He caused my frittata to become a bit cold. What a jerk.
"I hope you can stop me, but I'm not sure you can, given how you've let yourselves go."
It was Wednesday morning. Reading what Clark had handed me - the warning letter from Dr. Oldschool (and in particular the above line) - I put down the forkful of frittata I was about to bite into, took a quick sip of mimosa, got up and ran to the restroom.
Gazing in the mirror I said to myself: "I don't know what he's talking about. I haven't let myself go in the least."
I opened a cabinet door and pulled out a pair of Lobster Rage Fists. (Multiple pairs are stashed all over the Unbelieva-Base; you never know when a need may arise.) I attached them and looked in the mirror once more, striking a pose: "I'll show this Dr. Oldschool how we 'beat up some henchmen'" I thought.
Dr. Oldschool might have all manor of glowing dials and tubes
and levers and pulleys and various gadgets.
But ... does he have one weapons? I highly doubt it.
I stored the Fists and returned to my breakfast. An Unbelieva-Babe had freshened my mimosa while I had taken leave.
This guy's supposedly giving us until Friday, huh?
"I'm not the least bit concerned," I thought as I picked up that bite of frittata once more.
After all ... we know what needs to be done.
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