Fandom Island and Town

The office of Sam and Max, Freelance Police, was empty. Completely empty.

A tumbleweed rolled across the floor.

Crickets chirped.

Yup, empty.

Then the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet slid open and Max climbed out. "So, what do you think, Sam?" he asked as he hit the stop button on the tape recorder that was playing cricket sounds. "It really does make it look like we haven't been in the office in ages, hasn't it?"

In an aside, he turned and faced where the camera would be if there were one and added in a stage whisper, "which is, OF COURSE, in NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM what's actually happened."

"It's a remarkably convincing imitation, Little Buddy," Sam agreed, as he climbed out from under the desk and straightened his hat.

"I mean, if we hadn't actually been in the office in ages," Max continued, "Leonard would have starved to death, and that obviously hasn't... hold on." Max opened the closet door and made sure the bound and gagged criminal on the shelf in there was still in reasonably decent health. "And that obviously hasn't happened. So, really, that's that."

Mr. Spatula, the fish who lived in their water cooler (and was currently Vice President of the United States), swum in evil little circles, and blew evil little bubbles in agreement.

"Oooh! Oooh! Watch this! I can make it do a wheelie!" Max pulled out a remote and spent the next hour playing with his new remote-controlled tumbleweed.


The big plate-glass window still had their logo on it, followed by the line

Our Rates Are Better!

And they'd finally processed the fact that Reno had left enough to stick up a new sign that said

NOW HIRING
Employees Must Furnish Own Gun

Max peered out the window at all the ruckus down below. Or was it a fracas? At any rate, it involved large, scaly reptiles parading through the streets.

"Hey, Sam?" he called. "C'mere a sec and take a look at this! These saps have been tanning on the beach so long that their skin has become all rough and lizard-like!"

Max was amusing himself by tossing a rubber ball at the severed hand of Jesse James, which was mounted above their closet door. One of these times, it would land just right and it would look like the hand had caught it. That would be pretty funny.

And if it DIDN'T happen, he had a gun to threaten the hand with.

"You know what I don't get, Sam?" he asked. "Kumquats. Are they, like, some kind of vegetable?"


[Flying OCD-free today. For Sam, to begin with, and then for the shambling undead.]

"Sam!" Max announced imperiously. "I have devised a foolproof plan for taking over the world!" No, he didn't ask if Sam wanted to hear. He was considerate like that.

"I direct your attention to the whiteboard!" he continued, gesturing. No, it wasn't a whiteboard. It was, in fact, the back wall of the office, which was now covered with all kinds of completely incomprehensible diagrams and doodles, some of which involved knives and lots of blood. "SO! I'm already President of the United States, so that's, like, halfway there already, right? So here's where the devious part comes in: In the park, there is a white squirrel which possesses the power to transform skateboards into fish. Step ONE is to capture that squirrel, by any means necessary!"

He grinned and tapped part of the wall which appeared to show an exploding birthday cake. "Step TWO: through the cunning use of torture, hypnosis, and random violence (not related to the torture), I break the squirrel's will and warp its shattered psyche to follow my every command."

He rubbed his hands together evilly and tapped another section of the wall. "Step THREE: At the opening ceremonies of the 2010 Olympic Games in Vancouver, I use the awesome and mighty power of the squirrel to turn all of the world leaders in attendance into FISH! And then step FOUR: I pull my giant battle robots out of the Dakotas and INVADE POLAND!"

Grinning sweetly, Max tapped a smiley face in the corner of the wall. "And step FIVE: Profit!" He bowed. "Thank you! Thank you very much!"


The Freelance Police were... open for business?

"OOOH! Snow! SNOW!!!"

A chance glance out the window distracted Max from the television, where some guy with funny ears was trying to steal HIS job. Usurper forgotten, and squealing with childlike glee, he threw open the window to welcome the winter weather.

"Hold my ankles, Sam! HOLD MY ANKLES!!!" Without waiting to see if Sam would or not, he leaned dangerously far out the window, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

There were creepy little snowmen all over the office, which posed all SORTS of unanswered questions.

Where had they come from? What were they doing there? Why weren't they melting? Why did those teensy little scarves make them look so darn CUTE???

Really, though, their presence in Freelance Police Headquarters could mean only one thing:

"TARGET PRACTICE!!!"


The big plate-glass window still had their logo on it, followed by the line

Our Rates Are Better!

And there was still another sign in the window, one that read

NOW HIRING
Employees Must Furnish Own Gun

Max lay on the floor all morning reading the latest edition of Max Impeachment Weekly. It was worth it just for the laughs. Or girlish giggles. There were plenty of both, really. Occasionally he'd stop and add the name of a journalist or Senator to his list of people to have executed for treason. They were his favorites.


The big plate-glass window still had their logo on it, followed by the line

Our Rates Are Better!

And there was still another sign in the window, one that read

NOW HIRING
Employees Must Furnish Own Gun

The Freelance Police were on the case!