Kicking Over Rocks

[Fractured]

"This place is disgraceful!" Frank tries to yell and whisper at the same time. "Lookit that bear, that's obviously communist. And the eye, the dead Mexican woman with ten rings?" Reminded Frank of Revelations stuff, the dragon with ten heads or whatever the Saint saw when he ate all those holy mushrooms. "C'mon, let's just find the goddam vehicle office," he says. The old detective is tense; he can't shake the feeling that, like all those ancient pharoahs, he's come to stay. Frank concentrates on the three B's that have always seen him through: his Breathing, His Badge, and His Beretta.

1 sux Occult roll

2011-01-06 22:35:10 rizzo rolls 4 to int3+occ1 (10 Again) 6, 10, 3, 2, 3 1 success

[Jmiland1]

Looks are cast Frank's way from some who catch his declaration, and there's a near-imperceptible shuffle as the bureaucrats re-order themselves to not be too close to him. You never know: dementia could be catching.

Both men try to make some sense of what they're seeing here, but they can't. It all just seems too... big.

"Help you, gentlemen?" a receptionist asks. There's a smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes; it's a purely perfunctory, I-don't-get-paid-enough-to-really-care smile. The kind all government service employees are given their first day on the job.

[Fractured]

Frank walks a little taller as the other rats scurry away from him. When they reach the token, glassy-eyed clerk, Rizzo removes the Badge from his jacket pocket and drops it on the desk. It lands with a heavy thump. When the receptionist looks back up at Frank, he's leaning in uncomfortably close. "Sorry about that, sir," he says, picking the badge back up and putting it into his pocket slowly. "I can be so clumsy sometimes. Let me get a good look at you, these old eyes..." he mumbles feebly. "Agents Rizzo and Simmons, DHS. We need a look at your sedan sign-out logs. You can do that, right? We've got a plate. What's the plate, Agent Simmons?" Frank says, grinning, not backing off an inch. Too bad for the clerk that Rizzo looooooves onions. And garlic. And paprika...

[GB82]

"We're looking for information on one of your Pontiacs, plate number is 4RNN731, just tell us who to talk to, keep quiet about it and don't have to bug you about it anymore. I'm sure that you have better things to do with your day than to deal with the results of a few too many Garlic bagels." Tim just smiles as he finishes, wondering if the guy would try to mess around with the two federal agents.

[Jmiland1]

The man leans back, clearly uncomfortable with the overly-close Rizzo--and the odor doesn't even seem to factor in to it. "Uh, gentlemen, I'd be glad to help, but that's not really anything I can do for you, here. You need to visit Fleet Administration. Elevators are that way," he adds, pointing to a nearby bank. "Sub-basement 3, just follow the signs."

[Fractured]

Frank stops short of rolling his eyes, of course we're in the wrong place, an' we'll probably need to come back up here for the right forms when we get down there. He figures they might be in and out quicker if they can recruit this desk jockey to escort them. Too bad Warren was back at the office. "This place is a maze," he says, befuddled, "and we really want to be on our way as soon as we can. We'd really appreciate your assistance showing us to where we need to go, Mister..." Frank looks about the desk for a nameplate to finish his official request.

[GB82]

Tim folds his arms and gives the poor clerk a look that promises more torments from the crazy old man, unless of course said crazy old man got what he wanted. Not that pushing around some simple civil servant gave him any pleasure, Frank was his partner and if the old man wanted to rattle some cages Tim was willing to play his role in the play.

[Jmiland1]

Chet R.--so his lanyard names him, no last name given--smiles the way a preschool teacher might called "Mommy" by a toddler: oh, isn't that cute, the poor dear is confused. "I'm sorry, sir," he says, and points again to the elevators. "I can't leave my work station, but if you just take the elevator down to sub-basement 3, there will be signs that clearly direct you to our Department of Fleet Management.

"And you'll need these," he adds, sliding over two Guest Passes he's removed from a drawer.

[Fractured]

Rizzo's expression turns sharp and sour at the rejection, as though the old man had a fresh bite of lemon. "Right, we'll take what we can get, Chet. C'mon, Simmons," he says, handing one of the guest passes to his partner, then securing the other around his own neck. "Sub-basement 3, Fleet Management. Let's go," he says, starting toward the elevator.

[GB82]

Tim walks silently to the elevator, pushes the button and waits until they are alone inside it to speak. "Sub-basement 3? If that guy sent us to a a broom closet I'm going to sic the IRS on his ass" is all he really has to say when he pushes the button to the third circle of the State of California's version of hell.