Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 73 - Boom Chicka Boom

Reeve Stockwell made quick work of disengaging from JJ Patricks.  JJ was still irked, but she hadn't killed him, and that was a good sign.  He was headed back to Tommy's, and driving like a maniac, which was hard work in his old beater.  The thing sputtered and spitted, and backfired.

"Excuse you?" Gutz said from the passenger seat.

"Pardon?" Stockwell replied, not taking his eyes from the road.

"It's customary to excuse yourself when you've broken wind," Gutz advised.

"I didn't.  That was the car," Stockwell advised.

"Are we going to make it back?" Gutz asked.

"We are," Stockwell assured.

They did.  Stockwell and Gutz arrived at Tommy's Tool Town ten minutes past closing.  Stockwell knocked on the door and cringed when he saw Kitty approach.

She looked like she'd come through a hurricane.

"Hey," Kitty said.

"What's happening?" Stockwell asked.

"I rallied the troops, and we have about half the pipes cleaned up," Kitty said.  "A bunch of people stayed past closing."

"Seriously?" Stockwell asked incredulously.  It was difficult getting his staff to stay UNTIL closing.  He couldn't imagine the bribery involved in getting them to stay late.

"What did you give them?" Stockwell asked.

Kitty looked away.

"Kitty?" Stockwell asked.

"Well, Bernice and Penelope had to stay because Bernice lost her keys. Wilton offered to stay if he could have Saturday off," Kitty said.

"He offered to stay an extra hour in exchange for eight hours off?" Stockwell asked.

"Yeah," Kitty mumbled.

"You need to work on your negotiating skills, Kitty," Stockwell complained.

"You weren't here.  You weren't running the show.  I did what I had to do.  Mags came in, and Daisy came back.  Alejandro stayed, and Aaron Faulker came back even though he was out somewhere when I called him.

"And I'm here!" Gutz quipped.

"How did you know about it?" Kitty asked.

Gutz paused.

Stockwell didn't miss a beat.  "I called him."

Suddenly the paging system squealed, then went silent.  The store was filled with provocative music, the kind one usually heard on Saturday night Cinemax.

"What the hell is that?" Stockwell asked.

"Dunno," Kitty mumbled.

"Kitty?" Stockwell asked.

"I don't know!"

"Where is everyone?  I don't see a soul," Stockwell said, as the music blared on.  "Kitty, what the hell is going on in here?"

"They're in plumbing.  Everyone is concentrating on plumbing.  If we can get that cleaned up, we can move more pipes from other areas of the store," Kitty explained defensively.

"Good.  Now you're thinking.  Let's go check on them, and find out where this ridiculous music is coming from," Stockwell said.  "I feel like I'm in a Gentleman's club."

"There were some fine establishments during the war," Gutz said, and Stockwell just stared at him.

"Look it.  I've got my hands full.  Could you not start that war shit again, just for tonight?" Stockwell rather begged.

"I suppose I could give it a rest," Gutz said, as the trio walked.

"What war?" Kitty asked, and Stockwell shot her a look that not only got her to shut her mouth, but made her want to tape it shut.

"That's a story for another time," Gutz said.

"Thank you, Jesus," Stockwell whispered.

No one said a word for twenty steps or so, but as Stockwell rounded aisle twelve, he gasped.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

Granted, some of the pipes had been restored to their rightful place, but one slim, twelve footer had been fashioned into something not normally seen in tool stores.  Alejandro and Bernice were entertaining the others with their pole dancing prowess.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" Stockwell roared.

"Shit," Kitty whispered.

"Is this it?  Is this what you offered them?" Stockwell said.

"No."

"No, Kit?  You didn't set up some strip club in my plumbing department?"

"We are not strippers, we are exotic dancers!!" Alejandro quipped, gyrating to where Stockwell and Gutz still stood.

"Shut up!" Stockwell demanded.

"May I interest you in a lap dance, sir?" Alejandro asked, in a demurely sounding female voice.

"Get away from me, you freak!" Stockwell roared.

"Stop the name calling!" Daisy Cates yelled, and everyone shut up.  Bernice fell from her pole position, and someone cut the music.  "That isn't necessary.  These kids have been through hell tonight, and if they want to have some fun, I say we let them.  They're willing to stay until midnight to help get this cleaned up, and that says a lot, considering it isn't anyone's fault this happened.

Bernice and Penelope shot each other a knowing and relieved glance, which thankfully, nobody noticed.

Wilton Scott stepped forward.  "Did you know, sir, that pole dancing is considered to be wonderful exercise?  In fact, I once read something about church ladies who were dancing for Jesus."

"That's wonderful, Wilton.  Thank you for sharing that.  Does anyone else have anything?" Stockwell asked.  He seemed calmer, but he was that controlled angry, the kind normally seen right before one went completely insane.

"Did I miss the lap dances?" Aaron Faulkner slurred.

"Dear Lord, have you been drinking?" Stockwell asked.

"What I do on my free time is my business," Faulkner said defensively.

The paging system squeaked and squealed again, as if someone was playing with it.

"Who is doing that?" Stockwell demanded.

No one moved, and no one took responsibility, and everyone in the store was accounted for. 

"Alejandro, is there anyone else in this store, anyone that you know of?" Stockwell demanded.

"No, sir.  There's only thirteen of us, fifteen with you and Gutz, and the gang's all here," Alejandro explained.

"Daisy?  Can you walk the perimeter?  Let me know if you see anyone who shouldn't be in here," Stockwell asked.

"I will," Daisy said, lumbering away.

"Alejandro, Wilton, I am going to give you five minutes to get this damn pole down and back where it belongs.  Anyone who can drive a forklift, get back to Receiving and let's get the machines moving.  If we can get this cleared up by midnight, I'll let you all leave alive," Stockwell said, still sounding a bit like a madman.

