Fic: Last Call (Veronica Mars/Supernatural/Alias - Logan, Sam, Weiss) PG-13
Title: “Last Call”
Author: em2mb
Pairing/Character: Logan, Sam, Weiss.
Word Count: 2,168
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Logan, Sam, and Weiss walk into a bar. That’s it. That’s the joke.
Spoilers: Veronica Mars, generally through 3x20; Supernatural, generally through 2x11; Alias, specifically through 5x17. Though let’s be honest - this is such a cracktastic crossover, it’s not going to result in much, if any, damage to any show.
Warnings: Crack!Fic, excessive drinking, some swearing, references to (canon) character deaths.
Author's Notes: Completely, utterly, totally lazaefair’s fault. Inspired by this meme. I should probably be more embarrassed to post this, shouldn’t I?
6:17 p.m.
She snaps a dishtowel at him in the kitchen of the apartment they share. Hands on her hips, she demands to know what he thinks he’s doing.
“Going out with Dick?” Logan asks quizzically.
Veronica’s eyes narrow. “I made dinner.”
He shrugs helplessly. “I made plans with Dick days ago.”
“First I’ve heard of them.”
“Sorry?” Logan offers, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and his keys from the counter. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
The towel slaps again, this time against the counter. “What about dinner?”
Logan laughs, reaching around her to dip a finger in the saucepan on the stove. “This is amazing, babe. I’ll be sure to reheat some for lunch, okay?”
“Oh, yeah, sure Logan. Walk out that door to a night of debauchery. After I do the laundry, I’ll be sure to pack you a sack and Sharpie your name on the front.”
He knows her tone and treads lightly. “Relax, Veronica. There will be no debauchery.”
“The last time you went out with Dick, I had to blackmail a hooker to get Piz back!”
“I told you, none of us would have minded if you hadn’t.”
“That’s not the point, Logan! All of the good decision-making that convinced me to move in with you flies out the window when Dick’s involved!”
“God, Veronica, he’s my friend! Do you always have to validate his opinion of you as ball and chain?”
She slams the door behind him.
6:23 p.m.
“Fuck you,” Sam shouts, bracing himself on the doorframe of the cheap motel room as tears well up in his eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I’m trying, Sammy!” Dean returns, wincing in pain from the bed. “So Mom died and Jess died, I’m sorry! I-”
“Save it, Dean,” Sam interrupts, surprised by how raw his voice is, how tired.
“No! I feel for you, I really do, okay?”
“So take it back.”
Dean shakes his head. “Not going to. I’m sorry we had to be on a hunt today, but you gotta have my back, Sammy. I needed you in there, and you fucking bailed.”
“And you threw out your back. Poor, poor Dean.” Sam grabs the keys to the Impala, still glaring at his brother. “I’m taking the car. I’ll be back later.”
He storms out, leaving Dean’s prescription for Vicodin on the opposite side of the room.
6:30 p.m.
With a nod to the bartender, Weiss takes a seat. “Whiskey on the rocks.”
“Someone’s not kidding around,” the bartender says with a wink.
“Somebody’s not,” Weiss mutters. He nods his thanks when the drink is passed to him. Ten years. Ten fucking years (or eight, but who’s counting?), and not a single person in the LA field office will even attest to his existence.
He knows it shouldn’t surprise him. APO was never in the books, and now that it’s defunct, Weiss knows he shouldn’t expect evidence now. But he’s fucking NSC. Isn’t that high enough security clearance to catch up with a few old pals? It’s not like he walked in demanding information on Sydney and Isabelle’s whereabouts.
Watching a young man with red-rimmed eyes take a seat near the door, Weiss considers striking up a conversation. Instead, he thinks about three-letter organizations and contemplates Nadia (her birthday her birthday her birthday, he screams internally) and orders another round.
7:19 p.m.
When Veronica is right, when Dick’s plans do indeed include debauchery in all its various stages, Logan hightails it out of Neptune. He drives north on the PCH, takes an unfamiliar exit, and finds himself debating the merits of drinking in an anonymous dive. After all, he’d had his sights set on LA. Get trashed in a trendy bar, maybe make the tabloids.
Man, that would really get the little lady going, wouldn’t it?
