HITMAN ACTUAL, THIS IS HITMAN TWO ONE. WE HAVE A SITUATION UNDER THE MONKEY BARS
Generation Kill
Elementary School AU (Inspired by this lovely picture by Moonar)
No pairings besides the glory of frieeendshipp
Words: ~2,300
This is the first multi-chaptered fic I've undertaken for quite some time, so bear with me please. Also my first GK fic. I hope everything works out okay. A tremendous barrel of thanks goes out to Emilie who beta'd it and convinced me it was good enough to be unleashed upon the internet, and Cheshire, who also gave it a whirl!
“That’s a box.” said Trombley, his voice worryingly deadpan for an eight year old.
“Um, no, it’s a fisicated military car-thing.” Ray snapped back.
------------------------------
PART ONE
There wasn’t really room for anyone else. Trombley constantly complained that Walt kept stepping on the backs on his shoes, to which Walt had replied that it was harder to walk backwards than forwards, and anyways, Trombley always elbowed him when they went around corners.
Bravo was splitting at the seams. Brad’s family had reached the point where they only referred to the 32-inch plasma as ‘the new TV’ when they had guests. A few hair-thin scratches had appeared on the sleek platform supporting the screen, and the battery cover of the remote had already broken and been fixed with masking tape. The box that the set had arrived in was faring far worse.
Then again, the TV hadn’t spent the better of six months being crammed full of four kids and run -read: shuffled- about in on the playground of Mathilda Elementary.
The box had deteriorated to the point that it seemed as though it had eight corners rather than four, with crooked creases on each side where it had buckled outwards. As small as four first graders were, they still made quite a tight fit.
So there really wasn’t room for a new addition.
But the new kid was just sitting awkwardly by himself at the sand-table making a sorry-looking paper airplane. More importantly, he was sitting on an actual helmet- the kind worn by baseball players. Brad tapped the saucepan on his head, thoughtfully. With the addition of an actual helmet, they would look more professional. People kept mistaking them for a train or a spaceship.
He glanced at Ray. Ray shook his head. “Braaad, noo-“
Brad walked over to where the new kid was sitting.
“Do you have a watergun? Or any kind of gun?” he asked, bluntly.
The new kid looked up, looking slightly terrified now that someone was actually talking to him. “Um…no?”
“You’re not s’posed to answer with another question, dumbass, teacher said,” Ray snarked from where he had drifted up behind Brad. Brad shot him a look that said shut up, Ray.
“No.” the answer was repeated, with a bit more confidence.
Brad sighed. One of the reasons they had let Trombley join their group was because he had had a rubber band gun. Not a homemade one with duct tape and string, but a real, store-bought gun. That was quality. Brad himself only had a curved stick and sometimes a broom, if he could take it without the custodian noticing.
“Well, what do you have, New Kid?” Ray asked, leaning around Brad.
“My name’s not New Kid,” New Kid protested. “It’s Evan.”
“I didn’t ask your name, I asked what you have.”
“Um,” A quick inventory of the endless pockets that kids’ pants always possess. “A notepad?” he held up a small, battered spiral pad.
“Reporter.”
Brad looked behind him. Walt had sidled up. “He can be a reporter. There’s awwlways things about war in the paper. So there needs to be someone who’ll write ‘em.”
Ray was looking at Walt as though he had lost his mind. “You can’t bring writers to war, stupid. They’d just die.”
“Reporter.” Brad was turning the word over as though seeing how it would fit in. “Alright. Reporter!”
Evan, formerly New Kid, freshly christened Reporter, jumped. “Yes?”
“Get in the humvee. We need to go check out some s’picious activity by the swings.”
XXX
It had been Ray’s idea, originally. Ray had best friend privileges and so was the first outside of Brad’s family to experience the new TV (they had watched Rocket Power and Ray had expressed his desire to own an enormous hamster ball to roll around in and wreck utter destruction upon his neighborhood).
They had wandered out into the garage when the show was over to look for a soccer ball or something to do. It was late September and if nothing else they could always go stomp about crunching leaves. Ray’s eyes had immediately fallen upon the large flattened box underneath a blanket of a two-days-old Financial Times. It was a plain box of corrugated cardboard without any markings on it. The TV had been additionally packaged in a flimsier box covered in flashy images of all its HD glory, but the outer shell was clean.
