~*-Secret Organization of Improvisers-*~
|Short background and explanation|
Firstly, you need not read this to enjoy the story. So if
you don't want to read my
pointless ramblings, by all means, don't! I don't want to
bore you :0) Anyway, I felt
like the title of my story garnered explanation, and possibly a
bit of a background as
well. All right, here it is. The first part of the
title, SOI, is an acronym for Secret
Organization of Improvisers, but you kidlets were probably more
than intelligent
enough to pick up on that, correct? Turning that into the
phrase Soi-disant just hit
me after I thought of the acronym, and I'm so thankful it
did! In case you don't know,
soi-disant means so-called, egotistical, self-purported, and I
believe this describes the
men of Whose Line to a tee :0)
The basis of this story is that the people of WL are actually
secret agents in an
underground organization, which doesn't prevent crisis, but
promotes *GOOD*
comedy. The show 'Whose Line is it Anyway?' is then merely
a legitimate front. The
crisis they face in this particular epic is something NOT meant
to offend.
*insert standard disclaimer*
I will mention the Trinity of the Unfunny, Whoser Losers, etc.
throughout.
These ideas, however, were borrowed from the Slatterettes
(particularly the Church of
Slatter-Day Saints) and I can't take credit for their ingenious
phrases. Also, anyone
who is a fan of any of the comedians I bash, PLEASE don't hate me
;p. I am merely
voicing my opinion (and the opinion held by certain Slatterettes)
and I have no real
basis for the disdain I possess for certain improvisers, besides
the fact I just don't like
them. I don't claim to be all knowing, and I certainly
don't want anyone to think I am
forcing ideas they don't like down their throat.
And, as for the "spelling errors" (or speeling air-oars
if you prefer) when Jan speaks, it's
supposed to be like that. I'm trying to type what her words sound
like with her Jewish
accent, if you seriously can't figure out what she's saying, ask
me, and I'll assist you... lol...
That is all.
And that's SOI-disant. Enjoy. Please : )
::Phase I::
|Superheroes and the Trinity of the Unfunny|
Greg sat alone in his office, fiddling with the knick knacks
strewn across his desk, a
Newton's Cradle, a box of paper clips. A shrill voice
buzzed in his ear, though he
was alone in his lavish basement work suite. He raised a
finger to his head, pushing
his two-way earpiece transmitter further back into the ear canal,
until he could make
out what the voice was saying. It was his secretary.
"Mistuh Proops," she addressed in a high-pitched voice,
very Yentl-esque, "Cloive
requests your presence upstay-uhs."
"Thanks Jan," Greg replied, turning down the volume of
the earpiece. 'A voice that
cuts right through your head,' he thought to himself, getting up
from his desk and
making his way to the frosted glass door. He wondered what
improbable mission
Clive would have for them this time, as he walked passed the
secretarial desk, waving
halfheartedly at Jan, who smiled adoringly at him.
Greg made his way to the lift, and pressed the button for the
eighth floor. He waited
patiently as the elevator climbed from the sub-basement, to the
basement, to the
ground floor, and on up, until it hit his destination. The
car made a satisfactory "ding"
as the doors whooshed open, and, smoothing out his navy sports
jacket, Greg exited.
He strode down the hall, past all the potted plants and
lithographs hanging from the
wall. He rounded a corridor, made his way to the end, and
found the room he was
looking for. Clive Anderson's personal office; His name was
etched in black on the
wooden door. Greg grasped the brass knob, turning it ever
so slowly. Finally, he
pushed it open and entered the room.
On the far side of the office -which was hugely vast compared to
Greg's own- he saw
Clive at his desk. Tony Slattery, (who had inevitably been
alerted previously of the
meeting) was standing slightly to the side of him, and they were
both looking down at
something, papers probably, that laid out upon the desk. As
Greg surveyed the room
quickly before Clive noticed his company, he also saw the Brad
Sherwood was there,
sitting quietly in a chair off to the side.
Clad in his usual bowling shirt, dark cotton/polyester pants
ensemble, he looked a little
uncomfortable. As Greg stepped into the room, closing the
door behind him, Brad
looked up. He rose from his chair, gaining the attention of the
other two men at the desk.
