The Dying Informant Returns (1/1)
... And so does posting here in general and posting for this category. Consider this a test run with some of my new, somewhat changed plans for writing for this fandom. I think I like the experiment.
Title: The Dying Informant Returns
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG
Word Count: 1,577
Main Characters: The Dying Informant/Scott, Greg, The Chief, Mrs. Pumpkinclanger, The Voice
Supporting Characters: Elliott
Summary: Similar to the structure and format of the show itself, a new Dying Informant sketch. Also answers the question: since Mrs. P. was always complaining about the noise, what would happen if she complained during one of the Dying Informant's appearances? One would think those screams wouldn't sit well with her....
By Lucky_Ladybug
It had not been a good day at ACME Crimenet. The Gumshoes were doing their best to hang in there, but Double Trouble was still managing to elude them while carting the supposedly haunted Shiloh Inn stolen from Salt Lake City, Utah. As Greg wondered from whence their next clue was coming, a frantic knocking at the door left him hopeful-although the ensuing thump made his stomach turn.
“I think we might have a serious problem here,” he told the Gumshoes.
He crossed the room and opened the door. The Dying Informant, slumped heavily against the door, still managed an ear-shattering shriek of pain before he collapsed facedown in the doorway, half in and half out.
Greg fell to his knees next to him. “What is it, Dude?! What’s the trouble?!” He started to pull the limp form into his arms, but stopped and froze at the choked gasp of agony.
“I saw Double Trouble at the site of the . . . bloodiest battle in the Civil War,” the Dying Informant moaned. “They thought maybe they’d get some more ghosts for the hotel, but that didn’t work out.”
“Why would they want more ghosts?” Greg exclaimed. Seeing the other man’s eyes fluttering shut, he grabbed the dark trenchcoat and gave it a shake.
“Aaaah!” The Dying Informant’s eyes snapped open again. “They thought there could be a big party with the ghosts when they took the hotel farther South. Instead, they ended up sidetracked at a traffic pileup right outside the Dobbin House Tavern.” He started to go slack once more.
Again Greg grabbed him. “We need a little more, Dude! Come on!”
The Gumshoes watched, wide-eyed, as Greg hauled the Dying Informant halfway up. The fatally wounded man looked up at him, pained. “They . . . they decided to . . . take the hotel on the Rabbit Transit commuter bus to the state capital. Oh Mama. . . .” He fell forward into Greg’s arms, surprising Greg and sending them both to the floor.
Greg lay stunned for only a moment. “Scott?! Scotty?!” When the unlucky agent did not move, Greg slowly sat up, cradling the body in his arms. “I think this is really it this time, Gumshoes,” he sobbed. “The Dying Informant is dead. He’s not coming back anymore.”
The Gumshoes, not sure how to react or what to do, just stood and stared in helpless silence. When another, shrill voice suddenly broke that silence, they all jumped a mile.
“What on Earth is this infernal din?!”
Greg looked up with a start. He had all but forgotten that the door was still wide open. Across the alley, Mrs. Pumpkinclanger had opened her window and was leaning out, her hair in curlers and her expression one of annoyance, anger, and disbelief.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. P.,” Greg choked out. “An agent just died in my arms bringing us vital information on our case.”
For a moment she looked surprised, perhaps even stricken. When she spoke again, it was in a much more subdued tone of voice. “Isn’t he the one who’s always coming back screaming and dying? He’ll . . . probably get up again in a minute.”
“He’s not getting up again in a minute!” Greg wailed. “This time he’s dead for good!”
“Greg!”
Now another voice had entered the chaos. The Chief had opened her office door and was staring at the layout in Greg’s office.
“Chief!” Greg looked over his shoulder at his boss. “It’s bad this time, Chief. Scotty brought us information with his dying breath . . .”
“Again?” the Chief interrupted, although there was genuine concern and sympathy in her eyes.
“This time it’s not a false alarm, Chief!” Greg protested. “It’s like the time when Patty stole the false false teeth and she did something to him and he didn’t get up until the Voice brought him back. . . .” Now he was rocking back and forth on the floor, still holding the body. “But the Voice won’t always be around to bring him back, and now he’s died in my arms, and he’s dead for real!”
“Oh Greg.” The Chief hesitated, then made her way over. “I’m sorry. He was a good agent and he will be missed. But he knew the risks and he took them anyway. You’re going to have to let him go-literally-and get back on the case. You can’t allow him to have given his life in vain.”