Logan decides this shit hole bar is a better idea and kills the Range Rover’s engine. He walks in, gives his company at the end of the bar a nod, and orders a double.
7:59 p.m.
There’s just enough liquor coursing through Weiss’ veins to convince him it’s a good idea to hit on the buxom blonde at the end of the bar. First, he sends a drink in her direction; then, he slides down three stools and says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m former CIA,” he blurts.
“Of course you are,” the woman says, scoffing as she picks up her drink and moves.
Weiss can only shake his head, avoiding eye contact with the young man he’d noticed earlier, passing by on his way back from the bathroom.
“You wouldn’t want her anyway,” a voice offers. “Women are trouble.”
“Amen,” Weiss says. His brow furrows. “Are you old enough to drink?”
The young man lifts his beer bottle. “Apparently.”
“Right. I’m Weiss, by the way. Eric Weiss.”
The look in the kid’s eyes tells Weiss he’s old enough to be his dad, but if he’s thinking it, he doesn’t say it. “Logan.”
8:41 p.m.
“-and then we realize the only way to blend is just to get in there and start singing karaoke, but neither of us knew enough Hungarian to sell it. We ended up out in the snow with bayonets shoved against our backs before Vaughn convinced them we were tourists, nothing more.”
Chuckling at his own story, Weiss glances at Logan, who’s smirking into his vodka tonic. “There’s no way all your stories are true.”
“Cross my heart,” Weiss promises. He glances at his hands, which have been playing with his cell phone. “Nah, it wasn’t all fun and games, you know? They don’t send you on serious missions when you’re a new recruit.”
“Man,” Logan says, “I thought Tijuana could get wild sometimes, but apparently it has nothing on Central Intelligence.” He gulps the rest of his drink. “If, you know, you really are Central Intelligence.”
“Hey!” Weiss protests. “Former Central Intelligence. Never claimed otherwise.”
Logan just chuckles into his drink.
9:20 p.m.
“Care if I join you?”
Logan and Weiss turn their heads to the sole occupant of the dive not wagering his paycheck at the pool table. Logan offers the newcomer a small wave, but the much drunker Weiss embraces the young man with a hearty pat on the back. He extends his hand. “Weiss.”
“Sam.”
“Logan.”
“Are you really CIA?” Sam wants to know.
The two men share a knowing look. “Knew he was listening,” Weiss says triumphantly, and Logan grumbles as he hands off a twenty.
10:57 p.m.
“It’s a girl,” Weiss says finally, and Logan raises three fingers to signal another round. “A beautiful, brilliant girl way too good to take a chance on a guy like me.”
Sam passes him the first shot. Weiss downs it, and Logan’s too. Sam holds his glass contemplatively, then shakes his head. “What the hell,” he mumbles, throwing it back.
“It’s a girl?” Logan asks.
“It’s a girl,” Sam confirms.
“Her name was Nadia,” Weiss says.
“Jessica,” Sam returns.
Logan waits until the bartender pours him another. He downs it. “Veronica.”
11:34 p.m.
“When I said it was a girl-I lied,” Sam admits. His face puckered from the tequila he’s been drinking, he continues, “It wasn’t the girl, not really. It was the demon.”
Logan raises his glass. “Hear, hear. All women are demons.”
“No, man,” Sam says, tired of listening to the rich boy (he saw Logan’s black AmEx when he opened his wallet earlier) whine about Veronica. “Jessica was killed by a demon.”
Weiss is already circling the drain and doesn’t look up from the vodka tonic he’s been stirring, but Logan whistles lowly.
“My first girlfriend Lilly?” he says. “My dad bricked her over the head with an ashtray.”
12:02 a.m.
“Today would have been her twenty-seventh birthday,” Weiss slurs.
Sam looks startled, and not because Weiss’ math, if correct, would make Nadia only one year his senior. “Jessica died three years ago today.”
Logan hasn’t said much about Veronica or anything else since making his announcement about Lilly, letting Sam and Weiss reminisce about their dearly departed. He stares thoughtfully at the glass of Jack he’s been nursing.
“When you said demon-” Logan says “-you meant a person, right? A person who was a monster, right?”
“Right,” Sam says, a little too quickly.
Not for the first time, Weiss wonders if Arvine Sloane was mere mortal, and if his life has been as ludicrous as his memories make it seem.