"Anything I can do, sir?" Faulkner asked.

"Yeah.  Get yourself back to the break room and get yourself some coffee, and for God's sake, get a sponsor and get your act cleaned up," Stockwell said, and although he sounded pissed, he placed his hand on Faulker's arm.  "Honest to God, Faulkner, you're a great guy, with a good sense of humor, but you smell like a brewery, and you're going to rot your innards with that shit."

"Thanks, boss.  Means a lot coming from someone like you," Faulkner slurred, although not nearly as bad as before.

The paging system crackled again, and everyone turned their gazes toward the ceiling.

Daisy returned a moment later.

"Anything?" Stockwell asked.

"No, sir.  It's just us," Daisy assured.

"Then who in the hell is messing with the paging system?" Stockwell wondered aloud.

The crackling stopped for a moment and the store fell silent, but the silence lasted only momentarily.

"I LOVE ROCKIN' BOATS."

Daisy Cates went pale.

"Shit," she whispered.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 72 - Rockin' the Boat, Astro Style

Reeve Stockwell looked down at his feet.  He knew he was about to get a lickin' from JJ Patricks.

"So, let me get this straight," JJ began.  "There are about a hundred thousand people within reasonable distance of where we're standing right now, and you chose that knucklehead for a partner?"

"Jeez.  When you say it like that," Stockwell mumbled.

"Well? I've got a point, right?"

"You do.  He's a good guy, JJ," Stockwell said, defensively.

"He thinks he was at the Invasion of Normandy."

"No one is perfect," Stockwell remarked.

"Are you for real?  That's your defense?  No, no one is perfect, but most people don't think they were killed in WWII, and then floated around in the clouds for a while, before being born into the Gardner family,"  JJ blurted.  She arched a brow and looked curiously at Reeve Stockwell.

"Who?"

"Gardner," JJ replied.

"Who's that?" Stockwell asked.

"Your Gutzenheimer's father.  His name is Richard Gardner.  He had one son, an odd boy, but bright.  He was obsessed with WWII.  They named him Jerry."

"Gutz is Jerry Gardner?" Stockwell asked.

"He is.  Gutzenheimer doesn't exist."

"Wow," Stockwell said in amazement.

"He spent some time in a facility," JJ said.

"How do you know?" Stockwell asked.

JJ smiled.  "I text faster than you walk."

"I didn't think anyone did anything faster than I walk," Stockwell said.

"Your CI partner was institutionalized," JJ said, and Stockwell frowned.

"Why?"

"He believed he was a German soldier in WWII," JJ said.

"Shit," Stockwell whispered.

"He was arrested once, too," JJ announced.

"Dear God.  For what?"

"Trying to break into Area 51," JJ explained.

"Terrific," Stockwell replied, sounding forlorn.

"We have a problem, Stockwell," JJ barked.

"I guess."

"You're stuck with him.  You brought him into this, but I am telling you, keep the reins in on him.  If he starts talking about the FBI, you need to commit him."

"I couldn't do that," Stockwell whined.

"You'll have to.  If you blow my cover, I'll kill you."

"Jeez.  You're vicious," Stockwell said, as a chill ran through him.

Stockwell's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he was reminded of the mess that awaited him back at the store.  He opened the phone and checked the text.

It was from Mitchell.

If you hurt Rachel, I'll kill you.

"What the hell?" Stockwell said.

"What?" JJ asked.

"Now two people want to kill me," Stockwell said.

He had no idea who Rachel was, but if he saw her, he'd steer clear.

"I'm sure that's not true," JJ remarked.

"Really?"

"I'm sure a hell of a lot of people want to kill you, Stockwell," JJ said with a smile.

Nice.

****************

Daisy Cates plopped down on the upside down bucket in the little barn she found heavenly.  A small goat laid by her side.

She hadn't told Hannah she already had a growing goat family.  She hadn't told Hannah much about her life now, but that was fine.  She'd reveal things when and if they were needed, or she'd just show up at the RV rendezvous spot one day soon with a bunch of goats, a bulging knapsack, and a very ungrateful macaw.

The bird had followed her into the barn.

"Astro!" the bird screeched, announcing its presence by using its name.  His name wasn't really Astro, but evidently, that's what he heard every time Daisy yelled at him when he insisted on singing in the wee hours of the morning.

"Shut up, Astro!" the bird hollered, and Daisy rolled her eyes.

"It's asshole," Daisy whispered, chuckling at herself.

Her phone rang and the bird began to dance excitedly.

"Hello, hello, hello," the bird screeched, and Daisy left the barn momentarily, slamming the door and trapping Astro inside.

"Damn bird," she mumbled, not realizing she'd already answered her cell. 

This had better be good.  I've only been home for thirty minutes, Daisy thought.

"What damn bird?" Hannah asked.

"Never mind.  It's just a crow," Daisy said.

In the distance, she could hear the bird freaking out.

"Astro! Astro! Astro!"

He'd pretty much nailed it.

"What's up?" Daisy asked.

"Louise called.  She's got more dirt.  Wants to see us at Bitsy's about eleven.  She said something's going down at the store about midnight.  Some well-dressed-preppy-looking putz was in the bar, yacking up a storm with some Burger guy, yelling and stuff.  That was all she'd say, but said she'll whip us up some sweet potato fries and homemade ranch dressing if we come on down and hear her out.  She says we have to be there," Hannah rambled.

"I've got stuff going on," Daisy said, knowing she shouldn't leave the goat.  He was new, and she wasn't sure what was going on with him.  And then there was Astro, who'd begun singing Joan Jett songs inside the barn.

"I LOVE ROCKIN' BOATS," the bird hollered, and for a moment, Daisy wished she didn't love animals.  She'd have liked to send the damn bird packing.

"What's that?" Hannah asked, and Daisy moved farther from the barn.

"Nothing," Daisy mumbled.

