Wednesday morning
Oct. 22nd, 2003 07:01 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsJamie declares war. :)
Jamie reclined on a deck lounger near the pool, the very picture of a comfortable nap: muscles limp, expression blank, breath shallow and regular. He could teach graduate-level courses on how to pretend to be asleep, and in fact the only thing suspicious about his current pose was that it was six in the morning and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, not a combination generally considered to be salutary for the poolside nap.
His position did, however, allow Jamie an excellent view of the kitchen counter through an unshuttered window and the merest slit of barely-open eyelids. On the counter perched a perfectly innocent toaster. He'd watched any number of people make perfectly innocent toast.
Then Doug stepped into view, slices of bread in his unsuspecting hands, and Jamie shifted slightly on the lounger, his right thumb, concealed by the pocket in his hooded sweatshirt, activating the remote control he'd rigged.
Jamie couldn't hear the click of the toaster's new springs engaging--it was quiet enough to be covered by normal conversation, or even the coffeepot percolating, so if he'd been able to hear it all the way out by the pool, something would have been seriously amiss.
Two minutes later, he also couldn't hear the sound the toaster made as it shot Doug's breakfast high into the air, but he muttered "boing!" under his breath anyway, for the principle of the thing.
Two seconds after that, however, when the toast tripped the infrared beam he'd concealed six inches from the ceiling, Jamie was perfectly able to hear Robin Williams' voice bellowing "GOOOOOD MORNING VIETNAAAAAAMM!" Jamie's tape player was by no means state of the art, but it did boast gratifyingly powerful speakers, even from behind three bags of flour and a closed cupboard door.
"The Clown Prince of Kansas versus the Denver Dictionary. Round one," he murmured, grinning, as he rolled off the lounger and jogged toward the mansion.
"Ding."
Jamie reclined on a deck lounger near the pool, the very picture of a comfortable nap: muscles limp, expression blank, breath shallow and regular. He could teach graduate-level courses on how to pretend to be asleep, and in fact the only thing suspicious about his current pose was that it was six in the morning and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, not a combination generally considered to be salutary for the poolside nap.
His position did, however, allow Jamie an excellent view of the kitchen counter through an unshuttered window and the merest slit of barely-open eyelids. On the counter perched a perfectly innocent toaster. He'd watched any number of people make perfectly innocent toast.
Then Doug stepped into view, slices of bread in his unsuspecting hands, and Jamie shifted slightly on the lounger, his right thumb, concealed by the pocket in his hooded sweatshirt, activating the remote control he'd rigged.
Jamie couldn't hear the click of the toaster's new springs engaging--it was quiet enough to be covered by normal conversation, or even the coffeepot percolating, so if he'd been able to hear it all the way out by the pool, something would have been seriously amiss.
Two minutes later, he also couldn't hear the sound the toaster made as it shot Doug's breakfast high into the air, but he muttered "boing!" under his breath anyway, for the principle of the thing.
Two seconds after that, however, when the toast tripped the infrared beam he'd concealed six inches from the ceiling, Jamie was perfectly able to hear Robin Williams' voice bellowing "GOOOOOD MORNING VIETNAAAAAAMM!" Jamie's tape player was by no means state of the art, but it did boast gratifyingly powerful speakers, even from behind three bags of flour and a closed cupboard door.
"The Clown Prince of Kansas versus the Denver Dictionary. Round one," he murmured, grinning, as he rolled off the lounger and jogged toward the mansion.
"Ding."
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