"Hey Greg," Brad greeted, looking quite a bit less
nervous.
"Hello Greg," Clive offered, "Glad you could join
us. Now, you and Brad, pull up a
seat near the desk, yes that's it, and I'll tell you why I've
called you all up here." The
bald man motioned for Tony to get a chair as well, and the three
men then sat in a row,
overlooking the desk, facing Clive.
"It has been brought to my attention," Clive began,
sighed, and continued, "That there
seems to be a group of people going around, telling bad jokes,
bringing down the name
of comedy, and generally jolly well making fools of
themselves."
Brad and Greg looked worriedly at one another, and Tony leaned
over silently
gesturing that Clive was not referring to either of them.
"I've called all of you -my best agents- up here to see what
can be done about this
nuisance." Clive clasped his hands together, looking
intently at the three men.
"Firstly," Tony piped up, "I suggest you start
calling us by the code-names you and I
went over earlier. I mean, we ARE a secret underground
organization, aren't we?"
Clive rolled his eyes, but obliged. "All right, Tony
---," he was cut short by Tony
waving his finger and shaking his head negatively, "All
right, Fluffy Donkey," Clive
said, addressing Tony by his code-name. Tony leaned back in
his chair, satisfied.
This intrigued Greg. "Hey what's my... Oh,
nevermind," he trailed off, expecting
more patronization from Clive.
"Never fear, Ocelot Daddy, the names were chosen by the
Fluffy Donkey," Clive
assured Greg, almost cracking up as he did.
"Ocelot Daddy?" Brad reiterated in mock disgust,
chuckling a little.
"Don't knock the name, Junior Simian," Tony replied,
his delicious British accent
rolled off of every word.
"I can live with that," Brad affirmed, crossing his
arms over his chest.
Then Greg got an idea. "Hey Fluffy Donkey dude,"
he turned, looking over Brad,
who was in between himself and Tony, "What do we call
no-neck?" he asked,
pointing at Clive.
"Can you think of something worse than being called Clive
Anderson?" Tony
answered Greg's question with another.
"So we're calling him Clive then?"
"Do you think we should?"
"Shouldn't you be the one deciding?"
"Should I?"
"That was repetitious," Clive chimed in.
Brad took it from there. "What do YOU think we should
call him?"
"What happened to the other guy?" Greg continued.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Hey, don't I know you?"
"Were you at Woodstock?"
"Do you think I'm that old?"
"Do you think I'm stupid enough to answer that?"
"All right, all right, calm down you guys," a new voice
said. Everyone in the room
turned to see a very tall figure standing in the doorway.
"Thank God you're here, Captain Giraffe!" Tony
exclaimed, as Ryan strutted into the
room.
"Sorry I'm late, but there was a shoe sale at the
mall." Ryan raised his left foot,
wiggling it around to signify the shoes he wore -which were
painfully yellow with
splotches of purple- were new.
"OK, now that we're all assembled," Ryan pulled up a
chair as Clive went on, "Let's
get back to the task at hand."
"Yes," Tony agreed.
"Would you like to take it from here?" Clive
inquired.
"All right." Tony took a deep breath, "Clive
was talking earlier about a certain group
of improvisers, people whom I call the 'Whoser Losers'."
"Who are these people?" Brad asked.
"The Whoser Losers consist of the 'Trinity of the Unfunny'
and their minions of
Hierarchy," Tony explained, "In short, the Trinity
consists of Ron West -he isn't funny,
he was never funny, and he'll never BE funny-, Archie Hahn -dare
he show his pony-
tailed self on our beloved soundstage again?-, and Debi Durst
-need I say more?
Their minions include Betty Thomas (who used to hold Debi's place
in the Trinity),
Sam Johnson, and Jane Bruckner. It pains me just to mention
those names."
Ryan laid a hand on his shoulder, sympathetically.
"So what's our plan of action to deal with the Whoser
Losers?" Greg shifted in his
seat, secretly feeling sorry for Archie Hahn, being a fellow
Californian and all.
"That is why we have all culminated," Tony answered,
"Clive?"
