Okay, this is my last report. I quit. I’m done. Finito. Uncle … Uncle … Uncle! And no, I’m not yelling Uncle Sam. Well, you’re probably wondering what happened. After all, when last I wrote, I was a pissed off spy on a Curacao beach. Now I’m just another pissed off ex-spy.
Here goes: we’re still sitting on the beach, trying to figure out what to do. Jack is tending to Karin’s bullet wound, Karin is treating us to a whole new dimension in German profanity, (Up)Chuck is starting to succumb to the injuries he received during his recent boffing episode, Claire is busily translating Karin’s cries of distress, (Nun)Chuck is checking out his ruined vest and I, thanks to Cahill’s cryptic message about an extraction, am waiting for the SPOATS to storm the beach in search of a renegade dentist armed with Novocain.
Jack is sputtering something about receiving a sand full of face from the wounded Karin. Whatever.
Some cops drive up and want to know what we’re doing. Hmm, are we a bunch of spies waiting for the cops to leave so we can go back to the hotel and shoot some terrorists to death? No, according to Paris, we are vacationers arguing over what to do next. They want to know what happened to Karin. Do they mean the gaping bullet wound in her leg? No, according to Jack, they want to know about the injury she received when she tripped over some driftwood on the beach. Are we on the same mission?? They want Karin to seek medical help. Jack tells them she is cannot for religious reasons. Karin hears him say ‘witch’ in Spanish and gets mad. Claire wants to know why they are translating for her if she speaks Spanish. The cops lose interest and leave.
Anyway, in the interest of success, we leave the wounded Karin and (Up)Chuck on the beach with (Nun)Chuck acting as lookout. The rest of the gang heads the Curacao Habitrails or whatever the hell it’s called to finish off the Latino drug buyers. Apparently, there was some outrage over the fact that (Up)Chuck was left behind as Paris headed into peril.
We go to the hotel and head to the elevators as if we were registered guests without a care. Inside the elevator cab, Jack assembles his M-16. Judging from the fairly speedy response of local law enforcement once the fit hits the shan, I would venture a guess that there are cameras inside the elevators.
We approach the room and hide to the side of the door as Paris knocks. Felix opens the door for her and we storm in. Claire pushes Paris out of the way and I shoot Felix. The surprised Spic lets off a wild shot that misses. Jack starts shooting at Carlos, who has emerged from the living room area. Carlos attempts to shoot Jack, but hits Paris instead, inflicting a lovely and relatively painless wound to her head. Claire and I kill Felix as I hear Jack’s gun jam. Perfect. Smuckers Boy strikes again. I turn to cover Jack. Paris and Claire have noticed Manuel behind a couch and start firing at him. Manuel attempts to shoot Smuckers Boy, but apparently Jack has his force field activated and Manuel shoots me instead. Let me just say, "OUCH!" I have sustained a really nasty gunshot to my leg. There goes my dance career. Oh wait, I don’t dance. Oh, thank goodness. (My therapist keeps telling me it’s important to look for the silver lining in every cloud.) Meanwhile, I have been blown back into the hallway and I took Jack with me – mostly because he was behind me.
Claire shoots Manuel in the gut and he falls back behind the couch. Paris, in a move that would make any pole-vaulter green with envy (almost), runs through the maze of living room furniture and leaps over the couch to confront Manuel. Midway through her jump, she must have thought, "hey, wouldn’t it be better if I landed on top of him?" That’s her story and she’s sticking to it. She trips on the top of the couch and lands on the hapless Manuel. Unfortunately, the East German judge is back on a beach surrounded by Chucks and is unavailable to score the vault, although we are fairly certain that Paris would have lost points for the full contact landing.
Rosalita has emerged from the bedroom with the dreaded 10 gouge shotgun and fires at Paris as she is performing her broad jump, but misses. Claire walks through the room like a super hero protected by a shield of invulnerability as Rosalita continues to miss every shot. (Note to self: when bleeding stops, find out what equipment the rest of the team is using.)
Out in the hallway, Jack and I see the two Cambodians that are supposed to be staying back at our hotel coming down the hallway. Jack’s M-16 is about eight inches in front of him and mine is back in the hotel suite. I roll back into the room to retrieve my gun and see shots hitting the floor in the hall where I was and where Jack still is.
Out in the hallway, Jack thinks he is seeing things, because it appears that shots are being fired at the two Cambodians, even though he is still clearing his Smuckered weapon.
Paris finishes off Manuel and Claire shoots at Rosalita again.
Out in the hallway, the invisible shooter has shot the Cambodian and he (the Cambodian, not the Invisible Man) drops his gun. I have retrieved my gun and I crawl to the doorway and look out. I fire at the Cambodian, along with Jack and the Invisible Man and the Cambodian falls like (Up)Chuck for a stripper named Bambi. The other Cambodian turns and runs to the stairs.
I look back and see a man, no wait, GI shoes – it’s a note-taker, behind Jack shooting over Jack at the Cambodian. Jack sees me looking and peers back as the note-taker lifts his weapon to indicate that he is not shooting at us and, therefore, not a target. I yell for them to go get the retreating arms dealer. Jack follows into the stairwell and the note-taker takes the elevator.
