20159/Pest Control Patrol

Pest Control Patrol
Date of Scene:	01 March 2025
Location:	The Library
Synopsis:	Stern Steve's on call right now, but his assistant at Extermination Station, Dave the Buster, is here to help the Doom Patrol deal with the darn rats in the walls. At least if the cookies don't get him first.
Cast of Characters:	Cliff Steele, Larry Trainor
Tinyplot:	Threads

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Cliff Steele has posed:
Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in their cradles.
They ate the cheeses out of vats,
And licked the soup from cook's own ladles!*

Doom Manor, Friday 3 PM.

The Cliffster is lounging on the couch, a surly slouch as he tries to ignore the escalating chaos that has engulfed Doom Manor. A rerun of the Commish featuring a young Michael Chiklis holds up about as well as you'd imagine, though still better than the parade of small business lunatics during the commercial break.

Mirror shades, a mullet, and a moustache. Target range, guns loaded. A rifle fires krak, krak, krak and paper figures explode.

"Ticks?" Krak. "Roaches?" Krak. "Bedbugs?" Krak.

"Dusted."

The white man at his maximum lights a cigarette with a lens flare.

"Mice? Rats? Stern Steve's got them in his sights."

The rifle barrel points at the screen, the camera zooming into the darkness. With a krak and a flash the image explodes, the screen filled with an enormous(ly tacky) logo: STERN STEVE'S EXTERMINATION STATION.

Beneath: Serving Cloverton, Egg Harbor, and the Bargaintown Area. Call (555) 543-2121 24 hours / 7 days

"Huh. Hey Lar, look--there's a new exterminator in town. Shit, that's pretty convenient."

* Freely adapated from 'The Piped Piper of Hammelin' by Robert Browning

Larry Trainor has posed:
Although it has been many decades now since Captain Larry Trainor began wrapping himself in bandages like a mummy, there are still times when old habits kick in unexpectedly. Before he remembers that there is a layer of gauze wrapped around his mouth, and another around his hands, he presses a thumb to his lips and almost presses his tongue into the gauze before he realizes what he's doing.

He'll have to turn his newspaper page without the aid of any moisture. It's not easy turning pages when you've got surgical gauze wrapped around your hands. One day he ought to get The Chief to make it a little stickier. But that would probably have unintentionally hilarious side effects.

"Mmhmm."

There's a rustling of the page, and Larry finally enough grip on the paper to turn it. Skipping over the sports section entirely, he has moved to his favorite part of not only the newspaper, but of his entire evening: The classified ads.

"Huh. Someone's selling a set of Oneida silverware for only thirty dollars. Only missing the spoons..."

"Probably used them for drugs or something."

Cliff Steele has posed:
Cliff scoffs.

"Yeah, we'll have to skip the soup course."

With a whir and several clicks, the Cliffster turns to face his bargain-hunting housemate.

"You know it's easier for you to use the phone, right? My fingers always get stuck in the damn..."

A jolt of surprise launches Cliffy from his seat, and his southpaw extends in a wave of warning.

"Ooh, yeah, better get up, Lar, real slow. Don't turn around now, and don't dally--"

Atop the oversized recliner where the hero known as Negative Man cruises the classifieds, a gingerbread man finds himself flanked by a pair of hungry-looking rats, snarling and salivating as they clamber towards their prey.

"--Shit's about go down."

Larry Trainor has posed:
There are plenty of other deals to behold. Or at the very least, there are plenty of things for sale. But the good people of Cloverton have seen far too much Antiques Roadshow, and have, to a person, all become convinced that their household garbage is now worth untold sums of money. What else could explain a collection of Cabbage Patch Dolls selling for nearly as much as a used Kia Rio. That person will definitely have to lower their price.

There's a lengthy sigh, as Larry looks up from his newspaper. The chair upon which he sits is in need of some reupholstering, but it has fallen into a state of disrepair in exactly the right way to be of maximum comfort to someone of Larry's height and general distribution of weight. So it is with some extreme reluctance, that he begins slowly folding up his newspaper.

"You know, I'm thinking about moving out into the greenhouse. Nothing creepy out there except for all of those gnomes. This whole thing with the rats is really cramping my style. There's no way to throw a dinner party until they're gone. Or even a luncheon."

Cliff Steele has posed:
"Uh, Larry, you do remember that you can't eat, right, pal?"

As Larry rises, a squeak of triumph as the gingerbread man is torn limb-from-limb, to be greedily devoured while, on a nearby shelf, a gingerbread family shudders in horror as they watch helplessly from their bookfort.