Ray had picked it up, punched it back into box shape, and stepped into it. He tugged the cardboard rectangle up to his waist and grinned. “Hey. Hey Brad. It I had a reeeeally big t-shirt I could put it over this box and everyone would think I was so fat,”
Brad rolled his eyes, a skill that he had honed worryingly well for an eight year old. “No, Ray, because it’s square.”
“A fat robot then.”
Brad just sighed and went back to rummaging for his soccer ball. Ray zoomed in circles still holding the box about him, making race car sounds. “Hey Brad, you know my mom’s taking me to NASCAR this weekend? Awesome, right?”
The soccer ball came to light, but when Brad seized on it he realized all the air had gone out. He was about to get the pump down from its hook on the wall when he noticed the large tear along one of the seams. He sighed and chucked the deflated ball at the trash. Ray picked it up and squished it.
“It’s useless, Ray.”
“Yeah, I can see that, I’m not stupid,”
Brad rolled his eyes again, with even more power than before, if possible. “Yeah, suuure.”
Ray stuck his fingers in the rip, and slowly tore it open wider, making the soccer ball into a sort of bowl. He tore down two of the stitched pentagons into earflaps, and crammed it on his head. “Check me out.” He grabbed the box again. “I’m driving a race car, with a helmet ‘cause I dun want to get brain damaged.”
“You already are brain damaged, you trailer scum,” Brad said, absently. “And it looks more like annarmy helmet anyways.”
Ray shrugged. “I’m driving a humvee, then. An’ I won’t be an army guy ‘cause my cousin says Mafines are cooler.”
“It’s Marines, Ray.”
“That’s not what my cousin said.”
“Then your cousin is an idiot, just like you.”
Ray shrugged. “Marines, then. Brad. C’mere. I need someone to shoot at bad guys while I drive.”
XXX
James Trombley had been a careful decision made in a time of need.
Everyone in the entire class knew that James Trombley was crazy. He was the kid who would kick over your block towers. He wasn’t nasty, or particularly mean; he just liked knocking things over. He was also a killer shot with a rubber band, whether it was fired off his finger or from his Tomy Toys rubber band gun. His dad had given it to him for his birthday, and for some reason he had been able to get away with bringing it to school. Mr. Ferrando didn’t really care- as long as they didn’t hit him, the kids could have been throwing water-balloons for all he minded. He encouraged the ‘high spirits’ that his pupils were more than ready to display.
In any case, Brad had gotten a DK Eyewitness book from the library about tanks and other armoured vehicles and had gathered that he and Ray alone wouldn’t be able to hold back the inevitable tides of evil that they would undoubtedly find on the playground. Especially if Ray had to drive and pour chatter into the comm- a beat up walkie-talkie with no batteries that they had found buried in the sandbox.
So when Brad had seen James Trombley nail the back of Craig Schwetje’s head square on from clear across the room, he had decided that they had found their man.
Brad and Ray had approached Trombley about mid-October, when they knew it was only a matter of a month or so before winter closed the doors to the playground and the indoor recess protocol was put into place. He was lining up different lengths of rubber bands and mumbling under his breath. Ray raised an eyebrow. “Talking to yourself is a sign that you’re crazy,” he said, cheerfully, squatting down besides the other boy and twirling a purple rubber band around his finger.
Trombley looked up at him, deadpan.
Ray put down the elastic. “So…keep…doing that…” he said slowly. “…Crazy.”
“Do you want to join our team?” Brad asked straightforwardly, taking things into his own -currently paint splattered- hands.
“What team?”
“Our humvee, ‘course,” Ray said, jabbing a finger at where the box was sitting a few feet off. The word ‘BRAVO’ was newly daubed onto the side. Brad had also been reading about the military alphabet, and decided that because he was team leader, they should belong to B Company. Also ‘Romeo’ was a supremely lameass name for a roaring vehicle of death. And Ray had agreed with that.
“That’s a box.”
“Um, no, it’s a fisicated military car-thing.” Ray snapped back.
“Sophisticated, Ray,” Brad corrected.
“Anyways,” Ray steamrollered on, “We need someone to fire out the back window an’ make sure no one gets us from behind.”
“There aren’t any windows,” pointed out Trombley, stubbornly adhering to reality.
“Are you so dumb that you can’t even use your imag-“
“Ray, shut up.” Brad said, cutting him off easily. “Well, then pretend it’s a humvee.”