1:23 a.m.
“Zombies,” Weiss slurs. “That’s what took Nadia.”
Logan snorts, but Sam drinks sympathetically.
“I mean, they didn’t kill her,” Weiss rants, “but they put her in a coma, and I left her when I went to Langley. I didn’t even make it back for the funeral.”
“Zombies?” Logan wants to know. He’s stopped trying to keep up, and his buzz is wearing off. Props to the son of the alcoholic.
“Yeah, like the undead,” Sam says, turning to Weiss. “You a hunter?”
His tone is downright gleeful, but Weiss just stares at him, confused, shaking his head. Sam’s face falls.
“Forget I said anything,” he mumbles.
2:48 a.m.
When Weiss hits the floor (literally-he misses the barstool when he returns from the john), Sam and Logan start to argue about who has the tab.
Logan glares at Weiss, slobbering on Sam’s shoulder, and mutters, “Lucky bastard.”
“Credit card statements come once a month,” Sam reminds. “Tomorrow morning comes tomorrow.” He laughs at his own joke, swaying under his and Weiss’ combined weight.
“Today, actually,” Logan sneers, wondering if Sam’s drunk enough to make his inability to grab his wallet a mere coincident. He pulls his black AmEx from his wallet.
3:04 a.m.
“Hilda Burkowitz,” Logan calls angrily, half-carrying, half-dragging Weiss across the asphalt. “Hilda Burkowitz, why don’t you come back here and help me with our mutual friend?”
Sam sways unsteadily on his feet when he turns, grinning stupidly at Logan. “See the receipt from when I was drinking solo?”
He ducks under Weiss’ other arm and helps him towards a ’67 Impala. Logan quirks an eyebrow. “Yours?” Sam nods. “Veronica won’t be happy to hear I spent the evening with a guy running credit card scams.”
Sam tosses Logan the keys. “Didn’t you call her the old ball and chain at some point earlier?”
Logan shrugs as the engine springs to life. “Nice,” he whistles, then he grins. “Yeah, but she’s my ball and chain.”
3:23 a.m.
Sam gets a room for Weiss under the name Hilda Burkowitz, though Logan offers to pay. They’re both a little afraid to leave, but then Weiss’ cell phone starts to ring. He starts to argue with someone named Vaughn over whether or not he’s dead. Eventually, the voice at the end of the line offers condolences about Nadia, and some kind of an invitation.
Logan and Sam decide to leave Weiss to it.
3:32 a.m.
“Sammy.”
Dean groans when Sam hits the light after colliding loudly with the table. “Hey,” he slurs. “How’s your back?”
“You did not fucking drive the Impala in that state,” Dean accuses, seemingly ready to pass out when he tries to stand.
“No way,” Sam promises. “My friend Logan did.”
Dean’s eyes flash, and though clearly still in incredible pain, he hightails it to the door, where a fresh-faced guy in a button down is waving goodbye. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands.
“I’m parked at the bar,” the guy says, who to his credit didn’t sound nearly as wasted as Sam. “Sam said it was okay to take his car back.”
Dean’s fist connects solidly with the side of the guy’s face. “Sam’s an idiot,” he says, grabbing the keys. “How could you spend a night drinking with him and not know that? I’ll take you back to your car.”
4:26 a.m.
Veronica is still awake when he slips into bed. “Hi,” he says softly.
“You reek like a distillery, Logan. Tell me you didn’t drive home.”
He wraps an arm around her, but she wriggles away. “I love you, Veronica.”
“Funny. I seem to remember you calling me the old ball and chain earlier.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I say the damnedest things sometimes.”
She pauses. “Did you have fun with Dick?”
“Nope. Ditched him for two of the most depressing men I’ve ever met in my life. We talked about our dead girlfriends.” Logan’s thumb brushes her cheek. “And I realized how badly I wanted to be at home with my living, breathing one.”
“Yeah?” Veronica cocks her head.
“Yeah,” Logan replies, relieved when she finally snuggles in. “You’re my everything, Veronica.”
“Good,” she says, touching his face. He winces. She frowns. “Did you get in a bar fight?”
Logan shakes his head. “No, but some guy named Dean punched me in the face because his brother let me drive his car.”
