233: Surprise!
Special Agent Paul Smecker hates this time of year.
By itself, Halloween wouldn't be so very bad-- he actually minds it, as a holiday, a hell of a lot less than Christmas. (Or Thanksgiving. Or New Year's. Or the Fourth of July.) But, you know, it does seem to bring a lot of assorted crazy with it-- there's always at least one case involving arsenic-laced lollipops (or, if it's an old-fashioned sociopath they're dealing with, just good ol' razor blades in the candy); and one case involving someone taking advantage of the fact that everyone's wearing masks to reenact, in real life, a scene from, say, Saw-- perps using all the fake blood, all the plastic death, to cover up the real thing; and there's still people getting drunk and doing stupid shit, et cetera, et cetera.
And on top of that there's his birthday, three days before the night when all the ghosts and ghoulies come out to play. Normally he manages to survive this with nothing more than a dinner out with Angela, and this year he hasn't even had to deal with that, due to Angela's having been busy with a show.
In fact, he is, in spite of his better judgment, thinking this year might be tolerable... yes, even with being scheduled for the graveyard shift down at the Bureau offices with Special Agent John Can't Find His Ass With Both Hands and A Map Baxter (This is rationalized somehow, by his superiors, in the interests of him not being there during the hours that socially-conscious parents will bring their children through the kitsch-decorated office lobby for Snicker bars and a brochure of tips on How You Can Prevent Kidnapping. His supervisors remember the last time he was called on to address small children in the line of duty)... when the doorbell rings.
Unconsciously scowling, Smecker makes his way to the door. It's only four in the afternoon as of yet-- a little early for this year's crop of Power Rangers and what-the-fuck-ever-else, so.... he makes his way to the door, peers out through the peephole.
Jay Leno's standing there. No, Paul corrects himself after a moment, someone wearing a rubber mask of Jay Leno is standing there, comically oversized chin and all. Definitely not a child, from the height. Probably fucking Greenly, being an ass-- no, not tall enough for him, even with the big silver "hair." Duffy, then...? No, he's not that stupid...
Paul opens the door-- cautiously. (See: maniacs wearing masks.)
A velociraptor attacks him.
"Jesus Christ--" There follows a few awkward moments, involving a startled step backwards and some flailing and landing an awkward, reflexive punch on the dinosaur's scaly head.
"Ow! Jesus, Smeck!"
...
...oh, for fuck's sake.
Jay Leno-- that is to say, Connor, by the sound-- is laughing his goddamn head off. Paul shakes out his hand, staring at the dinosaur-- Murphy, of course-- who's cursing and raising his, uh, claw to rub at the top of his skull.
"I cannot fucking believe you two stupid sons of bitches."
Connor stops laughing long enough to push up his mask and grin at him. "Aww, c'mon, it's a bit o' fun. Look, not like anybody can recognize us like this, eh? Safe as houses."
"Not the point. Chrissake. Get the fuck inside before someone sees you."
"Oh, aye. Hello, Boston PD? I'd like t' report a dinosaur and Jay Leno in the hall--"
"Get in here, assholes."
With some difficulty given the bulk of Murphy's costume, they manage to get inside, Paul slamming the door shut behind them with an eye roll. "Watch where your tail goes, Dinoboy," he mutters to Murphy.
"Might just go in yer face, then! I'll punch ya back the second I'm outta this thing, do it now an' the sleeves'll rip," Murphy's voice says, muffled, from somewhere in the scaly head.
"The hell you will. Does it really take rocket science to know that startling an FBI agent by fucking jumping on him is going to get you hit? Besides, there had to be at least an inch of foam between my fist and your face. Stop whining."
"'M not whining. You shoulda seen yer face, though-- freaked right out, didn't he Connor?"
Connor's grinning again. "Aye, ya did a bit there, Smecker. Prolly jumped about six inches straight up."
"I fucking hate you both," Paul says as he stomps back towards the kitchen and the late lunch/early supper of pasta that he'd been in the midst of making. Connor follows, no doubt on a beeline for the Guinness he has-- somehow-- gotten in the habit of keeping in the fridge for them.
"Ahhh, you love us, man. Murph, ya can't drink with that on-- I'll be a friend and drink yours for ya, aye?"
"Like fuck ya will!" The dinosaur head comes off with the distinctive sound of Velcro, and Paul sighs, and adds enough noodles for three to the pot of boiling water.
