Fic: "Apocalypse Now and Then," The Middleman, PG.
Title: "Apocalypse Now and Then"
Author: monimala
Fandom: The Middleman
Rating/Classification: PG, generic spoilers for the series, 'shippiness if you choose to see it that way.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit being made.
Summary: 2400 words. Written for the apocalyptothon for karrenia_rune, and the prompt, "the sky is falling, repeat, the sky is falling."
"The sky is falling. Repeat, the sky is falling!" Ida's voice blares out of the comm unit in the Middlewatch, and Wendy blearily reaches for it, slapping at it like it's an alarm clock. Snooze, dammit, snooze. Five more minutes. Only, it doesn't really work like that, so Ida keeps doing her best impression of Chicken Little. If Chicken Little were a post-menopausal robot who still thinks Wendy's a pothead, that is. Wendy flails around in her sheets for two more minutes, tangled in the comforter and landing on the floor with a graceless thump, and only succeeds in knocking the watch right onto the ground with her.
"Are you there, you floozy, or are you cooking up crystal meth in the bath tub again?" Ida snipes, apparently deciding that the answers to those questions are "no" and "yes," respectively.
Wendy finally extricates herself from the Martha Stewart collection long enough to hit the comm and deliver some semblance of "message received, on my way in," that doesn't include the words "[CENSORED!]" and "you." It's never good to start the day by pissing off a post-menopausal robot. Especially if the sky is falling. (She checks outside the window and, yup, it certainly is. Fluffy white clouds and hunks of blue and everything.)
She takes the fastest shower of all time --more a bitch bath, as it were-- and grabs a bagel on her way out of the illegal sublet she shares with another young, photogenic artist. Noser's in the hallway, despite the fact that it's 6:45 a.m. (it's a good thing the Middlewatch actually tells time, too), and he nods at her, "Hey, Wendy Watson. It's the end of the world as we know it."
"Lenny Bruce is not afraid," she notes, with the expected profundity--though, seriously, maybe Lenny Bruce ought to be terrified one of these days, because the frequency of these end-of-the-world scenarios is beginning to wear away at her trademark unflappable nature. In fact, it's entirely possibly that she flaps all the way to the Middleman HQ while trying to avoid clouds, asteroid fragments, and little old ladies who still can't manage to drive over 35 miles per hour in a 55 mile an hour zone. MM's looking mighty flapped himself when she finally makes it into the office. The top button of his jaunty Eisenhower jacket is actually unbuttoned and two, perhaps three, hairs are actually out of place. She often measures the strength of a crisis by the Middleman's attention to his sartorial splendor, and she knows that once they get to undone cuffs and rolled-up sleeves, it's all downhill from there.
"Lucy Goosey!" he exclaims, shaking his head at her like she's tardy for first period and only succeeding in making her giggle inappropriately despite the severe nature of the task ahead of them. Staying with the Chicken Little theme? I mean, seriously? "Dubbie, there is dire atmospheric interference going on and you stopped for a *bagel*?"
"Did you want one, too?" She arches an eyebrow, offering him her last three bites of cinnamon raisin. When she gets nothing but an exasperated harrumph and a "Tempus fugit!" in response she hightails it to the changing room to get into her uniform.
Apparently, the strength of the crisis is also indicated by MM's attention to *her* sartorial splendor, because he follows her right in, politely staring at the wall while she whips her tank top over her head and reaches for a clean white shirt. "Ida has picked up several interesting tidbits on the H.E.Y.D.A.R.," he informs. "Apparently the sky commenced falling at roughly 0600 hours, shortly after reports that temperature in a small southeastern Michigan town called Hell had reached critically cold proportions, especially unusual seeing as it's July."
"Wait." She stops with her vest stuck halfway around her head, voice muffled by the slippery black cloth. "Are you saying that Hell literally froze over?"
"Yes, Dubbie, I am." He firmly pulls her vest down the rest of the way, smoothing it out until he realizes that he's accidentally touching her boob and then he turns a whiter shade of pale everywhere except for his ears-- which turn pink. "Ahem. I apologize. And to continue, an enormous porcine statue in front of a drinking establishment in New York City's Hell's Kitchen was suddenly launched into the air when a tow truck collided with the curb in front of the building."