"Well," Clive appeared to be going through a drawer in
his desk, "I have some props
for you to use to assist you in stopping the Trinity of the
Unfunny." He brought out
novelty oversized foam fingers, and handed them to Ryan and
Tony. "You two will
be working with these," Clive reached back into his desk
until he found something for
Brad and Greg, "And you two with this," he handed them
a pair of flashy, sparkly,
*gawdy* sunglasses.
"What are we gonna do?" Brad asked, putting on
the sunglasses, "Scare them by
impersonating Elton John?" At this, Greg started
cracking up.
"I don't know, you run with it," Clive responded.
With that, the meeting was adjourned, and the two groups went off
to formulate
plans for vindicating comedy from the clutched of the Trinity of
the Unfunny.
****
::Phase II::
|Interlude - Escape From the Grind|
Back in Greg's office, the two men started mulling over possible
uses of their
device. Brad was sitting on top of Greg's desk, desperately
trying to keep his
mind focused on their mission.
"Hmmm..." Greg though aloud, taking the glasses
from Brad, "Is it possible to...no, I
don't think so..." he seemed so determined, Brad
noticed, as he set the huge sunglasses
down on the desk. Greg removed his own black rimmed
spectacles, and wiped them
clean on one of the lapels of the blazer. Sighing in
defeat, he replaced his glasses and
took off his jacket, revealing the black vest and blue silk shirt
he wore underneath. He
collapsed in his chair, deep in thought, a hand raised to his
forehead. With his other
hand, he tamped an earpiece into his ear.
"Captain Giraffe, this is Ocelot Daddy, come in,"
Greg said, and stretched, waiting
for Ryan's reply.
"Ocelot Daddy, this is Captain Giraffe. Whaddya
need?" Ryan's voice came in
crisply through the receiver, and even Tony could be heard
faintly in the background.
"Well," Greg started, as Brad hopped down from the desk
and came around to stand
near the chair Greg was sitting in, "Have you two come up
with any ideas of how to
use your prop to stop the Trinity?"
"Well, Tony, er, Fluffy Donkey has made up some hilarious
innuendo using our prop,
but so far, nothing that we could use against the Whoser
Losers."
"We're having just about the same luck, however Brad for
some reason hasn't made
any innuendo -not even something offbeat- concerning our
prop," Greg glanced at
Brad, and to this Brad shrugged, only *he* knew the real reason
for his lack of
activity.
"Ah, well, the only advice I can offer is to take some time
off," Ryan replied.
"Hey, that's not a bad idea," Greg leaned forward
in his chair, "We can clear our
minds, relax, get plastered and pick up chicks! Thanks for
the suggestion, Ry," with
that, Greg switched off the earpiece, removed it from his ear,
and placed it in a
drawer in his desk. He was startled when he looked up and
saw Brad still standing
next to him, simply staring at him.
"What's up Brad," Greg pursed his lips, leaned
back in the chair, and clasped his
hands over his stomach, tilting his head upwards to meet the
other man's gaze.
"Hmm? What? Oh nothing," Brad shook
his head, blinking his eyes a few times.
"All right... Well, I have good news. We don't have to
worry about our prop
anymore, well at least not for the rest of the day, anyway.
We can take the night
off and--," Brad interrupted him.
"About that, when you said you wanted to 'pick up chicks',
did you mean that?"
Brad crossed his arms, and stepped tentatively closer to Greg.
"Oh well, you know, I guess it was just something funny to
quip... Oh! You're
thinking of my wife, well she's in San Francisco still anyway,
so--"
"No, that's not what I meant," Brad, who had visibly
cringed when Greg mentioned
his wife, now broke off the gaze and looked down at the floor.
"Well, then, what's going on, Brad?" Greg was
puzzled.
The agitation was building up in Brad's body, he could feel it
overtaking every part of
his body, unstoppable...unless... But he just couldn't bring
himself to do it, or could he?
He gathered all his confidence, and assured himself that he
*could* in fact go through
with it, just to play it cool, and everything would be
fine. He cleared his throat, and
searched for words that would express his feelings, as Greg sat,
eyeing him from the
chair.
"Uh," Brad began shakily, "This isn't going to be
easy for me to say--"
"Mmm-hmmm," Greg interjected, understandingly.
"--But I have a question for you, Greg."
"Shoot."