“You don’t even need to pretend- it just is,” Ray protested. “Braaad, if he needs to pretend it’s a humvee then we need som’un else. You can’t pretend it’s a humvee and pretend everything else at the same time. You have to know it’s a humvee. Otherwise your brain’ll explode.”
Brad blinked. Exploding brains aside, that was fairly deep coming from Ray, who seemed to work his hardest trying to act like a pre-schooler.
Trombley sighed from where he sat. “What do you wamme to do, huh?”
“You just have to shoot at terr’ists and stuff.” Ray reassured him. “It’s easy, really. Just do it. You have a good gun.”
“Just shoot? Will there be lotta guys to shoot?” Trombley asked, hopefully.
“Tons. Millions. Billions. Tri-zillions of bad guys. Shoot ‘em all.” Ray told him, firmly.
“...awlright. I’ll join your box. Humvee,” Trombley corrected himself quickly, seeing Ray open his mouth to go off the deep end into another rant.
Brad sighed in relief. “Good. Let’s go; recess is nearly over. And Ray,” he tapped his friend’s shoulder as the shorter boy stepped into the cardboard square and pulled Bravo up to his waist, “Next time let me do the recruitment. And don’t talk.”
Ray pouted.
XXX
They spent a week as the three of them, and managed to successfully invade the mysterious city of Shangri-La, which Ray swore up and down existed (his cousin had told him so). As efficient a force that they were, Brad decided that what Bravo needed to become all-powerful was another gunner. He had seen a film over the weekend where a guy had stood out of the sunroof of a car and blasted people away with a large semi-automatic. That, Brad thought, was pretty damn cool. Bravo needed that.
Gabe Garza was Brad’s third best friend, after Ray and his brother. So that was final. Ray liked Gabe and Trombley didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. So Gabe took to walking at the back of the box, aiming a croquet mallet carefully at anyone who seemed suspicious.
They ran about outdoors until late November, when they had to stay in and make do with sitting in Bravo and imagining the scenery moving by incredibly quickly.
All was well in the world until mid-December, when Gabe came in one day looking miserable and explaining that his family was moving a few towns over within the month. When the day came, and Gabe disappeared, Brad found himself lacking a gunner. He had appointed himself recruitment officer the moment Gabe had broken the news but had yet to find someone qualified for the job.
Despite Brad’s efforts in the recruitment department, it was Ray who found Gabe’s replacement.
Walt Hasser was a quiet kid who had barely been on Brad’s radar, but the first recess without Gabe, Ray had dashed over to the library corner and returned dragging a skinny boy with straw-coloured hair. “Walt’ll do it,” he announced, proudly.
Walt had looked at Brad and Trombley curiously. It was early January and Brad was reinforcing Bravo’s sides with masking tape in preparation for the great outdoors. Trombley was counting the multitude of rubber bands on his wrists with the air of a chieftain counting the scalps he had taken from his enemies.
“Um…what do you want me to do?” Walt asked, politely.
“Ray,” began Brad, but Ray cut him off. “Nononono, Brad. You don’t get it; Walt,” he paused impressively, “Has a supersoaker.”
He let the words sink in. Brad whistled. Even Trombley was impressed. “Wow.”
“Um,” Walt asked tentatively, “What does that ha-“
“Walt, Walt, listen.” Ray grabbed at Walt’s shoulder. “We want you to join our humvee.” He pointed a finger dramatically at the box in front of Brad. Walt stared at it. He looked back to Ray, who was grinning hopefully.
“…it’s a nice humvee,” he offered.
Ray punched the air. “There! That, Jaaames, is how you respond when someone shows you their sick humvee. You don’t tell them it’s a box.” Ray only called Trombley James when he had a point to make. It was, in Ray’s crooked logic, too personal to call a future serial killer by his first name.
“Do you want me to bring my supersoaker tomorrow? Whaddo I do?” Walt asked, waving his hand in front of Ray’s face to recapture his short attention span.
“Yeah, bring it. You jus’ have to stand in the back and snipe anyone who tries to attack us. Now lemme tell you ‘bout this one time, we went to Shangra-Lar, and-“
Brad stifled a laugh at the half-amused, half-resigned look on Walt’s face as Ray began pouring his nonsense into the unfortunate’s ear. He went back to carefully putting strips of tape onto Bravo.
Trombley rolled his eyes at Ray’s enthusiasm and went back to counting his rubber bands.
-------------------------------
Well, there's the groundwork laid down. The second part should be up sometime in the near future...?
