of the room, when it dissipates, Excalibur is sitting in the far corner, a note threaded through its blade.

Tinkletoes retrieves the enchanted weapon and removes the sheet of parchment. He holds it up for the rest of the group to see. 

It reads: BUGGER!

Of course what happens next is another story.

Corporate 2.0

After a late lunch and a trip by Pen’s apartment, the pair returned to Scotch’s or Corporate 2.0 as the spy had christened it. He did a walk through of the apartment upon entering leaving Pen in the kitchen while he checked all of the other rooms.

The kitchen was immaculate. Apparently the housekeeper had stopped by. Groceries had been delivered as well. According to the housekeeper’s notes only the perishables had been put away as requested by the resident. Her note listed everything that had been done ending with a post script reminding the resident to text the agreed upon number the next time her services were required.

Scotch found Pen opening his cabinets, studying his storage method. He enjoyed watching as she would pick up an item that she had retrieved from the shopping bag and carefully contemplate where it should go slowly putting it into place.

“You don’t have to be so specific you know.” He said.

Pen stopped what she was doing. She turned to find him standing in the entry grinning. “Isn’t specificity important to a spy? How are you going to know if someone has been in your apartment rigging bombs or traps or whatever it is spies do to each other if there isn’t specificity in your placement of any and all items?”

“A place for everything and everything in its place, is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

Scotch nodded in recognition. “A bit of tape over the crack between the door and the frame to alarm the hero that someone has been there, that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“When a spy takes on a mission he doesn’t know what he will find when he reaches his destination. He may feast like a king or starve like a peasant.”

“O—kay.”

Scotch continued. “One may never know when entering the abode of a fellow spy is a chance to have a badly needed snack.”

Pen raised a brow.

“My colleagues and I prefer not to dally in the food stores of a fellow spy for it could some day lead to our own end.

“Honor among thieves?” She asked.

“No there is no honor among thieves. Spies. There is plenty of honor among us. The men on Whistle are another story completely.”

Pen put his espresso into the cabinet. She looked at the clock it was four pm. “It’s still early why don’t you go get some sleep. I can monitor things for a bit. I’m sure things won’t get interesting before nine.”

Scotch agreed. “Let me get you set up.” He led the way through the master bedroom, his hidden room was already open. “I opened things up when I did the walk through.” Scotch announced answering Pen’s question before she could ask it.

Pen sat down in front of the computer.

“Whistle is over here. Monitoring is taking place on the other screen. If you encounter anything inappropriate, reply to the message with this.” Scotch took control of the mouse and clicked on an icon on the desktop. “Just copy and paste it into the message box. Then block the sender of the inappropriate message.”

Pen nodded.

Scotch crossed the room and poured a finger of amber liquid into a tumbler. Raising it to his mouth, he deposited the liquid down his throat. The spy closed his eyes.

“Am I that difficult to be around?” Pen teased.

“That was to counteract the espresso I drank after lunch.” He held up the empty tumbler. “See no refill.”

“If you are tired enough coffee will not keep you awake; if you are awake enough nothing will put you to sleep.” Pen said.

“I’m having trouble placing that one. Who said it?”

“Brittany “The Pen” Abercrombie with the help of Ken Jefferson Sr. I described the discovery, my daddy helped coin the phrase.”

Scotch looked at Pen. “What is your father like?”

“He was a charismatic man with a huge heart and a no-nonsense way of looking at life. Daddy was the perfect ambassador for a painfully shy daughter.”

“Daddy? Isn’t that a Southern phrase? I thought that you were raised in New York.”

“I was.” Pen turned to face Scotch. One corner of her mouth turned up into a small smile. “Daddy used to say that the first time a child called him ‘Daddy,’ melted his heart. Well, he insisted that he refused to give that title up without a fight.”

Scotch nodded. “It sounds like he was a good man.”

“He was. One of the best.” Pen agreed, turning the chair and returning her attention to the monitors in front of her.

“Mind the boys.” Scotch instructed. “Don’t hesitate to discipline them if they act up.”

“I won’t.”

“See you at nine.”

“See you at nine.”

A few minutes later, Scotch felt a push on the back of his shoulder.

“Scotch.”

A stronger push.

“Scotch.”