Greg sniffled. “I know.” Drawing a shaking breath, he laid the Dying Informant back on the floor and got to his feet. “Gumshoes, name the state where Double Trouble took the Shiloh Inn. Remember the clues we heard from . . .” He hiccupped. “From the Dying Informant: the bloodiest battle in the Civil War, Dobbin House Tavern, and the Rabbit Transit. Is it Virginia, Pennsylvania, or North Carolina?”
He blinked back tears as the Gumshoes gave their answers. Two got it right and said Pennsylvania, while the third flubbed and guessed Virginia. And all the while, the Dying Informant continued to lie in the open doorway.
“Are you just going to leave him there like that?” Mrs. Pumpkinclanger exclaimed, actually sounding disturbed.
“No, of course not,” the Chief replied. “Greg, move him out of the doorway.”
“Excuse me a minute, Gumshoes,” Greg sniffled. Setting the clue cards aside, he went over and grabbed the Dying Informant’s arms, pulling him out of the doorway and over by the desk. He was just going back to shut the door when yet another voice startled everyone.
“Oh no,” the Voice intoned from somewhere near the ceiling. “Not again!”
Greg jumped a mile. “You’re just who I wanted to see-hear!” he corrected himself, allowing a bit of hope to rise in his heart.
“Really?” the Voice grunted. “That’s an unusual state of mind for you.”
“Oh please,” Greg said. “Can’t you give us another miracle? Scotty sacrificed himself in the line of duty to ACME. He was too young to die!”
“A lot of people are,” the Voice sighed, “but that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
“Hey, you brought him back at least once,” Greg pleaded. “I know you could do it again.”
“Well . . .” The Voice pretended to think about it. “Since you seem to be genuinely distressed about it, I guess I could do that.”
“You mean if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t do anything?” Greg said in disbelief.
“No,” the Voice admitted. “I still would. I happen to know that it wasn’t his time to go anyway.
“Okay, Scott. Time to wake up now.”
Greg looked to the Dying Informant, hardly daring to hope. When he stirred, moving a hand across the floor until it hit the leg of the desk, Greg whooped for joy. “Scotty! You’re okay!”
“I am?” The Dying Informant pushed himself up, scarcely able to believe it himself. “Hey, I am!” He grinned happily.
“This is great!” Greg exclaimed, throwing his hands to the air and then glomping the other agent. “America, the Dying Informant is alive!”
The Dying Informant beamed, laying his hands on Greg’s shoulders.
Mrs. Pumpkinclanger, trying to mask her true relief, reached for her window. “Good! Now, try to keep it down out there!” She banged it shut, albeit not as ferociously as usual.
The Chief relaxed. “Thank you,” she said to the Voice.
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” said the Voice. “I never get this much gratitude when I bring clues.”
“What? Of course you get gratitude!” Greg exclaimed. “But yeah, this is in a class all by itself!”
The Dying Informant, still cheery, gave a fervent nod. “You can say that again.” He leaped and pirouetted across the floor, much to the Gumshoes’ bemusement. “I haven’t felt this good since before I started this assignment!”
“Scott, welcome back,” said the Chief.
“It’s good to be back!” the Dying Informant declared. “I thought I was a goner this time!”
“You would have been, too, if it wasn’t for the Voice,” said the Chief.
The Dying Informant shivered, realizing how close he had come to being the Dead Informant. To a certain extent he didn’t fear death, after having been exposed to it so closely so many times. But when it came right down to thinking of staying dead, he didn’t like that one bit.
“Oh, and Greg? Scott?” The Chief gave them both a stern look. “Back to work!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Greg, his sense of elation strong.
The Dying Informant saluted.
“And be careful,” the Chief added, sternly. “We don’t need any more accidents in the line of duty any time soon!”
“I’ll be careful,” the Dying Informant insisted. He proved this by opening the door and promptly tumbling down the three steps with a stunned Elliott. “We’re okay!” he called hurriedly. Leaping to his feet, he reached to help Elliott up. “You are okay, aren’t you?” he asked in concern.
“Yeah,” Elliott said, accepting the help. He stumbled up, grabbing onto his hat. “But what happened?!”
“It’s . . . a long story,” was the embarrassed reply. “I think. . . .”
“I’ve got time,” Elliott said in surprise.
“Maybe we’ll talk about it then.” And they walked off down the alley, the Dying Informant’s arm around Elliott’s shoulders.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Greg. “Friendship between ACME agents.” He picked up the clue cards from the monitor. “Alright, Gumshoes. For our next clue . . .”