It's thirty minutes later, in the midst of the boys shoveling linguine into their mouths and Paul pointing out that Connor should really be wearing gloves with his costume to cover up the distinctive tattoos on his hands, and Connor and Murphy both rolling their eyes at the suggestion, when the doorbell rings again. Still too early for trick-or-treaters....
The doorbell is followed by a muffled, "Lads, are you here?" and Murphy and Connor both brighten. "Father McGinty!"
"...what?"
"Go on, let 'im in, he's alright-- we told him we might be over here, that he should swing by--"
"Wait. Wait one second. ...You... told a priest that the two of you would be at my home--"
"Aye. Figure if anyone needs a blessin' against th' forces o' evil on this night o' all nights, it'd be our favorite skeptic."
"Don't look so sour, man-- th' good father's bringin' whiskey."
***
McGinty is not, in fact, all that bad. Despite a certain reckless joviality that sets Paul's teeth on edge, he does appear to be more or less sane, and he agrees with Paul that the twins should be more careful when they go out. These are good things, Paul tells himself, and finally rationalizes it with: at the very least, he's not in costume. Cassocks don't count.
Maybe it's enough that the man brought whiskey.
The four of them are nearly through the first bottle when there's a loud knock at the door. Paul glares at a cheerfully inebriated dinosaur.
"Dare I ask who else you took it upon yourself to invite to my home?"
"Wasn't us, Smeck..."
"Shit." Paul gets up, stomps to the door, looks through the peephole again. There's a woman in bad drag, complete with fake mustache, on the other side of the door. The disguise is not enough that he doesn't recognize his ex-wife.
"Open up, Paul, I can hear you're in there."
"Chrissake..."
He turns to the twins and to the priest and gestures and mouths that the boys need to be out of sight, now, Angela's not going to ignore them and her finding out about them is So Not In His Plans. Between himself, McGinty, and liberally applied pantomime, they somehow manage to herd Connor and Murphy into the bedroom, McGinty taking the other bottle of whiskey in with them.
"Pauullllll the longer you make me wait, the worse it's going to be--"
"I'm coming, I'm coming." He swings the door open before she can hammer on it again. His ex-wife's dressed in an ugly men's suit, carrying a briefcase, thick-framed glasses on her nose. She grins. "Didn't think I forgot about your birthday, did you? You should be so lucky. Prepare to be audited."
".....what?"
Angela lifts the fake ID nametag that dangles around her neck. It proclaims her to be an agent of the IRS. "It's Halloween, Paul. I couldn't think of anything scarier."
"For the full terrifying impact, you should have waited until April."
"In a perfect world. So are you coming to dinner of your own accord, or do I gotta drag you?"
"No. No. I'm working tonight, graveyard shift, save the 'Oooh spooky' line until you're out of my gun's range. No dinner."
"You're always working. So what? I promise to have you home by midnight, pumpkin. ...what was that?"
"What was what? "
"Sounded like it came from the bedroom-- oh-ho-ho, you've got some company in there, don’t you? Don't deny it!"
Paul sighs. "Okay. I don't deny it. Happy?"
"Who's there? Tell me or I whip out the calculator!"
Paul is willing to revisit his lack of belief in the supernatural, given the fiendish glee in Angela's eyes. "A priest, Jay Leno, and a drunken dinosaur."
"Oooh kinky, and a great joke set-up. They walk into a bar... No, really, who's in there?"
***
Somehow-- he isn’t sure exactly how-- he manages to convince Angela to leave with a promise he'll have dinner with her the next day, and without her discovering that he is harboring costumed fugitives. Paul slams the door shut behind her and drops back against it, rubbing at his face.
The bedroom door swings open, and Connor and Murphy stumble out, Connor tripping over his brother's tail. "Might want t' check on the priest, Smecker," he manages through laughter. "We dared him to try and chug the bottle."
"Oh christ. And?"
"He did."
"Christ."
***
Concerns of alcohol poisoning are dispelled by a brief commune with God, specifically the god of the porcelain temple, and Paul guides the priest back into the living room. The rule of thumb when dealing with the Irish, he is deciding, is to keep them all where you can fucking see the bastards.
He's got them all sorted to his satisfaction when there's another knock at the door. "Oh Jesus God... "
"Watch your language, lad," McGinty mumbles muzzily, still clutching at his stomach. Paul flips him off and starts for the door, but before he gets there it's already swinging open. Oh, shit-- he forgot to lock it after Angela-- she must have come back, and he's got two of Boston's most wanted sitting in his living room--
"Paul, you home?"
