Episode 38

Mr Teeth was annoyed that he'd had to turn back from following the OGS car. They had gone a good way out of the city onto empty desert roads and to have kept on following would have looked suspicious. Frustrated, he flicked on the radio. "...dream a little dream of me. Stars fading but I linger on, dear... " Mama Cass's distinctive voice came floating out. Not in the mood for easy listening, Mr Teeth turned the dial: "The flowers are in bloom again here at Providence Floristry! Surprise that special someone with a nice bouquet that won't upset your bank balance! Ask about our special Bride and Groom package today!" He spun the dial again "... special offer on bagels and lox at Rosenbaum's Deli!" He flicked the radio off again in disgust. If there was one thing Mr Teeth hated, it was those brassy-voiced, super-cheery radio commercials. Dammit, though, he'd been so close! If he could just get his hands on that little trumpet-playing punk, he was sure he'd be able to get some answers to the mystery of his boss's disappearance. Not today, though. Not today.


If this were one of those TV detective dramas, thought Harold, we'd be able to get DNA samples and things and find out what happened to Reverend Box. DNA samples always seemed to be the answer for some reason on those shows – even when it made no real sense. Still, it was only entertainment, after all and didn't have to be true-to-life. It was curious, though, how the strange little man had just seemed to vanish into thin air. Harold hoped he hadn't come to any harm like agent Emerald had - that would be tragic. He nay have been as crazy as a racoon but he had been quite likeable and, come to think of it, he hadn't actually been all that crazy anyway. Just because he worshipped Zeus and ran around the place with no clothes on didn't make him much more insane than most of the humans he'd met so far.

The car pulled to a stop outside Aunt Aggie's. They were back.

Othello headed straight to the nearest computer with the shipping receipt from Box's place in his hand. Harold and Teatime wandered over to watch him work his magic – and it really was magic to Harold. Computers were so clever and interesting! No wonder so many demons worked in IT. Where better to build things that held out the tantalising promise of such a variety of information, entertainment and efficiency while actually delivering such an amount of disappointment, expense and tooth-gnashing, hair-tearing, blood-vessel-bursting rage and frustration. Yep. Demonically perfect.

"So, who lives at 223 Oakland Drive," murmured Othello, typing the address into a search window. The computer thought about this for a moment, then displayed the answer: Osprey Medical Plastics Inc.

"Now what on earth would a company making naso-gastric tubes, disposable aprons, instrument trays and whatnot be wanting with information about Project Dynamo?"

"It doesn't make any sense," agreed Teatime, "Is it definitely a genuine company?"

Othello typed some more. "Well, it's certainly registered in this state as one so I guess it's a real company alright." he said, "But why would this so-called OGS agent get Box to ship the project records there of all places? Why not to here or any other OGS office? It just doesn't add up."

"Perhaps this agent was working on his own, not as part of some official OGS activity?" suggested Teatime.

"I wish Box had managed to get the guy's name," sighed Othello.

"Assuming he was a real OGS agent," replied Teatime.

"Yeah, that's argumentative, I suppose," Othello pushed his chair back and stood up.  "I'm getting a coffee, you want one?"

"No thanks," said Harold. This was a lie: he did want coffee, having developed quite a taste for it since coming to earth, but right now he didn't want to go into the break-room.

"Any minute now..." sang Teatime softly.

Spring Has Sprung! The familiar bright pink letters shouted up at Agent India from the mug sitting in the centre of the table. The perfectly undamaged, totally-not-in-a-bajillion-pieces mug sitting in the centre of the table. She reached out and touched it lightly with a finger and, when it didn't fall to pieces or prove to be a hallucination, she picked it up, cradling it thoughtfully. The demon had done this, obviously. No human could have repaired it so thoroughly - not in one night. Now this was a conundrum: she had loved this mug, cheap and gaudy as it was, but if that demon thought it could wheedle its way into her affections by fixing it then it had another think coming.

She walked over to the garbage bin and pressed the foot pedal to flip open the lid.  She held the mug over the bin, ready to drop it in, but for some reason her fingers just couldn't let go. Darn it, she really loved that mug! With a sigh, she lifted her foot, letting the bin lid fall closed and, mug in hand, wandered over to the coffee machine. Doesn't mean I like you any better, demon, she thought to herself as the hot bitter liquid splashed into the white china.