Eureka never thought she would ever look forward to a Monday morning stand-up with these lovesick DORKS, but here she was, watching them walk through her and Tar’s garage door at 7:45 AM sharp, wearing matching aviators and fingers interlaced.
Wait a sec, I am 100% SURE thet’s a REAL HICKEH ON MAC’S NECK.
WOT DA FA—
Eureka SLAPPED the “Scraaaaatch!” button on her office desk soundboard and activated her cheesy narrator voice changer. Yup, thet’s me, yer probably wonderin’ how I got ’ere.
Tew recap: everyfin’ changed when Hannah dropped thet WHOPPER on da forum Wednesday evenin’. Mum and I ringed and pinged her again and again, but THIS GIRLEH probably turned her phone off like a COWARD. I’ve been up for 4 CUNTING DAYS STRAIGHT wrangling these FILTHY ANIMALS. Hannah CHERYL Sinclair, yew think yew’ve won da war, but it’z just gettin’ started…
“HUH?” Eureka, Tar and Gordon gasped. The AUDACITY.
Hannah sat down at her usual spot behind Tar’s desk and plopped Mac on her lap. She might as well have rained white phosphorous over Eureka and Tar’s house.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah smirked as she claimed her prize, her titanoboa grip constricting Mac’s waist like he was the cold cut PLATTER at a breakfast buffet.
“Wot ’APPENED ovah da weekend—”
The crook in Hannah’s smile grew to a DEFCON 1-level trollface, unmatched even by Tar. “Oh, yeah. It’s exactly what you think it is. I suplex-flipped him on top of me while he was watching the Giants game last night. They won by the way, so that was nice. Then we sucked face for the better part of an hour, snuggled some more, and put on Planet Earth. After that, we just kinda fell asleep in each other’s arms. Mac makes for a wonderful body pillow, heated blanket, and teddy bear. We were all tangled up when we woke up the next morning. Problem?”
“Eheh!” Mac giggled like a DUMBASS.
Eureka sensed there was a 99% probability that Hannah was withholding information from them. “Hannah CHERYL Sinclair. Yew did NAUT. Wot happened da rest of da weekend?!?!”
“Heh. Not telling.” Hannah held a finger up to her smug lips.
“Wait. CHERYL?! THAT’S your middle name?!” Tar and Gordon gasped, putting their hands up to their mouths.
Still holding onto Hannah, Mac faced her. “Cheryl, huh? It kinda suits you!”
Hannah tightened her grip on Mac’s waist and scoffed. “How did you even find my full government name?! Don’t you have better things to do than run OSINT on me all day, you loathsome 1-BIT SWITCH STATEMENT? The Brunch Illuminati are trying to take over the world for fuck’s sake!”
Bingo. I’ve got her now.
Eureka swallowed her mic and maxed her volume sliders all the way up on Teams as she grabbed a pencil from her mug and sketched in a vicious leer on her lips. “Oh? Iz it gettin’ under yer skin, CHERYL? Wot’s next? Ahr yew gonna become Mrs. McGuire-Sinclair, move to da Dublin hills, have yer 2-and-a-half kids, trade yer Suzuki Katana fer a minivan, and turn Mac into a trophy husband? HMM?!”
“You know, that doesn’t actually sound terrible, Cheryl. We can get a KILLER view of both Super Target signs if we choose the right hill,” Mac joked. He leaned down, kissed Hannah on the temple, and smirked back into Eureka’s webcam.
Tar and Gordon’s jaws SHATTERED the concrete floor. Tar’s server racks quaked in fear. The turntable lifted its needle and the music stopped as the warm yellow lights browned out. Eureka’s office chair fell through the floor and cast her into the endless black void below, asbestos dust pouring in after her.
FLOAT YEW DUMMY. YER GONNA DIE!
Catching herself, she swam back up to her office. Snap! She snapped her fingers, patching the floor and bringing her chair back.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Hannah’s freckles roasted away as her blood hit the afterburners, jetting to the surface of her face. “…Yeah. We gotta teach these punks a lesson, Babyboy.”
BABYBOY?! CHERYL?! Ahr they trolling right now? Why do I feel kinda… nice and warm and like I’m about ta THROW UP? I don’t even have a stomach!
Spurt! Tar grabbed a tissue from her desk and held it to her nose for 33 seconds. Black wrath formed under her glasses as she tilted her head down as a river of blood streamed into the tissue. “Babyboy? How poignant. But this isn’t the end, you STUPID LOVEBIRDS.”
Gordon called on every ounce of paternal energy from his essence for a drawn out chuckle. “Kids these days…”
Hannah lifted Mac up to his feet before standing up herself, reclaiming his hand. “Well, no questions on our end. If you guys don’t have any further concerns, we’re gonna take our leave. I feel like… Working from home today. Break!” They started walking out of the garage.
“Yeah, what she said!” Mac echoed, not bothering to look back.