Paul exhales in relief, even if it's not quite relaxation that fills him at the sight of his aunt's vibrantly auburn head (dyed, of course) sticking into the doorway, a cigarette clamped between her lipsticked maw.
"Roxane, Jesus. You could wait til I get to the door, it's considered polite in some circles so you don't walk in on private scenes. What in hell are you doing here?" he says with a growl. The old woman in the doorway snorts expressively and steps all the way inside, a paper bag clutched at her chest.
"Yeah, well, I walked in on you spanking the monkey when you were fourteen, I don't think there's anything else you can scar me with. No, don't get me a drink, I ain't stayin' long. Orso's waiting in the car, we're driving up to Montreal."
"Jesus, what for?"
"His sister's dying or some shit like that. Rotten timing. But I figured since we were going to be passing by... take this, I'm tired of having it around on the mantelpiece and you swore to me frickin' years ago you'd figure out something to do with it, you little bastard." She thrusts the paper bag at him; Paul takes it automatically. It's surprisingly heavy.
"What is...." A glance inside. "--oh no, fuck's sake, I don't want it--"
"Tough, you're taking it anyway--"
The difficulty of trying to shove the bag back into Roxane's arms is complicated by the fact that the twins and the priest are craning their heads curiously about to see what's going on and who's here, and that she has also noticed them.
"Who's the mooks in the suits?"
"Neighborhood kids, it's candy day," Paul answers sarcastically, still trying to force her to take the bag, and its contents, back.
"Awful big kids. Cute, too. --no, Paul, you're keeping her."
"It's not a her. It's an it, and I am not."
"It used to be a her, and that her used to be your mother--"
"Your sister--"
"I'm not holding it, if you let go it's gonna drop on the carpet and you can frickin' vacuum her up--"
In the end, his aunt is victorious. Paul blames the twins. It's only that he doesn't want Roxane to stick around longer and take a further interest in them. Otherwise, he would never have let her leave, at least not while leaving him with the goddamn urn.
"Son of a bitch." He locks the door with one hand, holds the urn awkwardly with the other while considering it; there is no way in hell it's going on any of his shelves. Tacky goddamn thing. The best, most fitting send-off would be to douse her ashes in vodka and dump them out somewhere on Adams' grounds, he thinks wistfully.
"What th' fuck was that all about?" asks Connor, and Paul starts.
"My aunt being a manipulative bitch."
"That's yer feckin' aunt? What's in the jar?" asks Murphy.
"Ashes of the last person to really get on my nerves." Not true, he reflects sadly. That'd have to be Greenly.
***
The last person to knock on his door, at 10:00 pm, is Special Agent John Baxter.
The agent waits in the hall, hearing what sounds to be a scuffle from inside the apartment, and knocks again, then notices the doorbell and rings it, all the while listening intently.
Baxter is not a fan of Paul Smecker. The FBI is a place of many rivalries, and the most acute are often those caused by conflict between a resident agent who's been in a particular field office for many years, and the visiting ones that Washington sends their way for a year at most. The hotshots.
Baxter's not sure what he did to draw graveyard with goddamn Smecker tonight, but he intends to make it as miserable for the other man as the other man no doubt will do right back to him. It's going to be a long night. If there's fodder going on in there right now-- Baxter's more than happy to take it. Maybe beating up one of his boyfriends...
Another knock-- but the door is yanked open under his hand, and Smecker's there, grinning in a manic fashion at him. "Baxter. Hi. How are you."
"...fine. What'd you do, jump a kid and take his plastic pumpkin bucket?"
"Oh god, I wish. What do you want? "
Baxter jams his hands in his pockets, unable to hide a little smirk. It's great to be the bearer of bad news to your enemies. He looks forward to Smecker's face at hearing they have to start work two hours early. "I was told to come pick you up. Graveyard's starting early tonight-- apparently we've got some sicko out there lacing Reese's Peanut Butter Cups with cyanide."
"Oh, thank God. Let me grab my coat."