Veronica just laughs as she tells him he’s about to have his brains spooned out.
Author: em2mb
Pairing/Character: Logan, Sam, Weiss.
Word Count: 2,168
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Logan, Sam, and Weiss walk into a bar. That’s it. That’s the joke.
Spoilers: Veronica Mars, generally through 3x20; Supernatural, generally through 2x11; Alias, specifically through 5x17. Though let’s be honest - this is such a cracktastic crossover, it’s not going to result in much, if any, damage to any show.
Warnings: Crack!Fic, excessive drinking, some swearing, references to (canon) character deaths.
Author's Notes: Completely, utterly, totally lazaefair’s fault. Inspired by this meme. I should probably be more embarrassed to post this, shouldn’t I?
6:17 p.m.
She snaps a dishtowel at him in the kitchen of the apartment they share. Hands on her hips, she demands to know what he thinks he’s doing.
“Going out with Dick?” Logan asks quizzically.
Veronica’s eyes narrow. “I made dinner.”
He shrugs helplessly. “I made plans with Dick days ago.”
“First I’ve heard of them.”
“Sorry?” Logan offers, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and his keys from the counter. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
The towel slaps again, this time against the counter. “What about dinner?”
Logan laughs, reaching around her to dip a finger in the saucepan on the stove. “This is amazing, babe. I’ll be sure to reheat some for lunch, okay?”
“Oh, yeah, sure Logan. Walk out that door to a night of debauchery. After I do the laundry, I’ll be sure to pack you a sack and Sharpie your name on the front.”
He knows her tone and treads lightly. “Relax, Veronica. There will be no debauchery.”
“The last time you went out with Dick, I had to blackmail a hooker to get Piz back!”
“I told you, none of us would have minded if you hadn’t.”
“That’s not the point, Logan! All of the good decision-making that convinced me to move in with you flies out the window when Dick’s involved!”
“God, Veronica, he’s my friend! Do you always have to validate his opinion of you as ball and chain?”
She slams the door behind him.
6:23 p.m.
“Fuck you,” Sam shouts, bracing himself on the doorframe of the cheap motel room as tears well up in his eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“I’m trying, Sammy!” Dean returns, wincing in pain from the bed. “So Mom died and Jess died, I’m sorry! I-”
“Save it, Dean,” Sam interrupts, surprised by how raw his voice is, how tired.
“No! I feel for you, I really do, okay?”
“So take it back.”
Dean shakes his head. “Not going to. I’m sorry we had to be on a hunt today, but you gotta have my back, Sammy. I needed you in there, and you fucking bailed.”
“And you threw out your back. Poor, poor Dean.” Sam grabs the keys to the Impala, still glaring at his brother. “I’m taking the car. I’ll be back later.”
He storms out, leaving Dean’s prescription for Vicodin on the opposite side of the room.
6:30 p.m.
With a nod to the bartender, Weiss takes a seat. “Whiskey on the rocks.”
“Someone’s not kidding around,” the bartender says with a wink.
“Somebody’s not,” Weiss mutters. He nods his thanks when the drink is passed to him. Ten years. Ten fucking years (or eight, but who’s counting?), and not a single person in the LA field office will even attest to his existence.
He knows it shouldn’t surprise him. APO was never in the books, and now that it’s defunct, Weiss knows he shouldn’t expect evidence now. But he’s fucking NSC. Isn’t that high enough security clearance to catch up with a few old pals? It’s not like he walked in demanding information on Sydney and Isabelle’s whereabouts.
Watching a young man with red-rimmed eyes take a seat near the door, Weiss considers striking up a conversation. Instead, he thinks about three-letter organizations and contemplates Nadia (her birthday her birthday her birthday, he screams internally) and orders another round.
7:19 p.m.
When Veronica is right, when Dick’s plans do indeed include debauchery in all its various stages, Logan hightails it out of Neptune. He drives north on the PCH, takes an unfamiliar exit, and finds himself debating the merits of drinking in an anonymous dive. After all, he’d had his sights set on LA. Get trashed in a trendy bar, maybe make the tabloids.
Man, that would really get the little lady going, wouldn’t it?
Logan decides this shit hole bar is a better idea and kills the Range Rover’s engine. He walks in, gives his company at the end of the bar a nod, and orders a double.