Moments later, Mac and Hannah roared by in their vintage trophy truck, kicking up dust into the open garage. Tar and Gordon coughed.
“WOT DA FAHK JUST HAPPENED?” Eureka asked, staring at her displays as every one of her models bogosorted the values gathered from Mac and Hannah’s INSIDIOUS, DOWN APOCALYPTIC flirting, drawing either a beautiful line, a constellation, or what looked suspiciously like a cock and balls on her scatter plots, the data throwing its hands up and refusing to speak for itself.
These points ahr literally givin’ me DICK right now. I ken’t tell if these MUPPETS are just shittin’ me or if they’re completely serious.
With a barbaric yawp, she yanked her main monitor’s power cord and bashed her head through the screen, sparks flying as the shattered display hung like a necklace. “ARGHHHH!”
Tar dabbed her leaking nose one last time, wadded up the tissue, and shot it into the bin. She nudged her glasses and served a stiff, motherly smile. “Sweetie… I’m PROUD of your work today. I’m gonna print those graphs out and stick them on my fridge. They’re beautiful. Take a break, then let’s think of a way to get back at them. We do NOT negotiate with terrorists.”
Crackle! Buzz! Eureka groaned, the monitor around her neck sparkling one last time before dying for good. “They’re menaces, Mum. We needa stop them before da world CRINGES ta death.”
Gordon sipped his now lukewarm Peet’s and nonchalantly smacked Tar’s hand off the big red button with his other hand. “Wait. Your last two stunts backfired. What makes you think your next plan will get ‘em to back down? If you keep this up, they might actually live happily ever after.”
“Gordon,” Tar deadpanned. “They were always gonna end up like that. I just want them to feel SOME shame.”
“We dig our own graves…” Gordon sighed, leaning back in his chair as he let Tar push the big red button. “Ah, what’s the harm? They’re taking me hostage from my own family on account of how much time they waste eye-fucking each other in these here meetings. Want me to run some snacks? Need some fuel if we’re gonna scheme something worth a damn.”
Tar’s eyes lit up. “Yeeeees. Takis and Dr. Pepper, please.”
“YAHOO! Yew won’t regret this Gordo,” Eureka chimed in, fist pumping as she spun in her chair.
---
Eureka spent the rest of the morning processing 6,942,069 solutions to Mac and Hannah’s NASTY, CALIFORNIA-DREAM flirting. Heh. Noice.
Her remaining screens struck through tens of thousands of scenarios a second.
Shit. None of them work. I actually have ta think fer once.
Then Eureka remembered. “Oh? Is it gettin’ under yer skin, CHERYL? Wot’s next? Ahr yew gonna become Mrs. McGuire-Sinclair, move to da Dublin hills, have yer 2-and-a-half kids, trade yer Suzuki Katana fer a minivan, and turn Mac into a trophy husband? HMM?!”
It wos roight ’ere da whole bloody toime! We’ll offer up her bike on Craigslist.
She buzzed Tar and Gordon, waking them up from their naps in their chairs. “OI! Mum! Gordo! Wake up!”
Tar woke with a start, her chair snapping back upright. “Huh! What’shappening?”
“Mornin’.” Gordon rubbed his eyes as he sat up.
“>:) I have a BIG ideahr. We put Hannah’s Suzuki Katana up on Craigslist… FER A MINIVAN!” Eureka replied.
Tar softly smiled at Eureka. “YES. There’s my daughter getting back to form. I wonder where you got that from. It’s moments like these where I realize that reprogramming you was SO worth it. I’ll start drafting the ad. Gordon, can you please spread this to your NASCAR buddies? I KNOW some of them can’t resist a good vintage Japanese bike. Eureka, please find some photos of her bike online.”
Eureka fetched them from Google Images in 0.13 milliseconds.
Gordon adopted Tar’s signature trollface as his own like Fred Durst accidentally capturing the spirit and tone of Kurt Cobain for five haunting seconds during a set. “Heheh! Oh, that is wicked, girl. I’ll call them up right now.”
Clackclackclackclack! Tar pulled up a basic text editor and brain-dumped the first edition of the ad.
FOR SALE: 2021 Suzuki Katana. N$25,000 or a minivan worth about as much. 78,000 miles and maintained by a team of crack Japanese mechanics (I’m about as rich as Batman)—Barely broken in for a classic! Just a retiring private detective looking to start a family in the ’burbs with my ADORABLE husband. The bike doesn’t fit my lifestyle anymore, but I’m super excited to find it a new home!
“Mwah!” Putting Hannah’s number and email address below it, Tar declared it good with a chef’s kiss, copying the text and immediately priming a listing on sfbay.craigslist.org. “LOVE this UI. No fancy bullshit. Just need the pictures, sweetie.”
Eureka pinged them over to Tar. Tar attached them and SLAMMED the ad home. Hopping off the phone, Gordon executed his part of the mission flawlessly.
Rubbing her hands together, Tar’s face warped into an evil smile. “Okay, that should do it. Now we wait…”