***
Assorted crazy. Special Agent Paul Smecker hates this time of year....
muse: paul smecker
fandom: boondock saints
word count: 2500
notes: Utter crack, Connor and Murphy used shamelessly, I don't have any idea what was going on with this prompt
By itself, Halloween wouldn't be so very bad-- he actually minds it, as a holiday, a hell of a lot less than Christmas. (Or Thanksgiving. Or New Year's. Or the Fourth of July.) But, you know, it does seem to bring a lot of assorted crazy with it-- there's always at least one case involving arsenic-laced lollipops (or, if it's an old-fashioned sociopath they're dealing with, just good ol' razor blades in the candy); and one case involving someone taking advantage of the fact that everyone's wearing masks to reenact, in real life, a scene from, say, Saw-- perps using all the fake blood, all the plastic death, to cover up the real thing; and there's still people getting drunk and doing stupid shit, et cetera, et cetera.
And on top of that there's his birthday, three days before the night when all the ghosts and ghoulies come out to play. Normally he manages to survive this with nothing more than a dinner out with Angela, and this year he hasn't even had to deal with that, due to Angela's having been busy with a show.
In fact, he is, in spite of his better judgment, thinking this year might be tolerable... yes, even with being scheduled for the graveyard shift down at the Bureau offices with Special Agent John Can't Find His Ass With Both Hands and A Map Baxter (This is rationalized somehow, by his superiors, in the interests of him not being there during the hours that socially-conscious parents will bring their children through the kitsch-decorated office lobby for Snicker bars and a brochure of tips on How You Can Prevent Kidnapping. His supervisors remember the last time he was called on to address small children in the line of duty)... when the doorbell rings.
Unconsciously scowling, Smecker makes his way to the door. It's only four in the afternoon as of yet-- a little early for this year's crop of Power Rangers and what-the-fuck-ever-else, so.... he makes his way to the door, peers out through the peephole.
Jay Leno's standing there. No, Paul corrects himself after a moment, someone wearing a rubber mask of Jay Leno is standing there, comically oversized chin and all. Definitely not a child, from the height. Probably fucking Greenly, being an ass-- no, not tall enough for him, even with the big silver "hair." Duffy, then...? No, he's not that stupid...
Paul opens the door-- cautiously. (See: maniacs wearing masks.)
A velociraptor attacks him.
"Jesus Christ--" There follows a few awkward moments, involving a startled step backwards and some flailing and landing an awkward, reflexive punch on the dinosaur's scaly head.
"Ow! Jesus, Smeck!"
...
...oh, for fuck's sake.
Jay Leno-- that is to say, Connor, by the sound-- is laughing his goddamn head off. Paul shakes out his hand, staring at the dinosaur-- Murphy, of course-- who's cursing and raising his, uh, claw to rub at the top of his skull.
"I cannot fucking believe you two stupid sons of bitches."
Connor stops laughing long enough to push up his mask and grin at him. "Aww, c'mon, it's a bit o' fun. Look, not like anybody can recognize us like this, eh? Safe as houses."
"Not the point. Chrissake. Get the fuck inside before someone sees you."
"Oh, aye. Hello, Boston PD? I'd like t' report a dinosaur and Jay Leno in the hall--"
"Get in here, assholes."
With some difficulty given the bulk of Murphy's costume, they manage to get inside, Paul slamming the door shut behind them with an eye roll. "Watch where your tail goes, Dinoboy," he mutters to Murphy.
"Might just go in yer face, then! I'll punch ya back the second I'm outta this thing, do it now an' the sleeves'll rip," Murphy's voice says, muffled, from somewhere in the scaly head.
"The hell you will. Does it really take rocket science to know that startling an FBI agent by fucking jumping on him is going to get you hit? Besides, there had to be at least an inch of foam between my fist and your face. Stop whining."
"'M not whining. You shoulda seen yer face, though-- freaked right out, didn't he Connor?"
Connor's grinning again. "Aye, ya did a bit there, Smecker. Prolly jumped about six inches straight up."
"I fucking hate you both," Paul says as he stomps back towards the kitchen and the late lunch/early supper of pasta that he'd been in the midst of making. Connor follows, no doubt on a beeline for the Guinness he has-- somehow-- gotten in the habit of keeping in the fridge for them.
"Ahhh, you love us, man. Murph, ya can't drink with that on-- I'll be a friend and drink yours for ya, aye?"
"Like fuck ya will!" The dinosaur head comes off with the distinctive sound of Velcro, and Paul sighs, and adds enough noodles for three to the pot of boiling water.