"I hear singing," Hannah said.

"PLUCK ANOTHER MIME FROM THE BOONDOCKS, BABY!"

The bird was on a roll.

She had to get off the phone.

"I'll meet you at Bitsy's at eleven.  I gotta go," Daisy said, hanging up the phone.

"I LOVE ROCKIN' BOATS!"

"SHUT UP!" Daisy screamed.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 71 - Blue's Clues

Ten minutes after the failed jousting, the final PVC pipe came to rest just outside the appliance department. Kitty Richardson sat behind Stockwell's desk, staring at the security camera views of the entire store. Nearly every square inch was covered with pipes.

"Son of a ....-" Kitty mumbled. She opened her cell phone and called Stockwell.  He answered on the first ring and sounded distracted.

"I think I should close the store," Kitty said.

"Why?  Is your grandmother there?" Stockwell asked.

"Honestly?  She could be.  She could be buried in a sea of PVC.  I don't know how I'd know," Kitty whined.

"PVC?  What the hell are you talking about?" Stockwell asked, sounding suddenly interested.

"All the pipes fell in plumbing," Kitty explained.

"What do you mean they ALL fell?" Stockwell roared.

"I mean what I said.  Like every pipe fell and is on the floor," Kitty whimpered.

"Where are they?" Stockwell asked.

"The better question might be 'where aren't they?'" Kitty clarified.

"Who did this?" Stockwell asked, although he suspected he already knew.  Someone was trying to sabotage the store, or get everyone out early, but that wasn't happening.  Stockwell was already hatching a plan, and when Gutz was done being interrogated by a severely hormonal JJ Patricks, Stockwell was prepared to bring the conspiracy theorist into his confidence, and share his plans for the hours ahead.

"I have no idea who did it.  I think they just fell," Kitty said.

"How long have we stacked pipe like that?" Stockwell asked.

"I don't know," Kitty admitted.  "At least a hundred years.  That's how long I've been here."

"Nice, Kitty.  Fifteen years.  Fifteen years and this has never happened," Stockwell grumbled.

"I'll get it cleaned up," Kitty groaned.

"With what?" Stockwell asked.

"I don't know.  This shit is above my pay grade.  You need to come back.  You need to fix this," Kitty nearly demanded.

"I'm coming, but I'm still an hour away.  I'll be there in an hour and fifteen.  Don't screw anything else up before I arrive."

"Asshole," Kitty whispered, before hanging up the phone.  She was glad she was alone.  She really didn't feel that way about Stockwell, but he tended to overreact, and spent his wrath on whomever was in hearing distance.  She wondered if she should order a dozen fritters and have them delivered.

She didn't.

She did however, order a pizza and have it delivered to two old biddies who were probably fighting over primetime television.

There was no way in hell she could cope with that bullshit after a day like today.

****************

Mickey Burger was having a hell of a good time.  This was almost as good as the Slim Spin 5000, and that thing hadn't been easy to tamper with.  He was wreaking havoc, and he felt no remorse.

An eye for an eye, or so they said, Burger thought.

The PVC thing was amazing. 

He hardly had to do a thing.

He'd compromised the shelving, making the disaster imminent, but he hadn't planned on those two cart-riding ding bats to help his plan along.

And so well.

Thankfully they hadn't been hurt, although the skinny one looked like someone who'd just dreamed she was naked at school.

Burger made quick work of leaving the scene, pocketing a drill bit along the way, just because he could.  He still had a few hours of screwing with Slick Mitchell and his pathetic mother ahead of him, and he desperately needed something to eat.

Destroying someone's life and livelihood was hard work.

Bernice Lord still had the presence of mind to ask him if he needed help as he passed.

"May I help you, sir?" Bernice asked.

"I was having trouble locating PVC," Burger said, bursting into a fit of giggles as he walked away.

"Douche bag," Bernice said, loud enough that he could hear.

Burger didn't care.  He was having a fine evening.

"Who was that?" Penelope asked, crawling from beneath the PVC pile.

"Some douche.  You okay?" Bernice asked.

"I seem to be.  I may or may not have broken a nail," Penelope said, wrinkling her nose and examining the third finger on her left hand.

"All good?" Bernice asked.

"Yeah.  Just a chip," Penelope replied.

"What do we do about this?" Bernice asked.  She didn't have to explain what this was, not even to Penelope.

"We should call Kitty," Penelope said.

"Nope.  We are not admitting to anything.  As far as she knows, we're in Receiving."

"Are we?" Penelope asked.

"Are we what?" Bernice replied.

"Are we in Receiving?"

"Of course not.  We're in Plumbing."

"Then we're guilty.  They will blame us," Penelope said, sounding panicked.

"Disneyworld," Bernice mumbled.

"What?"

"It's what I say when I'm stressed," Bernice admitted.

"Why?"

"It's the happiest place on earth," Bernice explained.

"It is?"

"Not really.  It's all smoke and mirrors.  Underneath all the glitter, there's garbage everywhere.  People are rude, and the whole place smells like sweat and vomit, and don't even get me started on the rest rooms.  They all look like a shit bomb went off. 

"Jeez."

"No kidding.  I don't know why anyone in their right mind would eat Indian food and then ride a rollercoaster.  Talk about testing your bowels," Bernice ranted.

Penelope turned a slight shade of green.

"Shit," Bernice said suddenly.

"What?" Penelope asked, no less green.

"I lost my keys.  They're gone.  They're in this mess somewhere.  Come on, help me dig!"

"Seriously?" Penelope whined.

"Yeah.  You have to.  You rode with me.  You wanna be stuck here with this mess?  They might expect us to help or something," Bernice said.

"Jeez, Louise.  You're right.  Where should I start?"

"Here," Bernice said, dropping to her knees.