"Umm," Brad stepped closer, and leaned in on Greg,
placing his hands on the arm
rests of the chair, steadying himself, while his face was just
inches away from the
bespectacled man's. "Have you ever, oh I don't know,
been with another man?"
Greg looked almost shocked, he blinked, not quite grasping what
had been said.
However, before anything had a chance to sink in, Brad moved
in. With the
swiftness of a fox, he pressed his lips softly against
Greg's. He could feel his own
face flushing to a delightful pink, and he closed his eyes,
waiting for the inevitable
moment when Greg would pull away. But he didn't. The
experience lasted longer
than Brad had expected, and finally, it was *he* who
ended the kiss.
Greg coughed. "Well... That doesn't happen every
day," he took a deep breath,
and another. Brad stood up, a little confused.
"Are you mad at me?" Brad asked, for lack of
anything else to say.
"Huh?" Greg looked genuinely bewildered,
"Mad? Why?"
"Well," Brad laughed, "Technically I just
sexually harassed you."
"Oh, you mean the rape-kiss," Greg joked, "No I'm
not mad, I mean, I knew I was
irresistible to gay men, so it was only a matter of time before
one came in for the kill,"
he chuckled to himself.
"Irresistible to gay men?" Brad questioned.
"It was a joke, studmuffin," Greg arose from the
chair.
"How do you know I'm gay?" Brad persisted.
"Well, there was that kiss just a second ago," Greg
paced the room, "Wait, are you
bi?"
"It doesn't matter, I just wanted to know if it was *that*
obvious, that I, you know,
preferred men," Brad rubbed the backs of his arms.
"Awww, Sherwood thinks he's a pansy," Greg teased.
"Hey, that's not what I said," Brad defending, a small
grin forming on his face.
"Anyway," Greg said seriously, "I understand
sudden bursts of emotion, and I like to
think I'm a pretty open minded guy. So if you're worried,
you didn't offend me."
"Well," Brad approached, "That's not what I was
worried about."
"Really?" Greg prodded.
"Yeah, um, well, I really like you Greg," Brad smiled,
shrugging at Greg.
"So this wasn't a one time sudden burst of emotion?"
"Um. Nope."
"Oh. Ohhhhh. Oh no..." Greg turned his back
to the other man, not wanting to
believe what he was hearing, however, some part of him desired
the verboten...
Brad walked up to Greg, and wrapped his arms around his waist
from behind. "Now
Greg," he nuzzled his nose into the hair on the back
of Greg's head, "This isn't so bad."
"I don't know if I can trust you in this position,"
Greg halfheartedly cracked.
Brad smirked. "Would you like to try it the other way
around," he insinuated in a
sultry voice.
"God Sherwood, I can't believe you're pulling this kind of
shit with me," Greg shook
his head in mock contempt.
"Who's pulling anything? Now, just kiss me,
OK?" Brad grabbed Greg by the
shoulders and turned him around so that they were face to face.
"I'll take you up on that offer," Greg purred,
and, letting ardor best him, he placed his
hands on Brad's face and pulled it to his. The soft, sweet
engagement of lips came
next, and quickly escalated to the passionate intertwining of
tongues.
Brad wrapped his arm around Greg's neck, and guided him back,
toward the desk.
Once there, Brad -still kissing- made a clean sweep with his hand
and knocked all the
papers and knick knacks to the floor. Brad moved his hands
down to the other man's
chest, grasped the fabric of his vest, and pushed him down, hard,
onto the desk. Greg
reached up to his face to remove his glasses, but Brad stopped
his hand.
"Don't do that," he instructed, lustily, "God
those glasses make you look so hot," Brad
continued pushing on Greg, until he was laying flat on the desk,
only his legs dangling
off the end.
Brad hopped up and mounted Greg, rubbing his groin against his
partner's, leaning back
down to kiss him. Greg, at a loss for what to do with his
hands, followed the contours
of Brad's back until stopping, of his own will, at his
butt. He cupped Brad's chubby
tush, evoking, strangely enough, a laugh from Brad.
"What?" Greg asked, breathing heavily.
"Nothing, I don't know," Brad still wore an idiotic
grin, "Do you have to squeeze so
hard?" he finally asked, giggling.
"Can't I show appreciation for your nice ass?"
Greg laughed.