7:59 p.m.
There’s just enough liquor coursing through Weiss’ veins to convince him it’s a good idea to hit on the buxom blonde at the end of the bar. First, he sends a drink in her direction; then, he slides down three stools and says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m former CIA,” he blurts.
“Of course you are,” the woman says, scoffing as she picks up her drink and moves.
Weiss can only shake his head, avoiding eye contact with the young man he’d noticed earlier, passing by on his way back from the bathroom.
“You wouldn’t want her anyway,” a voice offers. “Women are trouble.”
“Amen,” Weiss says. His brow furrows. “Are you old enough to drink?”
The young man lifts his beer bottle. “Apparently.”
“Right. I’m Weiss, by the way. Eric Weiss.”
The look in the kid’s eyes tells Weiss he’s old enough to be his dad, but if he’s thinking it, he doesn’t say it. “Logan.”
8:41 p.m.
“-and then we realize the only way to blend is just to get in there and start singing karaoke, but neither of us knew enough Hungarian to sell it. We ended up out in the snow with bayonets shoved against our backs before Vaughn convinced them we were tourists, nothing more.”
Chuckling at his own story, Weiss glances at Logan, who’s smirking into his vodka tonic. “There’s no way all your stories are true.”
“Cross my heart,” Weiss promises. He glances at his hands, which have been playing with his cell phone. “Nah, it wasn’t all fun and games, you know? They don’t send you on serious missions when you’re a new recruit.”
“Man,” Logan says, “I thought Tijuana could get wild sometimes, but apparently it has nothing on Central Intelligence.” He gulps the rest of his drink. “If, you know, you really are Central Intelligence.”
“Hey!” Weiss protests. “Former Central Intelligence. Never claimed otherwise.”
Logan just chuckles into his drink.
9:20 p.m.
“Care if I join you?”
Logan and Weiss turn their heads to the sole occupant of the dive not wagering his paycheck at the pool table. Logan offers the newcomer a small wave, but the much drunker Weiss embraces the young man with a hearty pat on the back. He extends his hand. “Weiss.”
“Sam.”
“Logan.”
“Are you really CIA?” Sam wants to know.
The two men share a knowing look. “Knew he was listening,” Weiss says triumphantly, and Logan grumbles as he hands off a twenty.
10:57 p.m.
“It’s a girl,” Weiss says finally, and Logan raises three fingers to signal another round. “A beautiful, brilliant girl way too good to take a chance on a guy like me.”
Sam passes him the first shot. Weiss downs it, and Logan’s too. Sam holds his glass contemplatively, then shakes his head. “What the hell,” he mumbles, throwing it back.
“It’s a girl?” Logan asks.
“It’s a girl,” Sam confirms.
“Her name was Nadia,” Weiss says.
“Jessica,” Sam returns.
Logan waits until the bartender pours him another. He downs it. “Veronica.”
11:34 p.m.
“When I said it was a girl-I lied,” Sam admits. His face puckered from the tequila he’s been drinking, he continues, “It wasn’t the girl, not really. It was the demon.”
Logan raises his glass. “Hear, hear. All women are demons.”
“No, man,” Sam says, tired of listening to the rich boy (he saw Logan’s black AmEx when he opened his wallet earlier) whine about Veronica. “Jessica was killed by a demon.”
Weiss is already circling the drain and doesn’t look up from the vodka tonic he’s been stirring, but Logan whistles lowly.
“My first girlfriend Lilly?” he says. “My dad bricked her over the head with an ashtray.”
12:02 a.m.
“Today would have been her twenty-seventh birthday,” Weiss slurs.
Sam looks startled, and not because Weiss’ math, if correct, would make Nadia only one year his senior. “Jessica died three years ago today.”
Logan hasn’t said much about Veronica or anything else since making his announcement about Lilly, letting Sam and Weiss reminisce about their dearly departed. He stares thoughtfully at the glass of Jack he’s been nursing.
“When you said demon-” Logan says “-you meant a person, right? A person who was a monster, right?”
“Right,” Sam says, a little too quickly.
Not for the first time, Weiss wonders if Arvine Sloane was mere mortal, and if his life has been as ludicrous as his memories make it seem.
1:23 a.m.