She dug frantically and came up with a quarter, a gum wrapper, a busted pen and a piece of paper with some doodling.  The pen was everywhere, and she found herself covered with ink. She flipped the paper over, trying to wipe her ink-covered hands on it.

"Whoa," Bernice said, standing up quickly.

"You find them?" Penelope asked, without turning around.

"No, but I found this!" Bernice said, waving the paper.

"You're all covered in blue."

"I know.  It will come off eventually.  Look at this."

Penelope grabbed the paper and read it quickly.

"What should we do?" she asked.

"We go.  It's a clue, and we need that money more than ever," Bernice said.

"Why?" Penelope asked.

"Because here comes Kitty and she looks pissed.  Now we're surrounded with PVC pipes, some of which are covered in blue ink.  We're totally fired," Bernice announced, taking the paper from Penelope's outstretched hand.

Bernice read it again before wadding it into her fist.  The clue was clear.

Receiving at Midnight.  If you're late, someone dies.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 70 - I'll Take Complete and Utter Nonsense for Two Hundred, Alex

As an enormous rolling sea of PVC pipes filled every orifice of Tommy's Tool Town, Reeve Stockwell sat blissfully unaware across from a very pissed off looking JJ Patricks.  Gerald Gutzenheimer just stared.

"I thought she was dead," Gutz finally said, once coffee was poured.

"Do I look dead?" JJ asked, her angry expression unchanged.

"You're a little pale," Gutz remarked.

"I'm pregnant," JJ griped.

"Someone slept with her?" Gutz whispered to Stockwell, as JJ drew a sharp hiss.

"I can hear you," JJ growled.

"My apologies, ma'am," Gutz said softly.  "You just never struck me as a man eater."

"I'm not.  It was artificial insemination," JJ said, although she wasn't sure why.

"Oh.  The turkey baster method," Gutz said.

"Yes, and thank you for that most clinical visual," JJ hissed.

"You're welcome," Gutz mumbled.

"Mr. Stockwell, please tell me why you've chosen Gerald for your partner," JJ rather demanded, pronouncing "Gerald," with a long drawn out J.

Gutz spoke before Stockwell could open his mouth.

"Ga," Gutz barked.

"I beg your pardon?" JJ asked.

"Ga!" Gutz repeated.

"Are you choking?  Do you need 911?  The Heimlich maneuver?" JJ asked.

"It's Gerald with a G.  No J.  You can keep your J's," Gutz explained.

"Very well," JJ said.  "You were saying, Stockwell?"

"I never got a chance to speak," Reeve Stockwell grumbled.  Gutz picked up his coffee cup as JJ watched carefully.  He took a luxurious gulp.

"He's occupied.  Speak now!" JJ demanded.

"Gerald is a conspiracy theorist," Stockwell began.

"You chose a conspiracy theorist for a partner?" JJ asked.

"He's occasionally right," Stockwell said defensively.

"I believe the Tommy schedule was created to keep everyone just awake enough to serve, and tired enough to be incapable of questioning that which seems unreasonable," Gutz declared.

"The schedule is bad?" JJ asked.

"Let's just say we're the only company with the words 'chronic fatigue' in our mission statement," Stockwell admitted.

"It may be in ours, too," JJ commented.

"Look it," Gutz began.  "Everyone thinks I'm crazy, but harmless.  I blend in.  No one would be overly cautious about speaking openly around me.  The worst they might expect is I'll attempt to create a conspiracy theory from whatever it is they're speaking of," Gutz explained.

"And this benefits me how?" JJ asked.

"I am a magnet for information," Gutz said.

"How so?" JJ asked.

"Folks like to mess with me.  They'll tell me their secrets just to see how I spin them.  I'm like the Julia Child of conspiracy theorists.  Give me some butter and beans, six taters, and a dead chicken, and I'll whip you up a seven course conspiracy theory."

"Wow.  Is this dude for real?" JJ asked, attempting to hide a smile.

"He is," Stockwell said.

"I'd like something in return for my service," Gutz declared.

"What?" JJ asked.

"A pass into Area 51," Gutz whispered, looking around.

"What?"

"A pass into-"

"Shut up.  I heard you the first time.  Is he serious?" JJ asked, looking at Stockwell.

"Absolutely," Stockwell said.  He was thoroughly enjoying this.

"There is no such place," JJ said.

"She drank the Kool-Aid," Gutz whispered.

"I heard that, too," JJ quipped.

"You are a liar," Gutz said, looking under the table.

"What the hell are you doing now?" JJ asked.

"Checking to see if your pants are on fire," Gutz said, matter of fact.

"What?  What is the matter with you?  Are you medicated?  Do you drink?  Are you mentally unstable?"  JJ rambled.

"I am all three.  I take one aspirin a day.  I drink two beers on Friday, three on Saturday and none on Sunday," Gutz explained.

"You live by a three-day calendar?" JJ asked.

"She is a genuine smart ass," Gutz whispered.

"I HEARD THAT!" JJ barked, quickly losing her patience.

"You didn't let me finish!" Gutz complained.

"So finish," JJ said, sounding defeated.  She glared at Stockwell, who look away quickly.

"I am likely mentally unstable by definition, but not because of any modern-day mumbo jumbo, like my mommy didn't hold me.  I have suffered a head injury," Gutz said.  "I took a hit to the helmet during the Invasion of Normandy."

JJ dropped her coffee cup.  The amber liquid spread quickly and dribbled onto the floor.  No one moved.  Gutz included.

"What?" Stockwell whispered.

"War wound," Gutz said, sounding incredibly proud.

"World War II?" Stockwell squeaked.

"Yes," Gutz said.

JJ said nothing.

"That was in 1944," Stockwell said, sounding horrified.

Gutz slid a sugar packet across the table in Stockwell's direction.  "You're correct!" Gutz declared, sounding almost exactly like the beloved Jeopardy host.  "Too bad it wasn't a daily double, I'd have given you two sugars."