"A pig flew?" she translates, as he attempts to return to his normal skin tone and go back to looking at the changing room's décor. "Sounds like some major apocalyptic signs alright." She pokes him in the overly wide shoulder, taking a moment to admire his proportionately tapered hips and surprisingly firm buttocks. (As a photogenic young artist, she doesn't suffer from his modesty issues; seen one nude art model, you've seen 'em all.) Sometimes, her boss reminds her of the living embodiment of Johnny Bravo, and she doesn't mind one bit. "The Cubbies didn't win the World Series, did they? Despite it not being October?"
"No," the Middleman frowns, as though he's actually contemplating the possibility. "There have been no marked changes in baseball scheduling, but I will alert Ida to keep a lookout."
There is no use in telling him she is only kidding, especially with impending doom waiting for them outside. And as she's finally adequately dressed for the occasion, she nudges her still frowning boss out of the changing room and back down the hall. "So do we have a cause for all the weirdness yet, or is it the nebulous, not-claimed-by-a-supervillain variety of mayhem?"
As if on cue, the building shakes, ominously, from the impact of some very large object. Wendy reaches out for the closest thing to hold onto, which happens to be her boss, and then they both go crashing into the nearest wall. Somehow, MM manages to look completely unruffled, even when they're in an undignified heap on the floor. "Patsy Cline!" he huffs, while she spits out a "[CENSORED!]" and a "[CENSORED!]." "Dubbie!" he admonishes, but she's too busy trying to extricate her hand from his groin region without him noticing what she's almost touching to be properly chastened for her potty mouth. Too late, MM actually realizes her fingers are now somewhere near his knee. "Dubbie," he says again, blushing a deep shade of crimson, which totally clashes with the olive green of his jacket.
"Supervillians," she reminds, feeling a bit scarlet cheeked herself as she scrambles back across the floor a few very safe feet. "Has the
H.E.Y.D.A.R. picked up any reports of supervillian activity, or is this a natural phenomenon?"
"There are no supervillains taking credit for this apocalypse." Ida's voice booms out across the hall, nasal and bitchy and oddly comforting. "But the Clan of the Pointed Stick has placed an international bet that the President of the United States accidentally sat on the red button."
That's not a bad bet, actually. Wendy makes a note to get to a laptop and put some cash on good ol' George Dubya when she gets a chance. IF she gets
a chance. The building shakes again, like somebody really, really big stepped on it. Chunks of ceiling tile actually fall, along with insulation and some cinderblock. "Damage reports," the Middleman barks. "How much trauma is the city sustaining, Ida?"
Silence greets the request. Absolute, dead silence.
He tries again, with the same result. And when he taps his Middlewatch, it crackles with nothing but static.
Wendy doesn't even know when she crawls back to MM's side, only that she's there and he's looking far more disturbed than he was by boob grazes and knee gropes. "Stay here," he directs, grimly. "I'll go check the main room."
She's torn between a heroic, "I'll go with you!" and an anti-feminist, catering-to-the-patriarchy, wimpy, "Um, okay." In the end, she goes for neither, grasping his arm instead. "I didn't wake up this morning expecting anyone to die. So let's try and keep that in mind, okay? Especially since I haven't gotten paid this month."
He smiles at her. Sure, it's not one of his big, cheesy, matinee idol grins, but it's a smile and it goes along way towards easing the tightness in her stomach. "Tell you what, Dubbie, we'll see if we can arrange a bonus."
Then, he goes to check the main room and she doesn¹t "stay here," choosing to follow him at a discreet distance. They skirt debris and she belatedly remembers that she didn't tell Lacey the world might be ending today. It's just that it happens so *often* in her current profession, she has almost started to take it for granted. If she warned Lace about impending chaos on a regular basis, she'd be, well, Chicken Little. Ill timing be damned, Wendy pulls her cell phone from her pants pocket and shoots Lacey a quick text: "The sky is falling, stay safe." Something that, if Lacey should be entirely too occupied with a performance art project and not even noticing the imminent doom until it's over with, can easily be explained away as metaphorical mumbo jumbo.
The Middleman glances back at her as she's finishing up and scowls, until she mouths "Lacey," and he instantly looks chagrined. Seriously, dictionary definition of "chagrin." They should put a picture of him next to the entry.
She's pretty sure he's never quite gotten over that "almost" thing that they had. And that's not something she wants to think about given the imminent doom factor, so she waves at him to continue forward.
