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"Bond. James Bond." With that, the secret agent offered his hand to first Hannibal, who shook it, and then to Mr. T.
"T. Mr. T." Bond grimaced slightly under Mr. T’s iron grip, but quickly replaced it with a smile as he glanced around, clearly expecting admiring fans to be watching him. "Yo’ theme ain’t no good, suckah. Should be de A-Team theme!"
Smiling personably, and putting on an ancient Aztec headdress, Hannibal proceeded to explain the nature of the heinous crime. "This isn’t the work of your average pyro!" he concluded. "This person clearly plans to do no less than destroy every fridge on Earth!"
"With’out dem fridges, people can’t keep no milk cold!" Mr. T exclaimed, bordering on fury.
"That’s right." Hannibal agreed.
"Do we have any clues?" Bond asked, adjusting his tuxedo. "Perhaps I should check the house for a secret message that may have accidentally dropped from the trespasser’s pocket."
Hannibal nodded. "Yes, I found several things at the scene of the crime, that should be able to help you both on your detective work, identifying this dangerous and deadly criminal. One: several dozen used matches," Hannibal held up a cup full of spent matches. "I found these in various places on the floor, most around the burnt fridge. Two: a skateboard, broken in half, and a bunny hug, never once been washed, both covered with the word "Skids". And finally, the most important clue. Three:," he held up a piece of paper with some poorly written words on it, "a note, apparently from the perpetrator of this crime. It reads simply, yet oh-so cryptically, ‘Yo Man! I didn’t set your fridge on fire!’. And that’s all the clues, gentlemen. I have no idea what they mean. It seems like some sort of sinister puzzle."
Both the other two were silent for a moment, before Mr. T asked, "So what’s yer plan, Hannibal?"
Smiling once more, he replied, "Why, my plan is that you two will go and solve this crime while I stay here and…uhh.. oversee the operation from our command center."
"I need to go to Russia." James exclaimed abruptly. Ignoring the strange looks the other two gave him, he smiled charmingly and specified, "To be more concise, I need to go to the Kremlin." Noticing once more, the strange looks still being thrown his way, Bond conservatively decided to elaborate even more. "Trust me, the Russians are behind this. I can tell; this is clearly one of their plots take over the world. Hannibal, I’ll need you to fund my purchase of the next plane ticket to Moscow, Russia!" Bond quickly turned, in order to face where a camera would normally be, were this a film.
Hannibal looked dubious, reluctant. "I don't think that's a good idea, Bond. Somehow, I think the criminal may still be nearby. It's up to you though, but don't expect me to finance it." Relieved that he had managed to come up with a plausible excuse, rather than the fact that he was just cheap, Hannibal started blowing on an ancient Incan carving, creating an irritating sound.
Bond looked upset. "The secret service's budget has been cut again, hasn't it?"
"Shut up, ya crazy foo'. You ain't goin' to no Russia. You comin' with me to da milk bar, to search fer clues!"
Suddenly, Bond swung around and pointed at a pedestrian walking down the street. "It's a spy! They've been tracing us all along!" Without giving any more explanation as to who 'they' were, James rushed off to his super sleek car and pulled off with a screech.
"Dis could take a while, Hannibal. That crazy suckah service agent is going da wrong way.." T headed for his van.
An unspecified amount of time later, the two agents had regrouped, and made fast treads to the milk bar. Bond had wanted to go to a casino instead, so he could win some money, but T had won him over with his patented, "Don't make me throw yo' ass!" strategy. After having changed into street clothes, the two intrepidly entered the milk bar.
Bond veered away from Mr. T as soon as they were inside Jeff's Milk bar, and strutted towards a table of young women. Mr. T, meanwhile, went up to get a nice cold milk.
"Give me a milk, and it better be white!" Jeff, the rather generic bartender, nodded sullenly. However, when Mr. T turned to talk to one of the homeys, he suddenly shouted, "This guy's ordering MILK! Whadda wimp!"