He ignored it.

“On with it, get up then!” Pen ordered.

Scotch opened one eye then the other. Pen was standing next to the bed holding a cup of espresso. “What was that supposed to be?”

“I was trying to wake you up, like your mother might have.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It was my British accent.” She explained.

“It was horrible.” He said as he accepted the cup.

“I’m a scientist not a linguist.”

Scotch raised the cup to his lips and sipped. He took a bigger sip. “This is really good. What did you do to it?”

“Chemist. Cooking is chemistry.”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

“I was supposed to relieve you at nine.”

“You’ve been up for days. I was going to let you sleep all night but there’s been a development.”

“Already?”

“I had to come and get you. I’m going to be in over my head soon. This next part requires a spy.”

Scotch looked at his robe laying on the end of the bed. “I need to put something on. Do you mind?” He pointed to the robe.

Pen looked at the robe then paled. “Oh yes. Of course.” The spy in training stepped away from the bed and turned around.

“What’s going on?” Scotch asked as he put the espresso down and picked up the robe.

“I’ve found someone who may know what McKinney had been working on before he was killed.”

“What’s his name?” Scotch asked as he stood and put on the robe.

“Her name is Mata Hari.”

Scotch sat down on the bed. “You can turn around now.”

Pen turned around.

He shook his head. “She is not a credible lead.”

“How do you know, you haven’t seen her whistles. You haven’t spoken with her.”

“Mata Hari? It’s a red herring. It might be a very good one. A red herring nonetheless.”

“As a scientist, I thought you could have ruled something so obvious out on your own.”

“I was on the verge of dropping her like a hot potato until she offered to introduce McKinney to Casanova.”

Scotch grinned, a laugh escaped. “Casanova? She offered up Casanova and you can’t see through that? He was legendary for his charisma, questionable endeavors, and seduction of women.”

“He was also a spy.”

Weather Woman

Executive Producer KLULS : So Mrs...um...Johnson what brings you here today?

Tony: It's Miss. Tony Johnson. Daddy wanted a boy.

(Producer smiles nervously)

Tony: Like I told your Human Resources Clerk I'm here for the job opening.

Executive Producer: The only job opening I'm interviewing people for is the weather personality.

Tony: Yep. That's the one.

Executive Producer: I see from your resume... (Producer looks at a napkin)...I see your last job was at the burger place down the street. A job you had for one hour? 

Tony: That was the worst hour of my life too. All these little girls giggling in the corners, not doing any work. The manager, another little girl moving faster every time one of those little girls disappeared into the break room. There was a rush? Is that what they're called? That little manager started to yellin' at me. I told her “Look little girl, I know you're upset but this is not my fault. You will not talk to me like that. I know your mama.” 

Executive Producer: That is an interesting story. Do you have any experience with weather forecasting?

Tony: Yes. I've been looking at it my whole life. I can look out any window at any time of the day and tell you what's going on out there.

Executive Producer: Do you have any meteorological training?

Tony: What?

Executive Producer: Meteorological training? The science of weather.

Tony: Hell no. Science. I'm allergic to science. (Tony produces a fan from her purse and begins to fan herself.)

Executive Producer: We need someone who knows what they're talking about.

Tony: I know what I'm talking about. Walk down the street and ask a question no one knows the answer to and they will send you to me. I know more than anybody. (Tony fans herself faster.)

Executive Producer: You don't understand. Our last weather girl didn't have the knowledge necessary to deliver a credible forecast. She couldn't use the maps or anything.

Tony: I hate to break it to you baby but that child couldn't find the map either. She could only find her boobs because well, who could miss those. (Tony looks around) I'm ready for my audition. Where do I stand?

Executive Producer (Shifts nervously) : One more question. You seem to be a bright seasoned (coughs) woman. Why do you want the job?

Tony: The same reason anyone does. My light bill is comin' due and I don't want to be sittin' in the dark so if you don't mind.

Executive Producer: I am aware that because this is a small town television station in the South many people assume that we have much lower standards but I really need someone who can do better than the last girl.

Tony: Darlin'...I can't do any worse now can I?

(Producer shakes his head, runs his hand across his mouth, shakes his head some more)

Tony: So...how's your mama doin' these days?