"Ida," he calls out once more. "Ida, status report."
And then there's a thunderous booming noise, and she has just enough time to shout, "[CENSORED!]" before the ceiling collapses and everything goes black.
**
Hell freezing over.
Pigs flying.
The Cubs winning the World Series.
As Wendy comes back to consciousness, she realizes there's one sign of the end of the world that she left out: getting kissed by her boss. Okay, so it's not exactly kissing. He's puffing air into her mouth and doing chest compressions, right up until the minute she's gasping and choking against his lips. Earning that merit badge in First Aid. Then, everything comes back to her slowly, mostly the pain. The [CENSORED!][CENSORED!] pain. And the Middleman blurs in and out of focus as he rocks back on his heels and cries, "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Dubbie! I thought I'd lost you!"
She groans, trying to raise her head and giving up, just letting it rest on the ground for a moment. "Not a chance... you owe me a bonus, remember?" His chuckle is forced, and she's not sure she's ever seen him look so worried about her. At least not lately. She prides herself on not giving anyone very many excuses. Especially since her mother does it enough without provocation. "Go," she murmurs, reminding him, "Ida."
"Of course." He scrambles up, shaking dust and plaster from his clothes and venturing forth... only to return what seems like eons later, his face devoid of all color. "Ida's pinned under a large chunk of concrete, Wendy. She's short-circuited and unresponsive." He crouches down to her eye level… and calls her 'Wendy,' and that's how she knows they're really, really [CENSORED!]. "But she was able to get on the H.E.Y.D.A.R. briefly before the… incident. She found the cause of this damnable chaos."
She sits up, gingerly, feeling her bones scream in protest. Everything swims before her eyes. The backstroke *and* the breaststroke. "And?" she prompts, weakly. "What is it? The President and the red button?"
Lenny Bruce is absolutely, most definitely afraid.
The Middleman picks a spot somewhere above her head to stare at and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like… "Little chickens from outer space."
"What?" When that doesn't garner a response, she goes with, "Que?!"
Finally, he clears his throat. "Chickens, Dubbie. Not Chicken Little, but little chickens. An army of them. Nay, a planetful. They've invaded Earth. Apparently the falling sky is some sort of… intergalatic in-joke."
And boy is it unfunny.
He must glean that from her expression, because he reaches out and sort of ineffectually pats her arm, like he's someone's dear, senile grandmother.
"So how do we fight them? Giant deep fryer?" she suggests, tentatively feeling out the huge bump at the back of her head and wincing every inch of the way. "Or do we just break out the biscuits and coleslaw and kiss our butts goodbye?"
This time, the bossman knows full well that she is joking. Gallows humor. Chicken-fried snark. He helps her to stand, instinctively slipping his arm around her waist so she doesn't collapse. "We have approximately eight minutes until the mothership makes impact with earth, Wendy. I'm afraid that this is it. This is the big one. The one we can't stop."
He sounds so matter of fact, but she doesn't want to believe it. Can't. She didn't even put on her good underwear this morning and she absolutely refuses to entertain the idea of dying in K-Mart granny panties. "What would Sensei Ping do?" she demands. When all else fails, ask the all-important question: WWSPD. "Would he just give up?"
For the first time in as many minutes, the Middleman's face actually stops looking like someone shot his dog. The corners of his mouth lift up in a small smile. Not matinee idol-level, maybe just evening newscaster, but she'll take it. It'll do.
"I believe, Dubbie, that Sensei Ping would defer to another fount of wisdom at a time like this, the Beatles. And he would echo a particularly apropos refrain: 'Happiness is a warm gun.'"
"You mean, as in, 'bang, bang, shoot, shoot?'" she elaborates, quirking an eyebrow.
"Exactly, Dubbie!"
And despite the fact that she hurts like Hell and has no idea what the [CENSORED!] may be about to happen, Wendy can't help but be extremely amused, and just a little bit reassured. She leans heavily against his arm for just a moment, and then stands as straight as she can manage. "Weapons locker?" she surmises, cockily.
"Darn tootin'," he says, with a sharp nod.
Four minutes before the end of the world as she knows it, with a plasma rifle in one hand, a grenade launcher in the other, and the Middleman at her side Wendy Watson feels surprisingly, perfectly fine.