Title: The Dying Informant Returns
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG
Word Count: 1,577
Main Characters: The Dying Informant/Scott, Greg, The Chief, Mrs. Pumpkinclanger, The Voice
Supporting Characters: Elliott
Summary: Similar to the structure and format of the show itself, a new Dying Informant sketch. Also answers the question: since Mrs. P. was always complaining about the noise, what would happen if she complained during one of the Dying Informant's appearances? One would think those screams wouldn't sit well with her....
By Lucky_Ladybug
It had not been a good day at ACME Crimenet. The Gumshoes were doing their best to hang in there, but Double Trouble was still managing to elude them while carting the supposedly haunted Shiloh Inn stolen from Salt Lake City, Utah. As Greg wondered from whence their next clue was coming, a frantic knocking at the door left him hopeful-although the ensuing thump made his stomach turn.
“I think we might have a serious problem here,” he told the Gumshoes.
He crossed the room and opened the door. The Dying Informant, slumped heavily against the door, still managed an ear-shattering shriek of pain before he collapsed facedown in the doorway, half in and half out.
Greg fell to his knees next to him. “What is it, Dude?! What’s the trouble?!” He started to pull the limp form into his arms, but stopped and froze at the choked gasp of agony.
“I saw Double Trouble at the site of the . . . bloodiest battle in the Civil War,” the Dying Informant moaned. “They thought maybe they’d get some more ghosts for the hotel, but that didn’t work out.”
“Why would they want more ghosts?” Greg exclaimed. Seeing the other man’s eyes fluttering shut, he grabbed the dark trenchcoat and gave it a shake.
“Aaaah!” The Dying Informant’s eyes snapped open again. “They thought there could be a big party with the ghosts when they took the hotel farther South. Instead, they ended up sidetracked at a traffic pileup right outside the Dobbin House Tavern.” He started to go slack once more.
Again Greg grabbed him. “We need a little more, Dude! Come on!”
The Gumshoes watched, wide-eyed, as Greg hauled the Dying Informant halfway up. The fatally wounded man looked up at him, pained. “They . . . they decided to . . . take the hotel on the Rabbit Transit commuter bus to the state capital. Oh Mama. . . .” He fell forward into Greg’s arms, surprising Greg and sending them both to the floor.
Greg lay stunned for only a moment. “Scott?! Scotty?!” When the unlucky agent did not move, Greg slowly sat up, cradling the body in his arms. “I think this is really it this time, Gumshoes,” he sobbed. “The Dying Informant is dead. He’s not coming back anymore.”
The Gumshoes, not sure how to react or what to do, just stood and stared in helpless silence. When another, shrill voice suddenly broke that silence, they all jumped a mile.
“What on Earth is this infernal din?!”
Greg looked up with a start. He had all but forgotten that the door was still wide open. Across the alley, Mrs. Pumpkinclanger had opened her window and was leaning out, her hair in curlers and her expression one of annoyance, anger, and disbelief.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. P.,” Greg choked out. “An agent just died in my arms bringing us vital information on our case.”
For a moment she looked surprised, perhaps even stricken. When she spoke again, it was in a much more subdued tone of voice. “Isn’t he the one who’s always coming back screaming and dying? He’ll . . . probably get up again in a minute.”
“He’s not getting up again in a minute!” Greg wailed. “This time he’s dead for good!”
“Greg!”
Now another voice had entered the chaos. The Chief had opened her office door and was staring at the layout in Greg’s office.
“Chief!” Greg looked over his shoulder at his boss. “It’s bad this time, Chief. Scotty brought us information with his dying breath . . .”
“Again?” the Chief interrupted, although there was genuine concern and sympathy in her eyes.
“This time it’s not a false alarm, Chief!” Greg protested. “It’s like the time when Patty stole the false false teeth and she did something to him and he didn’t get up until the Voice brought him back. . . .” Now he was rocking back and forth on the floor, still holding the body. “But the Voice won’t always be around to bring him back, and now he’s died in my arms, and he’s dead for real!”
“Oh Greg.” The Chief hesitated, then made her way over. “I’m sorry. He was a good agent and he will be missed. But he knew the risks and he took them anyway. You’re going to have to let him go-literally-and get back on the case. You can’t allow him to have given his life in vain.”