"May I see you outside?" JJ said, glaring at Stockwell.  She stood quickly, and although she was barely taller than the booth, she looked imposing.

"I wasn't finished," Gutz said.

JJ sat with a thud.

"Go on," she mumbled.

"I know what you're thinking.  Surely a fella of my obvious youthful prowess wasn't in World War II, and you're right, but I was there.  I am confident I was a soldier, not an American, and when I was killed, I went into a holding pattern, and there I waited until I was reborn as tiny, little Gerald Gutzenheimer."

"That's just super.  That's a hell of a lot better explanation than the suggestion that you were actually IN the Battle of Normandy!" JJ practically shouted.  She stood and took several steps toward the door.

"Stockwell!" JJ hollered.

"Coming," Reeve Stockwell responded glumly.

"I think she likes me," Gutz said, sipping at his coffee.

"Yeah.  She seems thrilled," Stockwell said.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 69 - Glad the Impaler

Kitty Richardson practically threw her arms around Miles Longworth when he walked through the door, but she didn't want to push it.

Miles stood just inside and looked around.

"Who's in charge in this dump?" Miles grumbled, not sounding like his usual self.

"Me," Kitty whispered.

"Seriously?" Miles asked.

"Yeah, and don't say it like that," Kitty replied, sounding offended.

"Like what?"

"Like you can't believe no one died," Kitty mumbled.

"Did they?"

"No," Kitty said.

"Then it's not a bad day."

"Is something wrong, Miles?" Kitty asked.

"Where should I begin?"

"You could begin by looking outside," Kitty said, taking a step back.

Miles did.  Flashing lights could be seen in the distance, and as they grew closer, Miles felt his Moe's burrito spinning around like a carnival ride in his gut.

"Shit," Miles whispered when two cop cars pulled into Tommy's parking lot.

They didn't slow up and Kitty wondered if they were going to crash through the front doors.  "I really hope my grandmother doesn't have anything to do with this," Kitty mumbled.

"For once, I doubt she's involved," Miles said, looking pale.

Both cars stopped just short of the door.  Officer Lowell stepped out of the first car, and Miles began looking for a garbage pail he could toss his cookies into. 

"You okay?" Kitty asked.

"I have a feeling I am not," Miles whispered.

Lowell plowed through the front door, and the chicken shit in Miles wanted to run, but he held his ground.  He was going to the clink.  He accepted it as an absolute truth, like knowing the world was round, and knowing that burritos gave you the runs, and knowing that a bird will fly miles out of its way to crap on a freshly washed automobile.

"Mr. Longworth?" Lowell said, sounding like he meant business.

"Officer," Miles said, praying to the intestinal Gods.

"I'd like you to come with me," the officer said.

"Oh, crap," Kitty whispered.

"Why?" Miles asked.

"I wasn't done with you," Lowell said.

"I came forward voluntarily," Miles said, and Kitty arched a brow.  This was getting interesting.

"I didn't give you permission to leave," Lowell barked.

"Are you going to arrest me for leaving?" Miles asked.

"I could."

"You could not.  That isn't a crime.  It's not like I left the scene of an accident."

"Didn't you?" Lowell asked.

"No," Miles mumbled.

This was going somewhere, and Miles had a feeling it was nowhere good.

"You left your notepad.  It was blank," Lowell said.

"I didn't mean to," Longworth said.

"So you left it by accident?" Lowell asked.

"I did."

"So, you left the scene of an accident," Lowell said.

"That is asinine," Longworth complained. "You're going to arrest me for leaving my notepad?"

"I am asking you to come back to the station of your own free will," Lowell said.

"And if I don't?"

"This is going to get ugly," Lowell advised.

"Kitty, you're in charge.  Clearly I have to go," Miles said, sullenly.

"No," Kitty whined.

"You'll be fine.  You are a competent woman.  I know you can handle this," Miles assured.

"Are you coming back?" Kitty whined.

"I have a feeling I am not.  At least not tonight.  I'm sure this officer has some unsolved murder he can charge me with," Miles said.

"I heard that," Lowell quipped from near the door.

Lowell held the door for Miles Longworth, despite the fact that it was an automatic door.  Longworth followed.  He looked back, and his eyes met Kitty's.  He looked like he might cry.  "Behave, kiddo," he whispered.

And then he was gone.

"Shit," Kitty whispered.

At first she'd been intrigued, but suddenly she was frightened.  The Tommy compound was mammoth and there was no telling what might go wrong on her watch.  She dialed Stockwell's cell phone.  He answered on the first ring.

"JJ?" Stockwell said.

"Why would you think I was JJ?" Kitty asked.

"Sorry.  Wrong number," Stockwell said.  And he hung up.

Kitty immediately redialed.  Stockwell answered.

"Why would you think I was JJ?" Kitty asked.

"That's what it says on my phone when the store calls," Stockwell said.

"Why?" Kitty asked.

"Because JJ used to call me all the time," Stockwell said.  "She was almost the only person who called me, so it was just natural for me to label it JJ."

Kitty totally bought it, but she wasn't entirely satisfied.

"Why would she call you?" Kitty asked.

"Because you guys missed her break, or sent her to lunch late, or asked her to sweep.  Dear God, why wouldn't she call me?" Stockwell asked.

"Oh, right," Kitty mumbled.

"Why did you call me?" Stockwell asked.

"I am pretty sure Miles just got arrested," Kitty explained.

"Seriously?" Stockwell asked.

"Yes.  You need to come back," Kitty begged.

"I am an hour away."  This time, Stockwell was being truthful.  He was waiting for JJ at the same restaurant they'd had dinner at the night she'd asked Stockwell to be her CI.  Gutz was inside, probably talking to the waitress about a salt and pepper shaker conspiracy.  He had to get back inside.