--end--
July 11, 2009
Author: monimala
Fandom: The Middleman
Rating/Classification: PG, generic spoilers for the series, 'shippiness if you choose to see it that way.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no profit being made.
Summary: 2400 words. Written for the apocalyptothon for karrenia_rune, and the prompt, "the sky is falling, repeat, the sky is falling."
"The sky is falling. Repeat, the sky is falling!" Ida's voice blares out of the comm unit in the Middlewatch, and Wendy blearily reaches for it, slapping at it like it's an alarm clock. Snooze, dammit, snooze. Five more minutes. Only, it doesn't really work like that, so Ida keeps doing her best impression of Chicken Little. If Chicken Little were a post-menopausal robot who still thinks Wendy's a pothead, that is. Wendy flails around in her sheets for two more minutes, tangled in the comforter and landing on the floor with a graceless thump, and only succeeds in knocking the watch right onto the ground with her.
"Are you there, you floozy, or are you cooking up crystal meth in the bath tub again?" Ida snipes, apparently deciding that the answers to those questions are "no" and "yes," respectively.
Wendy finally extricates herself from the Martha Stewart collection long enough to hit the comm and deliver some semblance of "message received, on my way in," that doesn't include the words "[CENSORED!]" and "you." It's never good to start the day by pissing off a post-menopausal robot. Especially if the sky is falling. (She checks outside the window and, yup, it certainly is. Fluffy white clouds and hunks of blue and everything.)
She takes the fastest shower of all time --more a bitch bath, as it were-- and grabs a bagel on her way out of the illegal sublet she shares with another young, photogenic artist. Noser's in the hallway, despite the fact that it's 6:45 a.m. (it's a good thing the Middlewatch actually tells time, too), and he nods at her, "Hey, Wendy Watson. It's the end of the world as we know it."
"Lenny Bruce is not afraid," she notes, with the expected profundity--though, seriously, maybe Lenny Bruce ought to be terrified one of these days, because the frequency of these end-of-the-world scenarios is beginning to wear away at her trademark unflappable nature. In fact, it's entirely possibly that she flaps all the way to the Middleman HQ while trying to avoid clouds, asteroid fragments, and little old ladies who still can't manage to drive over 35 miles per hour in a 55 mile an hour zone. MM's looking mighty flapped himself when she finally makes it into the office. The top button of his jaunty Eisenhower jacket is actually unbuttoned and two, perhaps three, hairs are actually out of place. She often measures the strength of a crisis by the Middleman's attention to his sartorial splendor, and she knows that once they get to undone cuffs and rolled-up sleeves, it's all downhill from there.
"Lucy Goosey!" he exclaims, shaking his head at her like she's tardy for first period and only succeeding in making her giggle inappropriately despite the severe nature of the task ahead of them. Staying with the Chicken Little theme? I mean, seriously? "Dubbie, there is dire atmospheric interference going on and you stopped for a *bagel*?"
"Did you want one, too?" She arches an eyebrow, offering him her last three bites of cinnamon raisin. When she gets nothing but an exasperated harrumph and a "Tempus fugit!" in response she hightails it to the changing room to get into her uniform.
Apparently, the strength of the crisis is also indicated by MM's attention to *her* sartorial splendor, because he follows her right in, politely staring at the wall while she whips her tank top over her head and reaches for a clean white shirt. "Ida has picked up several interesting tidbits on the H.E.Y.D.A.R.," he informs. "Apparently the sky commenced falling at roughly 0600 hours, shortly after reports that temperature in a small southeastern Michigan town called Hell had reached critically cold proportions, especially unusual seeing as it's July."
"Wait." She stops with her vest stuck halfway around her head, voice muffled by the slippery black cloth. "Are you saying that Hell literally froze over?"
"Yes, Dubbie, I am." He firmly pulls her vest down the rest of the way, smoothing it out until he realizes that he's accidentally touching her boob and then he turns a whiter shade of pale everywhere except for his ears-- which turn pink. "Ahem. I apologize. And to continue, an enormous porcine statue in front of a drinking establishment in New York City's Hell's Kitchen was suddenly launched into the air when a tow truck collided with the curb in front of the building."
