Mother's Day: A vile travesty.

Mother's Day.

What is this shenanigans? It's Mother's Day! I should wake up to brunch, a dozen roses, and a loving card from my two sons. Instead I find this taped to my bathroom mirror...



Am I really that bad? Am I Faye Friggin Dunaway? My sons have never seen me running around the house with Ponds all over my face, screaming NO WIRE HANGERS! Do I look like this!!? Have I ever done this??



I admit I've done this....



But certainly never THIS...



I'm not one of those OTHER Company parents who completely wiped their behinds with their children. I didn't walk out the door on my tubby son with nothing more than a head pat and $120 to carry him through a weeks worth of tasty treats at the Winchel's. My children are not electric psychopaths in need of Haldol to the point that they even freak out Sylar. My children aren't pining over stick figure drawing druggies, they just pine over the ones that pining. Ridiculous shenanigans!

If their father was in a grave, he'd be turning in it.

I say to my two sons to take personal responsibility for themselves, once and for all! Their powers are not my fault on purpose, and it isn't my problem that they aren't mentally equipped to deal with them. So Nathan can fly. Whoop de do! So can anyone on a good acid trip. So Peter is absorbent like a giant "emo" sponge. (Is that what you kids are saying these days? Emo? It was the hair, wasn't it?)



Additionally, people, and by people I mean MY CHILDREN, need to get over Kirby plaza already. Common sense would tell anyone with a brain that hasn't been turned into a canape by Mr. Gray, that if Peter has been in contact with his niece that HE CAN HEAL HIMSELF AND HENCE HEAL AFTER SAID EXPLOSION. In as much, since he's been with Nathan his WHOLE LIFE, it's his problem that he couldn't simply propel upwards and save the city himself. But Nathan had to butt in and screw everything. Peter could have been a hero. Nathan could have had a government job with full benefits. I could have had a cocktail and a hot date with Daniel Linderman. But NO! No one listens to me. No matter how fist over arse backwards my dastardly plans are, I know what I am doing and I am ALWAYS right! Do not question my authoritay!

<--Perhaps this is something Parkman Jr. can aspire to one day. The thought stealing maniac!

I'll give you wire hangers! Brats! How dare they! I was forced to make my own brunch! At least I'm skilled enough to make my cappuccino look pretty, as seen here...



Then I went out and stole some socks to self soothe.

Super Human Spoiled Brats! Hmph!

Musings in my confusion

So I'm kinda laying low for the time being. After winning the big jackpot and my problems with being a decoy, it's best I stay out of the spotlight a while. The Christmas party was a nice break... I get the impression more covert help will required of me soon, so I'd best get a start on that by going completely stealth, but not nearly as stealthy as my hero, Claude. *sigh* I think he's still annoyed at me for what happened while I was playing decoy so he could go to two funerals. I adore him but he's not the most trusting individual, not that I blame him. I have noticed the way he scowls any time Mr. Bennet is around. Claude won't talk about it, but I did see some sort of betrayal in my cards when I did a reading on it. I wish I knew how I could help.

Of course the fact that Claude rolls his eyes any time I try to offer help or even try to quietly approach him isn't very encouraging. For a man who's invisible, it seems the rest of us are transparent to him! Maybe I ought to just get him some beer and "shut it."

The only problem with that is, if I even look like I'm headed for a place that sells beer or alcohol, Claude finds a way to divert me from it. I still don't remember much from when I got drunk while in disguise, but I can tell you I'm avoiding drinking myself. Claude handles it just fine. Wish I could say the same for my handling of our...well whatever this is. I still can't even define it. Don't partners in crime or whatever talk to each other?





If I thought it wouldn't draw too much attention, I'd start my own business, not that I'm big on crowds, or that I like reading for money, but, I think it would be a lot less suspicious than trying to keep the casino gig going any longer. It would also keep my mind off of things. I'm also a lot less likely to get into trouble if I'm busy. I'd go back to Nursing, but the schedule is so limiting. I did love it but not being able to come and go as I pleased was rather confining as was trying to sleep so I'd be sharp for work. I'm nocturnal by nature, which was good for me as nights are not as quiet as one might think. Sleep is hard to come by for me as usually I get awakened or I have horrible nightmares of things to come. I'm glad I retired early from Nursing even if I'm now a seer who can't see her own future.

And Claude, if you're reading this, you should know I did have a dream about you and it wasn't a good one. I won't post it here as I dunno who else might read it, although I get the impression you'd rather read it than talk to me :( .

