[“It’s over, Brandy,” the doctor bellowed over the shrieking wind. “Can’t you see that you’ve lost? I’ve already released the hostages. And—” he stepped over the body of the panther that still lay sprawled on the ground “—and I’ve found the sacred katana! Just tell me how to disarm the bomb and I’ll let you live.” Brandy laughed a joyless laugh as he grabbed the last Fabergé egg off the billiard table and hurled it out the window. It was instantly consumed by the blizzard. Dr. Crandal winced. “Even if I know where it is,” Brandy said, his accent thick, “what makes you think I know how to disarm it?” His limp was getting more pronounced by the minute. “Queen’s rook to A4,” he yelled as another strong gust of wind made the chandelier swing even more erratically. “Bishop to A4,” Dr. Crandal immediately countered, inching closer to Brandy. “Check.” The orphans watching from the second floor balcony gasped and huddled closer together, clutching the black leather briefcase as if their lives depended on it. And they did. A sly grin spread across Brandy’s face. “Good Herr Doktor,” he said, also drawing in closer, “I knew I could count on you. King to D7. Check.” Now it was Dr. Crandal who laughed, moving closer still, until the two men were inches apart. “I knew you’d know that. And knowing that you’d know, I knew that you’d be so eager to lure me into your trap that you’d get careless. Pawn to C6.” They now stood nose to nose, each man’s gun pressing directly against the other’s chest. “Checkmate.” “We both always knew it would end this way, didn’t we?” Brandy said, barely whispering. “Yes, we did,” Dr. Crandal replied in the same tone. “I’m sorry… brother.” The chandelier’s chain snapped. Both men pulled the trigger. “God damn it, what did I say last time?” Dirk yelled to the narrative. “Stay over here and fucking behave yourself! Christ.” The narrative hung its head abashedly and crept back towards Dirk, leaving the abandoned ski lodge and its story to be forever unfinished. “I don’t know where you were,” Dirk said to the disobedient narrative, “but wherever it was, I’m sure it was less interesting than what’s happening here.” The narrative settled back into Dirk’s head with a resentful grumble. “Can I ask my fucking question now?” Pawnee said. “Or do I need to passively sit through more of your horseshit?” “Sorry, I think I’ve got it under control now,” Dirk said. “Just gotta keep a tighter leash on it. It’s dangerous to give stuff like that too much autonomy. Trust me, I know.” “Ignore him,” Anna said. “Just go ahead and ask me.” Pawnee took a deep breath and all but shouted: “Who the fuck is my real father?” “Oh yeah,” Dirk said, perking up, “I forgot about that subplot. I’ve got an easy answer to that one: nobody. Or, I guess, whoever I said it was the first time. Ron Swanson, right? But yeah, there was no big reveal planned. It was only a silly overdramatic one-liner, a throwaway joke. Just like almost everything else about your character. Wait, shit, that came out wrong. I mean—” “I know who it is,” Pam said suddenly. “I don’t know how I know, but I do.” Pawnee turned to face Pam. “Tell me,” she said. “I need to know.” Pam lightly touched her friend’s shoulder. “Your real father’s name is…” “Cliffhanger?” Dirk whispered hopefully. Anna shushed him. “…Mr. Sanders, the naturalist,” Pam said. Silence. Not a pregnant silence, or a shocked silence, or an anticipatory silence. Just a flat, thudding silence. The kind of silence that happens when a stage actor forgets a cue line, or when two old friends discover that they no longer have anything in common, or when children at a birthday party break open a piñata, and it turns out there isn’t any candy inside, just, for some inexplicable reason, dozens of ballpoint pens, which isn’t bad, really, because they’re pretty nice pens, but at the same time it’s a little disappointing, because the kids (reasonably) expected candy, so, you know… It was a silence as if the whole world was saying, “…Oh.” “…Oh,” said Pawnee. “Who… who’s that?” “I have no fucking idea,” said Pam. “I don’t even know how I knew that name.” “Your father, Pawnee,” Anna said, gently putting her hand on Pawnee’s shoulder. She shrugged it off. “‘He went to faraway places to study animals like elephants and monkeys. Lulu’s mother died when Lulu was four years old.’” “Lulu?” Pawnee interrupted. “That woman who left with Acorn called me Lulu too. Who is that?” “That’s you, Pawnee,” Anna said. “Or, the version of you in the original story. ‘After that, Lulu’s father] #DetectivePony #CreativeOmega