"A pig flew?" she translates, as he attempts to return to his normal skin tone and go back to looking at the changing room's décor. "Sounds like some major apocalyptic signs alright." She pokes him in the overly wide shoulder, taking a moment to admire his proportionately tapered hips and surprisingly firm buttocks. (As a photogenic young artist, she doesn't suffer from his modesty issues; seen one nude art model, you've seen 'em all.) Sometimes, her boss reminds her of the living embodiment of Johnny Bravo, and she doesn't mind one bit. "The Cubbies didn't win the World Series, did they? Despite it not being October?"
"No," the Middleman frowns, as though he's actually contemplating the possibility. "There have been no marked changes in baseball scheduling, but I will alert Ida to keep a lookout."
There is no use in telling him she is only kidding, especially with impending doom waiting for them outside. And as she's finally adequately dressed for the occasion, she nudges her still frowning boss out of the changing room and back down the hall. "So do we have a cause for all the weirdness yet, or is it the nebulous, not-claimed-by-a-supervillain variety of mayhem?"
As if on cue, the building shakes, ominously, from the impact of some very large object. Wendy reaches out for the closest thing to hold onto, which happens to be her boss, and then they both go crashing into the nearest wall. Somehow, MM manages to look completely unruffled, even when they're in an undignified heap on the floor. "Patsy Cline!" he huffs, while she spits out a "[CENSORED!]" and a "[CENSORED!]." "Dubbie!" he admonishes, but she's too busy trying to extricate her hand from his groin region without him noticing what she's almost touching to be properly chastened for her potty mouth. Too late, MM actually realizes her fingers are now somewhere near his knee. "Dubbie," he says again, blushing a deep shade of crimson, which totally clashes with the olive green of his jacket.
"Supervillians," she reminds, feeling a bit scarlet cheeked herself as she scrambles back across the floor a few very safe feet. "Has the
H.E.Y.D.A.R. picked up any reports of supervillian activity, or is this a natural phenomenon?"
"There are no supervillains taking credit for this apocalypse." Ida's voice booms out across the hall, nasal and bitchy and oddly comforting. "But the Clan of the Pointed Stick has placed an international bet that the President of the United States accidentally sat on the red button."
That's not a bad bet, actually. Wendy makes a note to get to a laptop and put some cash on good ol' George Dubya when she gets a chance. IF she gets
a chance. The building shakes again, like somebody really, really big stepped on it. Chunks of ceiling tile actually fall, along with insulation and some cinderblock. "Damage reports," the Middleman barks. "How much trauma is the city sustaining, Ida?"
Silence greets the request. Absolute, dead silence.
He tries again, with the same result. And when he taps his Middlewatch, it crackles with nothing but static.
Wendy doesn't even know when she crawls back to MM's side, only that she's there and he's looking far more disturbed than he was by boob grazes and knee gropes. "Stay here," he directs, grimly. "I'll go check the main room."
She's torn between a heroic, "I'll go with you!" and an anti-feminist, catering-to-the-patriarchy, wimpy, "Um, okay." In the end, she goes for neither, grasping his arm instead. "I didn't wake up this morning expecting anyone to die. So let's try and keep that in mind, okay? Especially since I haven't gotten paid this month."
He smiles at her. Sure, it's not one of his big, cheesy, matinee idol grins, but it's a smile and it goes along way towards easing the tightness in her stomach. "Tell you what, Dubbie, we'll see if we can arrange a bonus."
Then, he goes to check the main room and she doesn¹t "stay here," choosing to follow him at a discreet distance. They skirt debris and she belatedly remembers that she didn't tell Lacey the world might be ending today. It's just that it happens so *often* in her current profession, she has almost started to take it for granted. If she warned Lace about impending chaos on a regular basis, she'd be, well, Chicken Little. Ill timing be damned, Wendy pulls her cell phone from her pants pocket and shoots Lacey a quick text: "The sky is falling, stay safe." Something that, if Lacey should be entirely too occupied with a performance art project and not even noticing the imminent doom until it's over with, can easily be explained away as metaphorical mumbo jumbo.
The Middleman glances back at her as she's finishing up and scowls, until she mouths "Lacey," and he instantly looks chagrined. Seriously, dictionary definition of "chagrin." They should put a picture of him next to the entry.
She's pretty sure he's never quite gotten over that "almost" thing that they had. And that's not something she wants to think about given the imminent doom factor, so she waves at him to continue forward.