It's thirty minutes later, in the midst of the boys shoveling linguine into their mouths and Paul pointing out that Connor should really be wearing gloves with his costume to cover up the distinctive tattoos on his hands, and Connor and Murphy both rolling their eyes at the suggestion, when the doorbell rings again. Still too early for trick-or-treaters....
The doorbell is followed by a muffled, "Lads, are you here?" and Murphy and Connor both brighten. "Father McGinty!"
"...what?"
"Go on, let 'im in, he's alright-- we told him we might be over here, that he should swing by--"
"Wait. Wait one second. ...You... told a priest that the two of you would be at my home--"
"Aye. Figure if anyone needs a blessin' against th' forces o' evil on this night o' all nights, it'd be our favorite skeptic."
"Don't look so sour, man-- th' good father's bringin' whiskey."
***
McGinty is not, in fact, all that bad. Despite a certain reckless joviality that sets Paul's teeth on edge, he does appear to be more or less sane, and he agrees with Paul that the twins should be more careful when they go out. These are good things, Paul tells himself, and finally rationalizes it with: at the very least, he's not in costume. Cassocks don't count.
Maybe it's enough that the man brought whiskey.
The four of them are nearly through the first bottle when there's a loud knock at the door. Paul glares at a cheerfully inebriated dinosaur.
"Dare I ask who else you took it upon yourself to invite to my home?"
"Wasn't us, Smeck..."
"Shit." Paul gets up, stomps to the door, looks through the peephole again. There's a woman in bad drag, complete with fake mustache, on the other side of the door. The disguise is not enough that he doesn't recognize his ex-wife.
"Open up, Paul, I can hear you're in there."
"Chrissake..."
He turns to the twins and to the priest and gestures and mouths that the boys need to be out of sight, now, Angela's not going to ignore them and her finding out about them is So Not In His Plans. Between himself, McGinty, and liberally applied pantomime, they somehow manage to herd Connor and Murphy into the bedroom, McGinty taking the other bottle of whiskey in with them.
"Pauullllll the longer you make me wait, the worse it's going to be--"
"I'm coming, I'm coming." He swings the door open before she can hammer on it again. His ex-wife's dressed in an ugly men's suit, carrying a briefcase, thick-framed glasses on her nose. She grins. "Didn't think I forgot about your birthday, did you? You should be so lucky. Prepare to be audited."
".....what?"
Angela lifts the fake ID nametag that dangles around her neck. It proclaims her to be an agent of the IRS. "It's Halloween, Paul. I couldn't think of anything scarier."
"For the full terrifying impact, you should have waited until April."
"In a perfect world. So are you coming to dinner of your own accord, or do I gotta drag you?"
"No. No. I'm working tonight, graveyard shift, save the 'Oooh spooky' line until you're out of my gun's range. No dinner."
"You're always working. So what? I promise to have you home by midnight, pumpkin. ...what was that?"
"What was what? "
"Sounded like it came from the bedroom-- oh-ho-ho, you've got some company in there, don’t you? Don't deny it!"
Paul sighs. "Okay. I don't deny it. Happy?"
"Who's there? Tell me or I whip out the calculator!"
Paul is willing to revisit his lack of belief in the supernatural, given the fiendish glee in Angela's eyes. "A priest, Jay Leno, and a drunken dinosaur."
"Oooh kinky, and a great joke set-up. They walk into a bar... No, really, who's in there?"
***
Somehow-- he isn’t sure exactly how-- he manages to convince Angela to leave with a promise he'll have dinner with her the next day, and without her discovering that he is harboring costumed fugitives. Paul slams the door shut behind her and drops back against it, rubbing at his face.
The bedroom door swings open, and Connor and Murphy stumble out, Connor tripping over his brother's tail. "Might want t' check on the priest, Smecker," he manages through laughter. "We dared him to try and chug the bottle."
"Oh christ. And?"
"He did."
"Christ."
***
Concerns of alcohol poisoning are dispelled by a brief commune with God, specifically the god of the porcelain temple, and Paul guides the priest back into the living room. The rule of thumb when dealing with the Irish, he is deciding, is to keep them all where you can fucking see the bastards.
He's got them all sorted to his satisfaction when there's another knock at the door. "Oh Jesus God... "
"Watch your language, lad," McGinty mumbles muzzily, still clutching at his stomach. Paul flips him off and starts for the door, but before he gets there it's already swinging open. Oh, shit-- he forgot to lock it after Angela-- she must have come back, and he's got two of Boston's most wanted sitting in his living room--
"Paul, you home?"