Brad, still on all fours over Greg, ran his finger down his
chest, unbuttoning the vest as
he went down. He ran his hands across Greg's chest, feeling
the silken shirt and the
hot body beneath it. He moved his head down, kissing Greg's
neck, and started to
undo the buttons on the silk shirt.
"Mmm, Brad," Greg put a hand on Brad's head, running
his fingers through the soft
brown hair.
Brad had just gotten Greg's shirt totally undone when there was a
noise at the door.
The knob turned slightly, a click was heard as the door was being
opened.
"Didn't you lock it?" Brad asked frantically.
"I guess not, how was I supposed to know we'd end up in this
position?"
The pair stayed in that position, like frightened bunnies, not
moving. They risked
discovery, and they knew it.
After what seemed like hours, the door opened fully, and the
person responsible for it
could now be seen. It was Greg's secretary, Jan. Her
head was down, and she didn't
see the situation for what it was until she raised her eyes.
Her mouth dropped to the floor, and Brad non-chalantly dismounted
Greg, smoothing
out his rumpled clothing.
"Oh, I, I, I," Jan stammered, repositioning the
horn-rimmed glasses on her face, "I'm so
sowry to have waulked in on this, I mean you, Mistuh
Proops" she shook her head,
and Greg sat up, re-buttoning his shirt up.
"It's no problem Jan," Greg assured, walking to her and
placing a hand on her shoulder,
"You didn't know anything was going on, we didn't even lock
the door. I'm sorry to
shock you like this, Jan." Brad had regained his
composure, and was trying his best
to hold back laughter.
"I'm, well I'll just be going..." She started out
of the room.
"Wait, Jan," Greg called to the woman, "What made
you come in here in the first place?"
"Oh, roight!" she realized she had forgotten something,
"I tried to get through to you on
the earpiece, but you aren't wearing it," she cleared her
throat, "Mistuh Anduhson
wanted me to tell you that tomorruh you start the mission for
real, so make sure you
make it to the office before noine in the morning so you all can
go ovuh briefing." With
that, she left, and the awkward moment had passed.
Greg made his way back to Brad, and sighed.
"Well that didn't go down according to plan," Greg
slipped his arm around Brad.
"If I recall, there was no going down of any kind,
anyway," he settled for a cheap laugh,
and snuggled against Greg.
"So we start working on this for real tomorrow," Greg
said thoughtfully.
"Yeah."
"We should probably get going home now, if we want to be
rested enough for the
briefing," Greg remarked as he checked his watch.
"Yeah."
"You wanna sleep over at my flat tonight?" Greg
played with a piece of Brad's hair,
twisting it around in his fingers.
"Yeah!" he agreed, this time enthusiastically.
****
::Phase III::
|A New Addition; Discovery, Breakthrough, Eureka!|
Brad and Greg arrived at the SOI complex just shy of 8:30.
It was true that Brad had
slept over at Greg's place last night, however, nothing came of
it. It had been a quiet
evening, and both men had been concentrating more on the mission
than on each other.
They still had limited ideas on how they could use their prop to
defeat the Trinity of the
Unfunny, but today was briefing, and surely Clive could offer
some guidance.
Greg stopped in the lobby of the building, intent on getting some
coffee. While he
waited for the pot to drip, he poured a little packet of cream
into a styrofoam cup and
took a plastic stirring stick from a small compartment where
other plastic utensils were
located. Finally black liquid streamed down from the machine, and
Greg poured himself
a steaming cup of the drink. Carefully mixing together the
contents of the cup, he took a
sip, and sputtered painfully, as he had misjudged the temperature
of the coffee.
"Are you all right?" Brad asked, concerned.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Greg responded, putting a hand on his
chest and catching his breath.
"Hot," he said, indicating the cup he held.
"I would imagine," Brad laughed. "Come on,
we have to get up to Clive's office." The
two men then made their way to the elevator, took it up to the
eighth floor, and walked
down the long corridor to their boss' work suite.
They knocked on the hardwood door, as they were a bit earlier
than Clive had asked
them to be for briefing, and weren't sure if he was expecting
them. No answer came.
Greg knocked again, and once more there was silence. Greg
met Brad's gaze and
shrugged.