Feedback is always loved!
{PART TWO}
Elementary School AU (Inspired by this lovely picture by Moonar)
No pairings besides the glory of frieeendshipp
Words: ~2,300
This is the first multi-chaptered fic I've undertaken for quite some time, so bear with me please. Also my first GK fic. I hope everything works out okay. A tremendous barrel of thanks goes out to Emilie who beta'd it and convinced me it was good enough to be unleashed upon the internet, and Cheshire, who also gave it a whirl!
“That’s a box.” said Trombley, his voice worryingly deadpan for an eight year old.
“Um, no, it’s a fisicated military car-thing.” Ray snapped back.
------------------------------
PART ONE
There wasn’t really room for anyone else. Trombley constantly complained that Walt kept stepping on the backs on his shoes, to which Walt had replied that it was harder to walk backwards than forwards, and anyways, Trombley always elbowed him when they went around corners.
Bravo was splitting at the seams. Brad’s family had reached the point where they only referred to the 32-inch plasma as ‘the new TV’ when they had guests. A few hair-thin scratches had appeared on the sleek platform supporting the screen, and the battery cover of the remote had already broken and been fixed with masking tape. The box that the set had arrived in was faring far worse.
Then again, the TV hadn’t spent the better of six months being crammed full of four kids and run -read: shuffled- about in on the playground of Mathilda Elementary.
The box had deteriorated to the point that it seemed as though it had eight corners rather than four, with crooked creases on each side where it had buckled outwards. As small as four first graders were, they still made quite a tight fit.
So there really wasn’t room for a new addition.
But the new kid was just sitting awkwardly by himself at the sand-table making a sorry-looking paper airplane. More importantly, he was sitting on an actual helmet- the kind worn by baseball players. Brad tapped the saucepan on his head, thoughtfully. With the addition of an actual helmet, they would look more professional. People kept mistaking them for a train or a spaceship.
He glanced at Ray. Ray shook his head. “Braaad, noo-“
Brad walked over to where the new kid was sitting.
“Do you have a watergun? Or any kind of gun?” he asked, bluntly.
The new kid looked up, looking slightly terrified now that someone was actually talking to him. “Um…no?”
“You’re not s’posed to answer with another question, dumbass, teacher said,” Ray snarked from where he had drifted up behind Brad. Brad shot him a look that said shut up, Ray.
“No.” the answer was repeated, with a bit more confidence.
Brad sighed. One of the reasons they had let Trombley join their group was because he had had a rubber band gun. Not a homemade one with duct tape and string, but a real, store-bought gun. That was quality. Brad himself only had a curved stick and sometimes a broom, if he could take it without the custodian noticing.
“Well, what do you have, New Kid?” Ray asked, leaning around Brad.
“My name’s not New Kid,” New Kid protested. “It’s Evan.”
“I didn’t ask your name, I asked what you have.”
“Um,” A quick inventory of the endless pockets that kids’ pants always possess. “A notepad?” he held up a small, battered spiral pad.
“Reporter.”
Brad looked behind him. Walt had sidled up. “He can be a reporter. There’s awwlways things about war in the paper. So there needs to be someone who’ll write ‘em.”
Ray was looking at Walt as though he had lost his mind. “You can’t bring writers to war, stupid. They’d just die.”
“Reporter.” Brad was turning the word over as though seeing how it would fit in. “Alright. Reporter!”
Evan, formerly New Kid, freshly christened Reporter, jumped. “Yes?”
“Get in the humvee. We need to go check out some s’picious activity by the swings.”
XXX
It had been Ray’s idea, originally. Ray had best friend privileges and so was the first outside of Brad’s family to experience the new TV (they had watched Rocket Power and Ray had expressed his desire to own an enormous hamster ball to roll around in and wreck utter destruction upon his neighborhood).
They had wandered out into the garage when the show was over to look for a soccer ball or something to do. It was late September and if nothing else they could always go stomp about crunching leaves. Ray’s eyes had immediately fallen upon the large flattened box underneath a blanket of a two-days-old Financial Times. It was a plain box of corrugated cardboard without any markings on it. The TV had been additionally packaged in a flimsier box covered in flashy images of all its HD glory, but the outer shell was clean.