Back in the apartment, Claire has shot Rosalita in the chest pushing her back into a chair. Paris then shoots her again and she (Rosalita, not Paris, the agent not the city) drops the shotgun.
Having offed all of the Spics, Paris begins the ever important task of finding the money. She finds a small safe and cracks it open. She takes the passports and journals. Then she locates two large suitcases full of money and takes them. I am busy instructing Claire on the proper formulation of a martiki. Paris wants to set fire to the suite, a la Molotov Cocktail, but I, eager to use my recently acquired demolition training make some other suggestions. After carefully preparing the room for destruction, I grab the pitcher of martikis and we leave. Paris and Claire head for the stairs, but I am fairly certain that my incredibly painful leg wound will cause me to descend the stairs even faster than I hit the ground after Lavinia pushed me from my apartment balcony, so I opt for the elevator.
Perhaps we overdid it in the suite, because basically, the top of the hotel blows, causing the power to go out and the elevator to stop. Shit. I call Jack.
Jack and the note-taker, having dispatched the other arms dealer, have finally met each other. The note-taker introduces himself as DJ. Hmmm, Dumb Jock, Drives a Jalopy, Double Jeopardy, Die Jack … I have the feeling that decoding what DJ stands for is going to be as difficult as discerning (Nun)Chuck’s nationality or achieving a 100% comprehension rate of Karin’s speech.
Anyway, I tell Jack that I’m stuck in an elevator and he asks what floor. I tell him I’ll check. Then I reply, "THE POWER IS OUT, HOW THE FUCK DO I KNOW WHAT FLOOR I’M ON?" He tells me he’s on the way. TO WHERE? Waiting for Jack to rescue you is kind of like being tied to a stake and hoping that a rainstorm will put out the fire. I pry open the elevator doors and climb through the opening and jump to the floor below. Let me just say, "OUCH!" I call Jack.
"I’m out of the elevator." "You couldn’t even wait for me to rescue you?" "What, like the way you rescued Paris, the agent not the city, from the Versailles?" Big sighs. He says he’s coming to get me. Yeah right. I hobble to the stairs and head down.
I meet him on the second floor. It’s about time. He picks me up. My phone rings. I answer it. It’s Paris. (I love simple sentences. I should use them more often!)
Paris says she is waiting outside the hotel in her car to give us a ride. As Jack is carrying me down the stairs, I think, "Wow, two rides in one day." I take another sip from my martiki pitcher and smile. I think I’m getting punchy.
We arrive on the ground floor and there is DJ with an SUV (okay, so it’s not Drives a Jalopy) in the lobby. Interesting. I call Paris and tell her that there is a car waiting for me in the lobby. She says I’m delusional and wants to talk to Jack. Jack assures Paris that there is definitely a car waiting for us. She has her doubts. DJ yells for us to get in and drives through the restaurant and out of the hotel via a conveniently located window. Paris informs Jack that she now believes us.
Karin and the Chucks are singing German Bier Hall songs (although Karin seems less than pleased with (Nun)Chuck’s pronunciation) on the beach when a boat beaches itself near them. Karin is suffering from some sort of Sir Keene Elliot’s Bahaman Island flashback and attempts to dig under the sand to hide.
We all meet back at the beach.
Paris tells them there is a huge fire at the Curacao Habitat. There was also some mention of Sheila being in the kitchen. I laugh. Hey, wait a minute! I’m Sheila. That’s not funny, but these martikis are really good. I take another sip.
Luke Deveraux tells us to hop on board and takes us back to the Southern Star. Oh, that’s the sound we heard from the beach. Slurrrrrppp.
On board, Jack takes me to sick bay. Some of those on the ship are less than pleased that I have brought alcohol on board. Slurrrrppp. "No, I don’t need an anethetic – weally, I’m foin." The last thing I remember seeing is … like three or four smirking Cahills. Lordie, one is bad enough. Just wait until I wake up.
As I slumber away, Jack, Claire, DJ and Karin prepare to go back and finish off the A-rabs.
The crew awakens me so I can listen to the events unfolding on the island. Yelling, "Dick," I make my way in search of one Richard *$#%* Cornball.
Back on the island, the team enters the hotel lobby. Imagine Jack’s surprise when he meets up with Andre Le Couer ((Up)Chuck’s gay detective admirer) in the lobby. Andre makes some remarks about the fact that Jack is with Karin and not me. He also passes some innuendoes about Jacques, the International Terrorist, and the fire at the Curacao Habitat. Since Andre is not alone on the island, Jack tells him not to tell me about Karin, and he won’t tell (Up)Chuck about Andre’s guest.
The foursome head up to the A-rabs room. Um, that would be the four spies, not the Parisian detective and company.
As the elevator arrives at the floor, DJ peers out and begins firing. Apparently, Fawaz is sitting guard outside the elevator. When the doors open, the teams exits, firing. Fawaz is quite dead as they make their way toward the room. Jack kicks open the door – well, the second time anyway – and Claire enters. She sees Yanus and starts shooting. Jack runs in and is startled as shots are being fired from behind the bathroom wall at him.