“Zombies,” Weiss slurs. “That’s what took Nadia.”
Logan snorts, but Sam drinks sympathetically.
“I mean, they didn’t kill her,” Weiss rants, “but they put her in a coma, and I left her when I went to Langley. I didn’t even make it back for the funeral.”
“Zombies?” Logan wants to know. He’s stopped trying to keep up, and his buzz is wearing off. Props to the son of the alcoholic.
“Yeah, like the undead,” Sam says, turning to Weiss. “You a hunter?”
His tone is downright gleeful, but Weiss just stares at him, confused, shaking his head. Sam’s face falls.
“Forget I said anything,” he mumbles.
2:48 a.m.
When Weiss hits the floor (literally-he misses the barstool when he returns from the john), Sam and Logan start to argue about who has the tab.
Logan glares at Weiss, slobbering on Sam’s shoulder, and mutters, “Lucky bastard.”
“Credit card statements come once a month,” Sam reminds. “Tomorrow morning comes tomorrow.” He laughs at his own joke, swaying under his and Weiss’ combined weight.
“Today, actually,” Logan sneers, wondering if Sam’s drunk enough to make his inability to grab his wallet a mere coincident. He pulls his black AmEx from his wallet.
3:04 a.m.
“Hilda Burkowitz,” Logan calls angrily, half-carrying, half-dragging Weiss across the asphalt. “Hilda Burkowitz, why don’t you come back here and help me with our mutual friend?”
Sam sways unsteadily on his feet when he turns, grinning stupidly at Logan. “See the receipt from when I was drinking solo?”
He ducks under Weiss’ other arm and helps him towards a ’67 Impala. Logan quirks an eyebrow. “Yours?” Sam nods. “Veronica won’t be happy to hear I spent the evening with a guy running credit card scams.”
Sam tosses Logan the keys. “Didn’t you call her the old ball and chain at some point earlier?”
Logan shrugs as the engine springs to life. “Nice,” he whistles, then he grins. “Yeah, but she’s my ball and chain.”
3:23 a.m.
Sam gets a room for Weiss under the name Hilda Burkowitz, though Logan offers to pay. They’re both a little afraid to leave, but then Weiss’ cell phone starts to ring. He starts to argue with someone named Vaughn over whether or not he’s dead. Eventually, the voice at the end of the line offers condolences about Nadia, and some kind of an invitation.
Logan and Sam decide to leave Weiss to it.
3:32 a.m.
“Sammy.”
Dean groans when Sam hits the light after colliding loudly with the table. “Hey,” he slurs. “How’s your back?”
“You did not fucking drive the Impala in that state,” Dean accuses, seemingly ready to pass out when he tries to stand.
“No way,” Sam promises. “My friend Logan did.”
Dean’s eyes flash, and though clearly still in incredible pain, he hightails it to the door, where a fresh-faced guy in a button down is waving goodbye. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands.
“I’m parked at the bar,” the guy says, who to his credit didn’t sound nearly as wasted as Sam. “Sam said it was okay to take his car back.”
Dean’s fist connects solidly with the side of the guy’s face. “Sam’s an idiot,” he says, grabbing the keys. “How could you spend a night drinking with him and not know that? I’ll take you back to your car.”
4:26 a.m.
Veronica is still awake when he slips into bed. “Hi,” he says softly.
“You reek like a distillery, Logan. Tell me you didn’t drive home.”
He wraps an arm around her, but she wriggles away. “I love you, Veronica.”
“Funny. I seem to remember you calling me the old ball and chain earlier.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I say the damnedest things sometimes.”
She pauses. “Did you have fun with Dick?”
“Nope. Ditched him for two of the most depressing men I’ve ever met in my life. We talked about our dead girlfriends.” Logan’s thumb brushes her cheek. “And I realized how badly I wanted to be at home with my living, breathing one.”
“Yeah?” Veronica cocks her head.
“Yeah,” Logan replies, relieved when she finally snuggles in. “You’re my everything, Veronica.”
“Good,” she says, touching his face. He winces. She frowns. “Did you get in a bar fight?”
Logan shakes his head. “No, but some guy named Dean punched me in the face because his brother let me drive his car.”
Veronica just laughs as she tells him he’s about to have his brains spooned out.