OOM: Shooting the clown
Booth pushes open the diner door, talking animatedly on his cell phone as Bones follows him. There's distant music in the background - a jaunty and chirpy tone, like an ice cream truck. It registers, but barely.
"Florida, today?" Booth says into the phone that's cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He holds the door open for her, and a few other patrons file in under his arm.
"Is that work?" she asks.
"Yeah," he tells Brennan, then turns back to the phone. "Hot, fun, Miami, Florida, or, uh, you know, sticky, swampy Florida?"
He listens for a minute, then makes a face and a noise of disgust, as apparently the answer doesn't satisfy him. "You're welcome!" he snarks as the last person walks through the door, appalled at their ingratitude. The music's getting louder as they walk onto the street, Booth's phone still up to his ear.
"What's going on in Florida?" Bones asks, but Booth can hardly hear her - or the person on the other line - over the increasingly loud sound of the tinny music. So he just ignores her, asks the guy on the other line, "What flight number?" He pulls out a pen and paper, then says in an aggrieved tone of voice, "Hold on a sec, I can't hear you."
Booth turns to the driver of the ice cream truck, a brightly colored red-and-white vehicle with a clown's head perched atop it. "Enough with the song already, all right!" he yells.
"I'm doin' business here," the guy calls out, clearly offended. "Deal with it."
"Hold on for a second," Booth says again, starting to scribble on his pad. "Oh, now my pen's outta ink." He spreads his hands wide, helpless and aggravated, as if the entire universe is against him today.
Bones starts rummaging through her pockets, then hands him a pen. "Here."
Booth seizes the lull as an opportunity to yell at the guy in the truck, turning and gesturing wildly at him and it and the damned clown. "You know, I can't hear anything."
"The kids love the music," the driver says by way of explanation, as if there's nothing he can do about it. Like the music is a force of nature, or some kind of god-given right.
Booth's frantically writing down flight numbers and doesn't bother responding. He's just hoping he's getting them down right. Bones takes the opportunity to stand up for her partner, her hands spread wide in confusion. "I don't see any kids."
"The music attracts them," the guy yells back.
The truck's right beside them now, and Booth, still scribbling, has no idea what the guy on the other line is saying. "Did you say the Everglades? Look, I can't hear anything because of this insane music!"
On the word "because," with one smooth motion, he draws his gun, turns and fires three shots directly into the clown's head. There are screams, and the driver climbs out of his truck, looking like he's going to try to do damage to the big guy. "You shot my clown!" the driver yells as Bones looks on in open-mouthed horror.
Booth's face, twisted with rage a moment before, settles into a much calmer expression. "OK," Booth says, turning back to the phone. "What's that flight number?" He writes it down. "Thanks. Thanks."
Then he turns to Bones, who still looks horrified, and says in a chipper tone, "We're all set."
She just stares at him, her mouth still wide. "That? Was Not. Good." The capitals and punctuation are audible.
Booth shrugs, then looks at the ruins of the clown head, his brow furrowed. He doesn't look alarmed or angry anymore, just sort of confused, as if he can't believe he really caused that damage. A small jet of flame puffs out from the side of the clown's mouth, and he realizes that Bones is right. This is Not Good.
It's a just as well he doesn't really want to go to Florida, because he really kinda doubts the Bureau's gonna let him go now.
Dialogue and actions courtesy of Bones writers. The rest (as small an amount as it is) is mine.
"Florida, today?" Booth says into the phone that's cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He holds the door open for her, and a few other patrons file in under his arm.
"Is that work?" she asks.
"Yeah," he tells Brennan, then turns back to the phone. "Hot, fun, Miami, Florida, or, uh, you know, sticky, swampy Florida?"
He listens for a minute, then makes a face and a noise of disgust, as apparently the answer doesn't satisfy him. "You're welcome!" he snarks as the last person walks through the door, appalled at their ingratitude. The music's getting louder as they walk onto the street, Booth's phone still up to his ear.
"What's going on in Florida?" Bones asks, but Booth can hardly hear her - or the person on the other line - over the increasingly loud sound of the tinny music. So he just ignores her, asks the guy on the other line, "What flight number?" He pulls out a pen and paper, then says in an aggrieved tone of voice, "Hold on a sec, I can't hear you."
Booth turns to the driver of the ice cream truck, a brightly colored red-and-white vehicle with a clown's head perched atop it. "Enough with the song already, all right!" he yells.
"I'm doin' business here," the guy calls out, clearly offended. "Deal with it."
"Hold on for a second," Booth says again, starting to scribble on his pad. "Oh, now my pen's outta ink." He spreads his hands wide, helpless and aggravated, as if the entire universe is against him today.
Bones starts rummaging through her pockets, then hands him a pen. "Here."
Booth seizes the lull as an opportunity to yell at the guy in the truck, turning and gesturing wildly at him and it and the damned clown. "You know, I can't hear anything."
"The kids love the music," the driver says by way of explanation, as if there's nothing he can do about it. Like the music is a force of nature, or some kind of god-given right.
Booth's frantically writing down flight numbers and doesn't bother responding. He's just hoping he's getting them down right. Bones takes the opportunity to stand up for her partner, her hands spread wide in confusion. "I don't see any kids."
"The music attracts them," the guy yells back.
The truck's right beside them now, and Booth, still scribbling, has no idea what the guy on the other line is saying. "Did you say the Everglades? Look, I can't hear anything because of this insane music!"
On the word "because," with one smooth motion, he draws his gun, turns and fires three shots directly into the clown's head. There are screams, and the driver climbs out of his truck, looking like he's going to try to do damage to the big guy. "You shot my clown!" the driver yells as Bones looks on in open-mouthed horror.
Booth's face, twisted with rage a moment before, settles into a much calmer expression. "OK," Booth says, turning back to the phone. "What's that flight number?" He writes it down. "Thanks. Thanks."
Then he turns to Bones, who still looks horrified, and says in a chipper tone, "We're all set."
She just stares at him, her mouth still wide. "That? Was Not. Good." The capitals and punctuation are audible.
Booth shrugs, then looks at the ruins of the clown head, his brow furrowed. He doesn't look alarmed or angry anymore, just sort of confused, as if he can't believe he really caused that damage. A small jet of flame puffs out from the side of the clown's mouth, and he realizes that Bones is right. This is Not Good.
It's a just as well he doesn't really want to go to Florida, because he really kinda doubts the Bureau's gonna let him go now.
Dialogue and actions courtesy of Bones writers. The rest (as small an amount as it is) is mine.