Karin, not wishing to be surprised by yet another adjoining room scenario, heads to the room next door. DJ follows. The pair turns back to the first room when they hear the second round of hostile fire.
Jack is shooting at Amal, who is hiding on the other side of the bathroom wall and Claire is finishing off Yanus.
Karin is unsure where the shots are coming from, but Jack shoots at Amal and Claire blind shoots around the corner. DJ shoots through the bathroom wall (DJ must stand for Demolishes Johns). Having finished off the A-rabs, the team heads back to the ship.
Meanwhile, Cornball has finally revealed the true purpose of the note-takers. Although, he insists that it’s just the government’s way of checking out what happens (obviously a euphemism for what goes wrong) when non-governmental agencies are subcontracted to perform certain types of missions, I now know that they are working on a How-Not-To Guide. After all, what happens when this team goes into action? Doors get shot, buildings burn down, apartments get ruined, police departments get pissed, small Alpine villages disappear underneath avalanches, national monuments are defaced… Need I go on?
As the team returns, I inform them of this newest development. Paris is suitably pissed off, as well. I tell Cornball I’m done, and Paris and I demand to be let off the ship. Jack returns as we are leaving and comes with us.
So, here we are, back on Curacao. I want to go back to our hotel, get my stuff, actually return a rental car – so I can rent from Last Chance Car Rentals again and get the flock off this stupid tropical paradise.
Jack is being more than a little bossy and insulting, so I punch him. We argue. Paris is standing on the beach flashing the men with binoculars on the ship. Jack seems to think that a woman with a bullet wound in her leg might attract a little attention at the scene of a recent gunfight. Hmmph.
Eventually, fatigue takes over and we go to Paris’s room for some shuteye.
In the morning, we fly to Miami, because I want to go beat the shit out of Wyatt Earp for not sharing with me the true nature of the note-takers.
Paris tries to call Wyatt to have him meet her, but he tells her to come to ISIS headquarters. Clearly, I cannot go there. I decide to wait in the car for him to leave. Jack and I stick it out for hours. The clock may have indicated that it was only 45 minutes, but I think it was actually 3 days and 45 minutes later. (Note to self: mention time problem to therapist.)
Paris calls Deputy Doe Eyes to come to Miami. Her thought is to make Wyatt panic that we are all amassing in his once fair city.
I notice that the security cameras seem trained on our car. I give the camera the international symbol for Fuck You and back up. Wyatt calls me. I hang up. I try to call him back, but there is no answer. Then an ISIS vehicle pulls up alongside us. Jack’s phone has rung, so he is talking to Paris, who tells him her plan. He calls Rossi to come to Florida.
Wyatt, the Fat Fuck, tells me he wants a stake dinner, over which we can work out our differences. I readily agree until I realize he wants a steak dinner, not a stake dinner. Shit. It seems he knows about the suitcases full of money that Paris um, obtained from the Habitrail place.
For some reason, Jack is pissed that I am taking the Fat Fuck out for steaks and leaves. Hmm, new menu item for Chez Sheila? Steaks and leaves. I like it. Actually, Jack leaves. Whatever.
Jack goes back to the hotel to ask Paris for assistance in dealing with a psychotic partner. Apparently, he thinks that her relationship with Deputy Dual Personality qualifies her to give advice about this.
Wyatt tells me that several government agencies have written less than complimentary reports on our activities. Of all the nerve! Who would write a report that insults our team? Besides me, that is. I immediately suspect that Jake Jake may have some part in this. Shit. Hit somebody over the head with a beer mug once and they never forget it.
I leave the Fat Fuck to his stupid steak and go back to the hotel. I find Jack and Paris together, but Jack leaves the room. Paris seems to have some bizarre affliction that causes her to take a drink every time she hears the word Curacao, so I insert several Curacaos into my narrative. Very strange. Must mention this to my therapist. Then she demands at gunpoint that Jack and I talk and problem solve. Wow, could this get any weirder?
So, where does that leave us? Jack is reading the latest self-help relationship guide: How to Overcome Neuroses in Your Partner; Paris is unfortunately too drunk to meet Dana at the correct airport terminal; Claire and Karin are probably engaged in the world’s most interesting and diverse Scrabble game; (Up)Chuck is bemoaning the loss of the best sex partner he ever had – once you get past the whole getting stabbed in the neck thing; (Nun)Chuck is trying to recreate the flying Ninja move he used on Curacao; DJ is trying to figure out exactly what his initials do stand for; Rossi is practicing his drumming on the pull-down tray of the plane during his flight to Miami; Wyatt is eating a huge filet mignon – fat and all; and I am making a new to-do list: visit Inspector Clusine to tell him I’ve quit so he can call off the tails, learn how to go to a nine-to-five job every day and be nice to bosses, have long session with therapist, cancel contract with Kill-More Carpets, and get new plants. Hell, I may even get a pet. Oh, I have to find new home for Fluffy Fang. I’ll mail my ISIS ID back. Oh yeah, must call Andre le Couer and tell him that (Up)Chuck will not be stopping by, so he can stop leaving messages. Things are looking better already!