All other conversation in the bar ceased, except for Bond, who was flirting shamelessly with the girls. All eyes (almost) were planted on Mr. T. Nearby, a rapper began to ominously warm up his voice. After a moment, though, the tension was dispelled when everybody remembered that this was a MILK bar. Turning back to their conversations, and blessedly, the rapper stopped singing.
As Mr. T sipped his ice cold milk, he leaned over towards Jeff and asked, "So, ya heard anything about Hannibal's fridge?"
"Yeah," replied Jeff, "but it'll cost ya a pretty penny to find out what."
Mr. T was about to slip the greedy bartender a patented 'punch o'-pennies' when suddenly Bond sidled beside him, followed by every woman in the bar (admittedly few for Bond's standards). "Does he want a bribe?" James asked T, trying to sound smooth, and succeeding. "Don't worry! Just leave this to me. I have a lot of experience with this sort of thing." With that, Bond leaned forward and slipped Jeff three hundred dollars. Even as the generic bartender practically died from shock at the outrageously high bribe, Bond whispered, "Remember: You never saw us."
Jeff nodded dumbly, before realising that he had no idea what the secret agent was talking about. "Whaddya mean I never saw you? I see you right now! And how can I tell you about Hannibal’s fridge if I never saw you?"
Bond looked annoyed, before saying, "There are many internationally hired assassins after us, Mr. Jeff. We are… dangerous men." The women hanging off Bond seemed impressed by this speech, but Jeff just looked confused.
"Quit yer jibba-jabba and tell us ‘bout Hannibal’s fridge!" Mr. T said quietly. "What have ye heard on the street?"
"Well," said Jeff, pouring Mr. T another glass of milk, "I’ve heard that he had a nice fridge. It had four separate compartments, a built-in freezer, drink rack and an interior temperature of around 10 degrees. I also hear that it was a Maytag." Nodding sagely, as if he had just imparted some vastly important information to the protagonists, Jeff leaned back and waited for the buckets of complements that would doubtless arrive from his knowledge. However, the reception to his information was totally different.
First of all, Bond nodded and smiled with all his white teeth, apparently pleased with the fruit of his bribery. "It’s all a code," he concluded, "and one I can easily decipher back at Q’s lab."
"Q what? Listen foo’," Mr. T grabbed Jeff by the collar, easily hoisting him off the ground, "you’d better give me some good information, or I’ll trow you helluva far!" Jeff turned white at the threat, and upon being released by T, he blubbered, "Alright… I’ll tell you. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I’ve heard rumours that someone was seen stumbling out of Hannibal’s garage a few hours after the fridge fire. They say he was a skid."
Bond nodded, again satisfied. "It’s all a trap! Clearly this Jeff is a weak-willed plant! C’mon girls, let’s go to a hotel room to piece this all together." The agent winked. "But first, I need a drink. Jeff, get me a martini, shaken not stirred. In a chilled glass, not frozen. I want one of those cute little olives on a tiny sword, and one of those little umbrellas, complete with a curly straw."
Jeff sat there dumbfounded, and even Mr. T looked stunned by Bond’s outrageous tastes. Finally, Jeff yelled, "This guy wants a MARTINI in a MILK bar! Whadda wimp! Let’s get him!"
At this, the entire bar broke into chaos, as everyone and their bankers started attacking each other. Bond smiled suavely at the ladies, stepped into the center of the room and began assuming various martial arts poses at high speeds. "Did I mention that I am an expert at intimidating martial arts poses?"
Even as a bunch of rappers started singing in agent 007’s general direction, Mr. T spun around really fast, and he proceeded to smash the rappers before their deadly hip-hop could begin. (That Mr. T is helluva tough.)
As chaos wound its way through the milk bar, 007 evaded his action and tried to drag all the females in the bar out to his spiffy sportscar for a highspeed get away. However, they had already joined the fight,so he and T had to escape on their own.
Once outside the milk bar, the two secret agents regrouped. "Quick!" said Bond, "To the local high class restaurant! It’s obviously time for a dinner scene, wherein the evil agents will try to poison our food. But don’t worry! I’m onto them!"