"Ida," he calls out once more. "Ida, status report."
And then there's a thunderous booming noise, and she has just enough time to shout, "[CENSORED!]" before the ceiling collapses and everything goes black.
**
Hell freezing over.
Pigs flying.
The Cubs winning the World Series.
As Wendy comes back to consciousness, she realizes there's one sign of the end of the world that she left out: getting kissed by her boss. Okay, so it's not exactly kissing. He's puffing air into her mouth and doing chest compressions, right up until the minute she's gasping and choking against his lips. Earning that merit badge in First Aid. Then, everything comes back to her slowly, mostly the pain. The [CENSORED!][CENSORED!] pain. And the Middleman blurs in and out of focus as he rocks back on his heels and cries, "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Dubbie! I thought I'd lost you!"
She groans, trying to raise her head and giving up, just letting it rest on the ground for a moment. "Not a chance... you owe me a bonus, remember?" His chuckle is forced, and she's not sure she's ever seen him look so worried about her. At least not lately. She prides herself on not giving anyone very many excuses. Especially since her mother does it enough without provocation. "Go," she murmurs, reminding him, "Ida."
"Of course." He scrambles up, shaking dust and plaster from his clothes and venturing forth... only to return what seems like eons later, his face devoid of all color. "Ida's pinned under a large chunk of concrete, Wendy. She's short-circuited and unresponsive." He crouches down to her eye level… and calls her 'Wendy,' and that's how she knows they're really, really [CENSORED!]. "But she was able to get on the H.E.Y.D.A.R. briefly before the… incident. She found the cause of this damnable chaos."
She sits up, gingerly, feeling her bones scream in protest. Everything swims before her eyes. The backstroke *and* the breaststroke. "And?" she prompts, weakly. "What is it? The President and the red button?"
Lenny Bruce is absolutely, most definitely afraid.
The Middleman picks a spot somewhere above her head to stare at and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like… "Little chickens from outer space."
"What?" When that doesn't garner a response, she goes with, "Que?!"
Finally, he clears his throat. "Chickens, Dubbie. Not Chicken Little, but little chickens. An army of them. Nay, a planetful. They've invaded Earth. Apparently the falling sky is some sort of… intergalatic in-joke."
And boy is it unfunny.
He must glean that from her expression, because he reaches out and sort of ineffectually pats her arm, like he's someone's dear, senile grandmother.
"So how do we fight them? Giant deep fryer?" she suggests, tentatively feeling out the huge bump at the back of her head and wincing every inch of the way. "Or do we just break out the biscuits and coleslaw and kiss our butts goodbye?"
This time, the bossman knows full well that she is joking. Gallows humor. Chicken-fried snark. He helps her to stand, instinctively slipping his arm around her waist so she doesn't collapse. "We have approximately eight minutes until the mothership makes impact with earth, Wendy. I'm afraid that this is it. This is the big one. The one we can't stop."
He sounds so matter of fact, but she doesn't want to believe it. Can't. She didn't even put on her good underwear this morning and she absolutely refuses to entertain the idea of dying in K-Mart granny panties. "What would Sensei Ping do?" she demands. When all else fails, ask the all-important question: WWSPD. "Would he just give up?"
For the first time in as many minutes, the Middleman's face actually stops looking like someone shot his dog. The corners of his mouth lift up in a small smile. Not matinee idol-level, maybe just evening newscaster, but she'll take it. It'll do.
"I believe, Dubbie, that Sensei Ping would defer to another fount of wisdom at a time like this, the Beatles. And he would echo a particularly apropos refrain: 'Happiness is a warm gun.'"
"You mean, as in, 'bang, bang, shoot, shoot?'" she elaborates, quirking an eyebrow.
"Exactly, Dubbie!"
And despite the fact that she hurts like Hell and has no idea what the [CENSORED!] may be about to happen, Wendy can't help but be extremely amused, and just a little bit reassured. She leans heavily against his arm for just a moment, and then stands as straight as she can manage. "Weapons locker?" she surmises, cockily.
"Darn tootin'," he says, with a sharp nod.
Four minutes before the end of the world as she knows it, with a plasma rifle in one hand, a grenade launcher in the other, and the Middleman at her side Wendy Watson feels surprisingly, perfectly fine.
--end--
July 11, 2009