T for Tutu

T for Tutu
by earlydues (earlydues@yahoo.com)
August 1999

This is in response to the Fanfic List Challenge, and was inspired by a change in some federal regulations which created for me a veritable dearth of work for about two months now (the big goomers!) and by a need to at least LOOK busy once in a while. (There is truth in the _Real Life Adventures_ comic that notes, "Overtime is tough. Undertime is tougher.")

As this is my first attempt at fanfic of any kind, I feel encouraged by the existence of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest (where "WWW means 'Wretched Writers Welcome"); my hopes are that this little vignette will be a first step towards writing something that will be considered camp enough to qualify. :o)

Many thanks to the fabulous GTA authors who have taken fanfic to unimaginable heights of excellence! You're an inspiration to us all. <g>

Disclaimers: Gary and Chuck do not, unfortunately, belong to me. They are the property of CBS and TriStar and/or whoever else wants to lay official claim to them. The Lexus doesn't' belong to me, either, but I didn't think Chuck would be caught dead in a rusty 10-year-old Escort, so I, um, "borrowed" one for the day. I'll give it back - really, I will! Someday... But the rest is mine. It's mine, all mine, I tells ya! Muhuhahahahah...

Rated: TV-Y or G or whatever else signifies that it is suitable for all audiences.

Archive: GTA and STV are OK. All others please obtain permission from the author.

Timeframe of story: Anytime before the second season.

Dedicated to anyone who has ever experienced a horribly slow workday and felt that they would surely, without a doubt, be the first person in recorded history to die of boredom.

Chuck popped the last of a handful of deluxe jellybeans into his mouth, crumpled up the white paper bag they came in, tossed it over his shoulder, and brushed his hands clean; Gary, walking beside him in the mid-afternoon sun, glared disapprovingly at Chuck's lack of environmental concern while a squirrel scolded from a nearby tree limb.

"So Gar," Chuck mumbled through the chewy mess, "you going to tell me what I get to do?"

"You know, you can be fined for littering."

"Thanks for the tip. So, ah, where we going?"

"Oh, uh... " Reaching Chuck's shiny, Renaissance-Red Lexus, Gary set down his bundle, pulled the paper from his inner coat pocket and scanned the article headed: WOMAN DIES OF BOREDOM. "We are going to - let's see... umm.. here it is - Corus Bank on North Western Avenue. It says here that a Marylise Pringle dies after a prolonged period of ennui."

Chuck, not wishing to admit his ignorance of the word, gently brushed a bit of dust off the hood of the car with his sleeve, nodded, and said, "Sounds exciting."

"Oh, it will be. Once *you* get there," Gary said mysteriously. He returned the paper to the safety of his coat and, smiling, picked up his bundle.

With a flourish, Chuck used his remote to unlock the doors <chirp, chirp> and they climbed in. He turned the key in the ignition and the car purred to life.

"Hear that, Gar?"

"Hear what?"

"Exactly! Just like the eels over at the Shedd - sleek and smooth. Not a piston out of place; and," Chuck continued as he inhaled the aroma of new car, "smells good, too. I love this car."

"Chuck.... can we go, please? We don't have all day, you know."

"You have no appreciation for the good things in life, my friend. You know, if you got your head out of that paper once in a while, you'd enjoy things a little more," Chuck said, indicating the paper Gary had once again removed from his coat pocket.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just drive."

"Alright, Mister Grumpy." Gary perused the paper as Chuck screamed into traffic. "So whatcha got in the bag?"

"Oh, uh... well, you know. Supplies." Gary said, evasively.

"Supplies? What kind of supplies?"

"Well... the uh... kinds of things one might need for... uh... you know, for uh... livening things up, shall we say."

"Hmmmmmmm...." Chuck's eyes narrowed as he furrowed his brow, wondering if he would live to regret offering to help Gary with the paper in exchange for a peek at the financials - even if he *did* make a killing today with the information.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The sparkling Lexus came to a halt in front of the entrance to the bank. Chuck marveled smugly to himself about how easy it always is for him to land the choice parking spots. Gary reached into the back seat for his bundle, and he and Chuck got out of the car.

As Gary turned towards the bank Chuck grabbed his arm. "So, now that we're here, are you going to clue me in, buddy?"

"Oh, ah, sure Chuck," Gary replied gleefully. "In this bag is everything you need to make Marylise Pringle's life a bit more... interesting. You see, you - my friend - are going to be the one to end the tedium that has taken over her life."

"How?

"Oh, don't worry about that just yet, Chuckie." Gary and Chuck turned back towards the bank. "Say, uh, Chuck? You like tights, don't you?"

"Why? What do you mean?" he inquired warily.

"'Well, I've got your costume right here." Gary said as he patted the bundle menacingly.

"Oh, no. No. No, no, no. Gar! No!" Chuck attempted to back away, but was easily stopped by Gary.

"Hey! You're the one that said you do *anything* for a look at the paper, remember? It's payback time, buddy."

As Gary prodded Chuck up the sidewalk towards the bank entrance, the paper fell, unseen, onto the ground. A gentle breeze fluttered the pages, turning them over to reveal the new headline and story:

TUTU-CLAD BROKER IN CUSTODY AFTER BIZARRE OFFICE INCIDENT

Charles Fishman, stockbroker, was arrested today at a local bank for disorderly conduct. Fishman, who was wearing tights and a jester's hat, ran through the bank playing a mazurka on his violin. He then proceeded to perform a "tightrope" act, complete with parasol, on the tops of the cubicle walls, all the while balancing a plastic pink flamingo on his head. Although bank officials were quite perturbed, a witness to the event, Marylise Pringle, says that Fishman brought a bit of excitement into what had been shaping into yet another dull, humdrum day at work. As the police were dragging Fishman off the premises, he was heard blaming his unusual behavior on one Gary Hobson. Hobson, who was not found at the scene, remains unavailable for comment.

THE END

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