Reaching down to the ground, Mr. T picked up a snake, and said, "Just shut up and eat the snake, foo’. We got work to do. This ain’t no time for dinner. ‘Sides, if you’d eaten a badass breakfast, you wouldn’t be hungry like now. I ain’t hungry, cause I ate helluva good Mr. Teos."
Growing impatient, Bond says, "My good man, I would like to go change back into my tuxedo now, if you don’t mind. I just don’t feel like an agent without it. I have a reputation to uphold you know."
"I pity the secret agent that don’t wear no tuxedo." Said T. As if on cue, the two rushed to their separate vehicles and headed to local gas stations, where they could change in the bathrooms.
Ten minutes later, the two emerge inside the local ‘Mr. Lube’ gas station. They were both once more resplendent in their tuxedos. Of course, they also were attracting a lot of stares, the likes of which Bond did not seem to mind. "Now can we go to the casino? I’m sure there’s a clue there."
"No, foo’. Jeff said that the culprit of da crime was a skid. Skids often hang out in malls, so maybe we can find him there. Those crazy suckahs should be off da streets and in da youth centers." With that, Mr. T leaped into his 1982 GMC custom van, whilst Bond got in his flashier sports car.
"Ho ho. Look at that pile of junk. Your van must be..what? 5 years old? Pathetic. I’ll be waiting for you at the mall, after having gotten a particularly good haircut." With that, 007 revved his engine and drove off.
"Hey, foo’, don’t interrupt me when I’m drivin’!" shouted Mr. T. Disgruntled, the newly-named secret agent 00T drove off in the opposite direction from Bond, intent on reaching the mall before his competition all the same. "Who needs no suckah service…"
As Bond cruised along, almost cutting off any women he saw driving in an effort to make them notice he sleek car, he suddenly caught sight of a yellow pinto behind him that seemed to be trailing him. "Time for some fancy moves… James murmured, looking around for more women to impress. With that in mind, James quickly switched lanes, cutting off a big pick-up truck. The pinto dropped out of sight, and 007 let out a sigh of relief. That is, until he heard a loud shout from behind him.
"Hey! You jack-ass! You cut me off! Now get out of my way, cause Stone Cold said so!" Glancing back, Bond’s dark suspicions were confirmed. Leaning out the side window of the pick-up truck behind him was a bald obnoxious head, with a mustache. It was Stone Cold Steve Austin.
Never one to back down from a challenge, Bond shouted back, "You’ll never catch me, you obnoxious pig!" With that, he accelerated the car to higher speeds. Behind, Stone Cold let loose his most deadly weapon: the finger. Naturally, it had no effect. With a string of obscenities, Stone Cold put the petal to the metal. "You’re dead meat, jack ass!"
Even as Bond pulled a tight corner, Stone Cold spun out of control, smashing through several buildings. On the street, all the old people walking around aimlessly were shocked. They quickly formed a mob which began to pursue the puruer.
And the chase continue. Bond used every driving skill and technique he could think of, and flashy as they were, Steve Austin was still catching up. Yes, Stone Cold was a terribly driver, due partly to the fact that he often took both hands off the steering wheel in order to give Bond the double finger, a totally ineffective move. However, despite smashing into everything in sight, the pick-up truck was built like a rock and just kept coming.
In desperation, when Bond could almost feel Stone Cold’s spittle touch the back of his neck as he shouted, "And that’s the bottom line, cause Stone Cold said So!", 007 quickly punched a red button on his control panel. Nothing happened. "Damn," Bond swore, "they really cut our budget! No high tech missiles this time. Indeed, every one of his powerful ‘toys’ was totally inoperational and those that worked were simly ineffective, such as the launcher that shot a string of cheese at the nearest pedestrian.
Then James felt a jar as Austin rammed his pickup against the back of the sleek sedan. "Watch it! This car was just waxed the other day!" Steve Austin replied with a simple "Shut up, jack-ass!"
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