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Apr. 10th, 2005 04:16 pm[oom: Rm 134]
Mike shakes a towel wrapped can of WD-40. When he feels its properly mixed, he takes it from the towel, attaches the little red straw, and begins to spray the door knob. When he's satisfied that the knob won't sound, he guesstimates as to the location of the door hinges, and begins to lube those as well.
He turns towards Stampy.
"This is a re con mission only. Okay? We're in. We get what we need. We're out. Indy doesn't know about you yet, and I'm not going to give him the chance to say no."
Mike turns the knob. The inner workings of the lock now totally silenced, click into place, and the door opens. Leaving his shoes in the hallway, he pads around the suite barefoot. He tosses an orange from the kitchen to Stampy, who scampers about the room chasing the bright orange object.
His blankets are just where he left them, on the couch. The racket of the frogs in his room was too much for him to handle and still get anything closely resembling sleep. That, and bugs that travel in swarms seem to like him more now that he's both warm blooded and cursed with thinner skin. It's sad really, Mike does kind of like the swamp....it's just that the swamp likes him more than he can stand.
Rolling up his pant legs to his knee, he opens the door to his room, and is almost bowled over by the humidity. It takes a couple of seconds for him to adjust to the fact that he's not acclimating to the heat. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead as he sloshes his way into the room and towards his audio tower. He's been dying to hear Cheeseburger in Paradise. As he makes his way through the unorganized mess that is his tape collection, the hair on the back of his neck begins to stand up. Only then does it occur to him that the room is dead silent. There isn't one croak or one spring peep.
Slowly, he turns, only to find himself under the scrutiny of what seems like thousands of eyes. Frogs of every shape and size gaze upon him from every horizontal surface...and even some vertical ones. In fact, nothing is safe from the frogs, they've covered nearly everything in the room.
Mike swallows hard the moment he realizes that he's not in his room any longer. This room has a new master, or in this case...masters, and he is trespassing.
He begins to edge his way towards the door. Frogs litter the ground as well, but they open rank and let him pass as he moves. He tries not to break eye contact, but it's nearly impossible with so many eyes locked upon him. One hand on the doorknob, the other one up in surrender, he opens the door and exits.
Stampy looks up at him expectantly, orange wrapped securely in her trunk.
"Do not go in there."
-----
Inside the what was once Mike's room.
Word comes up through the ranks that the covert ops team was successful. It seems that waiting vigilantly by the door has paid off, they are out and will be reporting back at regular intervals. Space is scarce, and the next brood is well on it's way.
The time to branch out is now.
Mike shakes a towel wrapped can of WD-40. When he feels its properly mixed, he takes it from the towel, attaches the little red straw, and begins to spray the door knob. When he's satisfied that the knob won't sound, he guesstimates as to the location of the door hinges, and begins to lube those as well.
He turns towards Stampy.
"This is a re con mission only. Okay? We're in. We get what we need. We're out. Indy doesn't know about you yet, and I'm not going to give him the chance to say no."
Mike turns the knob. The inner workings of the lock now totally silenced, click into place, and the door opens. Leaving his shoes in the hallway, he pads around the suite barefoot. He tosses an orange from the kitchen to Stampy, who scampers about the room chasing the bright orange object.
His blankets are just where he left them, on the couch. The racket of the frogs in his room was too much for him to handle and still get anything closely resembling sleep. That, and bugs that travel in swarms seem to like him more now that he's both warm blooded and cursed with thinner skin. It's sad really, Mike does kind of like the swamp....it's just that the swamp likes him more than he can stand.
Rolling up his pant legs to his knee, he opens the door to his room, and is almost bowled over by the humidity. It takes a couple of seconds for him to adjust to the fact that he's not acclimating to the heat. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead as he sloshes his way into the room and towards his audio tower. He's been dying to hear Cheeseburger in Paradise. As he makes his way through the unorganized mess that is his tape collection, the hair on the back of his neck begins to stand up. Only then does it occur to him that the room is dead silent. There isn't one croak or one spring peep.
Slowly, he turns, only to find himself under the scrutiny of what seems like thousands of eyes. Frogs of every shape and size gaze upon him from every horizontal surface...and even some vertical ones. In fact, nothing is safe from the frogs, they've covered nearly everything in the room.
Mike swallows hard the moment he realizes that he's not in his room any longer. This room has a new master, or in this case...masters, and he is trespassing.
He begins to edge his way towards the door. Frogs litter the ground as well, but they open rank and let him pass as he moves. He tries not to break eye contact, but it's nearly impossible with so many eyes locked upon him. One hand on the doorknob, the other one up in surrender, he opens the door and exits.
Stampy looks up at him expectantly, orange wrapped securely in her trunk.
"Do not go in there."
-----
Inside the what was once Mike's room.
Word comes up through the ranks that the covert ops team was successful. It seems that waiting vigilantly by the door has paid off, they are out and will be reporting back at regular intervals. Space is scarce, and the next brood is well on it's way.
The time to branch out is now.