Ray had picked it up, punched it back into box shape, and stepped into it. He tugged the cardboard rectangle up to his waist and grinned. “Hey. Hey Brad. It I had a reeeeally big t-shirt I could put it over this box and everyone would think I was so fat,”
Brad rolled his eyes, a skill that he had honed worryingly well for an eight year old. “No, Ray, because it’s square.”
“A fat robot then.”
Brad just sighed and went back to rummaging for his soccer ball. Ray zoomed in circles still holding the box about him, making race car sounds. “Hey Brad, you know my mom’s taking me to NASCAR this weekend? Awesome, right?”
The soccer ball came to light, but when Brad seized on it he realized all the air had gone out. He was about to get the pump down from its hook on the wall when he noticed the large tear along one of the seams. He sighed and chucked the deflated ball at the trash. Ray picked it up and squished it.
“It’s useless, Ray.”
“Yeah, I can see that, I’m not stupid,”
Brad rolled his eyes again, with even more power than before, if possible. “Yeah, suuure.”
Ray stuck his fingers in the rip, and slowly tore it open wider, making the soccer ball into a sort of bowl. He tore down two of the stitched pentagons into earflaps, and crammed it on his head. “Check me out.” He grabbed the box again. “I’m driving a race car, with a helmet ‘cause I dun want to get brain damaged.”
“You already are brain damaged, you trailer scum,” Brad said, absently. “And it looks more like annarmy helmet anyways.”
Ray shrugged. “I’m driving a humvee, then. An’ I won’t be an army guy ‘cause my cousin says Mafines are cooler.”
“It’s Marines, Ray.”
“That’s not what my cousin said.”
“Then your cousin is an idiot, just like you.”
Ray shrugged. “Marines, then. Brad. C’mere. I need someone to shoot at bad guys while I drive.”
XXX
James Trombley had been a careful decision made in a time of need.
Everyone in the entire class knew that James Trombley was crazy. He was the kid who would kick over your block towers. He wasn’t nasty, or particularly mean; he just liked knocking things over. He was also a killer shot with a rubber band, whether it was fired off his finger or from his Tomy Toys rubber band gun. His dad had given it to him for his birthday, and for some reason he had been able to get away with bringing it to school. Mr. Ferrando didn’t really care- as long as they didn’t hit him, the kids could have been throwing water-balloons for all he minded. He encouraged the ‘high spirits’ that his pupils were more than ready to display.
In any case, Brad had gotten a DK Eyewitness book from the library about tanks and other armoured vehicles and had gathered that he and Ray alone wouldn’t be able to hold back the inevitable tides of evil that they would undoubtedly find on the playground. Especially if Ray had to drive and pour chatter into the comm- a beat up walkie-talkie with no batteries that they had found buried in the sandbox.
So when Brad had seen James Trombley nail the back of Craig Schwetje’s head square on from clear across the room, he had decided that they had found their man.
Brad and Ray had approached Trombley about mid-October, when they knew it was only a matter of a month or so before winter closed the doors to the playground and the indoor recess protocol was put into place. He was lining up different lengths of rubber bands and mumbling under his breath. Ray raised an eyebrow. “Talking to yourself is a sign that you’re crazy,” he said, cheerfully, squatting down besides the other boy and twirling a purple rubber band around his finger.
Trombley looked up at him, deadpan.
Ray put down the elastic. “So…keep…doing that…” he said slowly. “…Crazy.”
“Do you want to join our team?” Brad asked straightforwardly, taking things into his own -currently paint splattered- hands.
“What team?”
“Our humvee, ‘course,” Ray said, jabbing a finger at where the box was sitting a few feet off. The word ‘BRAVO’ was newly daubed onto the side. Brad had also been reading about the military alphabet, and decided that because he was team leader, they should belong to B Company. Also ‘Romeo’ was a supremely lameass name for a roaring vehicle of death. And Ray had agreed with that.
“That’s a box.”
“Um, no, it’s a fisicated military car-thing.” Ray snapped back.
“Sophisticated, Ray,” Brad corrected.
“Anyways,” Ray steamrollered on, “We need someone to fire out the back window an’ make sure no one gets us from behind.”
“There aren’t any windows,” pointed out Trombley, stubbornly adhering to reality.
“Are you so dumb that you can’t even use your imag-“
“Ray, shut up.” Brad said, cutting him off easily. “Well, then pretend it’s a humvee.”
“You don’t even need to pretend- it just is,” Ray protested. “Braaad, if he needs to pretend it’s a humvee then we need som’un else. You can’t pretend it’s a humvee and pretend everything else at the same time. You have to know it’s a humvee. Otherwise your brain’ll explode.”
