Total Effects, Part 2

So.

I assume you all saw this on Monday...

What could it mean? Why would someone anonymous drop it off at our place with a cryptic message attached? Why would anyone assume that three well-groomed gentlemen such as ourselves would require any 'revitalizing foam cleanser'? And what's it got to do with the price of fish? 

First, we took it to the Unbelieva-Lab for analysis, where it was quickly determined to be nothing more than bubble solution, which can be found in any dollar store or joke shop. So a quick phone call to the number on the above sticker put us in touch with a confused Wal*Mart employee. 

The Wal*Martian person agreed with us that this was a queer turn of events.

Whence did the tube of soapy crud originate, he asked.

Nary a clue, quoth I.

So, coming up against a dead end, we went back to the CCTV footage, to see if we could see anything in the grainy video that might provide us with a starting point.

Well, yes, it did.

This blurry shot of a '63 GMC pickup with a bad conversion job told us a lot. Check out that bumper sticker. Uncle Bill's Flea Market. North Carolina. We've had dealings with them before.

I think it's time we paid a visit to this so-called "Uncle Bill" and find out what he knows about knock-off merchandise. Maybe then we can figure out why someone thinks we should be involved...

Total Effects

No rest for the wicked they say ...

Not that The Unbelievables are wicked, you understand.

But no sooner had I gotten back to the Unbelieva-Base after my prolonged run-in with Henri Petit, another "mystery" had come our way ...

... or ... is it a mystery at all?

Our "eye in the sky" cameras surrounding the Unbelieva-Base detailed an undisclosed somebody dropping off something at our doorstep yesterday morning along with following a cryptic note:

"Unbelievables: You may want to check this out. It's not what it seems."

No salutation, no "Thanks!" ... nothing but a clandestine deposit left to our own devices.

Wait 'til you hear where this one goes. It all started out with that (800) number to Walmart ...

Free On A Friday

"I'm off to the crime convention.

Make sure Michael gets that tax return in the mail ... got it?"

Yeah ... I'm back.

That little rat bastard Henri Petit and his shenanigans. You'd think he'd learn by now but he likes to get his grimy little paws in the pie, so to speak.

I was on an errand a few weeks ago (shorts shopping if you must know ... spring is almost here!) when I was ambushed by Petit's henchmen. Sure ... I'm an Unbelievable, but put me up against half a dozen thugs who either top out at 6'5" or 300+ pounds (or both!) and you're on the wrong side of the fence.

Like I said, I was ambushed. My back was turned, I was unaware and they got the nab on me. Hooded and bound, I was whisked to Petit's lair.

And let me tell you something his digs: They're a royal pain in the ass. The nitwit is so tiny and childlike. (You know we like to refer to him as a child. It really gets his goat when we do that.) Being of such stature, he likes things within his grasp. That means things are low to the ground ... shelves are within reach ... ceilings are lower than normal ... chairs and sofas and toilets and the like are at his level. A weekend visit at Petit's (though, for the life of me, why anyone would want to visit that half-twit is beyond comprehension) will leave you with a sore back and a tweaked neck from all the bending and crouching.

Anyway ... when I was manhandled into his place and my hood removed, there he was: Petit in all his frumpiness. He likes to think he dresses to the nines, but there's only so much you can do with a height-challenged criminal child. (With the position I was in, though, it was best I kept my yap shut.)

He looked at me for a moment before speaking, thinking it was threatening (it wasn't):

"Sooooooooooooooo ... a big chunk of The Unbelievables caught red-handed ..."

"What? What are you talking about? I was shopping, you stooge. There's nothing 'red-handed' about that ..."

"Nevertheless ... you're in my possession now. The others, Jeff and that sadistic Clark, will come running to find you in no time flat."

"No they won't. They don't even know where I am."

"They will and they do ... trust me. I've left clues, clues even their feeble mindedness will be able to ascertain what has become of your fate."

"Little did I know 'my fate' was inanely jawing with a warped child ne'er-do-well on a Tuesday afternoon ..."

"Watch your mouth, Unbelieva-dork! Goons! Take him away!" he exclaimed, obviously perturbed. "I have plans for you later!"

Fast foward to those "plans." You're not going to believe this ...