"Let's just go in," Brad suggested, and when Greg
nodded in agreement, he twisted the
door's handle and walked into the room.
The first thing they noticed was that it was strangely dim in the
room. The next thing
that caught their attention was the smell of musk, and as their
eyes adjusted to the
murky lighting of the office, they were startled -though slightly
amused- by what they
saw.
Clive was sitting behind his desk, wearing his usual clothes
(though he had removed his
suit jacket, his dress shirt cuffs were rolled up to his elbows,
and he had visibly
loosened his tie). The scene didn't look so much out of the
ordinary, until you noticed
the strange expression that the bald man had on his face, and the
fact that he had some
sort of leather cord wrapped tightly around his hand. Greg
moved in closer, and
realized the leather cord was actually a leash, one which Clive
had quite a strong grip on.
However, Greg couldn't see what the leash was attached to, as it
seemed it was hidden
behind the desk.
Still oblivious to the fact that Brad and Greg had walked in on
him, Clive began to talk
to whoever -or whatever- it was on the other end of the leash.
"Who's your master?" he asked in a low voice,
gritting his teeth together, and jerking
the leash a bit. "Say it."
A slightly familiar voice replied, timidly, "You are, Mr.
Anderson."
It took Greg a while to figure out who the voice belonged to,
because while it was
familiar, he didn't recognize it belonging to the person whom it
did, because that
person hardly *ever* spoke timidly.
Clive continued to pull on the leash, and as he brought his
victim closer in, Brad and
Greg got a clear view of the top three inches of the person's
head, dark brown hair
slicked back, and an unruly lock of it slipping down into the
person's eye.
"Oh my God," Brad whispered, stifling a giggle.
"Yes, my fluffy donkey," Clive went on, gasps emanating
from Brad and Greg, "Get on
all fours and--"
Greg and Brad erupted in laughter. Clive looked up, taken
aback as he hadn't noticed
these intruders. Tony poked his head out from behind the
desk, eyes wide.
"Jeez Clive," Brad started, "I didn't know you
were into the dom thing," he cleared his
throat in an attempt to stop the rabid giggling.
"And yes Clive, we *do* have that in America," Greg
offered, advancing a few paces
toward the desk. "Tony," Greg shook his head,
"Who would've guessed you were the
submissive type?"
"I, well, oh, bugger off Greg," Tony said as he popped
back underneath the desk to
retrieve his clothes.
"I see Clive already took you up on that offer," Greg
cracked. "Anyway, I'm sure it
was all in good fun, eh macrodome?" he ribbed Clive.
"You never saw this," Clive said, as he regained his
composure and put his suit coat
back on, and unhooked the leash from Tony, replacing it in his
desk. Tony reappeared,
clothed in a red plaid sports coat, black undershirt, and black
dress pants. He ran his
hands through his hair as he stood up from behind the desk, and
joined the two men on
the other side.
"Of course," Brad said, holding up his hands in front
of him, "We won't breathe a word
of this to anyone. Our lips are sealed."
Just then, Ryan burst into the room. Everyone spun around
to look at him.
"Hey Ryan," Brad called, "Wanna hear something
funny?" To this, Greg jabbed him in
the ribs, which Brad responded to by throwing him a hurt look,
something along the
lines of, 'what did you do that for?'.
"No time," Ryan gasped, he had evidently been running,
"I have... new infor... mation...
about the... Trinity... of the... Unfunny..." he stammered
in between gulps of air.
"Tell us then," Clive demanded, straightening out his
tie.
Ryan took a moment to get his breathing back to normal, and began
again. "I think I've
found out where the Lake of the Unfunny is," he said as he
pulled up a chair next to the
other men.
"Where?" Greg pressed.
"Well, the theory hit me on my way here, and the more I
thought about it, the more
sense it made." Ryan pulled out a road map showing all
the major highways of Britain.
"See this stretch of road?" he pointed to place
on the M-25 motorway.
"Dear God," Tony exclaimed, "You don't mean to say
that their base is near the M-25?"
"Not *near* it, but beneath it is where the Lake of the
Unfunny flows," Ryan took a
marking pen from Clive's desk, and highlighted the part of the
M-25 that he suspected.
"This is the exact place where the most traffic gets backed
up."