Push Hard

“Hanson, where the hell are you?” the Lieutenant screamed into his phone.

“You’re not going to believe this, chief,” I replied into mine. “I went to guard presidential candidate Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator like you asked, but then we went to South Dakota and rode a giant terrorist airship towards Area 52 until he and I brought it down. Pretty wild day.”

“I don’t care about your day. I don’t care if your paper boy brought you a hot fudge sundae with extra fudge!” he howled back. “I’ve got a job for you, you need to get to the Pookatoomi Building in Los Angeles, there’s a Die Hard situation going on there.”

“A Die Hard situation? Aw geez.” It seems like since that movie came out way back when, whenever a cop is in another city and some little trouble starts brewing, he immediately takes off his shoes and heads into the air ducts. “Can’t you send Agent Johnson?”

“Agent Johnson, Smith, Jones, and Shivolski are all on assignment, you’re the best of what we’ve got left Hanson,” he growled. “Don’t screw this up.”

“But what about catching Sylar?” I asked. “This is the Sicko Psycho Serial Killer Task Force, after all.”

“Don’t get me started on that Sylar crap. You’re still on my list about that crazy game show, losing to some guy in granny glasses and a soup bowl haircut. Now get to that Pookatoomi Building and take care of that situation!”

I said yes sir and quickly made my way to my new destination. The Pookatoomi Chocolate Company is a gigantic multinational candy conglomerate that started somewhere in Japan. I stalked up to what appeared to be the highest ranking local cop there and asked for a sitrep.

“There’s half a dozen terrorists keeping the people hostage,” he explained. “We have a man inside, John McStane, we’ve been talking to him over the radio.”

“Gimme that,” I took the radio from his hand. “Officer, this is Agent Audrey Hanson, FBI. I am here to negotiate the release of the chocolate hostages. What are you doing up there?”

“Who me? I just came here to drop the kids off at the pool,” he wisecracked back over the radio.

“Officer, what are you talking about?” I replied. “Do you have excrement for brains?”

“No, I brought my two kids here to swim in the condo pool,” he replied. “After I left them there, I noticed a guy with a machine gun and European shoes. Naturally I deduced that he was a European terrorist and I was right. So I dropped some mud on him.”

“You what?”

“There were a bunch of giant planters in the hallway here,” he replied. “I knocked him out with one and then I took his gun, took off my shoes, and went to the air ducts to get the others.”

“Listen here, Mister,” I barked into the radio. “We can’t have you going all poop crazy on us in there. My priority is to get those hostages out of there and safe. We can’t have you squeezing one out every time you see a terrorist. They’ll find you and then you’ll be up poop creek.”

“Hold on, I see one taking a steamer,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I got him, I dropped some logs on him.”

“You what?” I screamed. I looked at the police sergeant who just shrugged.

“He was walking through the steam room and I knocked him out with a giant tub of Lincoln Logs,” he explained. “There’s another in the bakery pinching a loaf of bread.”

“McStane!” I yelled.

“Don’t worry, I squirted Hershey’s syrup all over him and then knocked him out.”

“Dammit McStane, I need you out of there now!” I yelled.

“Oh my God,” he replied. “They’ve got a mule in there. They’re burning the mule! I repeat they’re burning a mule!”

“Why would they---?” My thought trailed off as I saw the flaming beast come running out the front door. Before anyone could react, the poor creature exploded right in front of the door, sending a SWAT team flying in all directions. “What kind of a maniac would burn a mule in an office lobby like that?”

“I don’t know,” the police sergeant shrugged. “Those guys in there must be nuts.”

“Wait a minute, the Sea Pickle!” McStane called over the radio.

“What?”

“The S.S. Sea Pickle is docked at the building next door,” he explained. “These guys burned the mule over here so they can take the service tunnel over to the dock to float away in the Sea Pickle.”

“Sergeant, send the SWAT team over to the dock,” I ordered. “Have them stop the Sea Pickle!”

A squad of police rushed over to the next building. There were a few quick bursts of gunfire then things grew quiet.

“We got ‘em,” the SWAT leader announced on the radio. “The remaining terrorists are now in our custody.

“Wow, that was some fancy deducing,” I complemented McStane. “How’d you figure that all out?”

“Just lucky I guess,” he replied. “I’m just an analog cop in a digital world.”

“Well, you’re all right in my book,” I answered? “In fact, you’re number one. No, better make that Number two.”