"Kitty.  I can't make it back much before closing.  You'll be fine.  It's only a couple of hours.  I have to go, but I have faith in you.  I'm sure everything will be fine."

Stockwell hung up.  He couldn't have imagined how wrong he'd been.


****************

Bernice Lord was skulking about the receiving area when Kitty paged her.  She sulked and picked up the nearest phone.

"Hey, Kitty," Bernice said.

"I need some help up front with closing duties, Bernice," Kitty said.

"Okay, can I bring Penelope?"

"From where would you be bringing her?" Kitty asked.  It wasn't uncommon for Bernice and Penelope to wander off.

"From wherever she is, I suppose," Bernice said.

"Bernice.  You couldn't be more elusive if you tried," Kitty declared.

"Thanks," Bernice said, hanging up.

Three minutes later Bernice and Penelope arrived on the front end.

"Where were you, Penelope?" Kitty asked.

"In the toilets," Penelope responded.

"Oh?  Are you ill?" Kitty asked.

"No.  I was selling this old fart a toilet," Penelope said.  "He said his wife had too much wine and stepped on the lid of the toilet to get some aspirin from the shelving unit above the toilet.  Turns out the lid was up.  Her foot got stuck in the bowl in he had to use a shovel to break the toilet and free her."

"That sounds like a noble guy," Kitty said, wishing she could find one for herself.

"Not so much.  He looks at me dead serious and says, "'I should have hit that old bat with the shovel years ago when I had the chance.  I wouldn't have to buy the toilet, and I could throw all those ugly Hummels away.'  You should be glad you're single, Kitty," Penelope said.

"Yeah.  It's a blast," Kitty said.  "Okay, speaking of plumbing, I need you guys to take those long gray pipes back to plumbing.  Guy didn't want them."

"We have to put plumbing stuff away?" Bernice whined.  "Plumbing sucks."

"Yes, but I can sweeten the deal.  Two of the electric carts have to be serviced tomorrow.  If you behave and take the plumbing stuff back, you may each ride a cart back to receiving."

"Deal!" Bernice said.

The two girls left, and took the plumbing parts back.  Along the way, they hatched a diabolical plan.  They were both grinning widely when they returned for the carts.

"What are you up to?" Kitty asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Bernice assured.

"Keep it that way," Kitty demanded.

Bernice and Penelope headed deep into the store, and when they were out of sight of the front end, both stopped.  "Get them," Bernice said.

Penelope did.

"Let the jousting begin!" Bernice said delightedly.

Each girl picked up a long gray pipe, at least twelve feet long.

"You know how, right?" Bernice said.

Penelope nodded.

"Okay, the first one to fall off the cart is out.  The other one wins!" Bernice declared.

"Falling off sounds painful," Penelope said, frowning.

"You should be more worried about being impaled.  I could be Vlad the Impaler."

"Who?" Penelope asked.

"Vlad the Impaler.  He used to impale people and hang 'em on sticks," Bernice explained, giving a less than historical account of Vlad's barbaric deeds.

"Jeez.  Why?  This Glad guy sounds horrible."

"He wasn't Glad!" Bernice said.

"I wouldn't think so," Penelope said.  "He must have felt bad afterward."

"Nevermind," Bernice said.  "You ready?" Bernice asked.

"I think this is a bad idea," Penelope said.

"Nonsense.  On your mark.....," Bernice said, not waiting.  She began to approach Penelope, pipe held like a jousting stick. 

Penelope, feeling cowardly, drove her cart forward, pipe held high, with her eyes closed.  She felt the pipe hit her cart, and hung a sharp left.

CRASH!

The sound of seven-hundred PVC pipes falling could be heard almost half a mile away.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 68 - The Dynamic Duo

"Before the crumbs even had a chance to settle on the plates of Stockwell and Gutz, word of Stockwell's involvement with the FBI had already traveled to the back room of Bitsy's.  Toothless Louise sat doing the New York Times crossword puzzle, and listening to the monitor on the desk beside her. 

Gutz wasn't the only conspiracy theorist on the premises, and Toothless Louise couldn't remember when she'd first thought of bugging the tables.  She'd heard some weird shit since she had, normally little more than clandestine meetings between lovers, and once, a conversation between a police officer, and an old fellow who thought his neighbor was messing around with his sheep. 

She'd never regretted placing the bugs, and she certainly didn't regret it now.  She was on the phone with Hannah Bandana, faster than you could say boo.  Hannah answered on the first ring, and Toothless was quick.  She hung up and smiled.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Kitty was perched by the front door on the lookout for a grandmother in a prom dress.  When none appeared, and Miles Longworth was seen sauntering toward the front door, Kitty breathed an enormous sigh of relief.  She'd been left in charge and nothing had gone wrong.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

Daisy Cates passed by on her way to answer the bell next to the drill bits. 

"Hope it isn't some crazy mother looking to do a lobotomy again," Daisy mumbled.

"Did that really happen?" Kitty asked.

"Twice.  This place is an insane asylum," Daisy declared.

"Good luck," Kitty said.

Daisy moseyed onward, toward the shriek of the bell.  No one was there.

"Dammit," Daisy mumbled.

"Down here," a voice whispered.

"What?"

"Daisy.  Look down," the voice insisted.

Hannah Bandana was crouched on the floor, between two tool boxes.

"What the hell are you doing on the floor?" Daisy asked.

"I had to see you," Hannah whispered.

"You couldn't just come in the door like a normal person?" Daisy asked.

"Not this time," Hannah said, trying to stand.  She unfolded herself like an aging, somewhat arthritic pretzel.  Finally she achieved success, and stood beside Daisy.  She panted for a moment, then recovered.  "Toothless called, had some information for me.  I might have mentioned that I was teaming up with you to solve a mystery here."

"You told Toothless this?" Daisy said, cringing.

"Yeah," Hannah said, not quite meeting her friend's eyes.