He forced me to do his taxes. He made me clean his house. Under the threat of pain and torture, he convinced me to reveal the secret workings of our Unbelieva-Base. He coerced me to sign him up for Unbelieva-Zen tutorials. He even sidled up to me in such a way he wrangled several dates with some of our Unbelieva-Babes. All this and more ... much more.

But I did it willingly. There never was any "convincing" me of catering to his whims. Never any threat of pain. He didn't exactly "make" me do anything or "reveal" anything or "coerce" me into anything:

• Yeah ... I did his taxes. You know why? Well, let's just say he'll be getting a call from the IRS very, very soon. And it won't be a "thank you" call.
• Yeah ... I cleaned his house. And by "cleaned" I mean I rearranged everything in the place. You see ... he took off on some criminal meet-up that lasted a week or more and it afforded me the opportunity to perform all kinds of monkey business under the (incredibly dense) watch of his henchmen. They didn't know any better. But I did. Petit thought he had me wrapped around his finger, but nothing was further from the truth.
• Yeah ... I "revealed" the ins and outs of the Unbelieva-Base. But not the one in Stiletto Flats, Nevada. The one in North Bay. North Bay, Ontario. In Canada*. Good luck with that ...
• Yeah ... I signed him up for Unbelieva-Zen tutorials. Off site, if you know what I mean. When he heads over to turn in his "official coupons" for classes, he's going to get a nice little surprise.
• Yeah ... he's got dates lined up with Unbelieva-Babes. But I'm pretty certain he'll only want the one date ... the one with the Unbelieva-Babe named "Clark." (And this comes without Clark's knowledge 'til he reads this. I'm sure as soon as Clark reads this he'll be champing at the bit. You're welcome, Clark. Because, you know, Clark likes kicking Petit's miniscule ass about as much as he enjoys driving his Corvette at 120 mph down the highway with his toy dinosaurs and robots riding shotgun.)

How did I escape? Well ... that was rather easy. After I finished all my "chores" (they took a while ... I've been gone for some time you know ...) I simply waited for Petit's goons to take a snooze late one night while I "finished" Petit's taxes - I convinced them I needed to pull an "all-nighter" in order to complete them - and I slipped out with little effort.

Case closed. Surprise for Petit in the cards. All is right with the world.

Now ... vindictive as one might tend to be after a kidnapping, you'd think I might be a little more pissed off at being apprehended. But the way I see it the proof will be in the pudding. Petit will get his just desserts.

In many ways? This was just another minor adventure in the annals of The Unbelievables. In the mean time I have to go prepare to move all the clocks in the Unbelieva-Base an hour ahead in anticipation of Daylight Savings Time this weekend ... 

... because you just know Jeff and Clark haven't planned for that yet ...

* There is no Unbelieva-Base in North Bay, Ontario, Canada.
 

Michael Is Missing Again - Or Is He?

Well, what a to-do! Michael kidnapped. That pug-ugly baby Henri Petit seemingly responsible. Hmmm.

Is that the only possible explanation for Michael's absence?

Hmmm.

I seem to recall an incident not too far removed from memory where Michael was conspicuous by his not being around. Don't you?

Let me refresh your memory.

http://the-unbelievables.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/michael-is-missing-in-action-miamia.html

And then there was this little excursion...

http://the-unbelievables.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/michael-is-missing-but-its-ok.html

Something tells me that all is not what it seems.

Whatever is occurring is not unusual for Michael, aka Enigma Chap, aka Mystery Boy. He thrives on being unpredictable. He likes to keep us guessing. Which makes me wonder if all of this isn't just a cunning ruse to keep EVERYONE, including Henri Petit, guessing. 

So here's a little message for Henri Petit.

We are on to you, bucko. We know you'd like for us to think that you have Michael. We know you just left those stupid photos in our back room by accident. (we tossed them in the shredder, by the way, right after we fished them out of the recycling bin. Yes, I did it eventually. We drew straws for it.

Clark's pic.

Mine was more action-packed.

Anyway, you can't have them back, because now they are lining our hamster cage.)

It is clear that Michael is working on some way to shut you up once and for all, and if I know Michael like I think I know Michael, when he finally nabs you, you will NOT see it coming, infant-man-person. So push off.