"And how exactly are you going to sleep in the greenhouse? Just never going to take off your bandages? Look, I mean, I can't say personally--just the word on the street, mind you--but they're supposed to get pretty gnarly, like 'an apothecary's farts'. You might want to factor that into your meal plans before deciding to rough it."

Down the main hall, a squad of snickerdoodles move in formation, embedded tacks providing protection to the scouting party. Spotting a lone rat, the squad is in quick pursuit as their verminous target takes flight.

"So, on your way out, why don't you pick up the phone and dial 555-543-2121, ask for Steve."

Beat.

"Just who in the heck are you planning to have over for dinner, anyways?"

Larry Trainor has posed:
"No need to rub it in."

Watching as the gingerbread man is torn apart, Larry winces visibly when the head is separated from the body. It's times like these that one recognizes that holiday cookies are actually incredibly creepy, and a true psychopath must have come up with the idea of making men out of gingerbread for consumption during festivities.

As he stands, Larry folds the newspaper under his arm, a gesture that matches the vibe he gives off while wearing his house coat and slippers. He's had the same house coat and slippers since the 80's, but since he's wrapped in gauze and also doesn't sweat, the wear and tear on the set have been surprisingly minimal.

Stepping over some crumbs, the Negative Man looks down the hall at the war party that's proceeding to cause mischief, and shakes his head wearily. For he lives in a strange house, with strange people, and strange goings-on. But he'd have a tough time getting approved for a lease on an apartment right now, as his credit score is nonexistent. Better to stay put and hope the rat problem gets fixed.

A few steps, and then Larry picks up the receiver of the rotary phone, and begins slowly turning the dial, eventually having to press the switch hook a couple of times when he inevitably gets the number wrong. The second time is the charm, however.

"Hello? Is this Steve?"

"Does Steve work there?"

"This is Larry."

"No, I'd much rather talk to Steve."

"That's really kind of a bait and switch. But I guess I can talk to Dave."

Cliff Steele has posed:
"No can doski, Steve-O's hunting larger prey tonight--had to break out the big guns, heh. But Dave'll be happy to bust whatever ya got. So, what seems to be the problem, Chief?"

A sniffle and a cough.

"Sorry, my gluten allergy's been acting up. Ka-choo!"

A hiss from the Cliffster: "Ask him if he's had any problem with cookies. Seems like there's too many pies on window sills these days, you notice that? And the cakes, don't get me started. The hills run wild with cake."

The glum golem sits back down, wallowing in his anguish.

"Fucking hell. Wish we knew where the Chief was, he'd know what to do. I'd even take Willoughby fucking Kipling right now. Have you even seen Longshot since he got back? He's a Candyman now, but I always skipped that flick--"

An embarassed, shushing motion in sudden recognition.

"Shit, right. On the phone. Sorry!"

Larry Trainor has posed:
"How much to kill all the rats in a house?"

"I would say... it's a pretty big house. Maybe fourteen bedrooms. Only six bathrooms though."

"I mean, we COULD, but if we did that then we'd have less bedrooms."

"Well sure, there's extra closets. That sounds like a lot of effort though, I'm not really a home renovation guy."

Holding up a finger, Larry gives the universal sign to indicate that he's in the middle of some productive negotiations. But the quote that he's heard through the phone apparently doesn't meet with his liking. Looking down the hallway, he seems to change his tune before he's ever even given his response.

"Yeah... we'd probably better get the Deluxe Package. Either that, or some grenades."

There's the sound of laughter on the other end of the phone. But Larry is not laughing.

Cliff Steele has posed:
Doom Manor, 6 PM.

"Dave's dead, man. Shit. The cookies got him."

Next to the enormous antique furnace in the basement of Doom Manor, a hirsute, heavyweight gentleman in an undersized American flag tee lays prone on the concrete, his mouth grossly overstuffed with ginger snaps, kitchen sink cookies, even a blueberry scone.

Cliff leans down closer, to inspect the bloated, unshaven face.

"At least, I think he's dead? Looks warm still."

"Think Steve's made of stern enough stuff to handle the job?"

Larry Trainor has posed:
"Mmhmm."

Looking down at the exterminator who has failed so spectacularly to solve their very real rodent problem, Larry taps the side of his arm with a single finger. As ever, it's hard to glean much from his facial expressions, but he seems to be mulling over the options at the moment.

Finally, a long sigh is released, and the Negative Man's posture becomes more slouched and defeated as he resigns himself to the obvious.

"No sense letting good fertilizer go to waste.Help me carry him to the wood chipper."

It seems that Larry's begonia bushes are going to eat well tonight. Larry can't really empathize, he doesn't eat himself.