"She will tell everyone.  Are you stupid?" Daisy asked.

"I may have been at that moment.  It might be from years of wearing this bandana so damn tight.  Do you think maybe it's affected how my brain cells move?  Do brain cells need sun, because I wear this bandana almost every damn day."

"I was really just busting you.  I don't think you're stupid," Daisy said defensively.

"No?  I've done some really stupid things, and it started quite a while ago.  Do you remember that one Halloween when I dressed up like Princess Leia and I wore those Little Debbie Honeybuns in my hair?"

"That was great," Daisy said, smiling nostalgically.

"Until we got to the party, realized it was outside, and my head began attracting every insect this side of the Mississippi," Hannah recounted.

"Did you come here for a trip down memory lane?" Daisy asked.

"No," Hannah admitted.

"Then what?" Daisy asked.

"I heard something about Stockwell," Hannah whispered, so softly Daisy couldn't hear her.

"You need to speak at a level that humans can hear," Daisy said.

"Sorry," Hannah said.  She repeated herself, and Daisy's ears perked.

"Follow me," Daisy said. 

She led Hannah deep into the store, into the break room.  Two young associates sat at a single table, munching Doritos like they were in a Frito Lay All You Can Eat contest.  "You two.  Out!" Daisy commanded.  Both left without question.

Daisy crossed the room and pressed every button on the Wheel of Death.  Food started spinning like miniature carnival rides.  The noise was deafening.

She returned to the table, and sat down hard.  "Sit," she commanded.  Hannah did as told.  "Spill it!"

"I cannot hear myself think," Hannah whined.

"That's the point.  Talk!" Daisy ordered.

"Area 51 is real!" Hannah barked, and Daisy sat up straighter.

"It is?"

"Yes," Hannah said.  "Toothless heard Stockwell making a deal with some Gutz fellow, some conspiracy theorist who wants to see Area 51.  Guy took the deal, so Area 51 must be real.  He didn't say anything about aliens, but what else could be there?  I don't think there's all that propaganda hidin' a WalMart.  Do you?"

Daisy arched a brow.  "You said Stockwell made a deal with this guy."

"I did."

"Do you care to tell me what Stockwell had to offer?  I mean, come on, Hannah, this Gutz fella, and I know this guy, he thinks everybody's in cahoots with everybody else, so I cannot imagine why Stockwell would want to wheel and deal with him.  This Gutz fella is out there, and I mean, I grade on a curve, so he's really out there.  He doesn't see six degrees of separation between any one thing and Kevin Bacon, but I bet he could connect any one thing to Kevin Bacon with six different conspiracies."

"Wow," Hannah said, then frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"There was a question in there.  I can't remember what it was," Hannah admitted.

"Sheesh.  What was Stockwell offering?" Daisy asked.

"A partnership, and a connection."

"A connection to what?" Daisy asked.

"CBS," Hannah said.

"CBS?  The network?" Daisy said.  "Stockwell has a connection to CBS?"

"That doesn't sound right," Hannah said, scratching her head.  "It was three letters."

"You forgot?"

"I may have," Hannah admitted.  "I'm telling you.  I'm losing brain cells to these tight bandanas."

"I don't think that's it," Daisy said, "but you tell yourself whatever makes you happy."

Hannah went silent, and Daisy watched as someone turned on the lights in her gray matter.

"FBI," Hannah whispered.

"What?"  Daisy mouthed the word.

"I knew it was three letters," Hannah said.

"Stockwell is in the FBI?" Daisy said.

"I think so.  He's a conditional informer."

"Confidential informant," Daisy said.

"Yes.  That," Hannah agreed.

"This is amazing information," Daisy said.  "Hannah, do you know what this means?"

"I should see a neurologist about my brain?"

"No.  You should see an RV dealer.  Reeve Stockwell just became my new best friend, and our duo just became a trio.  Call Toothless and let her know what's cooking.  We need a third man."

"She's a woman," Hannah said.

"I know.  I might be time to get an MRI," Daisy recommended.

"Three letters," Hannah said through a sigh.

Tommy's Tool Town - Chapter 67 - In Cahoots with Gutz

Miles Longworth had a pain in the butt - a real one -  the kind that comes from sitting in the lobby of the police station for hours.

He was starving.

He hadn't eaten in hours.

Even the phone book was starting to look appetizing.

His stomach growled.

He checked his watch.

6:30.

He still held the notepad on which he was supposed to have noted the money trail.  The page was empty.  Miles had no idea what to write.  He wasn't a writer, he was a retail manager, and lately not a very good one, although it was hard to tell a good one from one not so good.  It was retail, after all.

He opened his cell phone and dialed Officer Lowell.  His call went to voice mail.  On the list of Lowell's priorities, Miles had to figure he ranked pretty low.  Lowell's voice mail invited him to leave a message.

He burped into the phone and promptly hung up.

Sometimes it was miserable to be a human, and sometimes it wasn't so bad.  The burp-on-demand feature made the other nonsense almost tolerable.

Almost.

Miles looked to his left, then to his right.  He saw no one.

Two minutes later he walked out.

****************

Reeve Stockwell made what he hoped wouldn't be a life-changing decision.

He left Kitty Richardson in charge.

He had to.

Longworth had called to say he needed a burrito or he was going to die, and he'd be back to the store by 7:15, but Stockwell couldn't wait.

He needed to get to Bitsy's by 7:00 to meet Gerald Gutzenheimer, his conspiracy theorist of choice.  Kitty looked shocked.

"I'm in charge?" she'd asked, her eyes as huge as saucers.

"Yes," Reeve Stockwell said, as the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

"I'm supposed to leave at 7:00," Kitty said.

"Miles will be here by a quarter past," Stockwell replied.

"That's fifteen minutes late," Kitty whined.  "I'm on dinner duty tonight."