"Interesting theory Ryan," Clive started, "It just
might pan out." He paused before
continuing, "And you'll have a better time investigating, of
course, with another partner."
Ryan, Greg, Brad, and Tony looked up from the map at Clive.
"A new partner?" Ryan asked, tapping the pen on
the desk, "This is highly irregular."
"He's not new, he was simply out of contact when I called
you all up here yesterday.
He's another of my best agents, and you all know him
well." Clive pressed a button
on his desk telephone, which sounded a buzzer.
"Dorothy," Clive spoke into the
speaker, "Send in Colin."
As soon as his name was mentioned, Ryan perked up. All too
noticeably too, he
realized after the fact. The other men were staring at him.
"Hey, come on," Ryan said in response to the looks,
"You guys can't be thinking *that*.
He's just my best friend, and we're both married, anyway,"
-to this Greg scoffed, and
Ryan raised his eyebrow at him.
"And why are you smirking so, Greg?" Ryan
started, in an attempt to divert the
pressure the others were placing on him.
Greg raised his index finger, readying to answer, when there was
a knock at the door.
"Come in," Clive called. Sure enough, Colin had
arrived. "All right, Lieutenant Dino,"
Clive addressed Colin, with approval from Tony for using Colin's
Super Hero name,
"We all know what the problem is, please take a seat, now,
let's figure out a method
of action." Colin sat down next to Ryan, and winked
suggestively at him.
So, as they settled in, all six men began offering their
suggestions of possible ways to
infiltrate the Lake of the Unfunny, and to defeat the Whoser
Losers.
"We really need to think of a plan," Colin said,
reaching forward to grab a handful of
chips off of the coffee table. After the meeting had proved
un-fruitful in Clive's office,
Colin had suggested they take the whole thing back to his home,
sans Clive.
"I say we just ambush them," Tony advised, "You
know, send in a decoy, and then do
a little sneaky-attacky," he popped a twiglet into his
mouth, "It could work."
"That's a thought," Ryan agreed, rubbing his chin and
pondering, "We could have one
or two of us distract all of them by offering a truce or
something."
"And then the rest of us could totally lay siege to the
place, I love it," Greg added.
"How do the props factor into all of this?" Brad
questioned, and for a moment there
was silence.
"Well," Greg began, pulling out his and Brad's large
pair of sunglasses, "I'm sure these
are big enough to take out a average sized guard dog..." he
demonstrated by whacking
Brad with the glasses.
"And these?" Colin produced Ryan and Tony's foam
fingers.
"Hmm," Ryan tried, "Well if I do this," Ryan
took one, and placed it in front of his pelvis,
"It looks like I have a really big--"
"And that helps us how?" Colin interjected.
"Screw it," Ryan said finally, throwing the fingers
across the room. "Let's just get to
work on that ambushing plan."
"Alright," Tony began, "First, let's split into
two teams. Two of us will be the diversion,
while the other three will do the combat. The two decoys,
however, will need to be
able to keep the Whoser Losers occupied using whatever means
possible."
"Who's most believable at being serious?" Ryan
asked, knowing that the two who
would be the distraction would have to keep a straight face when
suggesting a truce to
the Whoser Losers.
"Colin can be serious," Greg perked up.
"Definitely not myself or Tony," Brad laughed.
"So it'll be me, and who else?" Colin inquired,
placing his hands on his knees.
"I guess I can do it," Ryan said, trying not to seem
too eager about working with Colin.
"OK so it's decided, Ryan and Colin will be team A- the
diversion, while Brad, Greg
and myself will be team B- combat." Tony affirmed,
looking around the room for
approval.
"Good," Greg said seriously, "Now, let's get into
detail."
"Sure," Colin started, "Here's what I'm
thinking: Ryan and I will arrange a meeting with
Ron West, and hopefully some of the other members of the Trinity,
far away from the
base," he cleared his throat, and went on, "Then, Greg,
Brad, and Tony will lay in wait
just off the M-25. When you guys see Ron leaving, that's
when you attack."
"With the prominent members of the opposition away, it
shouldn't be hard to overtake
the Lake of the Unfunny," Ryan finished for Colin.
"It sounds great," Brad said excitedly, "I hope we
can pull it off."
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