Brad blinked. Exploding brains aside, that was fairly deep coming from Ray, who seemed to work his hardest trying to act like a pre-schooler.
Trombley sighed from where he sat. “What do you wamme to do, huh?”
“You just have to shoot at terr’ists and stuff.” Ray reassured him. “It’s easy, really. Just do it. You have a good gun.”
“Just shoot? Will there be lotta guys to shoot?” Trombley asked, hopefully.
“Tons. Millions. Billions. Tri-zillions of bad guys. Shoot ‘em all.” Ray told him, firmly.
“...awlright. I’ll join your box. Humvee,” Trombley corrected himself quickly, seeing Ray open his mouth to go off the deep end into another rant.
Brad sighed in relief. “Good. Let’s go; recess is nearly over. And Ray,” he tapped his friend’s shoulder as the shorter boy stepped into the cardboard square and pulled Bravo up to his waist, “Next time let me do the recruitment. And don’t talk.”
Ray pouted.
XXX
They spent a week as the three of them, and managed to successfully invade the mysterious city of Shangri-La, which Ray swore up and down existed (his cousin had told him so). As efficient a force that they were, Brad decided that what Bravo needed to become all-powerful was another gunner. He had seen a film over the weekend where a guy had stood out of the sunroof of a car and blasted people away with a large semi-automatic. That, Brad thought, was pretty damn cool. Bravo needed that.
Gabe Garza was Brad’s third best friend, after Ray and his brother. So that was final. Ray liked Gabe and Trombley didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. So Gabe took to walking at the back of the box, aiming a croquet mallet carefully at anyone who seemed suspicious.
They ran about outdoors until late November, when they had to stay in and make do with sitting in Bravo and imagining the scenery moving by incredibly quickly.
All was well in the world until mid-December, when Gabe came in one day looking miserable and explaining that his family was moving a few towns over within the month. When the day came, and Gabe disappeared, Brad found himself lacking a gunner. He had appointed himself recruitment officer the moment Gabe had broken the news but had yet to find someone qualified for the job.
Despite Brad’s efforts in the recruitment department, it was Ray who found Gabe’s replacement.
Walt Hasser was a quiet kid who had barely been on Brad’s radar, but the first recess without Gabe, Ray had dashed over to the library corner and returned dragging a skinny boy with straw-coloured hair. “Walt’ll do it,” he announced, proudly.
Walt had looked at Brad and Trombley curiously. It was early January and Brad was reinforcing Bravo’s sides with masking tape in preparation for the great outdoors. Trombley was counting the multitude of rubber bands on his wrists with the air of a chieftain counting the scalps he had taken from his enemies.
“Um…what do you want me to do?” Walt asked, politely.
“Ray,” began Brad, but Ray cut him off. “Nononono, Brad. You don’t get it; Walt,” he paused impressively, “Has a supersoaker.”
He let the words sink in. Brad whistled. Even Trombley was impressed. “Wow.”
“Um,” Walt asked tentatively, “What does that ha-“
“Walt, Walt, listen.” Ray grabbed at Walt’s shoulder. “We want you to join our humvee.” He pointed a finger dramatically at the box in front of Brad. Walt stared at it. He looked back to Ray, who was grinning hopefully.
“…it’s a nice humvee,” he offered.
Ray punched the air. “There! That, Jaaames, is how you respond when someone shows you their sick humvee. You don’t tell them it’s a box.” Ray only called Trombley James when he had a point to make. It was, in Ray’s crooked logic, too personal to call a future serial killer by his first name.
“Do you want me to bring my supersoaker tomorrow? Whaddo I do?” Walt asked, waving his hand in front of Ray’s face to recapture his short attention span.
“Yeah, bring it. You jus’ have to stand in the back and snipe anyone who tries to attack us. Now lemme tell you ‘bout this one time, we went to Shangra-Lar, and-“
Brad stifled a laugh at the half-amused, half-resigned look on Walt’s face as Ray began pouring his nonsense into the unfortunate’s ear. He went back to carefully putting strips of tape onto Bravo.
Trombley rolled his eyes at Ray’s enthusiasm and went back to counting his rubber bands.
-------------------------------
Well, there's the groundwork laid down. The second part should be up sometime in the near future...?
Feedback is always loved!
{PART TWO}