The Break-Up Artist, Part 2: The Dangers of Photoshopping Yourself a Government Parking Placard.
You all remember that thing that happened a couple of weeks ago, when tropes and I stayed on the phone too late? No? Good, because it's really only going downhill from there.
tropes: I think that John should become mesmerized by Rodney's heart-shaped ass or something. Let's just pull out every cliche.
fiercelydreamed: You realize I'm typing this verbatim.
After John has a couple of Marines escort Rodney off the premises -- waving at him with that bullshit little smirk, of course -- he turns to the staff sergeant on duty and says, "Who the hell was that guy?" The staff sergeant limply hands over the business card Rodney had slapped down half an hour earlier, and John takes it with him four levels down and back to his office, where instead of attending to his customary duties -- aka making little whooshing noises as he fake-dogfights his mini F-15 and throwing darts at a picture of General O'Neill's head -- he Googles the guy. The website is nondescript. The testimonials are amazing.
Meanwhile, back at his condo and sulking in his utter, utter defeat, Rodney remembers that bullshit little smirk and starts Googling. There's not a lot to go on. The guy hadn't introduced himself, had been sporting no visible ID card in clear violation of protocol, and the name above his shirt pocket had been "Gilmore," which Rodney is pretty sure was someone's lame idea of a joke. Having already hacked what little personal information Elizabeth has that Simon hadn't given him outright, he finds one of her non-work email addresses on a workplace bitchfest site called Dunder-MifflenwithGuns.com. From there, a post by suckmyponytail complaining about "insincere pseudo-skateboard attitude" and "revoltingly pretentious West Hollywood hair" gets him a link to MilitaryHotorNot.com. The admittedly somewhat-flattering photo there is actually hotlinked from another website, DeepSpaceTelemetryHotorNot.com, which gets him a name -- J.Q. Sheppard.
fiercelydreamed: What? Quagmire is not a name. What the fuck are these people on?
The name gets him a CV. The CV gets him journal articles. The journal articles get him a hard-on.
Washing his hands afterward, Rodney reflects dismally that, current profession aside, recreational stalking is a first for him, and if he were one of his own clients, he'd have fired himself by now.
Nevertheless, in the next week and a half, he finds himself curiously hanging around the outskirts of the only gay bar in Colorado Springs, plus the two sports bars and the steakhouse that fill a similar clientele niche. He tells himself it's research and saves receipts so he can tax-deduct the overpriced imported microbrews and disturbingly tasty flourescent cocktails. It turns out there's more spiky hair in this town than he'd thought.
The same day he gets the follow-up check from Simon, his external hard drive dies with a truly grating whine. He bumps into J.Q. Sheppard, remote-control Blackhawk in hand, in the check-out line at Best Buy.
"That's a really big hard drive you've got there," J.Q. drawls.
"I'm trading up," Rodney stammers, flustered.
Which might have been the end of it, except a nasal voice announces over the loudspeaker, "Owner of a red Ford Thunderbird, owner of a red Ford Thunderbird, your car is being towed."
tropes: I think that John should become mesmerized by Rodney's heart-shaped ass or something. Let's just pull out every cliche.
fiercelydreamed: You realize I'm typing this verbatim.
After John has a couple of Marines escort Rodney off the premises -- waving at him with that bullshit little smirk, of course -- he turns to the staff sergeant on duty and says, "Who the hell was that guy?" The staff sergeant limply hands over the business card Rodney had slapped down half an hour earlier, and John takes it with him four levels down and back to his office, where instead of attending to his customary duties -- aka making little whooshing noises as he fake-dogfights his mini F-15 and throwing darts at a picture of General O'Neill's head -- he Googles the guy. The website is nondescript. The testimonials are amazing.
Meanwhile, back at his condo and sulking in his utter, utter defeat, Rodney remembers that bullshit little smirk and starts Googling. There's not a lot to go on. The guy hadn't introduced himself, had been sporting no visible ID card in clear violation of protocol, and the name above his shirt pocket had been "Gilmore," which Rodney is pretty sure was someone's lame idea of a joke. Having already hacked what little personal information Elizabeth has that Simon hadn't given him outright, he finds one of her non-work email addresses on a workplace bitchfest site called Dunder-MifflenwithGuns.com. From there, a post by suckmyponytail complaining about "insincere pseudo-skateboard attitude" and "revoltingly pretentious West Hollywood hair" gets him a link to MilitaryHotorNot.com. The admittedly somewhat-flattering photo there is actually hotlinked from another website, DeepSpaceTelemetryHotorNot.com, which gets him a name -- J.Q. Sheppard.
fiercelydreamed: What? Quagmire is not a name. What the fuck are these people on?
The name gets him a CV. The CV gets him journal articles. The journal articles get him a hard-on.
Washing his hands afterward, Rodney reflects dismally that, current profession aside, recreational stalking is a first for him, and if he were one of his own clients, he'd have fired himself by now.
Nevertheless, in the next week and a half, he finds himself curiously hanging around the outskirts of the only gay bar in Colorado Springs, plus the two sports bars and the steakhouse that fill a similar clientele niche. He tells himself it's research and saves receipts so he can tax-deduct the overpriced imported microbrews and disturbingly tasty flourescent cocktails. It turns out there's more spiky hair in this town than he'd thought.
The same day he gets the follow-up check from Simon, his external hard drive dies with a truly grating whine. He bumps into J.Q. Sheppard, remote-control Blackhawk in hand, in the check-out line at Best Buy.
"That's a really big hard drive you've got there," J.Q. drawls.
"I'm trading up," Rodney stammers, flustered.
Which might have been the end of it, except a nasal voice announces over the loudspeaker, "Owner of a red Ford Thunderbird, owner of a red Ford Thunderbird, your car is being towed."