"Meaning?" Stockwell asked.

"I have to feed two crazy old ladies by midnight or bad things will happen," Kitty whispered.

"Like what?"

"Did you ever see the movie Gremlins?" Kitty asked.

"Sure," Stockwell said.

"Like that," Kitty mumbled.

"Jeez."

"I'm afraid they'll come to the store," Kitty said.

"Seriously?" Stockwell retorted.  "This is not good."

"I know."

"If your grandmother comes here, shut off the lights and lock the doors."

"Really?" Kitty asked.

"I cannot have that woman in here tearing the place apart while I'm not here."

"What about the other customers?"

"Make an announcement," Stockwell suggested.

"Like what?"

"Just say those crazy things from the movie Gremlins are outside the door.  Customers will understand."

"Of course.  Of course they'll understand," Kitty said, arching a brow.  "Have you been drinking?"

"Not yet.  Do you have your list?"

"I do," Kitty said.

"And you're clear?"

"Crystal," Kitty said.  "If anything happens involving a customer, call you.  If anything happens regarding the police, call Slick Mitchell.  If anything arrives to check in, pretend you don't see the truck.  If anything happens involving horses, call Miles.  If my grandmother shows up, lock the doors, shut off the lights, and announce that horses are outside the door."

"No.  Gremlins," Stockwell said.

"Right."

"Horses are Miles' department," Stockwell reminded.

"This list is asinine," Kitty said.

"I know," Stockwell said.  "Just bear with me.  Nothing will happen.  Miles will be here shortly."

Stockwell stood up from his desk, and left his office.  He made a sign of the cross and exited the store.  His beater miraculously started on the fifth try, and he made it to Bitsy's by 7:02.

Gutz was already there.

"You're late," Gutz said.  He was holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon.  He looked pissed.

"Two minutes," Stockwell said, sitting down, and sticking to the booth.  He preferred not to know what he was sitting in.  He'd just deal with his pants later.  Maybe he could score another pair of waders.

"Time's a conspiracy.  Probably those Timex folks came up with it," Gutz said.

"Seriously?" Stockwell asked.  He motioned to a waitress who wasn't Toothless Louise, but was likely on the same dental plan.  He figured the biscuits must be free, and the staff must dine on them religiously.  They were like a rock, and Stockwell had nearly lost a crown to one, a few years back.

Stockwell placed his order.

Gutz was still looking at his watch.

"Rolex," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Maybe it was Rolex.  Those things cost a fortune."

"Come on, Gutz.  You really think that Rolex came up with the theory of time to sell a lot of expensive watches?"

"Could be," Gutz said.

"I don't think so," Stockwell said.  His beer arrived and he poured it into a glass.

"What's wrong with the can?" Gutz asked.

"Rat shit."

"Conspiracy."

"Again?" Stockwell said, as beer dribbled down his chin.

"The rat crap thing is just a ploy to sell glasses," Gutz said.

"I don't think so," Stockwell repeated.  "Didn't you own glasses before all those emails started circulating.

"Sure.  My wife and I got a couple of fine sets back when we got married."

"Then it's debunked," Stockwell said.

"I'm not sure I like where this is going," Gutz said, taking another long pull on his Pabst can.

"Can we start again?" Stockwell asked.

"All right."

"Hey, Gutz.  Nice to see you.  Thanks for joining me," Stockwell said.

"You're late."

"I'm sorry.  I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh?" Gutz said, sounding interested.

"How would you like that money?  How would you like a years' salary just sitting in your bank account?"

"I'd like that a lot.  I'd like to do some research on chem trails, and planes are expensive," Gutz said.

"I have no idea what you're talking about and I'm okay with that."

"Chem trails are chemicals introduced into the atmosphere......"

The food arrived, and Gutz shoved a French fry into his mouth.  Stockwell started wishing it was a bottomless order.  It might be the only way he'd get a word in edgewise.

"I want to partner with you," Stockwell said, when he was certain Gutz's mouth was full of potato.

Gutz arched a brow and chewed furiously.

"I need your absolute discretion.  And I need an answer before I tell you why I want to partner with you," Stockwell said.

"That sounds like a load of crap," Gutz said.

"I know."

"But I'm okay with it," Gutz said.

"You are?" Stockwell said.

"You fascinate me," Gutz mumbled through a bite of a burger.

"Oh?"

Gutz swallowed.  "You are an absolute knucklehead on the fast track to success.  I smell a conspiracy in there somewhere."

"I don't know what to say."

"Tell me why you want me to partner with you, and I am especially interested in why you need my discretion."

"I am a Confidential Informant with the FBI," Stockwell said softly.

Gutz laughed like a maniac.  Stockwell wasn't sure he had ever heard the man laugh.

"It's true.  I need to take someone into my confidence.  I'd like that person to be you," Stockwell said.

"You got an in with the FBI?" Gutz asked.

"I do.  You remember JJ?"

"The woman who was murdered and stuffed in that refrigerator?" Gutz asked.

"There was nothing in that fridge, Gutz.  You were there," Stockwell reminded him.

"There was nothing in it when you got there.  Thing probably had a false back," Gutz surmised.

"The thing was sixty years old.  It barely had a front," Stockwell quipped.

"Whatever."

"So JJ is an FBI agent," Stockwell said.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," Gutz said.

"She was deep under cover," Stockwell said defensively.

"What was her previous assignment?  Did it have something to do with the undead?"

"That's rude, Gutz."

"Is not.  You met her."

"All right.  So, you in?"

"I'm in," Gutz said, stuffing a fry into his mouth.  "On one condition."

"Okay."

"You get me into Area 51 when this is all resolved."

"Seriously?"

"Yes!"

"I'll see what I can do.  I'll mention it to JJ."

"Best not.  She might be one of those aliens," Gutz said, draining the last of his Pabst.