Yours, The Unbelievables (minus Michael, but we know he thinks the same way about you, so push off.)

At a loss

Well, now we don't know what to do.

JEFF: So Michael is a hostage?
CLARK: I guess. Looks like that little mugwump Petit lied to me. And after I only kicked him out of a second story window instead of the fifth floor. That's what I get for showing mercy, I guess.
JEFF: What do you think we should do? Wait, like Petit says, or go get him?
CLARK: Go get him, I guess. The picture shows him tied up.
JEFF: Which he likes.
CLARK: That's true.
JEFF: Do we give Petit his stupid pictures back? It's not like we want them. That could be the easiest answer.
CLARK: I threw them away for that reason.
JEFF: Hmm. That could be problematic.
CLARK: I mean, I just threw them away. We could just take them out of the recycling bin.
JEFF: Nah, I don't want to do all that.
CLARK: That's true. The recycling bin being all the way over there and all.
JEFF: Isn't this a puzzle. I honestly don't know how we should proceed.
CLARK: Let's sit back and think about it and see if a sign presents itself. JEFF: That's as good an idea as any at this point.

While we do that, if anybody has suggestions as to what our next plan of action should be, please share them with us via the comments below. Go save Michael, or what?

Problemo

"Hey, Unbelieva-Boobs:

It's me ... Henri Petit. 

Remember when I said '... it will require me working with Michael Noble as a team of two best friends' while speaking with that abusive bozo Clark? Well ... the meaning behind that cryptic little statement is vastly different than I may have let on.

I have your Unbelieva-mate. As a hostage. As shown below:

The details of his acquisition are not your concern right now. What you do need to be concerned about is that file folder you found in your so-called 'Unbelieva-Base' and Clark's continued abuse.

Details are forthcoming ..."

Cracking the code

Once again, this
pain-in-the-ass.

As much fun as it is to interrogate Henri Petit (relieving stress by relieving him of the ability to feel anything below his neck is tremendously therapeutic!), he is incredibly unpleasant in a number of areas, so the less time spent around him the better.
Such was the case when Jeff found the file folder of pictures. I was on my way back to base and the pizza I had ordered wouldn't be ready for another 20 minutes so I told Jeff I'd stop by Petit's place and see if I could stir something up.

ME: All right, Petit. The jig, much like a pair of scissors or anything else you might hurt yourself with in this house, is up.
HP: Well, well, well. The Unbeliev... wait. Where are the other two?
ME: They're busy. It's just me.
HP: Michael isn't with you? Wearing his cutoffs?
ME: What did I just say, diaper boy?!?
HP: Gyah! Get away from me! You're the one I hate the most, constantly kicking me out of windows.
ME: Relax, thug rat. I just want to know what's with the file full of stupid pictures Jeff found at our headquarters.
HP: For at least the thousandth time, I am not a child. And those aren't "stupid pictures". They're a code. A fiendishly clever code. There is absolutely zero chance any of you will figure it out. Fools! Ha! The mighty Unbelievables, humbled before me at last!
ME: Pssh. Some code.You're busy working on two formulas; one that will make water fattening and the other that will emasculate the world's fighting men, leaving earth susceptible to alien attack, which you think will finally impress your mother, as well as women who find you foul. Also, you seem to think you wouldn't get hassled when ordering alcohol if you looked more like a bull and less like the small, lump of goo with eyes that you are, which is kind of weird but like everything else you do, is like I said: stupid.
HP: Huh. Aside from a couple of semantic details, that's actually pretty much spot on.
ME: One thing, though. Why did you place the clues in a spot where you knew we'd find them.
HP: Because I wanted you to find them!
ME: Oh, to taunt us?
HP: Well, not exactly. I-I thought it would be fun, going head-to-head with you guys. See, basically it comes down to me being misunderstood due to the fact that I'm lonely, and...
ME: All right, junior, let's go. It's window time.
HP: Wait! While you succeeded in cracking the code, you're too late! The plan is already underway.
ME: Why, you malodorous ankle biter!
HP: There is still time to save your precious planet, you name-calling window-kicker. However, it will require me working with Michael Noble as a team of two best friends.
ME: Ew. Michael is not going to be pleased.
HP: Whatever. It's either this or that? What say you?

Find out on Friday What Michael say... err, said.