Greg sniffled. “I know.” Drawing a shaking breath, he laid the Dying Informant back on the floor and got to his feet. “Gumshoes, name the state where Double Trouble took the Shiloh Inn. Remember the clues we heard from . . .” He hiccupped. “From the Dying Informant: the bloodiest battle in the Civil War, Dobbin House Tavern, and the Rabbit Transit. Is it Virginia, Pennsylvania, or North Carolina?”
He blinked back tears as the Gumshoes gave their answers. Two got it right and said Pennsylvania, while the third flubbed and guessed Virginia. And all the while, the Dying Informant continued to lie in the open doorway.
“Are you just going to leave him there like that?” Mrs. Pumpkinclanger exclaimed, actually sounding disturbed.
“No, of course not,” the Chief replied. “Greg, move him out of the doorway.”
“Excuse me a minute, Gumshoes,” Greg sniffled. Setting the clue cards aside, he went over and grabbed the Dying Informant’s arms, pulling him out of the doorway and over by the desk. He was just going back to shut the door when yet another voice startled everyone.
“Oh no,” the Voice intoned from somewhere near the ceiling. “Not again!”
Greg jumped a mile. “You’re just who I wanted to see-hear!” he corrected himself, allowing a bit of hope to rise in his heart.
“Really?” the Voice grunted. “That’s an unusual state of mind for you.”
“Oh please,” Greg said. “Can’t you give us another miracle? Scotty sacrificed himself in the line of duty to ACME. He was too young to die!”
“A lot of people are,” the Voice sighed, “but that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
“Hey, you brought him back at least once,” Greg pleaded. “I know you could do it again.”
“Well . . .” The Voice pretended to think about it. “Since you seem to be genuinely distressed about it, I guess I could do that.”
“You mean if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t do anything?” Greg said in disbelief.
“No,” the Voice admitted. “I still would. I happen to know that it wasn’t his time to go anyway.
“Okay, Scott. Time to wake up now.”
Greg looked to the Dying Informant, hardly daring to hope. When he stirred, moving a hand across the floor until it hit the leg of the desk, Greg whooped for joy. “Scotty! You’re okay!”
“I am?” The Dying Informant pushed himself up, scarcely able to believe it himself. “Hey, I am!” He grinned happily.
“This is great!” Greg exclaimed, throwing his hands to the air and then glomping the other agent. “America, the Dying Informant is alive!”
The Dying Informant beamed, laying his hands on Greg’s shoulders.
Mrs. Pumpkinclanger, trying to mask her true relief, reached for her window. “Good! Now, try to keep it down out there!” She banged it shut, albeit not as ferociously as usual.
The Chief relaxed. “Thank you,” she said to the Voice.
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” said the Voice. “I never get this much gratitude when I bring clues.”
“What? Of course you get gratitude!” Greg exclaimed. “But yeah, this is in a class all by itself!”
The Dying Informant, still cheery, gave a fervent nod. “You can say that again.” He leaped and pirouetted across the floor, much to the Gumshoes’ bemusement. “I haven’t felt this good since before I started this assignment!”
“Scott, welcome back,” said the Chief.
“It’s good to be back!” the Dying Informant declared. “I thought I was a goner this time!”
“You would have been, too, if it wasn’t for the Voice,” said the Chief.
The Dying Informant shivered, realizing how close he had come to being the Dead Informant. To a certain extent he didn’t fear death, after having been exposed to it so closely so many times. But when it came right down to thinking of staying dead, he didn’t like that one bit.
“Oh, and Greg? Scott?” The Chief gave them both a stern look. “Back to work!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Greg, his sense of elation strong.
The Dying Informant saluted.
“And be careful,” the Chief added, sternly. “We don’t need any more accidents in the line of duty any time soon!”
“I’ll be careful,” the Dying Informant insisted. He proved this by opening the door and promptly tumbling down the three steps with a stunned Elliott. “We’re okay!” he called hurriedly. Leaping to his feet, he reached to help Elliott up. “You are okay, aren’t you?” he asked in concern.
“Yeah,” Elliott said, accepting the help. He stumbled up, grabbing onto his hat. “But what happened?!”
“It’s . . . a long story,” was the embarrassed reply. “I think. . . .”
“I’ve got time,” Elliott said in surprise.
“Maybe we’ll talk about it then.” And they walked off down the alley, the Dying Informant’s arm around Elliott’s shoulders.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Greg. “Friendship between ACME agents.” He picked up the clue cards from the monitor. “Alright, Gumshoes. For our next clue . . .”