Paul exhales in relief, even if it's not quite relaxation that fills him at the sight of his aunt's vibrantly auburn head (dyed, of course) sticking into the doorway, a cigarette clamped between her lipsticked maw.
"Roxane, Jesus. You could wait til I get to the door, it's considered polite in some circles so you don't walk in on private scenes. What in hell are you doing here?" he says with a growl. The old woman in the doorway snorts expressively and steps all the way inside, a paper bag clutched at her chest.
"Yeah, well, I walked in on you spanking the monkey when you were fourteen, I don't think there's anything else you can scar me with. No, don't get me a drink, I ain't stayin' long. Orso's waiting in the car, we're driving up to Montreal."
"Jesus, what for?"
"His sister's dying or some shit like that. Rotten timing. But I figured since we were going to be passing by... take this, I'm tired of having it around on the mantelpiece and you swore to me frickin' years ago you'd figure out something to do with it, you little bastard." She thrusts the paper bag at him; Paul takes it automatically. It's surprisingly heavy.
"What is...." A glance inside. "--oh no, fuck's sake, I don't want it--"
"Tough, you're taking it anyway--"
The difficulty of trying to shove the bag back into Roxane's arms is complicated by the fact that the twins and the priest are craning their heads curiously about to see what's going on and who's here, and that she has also noticed them.
"Who's the mooks in the suits?"
"Neighborhood kids, it's candy day," Paul answers sarcastically, still trying to force her to take the bag, and its contents, back.
"Awful big kids. Cute, too. --no, Paul, you're keeping her."
"It's not a her. It's an it, and I am not."
"It used to be a her, and that her used to be your mother--"
"Your sister--"
"I'm not holding it, if you let go it's gonna drop on the carpet and you can frickin' vacuum her up--"
In the end, his aunt is victorious. Paul blames the twins. It's only that he doesn't want Roxane to stick around longer and take a further interest in them. Otherwise, he would never have let her leave, at least not while leaving him with the goddamn urn.
"Son of a bitch." He locks the door with one hand, holds the urn awkwardly with the other while considering it; there is no way in hell it's going on any of his shelves. Tacky goddamn thing. The best, most fitting send-off would be to douse her ashes in vodka and dump them out somewhere on Adams' grounds, he thinks wistfully.
"What th' fuck was that all about?" asks Connor, and Paul starts.
"My aunt being a manipulative bitch."
"That's yer feckin' aunt? What's in the jar?" asks Murphy.
"Ashes of the last person to really get on my nerves." Not true, he reflects sadly. That'd have to be Greenly.
***
The last person to knock on his door, at 10:00 pm, is Special Agent John Baxter.
The agent waits in the hall, hearing what sounds to be a scuffle from inside the apartment, and knocks again, then notices the doorbell and rings it, all the while listening intently.
Baxter is not a fan of Paul Smecker. The FBI is a place of many rivalries, and the most acute are often those caused by conflict between a resident agent who's been in a particular field office for many years, and the visiting ones that Washington sends their way for a year at most. The hotshots.
Baxter's not sure what he did to draw graveyard with goddamn Smecker tonight, but he intends to make it as miserable for the other man as the other man no doubt will do right back to him. It's going to be a long night. If there's fodder going on in there right now-- Baxter's more than happy to take it. Maybe beating up one of his boyfriends...
Another knock-- but the door is yanked open under his hand, and Smecker's there, grinning in a manic fashion at him. "Baxter. Hi. How are you."
"...fine. What'd you do, jump a kid and take his plastic pumpkin bucket?"
"Oh god, I wish. What do you want? "
Baxter jams his hands in his pockets, unable to hide a little smirk. It's great to be the bearer of bad news to your enemies. He looks forward to Smecker's face at hearing they have to start work two hours early. "I was told to come pick you up. Graveyard's starting early tonight-- apparently we've got some sicko out there lacing Reese's Peanut Butter Cups with cyanide."
"Oh, thank God. Let me grab my coat."
***
Assorted crazy. Special Agent Paul Smecker hates this time of year....
muse: paul smecker
fandom: boondock saints
word count: 2500
notes: Utter crack, Connor and Murphy used shamelessly, I don't have any idea what was going on with this prompt