"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.