(with apologizes and grins to Scoo)

Michael knew it had been a bad idea to visit Scoo next. As he hung in her basement, suspended from handcuffs and wearing nothing but boots and a pair of black suede chaps, he cursed himself for letting Operations talk him into this damned idea. After all, the old guy had no idea what it was like, being pursued by all these women, being treated like some kind of combination god and sex toy. And cheesy poofs. He'd die if he had to eat one more . . .

He heard the door open, and Scoo came bounding down the stairs. "Well, have you decided to be a bad boy? Or am I going to have to get out my pirate costume?"

He sighed. "Okay. I'm a bad boy. Just let me down. These things really hurt."

Scoo rolled her eyes. "You know, you're not all you're cracked up to be."

"I'm sorry. Torture tends to make me woozy. Call it a character flaw."

Scoo let him down, and he rubbed his wrists. "Would you like a cheesy poof? I just bought six bags."

"No thanks. Regulations. We're on a strict cheesy poof-restricted diet. Madeline's orders."

Scoo flipped her long, luxurious blonde hair. "Well, she's no fun." She winked. "But I'm very fun. Do you want to hear my rap song about it?"

"No, thanks." His ears hadn't recovered from her last rap rendition of "Funky-Monkey Birky Love." They hadn't hurt that much since he was tortured by Red Cell in Morrocco. "Can I get dressed now? I've got work."

"I suppose. Although you should consider wearing chaps more often. They show off some of your best assets."

"I'm not really into the whole Western look." He pulled his pants on. "Hey, who cut the cheeks out of my pants?"

Scoo batted her lashes and grinned. "Oh, it was just one of those tragic sewing accidents!"

"Do you have something I can wear? That I won't get arrested in?" He thought the latter statement was necessary, in view (and he'd had a lot of it the that two days) of what he'd seen of Scoo's wardrobe.

She pouted. "I have some old gray sweats. I suppose you have have them."

Great. Now we're cooking, he thought. "And they would be . . .?"

She grinned. "Why, in my boudoir. Why don't you come up and we'll see if we can find them--together we should be able to fit you into something agreeable."

He sighed. At least he was out of the handcuffs. Operations would never understand the sacrifices he made on behalf of Section; Birkoff, however, would live vicariously through this little adventure for years. "You know, we have a mission. You know, terrorists. Bad guys. We're supposed to stop them."

Scoo turned. "You know, if those guys would get a decent lay, maybe they wouldn't have to terrorize the world."

"You're grasp of the psycho-dynamics of world politics is amazing."

Finally, Michael found a suitable pair of pants. He tooks Scoo out to the van, where everyone else had been waiting since Michael "ran in" to get her.

"About time!" Enjoue' said, as the van door rolled back. "We've been living on diet Pepsi and cheesy poofs and I've really got to go to the bathroom!"

"Yeah," said Nikita507, "What took you so long?"

"I got a little tied up."

Scoo giggled. The rest of the storyboard writers glared at him. "Okay, bathroom break. Ten minutes. If you're not back--" he shouted to their retreating forms, "--the van's leaving without you!"

He closed the door and sat down to wait. The door between the cargo and driver's section rolled back. "Hi there, Spyboy!"

"Oh, no!" he groaned. "Not you."

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