“I think it’s a cheeseburger,” Gina says.
Fiasco stares down the well. Sure as shit, it’s a huge cheeseburger.
“Well, that explains the mystery of the village’s lost water,” he says. “I’ll call the Pope, and then we’ll go to the concert.”
She gives him a broad, sweet smile. “I love it when you solve mysteries, doctor. Take me!”
Just then, her fingers pop the button on his jeans. They gingerly slip behind the tight fabric, pulling them down from his waste. Suddenly she’s nude, her warmth closing in. He reaches out, smells her hair, touches her skin. Pressing against him, she brings her lips to his ear and shouts:
“Mmmm… Doctor! Waaaaaake up!”
“Gaaaa!” Fiasco thrashes. Tangled in blankets, he quickly looks around, a sinking sense of reality chilling his gut. “What the fuck, Sherlock? I was having a…an important dream about science!”
“Mmmm… suuuure you were, Doctor. Was she hooooot?”
“I…never mind.” Fiasco throws the blanket over his lap. “What the hell are you in here for?”
“Mmmm… about that. I kiiiiiind of…accidentally…on purpose…kiiiiilled someone.”
Growling, Fiasco throws the covers off himself and slides out of bed. Slipping a robe over his white-striped boxers, he follows the robot into the game room. Once there, he just stands, staring. There’s blood everywhere, and the whole room smells like shit.
“You’re cleaning this up,” he says, glaring down at the mess of a man’s face.
“Mmmm… of coooourse.”
With a sigh, he steps over the brain matter and goes to the table where he keeps his vinegar loaded Super Soaker. It’s also where he keeps the small fridge loaded with sodas and a coffee pot. Pouring himself a cup of joe, he says, “So, care to explain?”
“Mmmm… he’s a druuuuuug dealer.”
Fiasco takes in the warm, dark brew with a nod. Because, really, it’s the only rational reaction a man can have first thing in the morning. Is it morning? Fiasco can’t tell. In fact, he feels stiff. Like he overslept a bit.
“So, why is there a dead drug dealer in my game room?” he asks.
After a moment of silence, the machine says, “Mmmm… Okay, it waaaaas like this…”
The following story is told by Sherlock…minus the weird buzzing and whatnot.
Viewer discretion is advised.
“Right. So, there I was, minding my own business on a cheap porn site, when I see this ad. It’s for Bonez, a medicine designed to improve sexual functions. I figured, what the hell. Why not? Then I find out I have to get a prescription for the thing. Apparently, Obamacare does nothing for machines. So, I called up my drug dealer.”
“You have a drug dealer?” Fiasco asks.
“Of course, Doctor, how else could I get the Ruffies?”
“Yeah, the Ruffies. That’s what I said.”
“So, the dude shows up and I let him in. It’s all business as usual. He busts out this baggie of little red pills. I ask him if that’s the Bonez, and he says, no, it’s some kind of tracking device used to pull us out of the machine and get us to Zion, whatever that means.”
“Right, no copyright infringement there.” Fiasco says dryly. “So, this happened while I was sleeping?”
“Yes, Doctor. Don’t interrupt.”
“Well, by all means. Please continue.” Fiasco scowls.
“Anyway, I tell him I want the good shit, so he busts out the bag of little blue pills, and then we’re in business. He hands them over, and I give him the cash. But that’s when things go south.”
“I asked him if they were organic.”
“You would,” Fiasco mutters.
“He said they weren’t.”
“I said, fuck that, I want my money back.”
“And he wouldn’t give it to you, so you killed him?”
“Really Doctor, what do you take me for? I don’t just kill people for random, seemingly pointless reasons.”
“So, why did you kill him?” Fiasco asks, taking another sip.
“He was wearing Crocs. Seriously, who wears Crocs to a drug deal? Anyway, after I killed him, I went ahead and threw him in the incinerator that we built for these kinds of things.”
“Whoa, step back a minute. What incinerator? And what the hell do you mean, ‘these kinds of things’? Has this happened before?!”
“Oh. Yeah, nevermind.”
“No! You can’t just say something like that and… wait a second, if that’s not the dead dealer, then who is it?”
“Who, him?” Sherlock asks. “That’s the police detective.”
“What the fuck?!”
“I guess he was following the dealer, hoping to catch him on a bust. But when the dealer didn’t come out, detective splat-head came in.”
“Goddamnit Sherlock! We’re supposed to be low key here!”
“So, I was going to load up the incinerator again –”
“There’s that incinerator talk again. Seriously, what are you–”
“– but then I get this knock at the door. Some goons came looking for their guy. I guess this backdoor Bonez business is a big deal. I busted out some ninja karate moves, and shot them with the gun.”
“You…wait, what gun?”
“The detective’s. Seriously Doctor, are you even paying attention? So,then I had another few bodies to handle, but I managed to get them all in the incinerator and taken care of.”
“For the love of…” Fiasco moans, rubbing his face. “Alright, is that all?”
“No, that’s when another knock comes at the door. Our neighbor apparently heard the gunshots. He thought it was just a loud movie or something, which would have been fine, but I was kind of tea bagging the corpses and screaming country music songs, and that made a bit of a strange ruckus, so he came to investigate.”
“T-tea bagging?” Fiasco sputters.
“Haven’t you ever played any first person shooters, Doctor? You bag ‘em after you tag ‘em. Duh.”
“But we’re underground, how could he possibly hear anything?”
“I was being pretty loud.” Sherlock says.
“Bullshit, I would have woke up during that.”
“Yeeeeah, about that, I slipped you some of those Ruffies. You’ve been sleeping for three days.”
“You what?!” Fiasco shouts. “Why would you do that?”
“Slip me a goddamn Ruffie!”
“That’s a good question.” Sherlock says. “I suppose I would ask that too. But, anyway, I killed the neighbor as well.”
“And you threw him in the incinerator,” Fiasco wearily mumbles into hand.
“Oh, no. I ground him up and fed him to the cat.”
“Cat? What cat now?”
“Yeah, I adopted a stray cat days ago, didn’t you notice?”
“How could I?” Fiasco glares at the robot. “I was sleeping.”
“Oh, right. You really shouldn’t sleep so much you know. It’s bad for your health.”
“Alright, enough!” the doctor throws his hands in the air, spilling his coffee. “So, you did all of this, you proved you are fully capable of handling the situation, why the hell did you wake me up?”
“Apparently cats don’t digest humans well, and he’s been crapping all around the house.”
“And now you need me to get a litter box, is that it?”
“Oh, no. I went ahead and threw the cat in the incinerator too. Seriously Doctor, we can’t have things making messes around here.”
“Jesus,” Fiasco closes his eyes.
“No, the reason I woke you up is because I need you to go to the store and pick me up some Shagz.”
“What is a damn ‘Shagz’?”
“You know, Shagz. It’s the same thing as Bonez, but you can get this stuff over the counter. They’re supposed to do the same exact thing. And you know what the best part is?”
“No,” Fiasco moans.