“S’up, Mr. Stranger?”
“What is that thing on your head?”
“Oh, this?” Jimmy touched the awesome bundle of hair he’d tied up on top. “It’s called a man bun. It’s the hot new look on my planet. Pretty badass, huh?”
Jimmy saw Mr. Stranger pause, scowling as he checked the internet thingy implanted in his brain. “Apparently the latest ‘hipster’ fashion trends on your home world require looking like an effeminate lumberjack in a romper. What an odd dimension . . . Please, have a seat, Jimmy.” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “We need to talk about your future with the company.”
“Cool.” Jimmy sat down. As usual, Mr. Stranger’s desk was super organized. There was a cup with pencils in it and they were all exactly the same length and uniformly sharp. Even the papers in his inbox were perfectly lined up. “When I get my own giant fighting robot, I want it to look like a ninja turtle. Not Donatello though. Who wants a friggin’ pole? But everybody always wants to be Leonardo with the sword. That’s cliché. So I’m thinking nunchucks.”
“I’m afraid discussing the relative merits of various turtle-based weapon systems is not why I have summoned you. Now please, I am attempting to show an appropriate amount of sensitivity. Because you once saved my life—”
“I sure did! That Jeff Conundrum guy is such a douche! He’s like the worst insurance agent ever, like how way back he let your home planet get blown up. He’s our competition but his company is a total rip-off. It was pretty awesome how you left him trapped in Hell.”
“Indeed. That was rewarding. Now please, stop interrupting . . .” Mr. Stranger cleared his throat and tried again. “I had high hopes that you would develop the skills necessary to provide quality customer service. With this internship completed, you will be graduating soon—”
“With a degree in Gender Studies I’ll be making the big bucks!”
His boss sighed. “Yes . . . Gender Studies.”
“I just got to say, Mr. Stranger, these last few months have been the best time of my whole life. I’ve gotten to fly around outer space, blow up monsters with lasers, and meet all sorts of hot alien chicks, and they’re all like, whoa, you’re with Tom Stranger? Whaaaaat? And I’m all like, yeah baby, I’m his right-hand man. And they’re all swooning and stuff. You know what I’m saying?”
“As usual, not really.”
“Before this internship I didn’t really know what to do with my life, man. You can only go to so many protests before you get tired of catching scabies, and all the ladies are bossy with dreadlocks and smell funny, and blocking freeway traffic with your body isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds. Insurance is James Bond super cool. I love being an insurance agent. This job is like the best thing ever!”
Tom Stranger took a deep breath. “Then I’m afraid that I have some unfortunate news. It is with great sadness that I must inform you that you are being term—”
Suddenly the Claim Alarm sounded. “AWWWWOOOOOGA! CODE RED! CODE RED! ALL ASSOCIATES ON DECK! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”
The announcement was so loud that Jimmy fell backwards in his chair. With catlike reflexes honed over months of hard core insurancing, Jimmy rolled to the side and tried to take cover behind a potted plant.
“What’s going on, man?” he screamed, trying to be heard over the shrieking noise.
Mr. Stranger had leapt to his feet. “That alert only sounds when one of our Premium Comprehensive Platinum Policy holders files a Level Ten Claim.”
“That sounds bad! Is that bad?”
“Exceedingly.” Mr. Stranger calmly walked to a big case mounted on the wall, which read In Case of Armageddon Break Glass, and shattered it with his fist. He reached inside and pulled out an unremarkable leather briefcase. “I must get to the conference room.”
It was crazy out in the office. The lights were flashing red. Junior Associates were ducking and covering beneath their desks. Someone had taken a bunch of files, dumped them into a wastepaper basket, and set it on fire. Jimmy had never seen his coworkers wig out like this before. Another intern ran by wearing nothing but football pads with spikes on them.
“I’m scared!”
“That’s just the customary dress of Fred’s people. I should have never allowed the implementation of Casual Friday. That decision also allowed such travesties as your man bun,” Mr. Stranger explained as they hurried down the hallway. “Oh, wait, you are remarking upon the general atmosphere of pandemonium and terror. That is to be expected with a Level Ten Claim. The last time we had one of these, hundreds died.”
That totally sucked, but from what Jimmy knew about Interdimensional Insurance, that sort of thing happened all the time. “Compared to whole planets blowing up, hundreds doesn’t seem too bad.”
“I meant hundreds in this office. The death toll across the Multiverse was incalculable. Many brave Junior Associates gave their lives. It was a dark day for insurance. Our entire HR department was vaporized. We even had to replace the carpet.”
“Whoa. So what were you about to tell me when that siren went off, Mr. Stranger?”
“It will have to wait. If we do not all perish, we will speak again later.”
“Cool, cool.” Mr. Stranger was a busy dude, he’d get around to Jimmy’s promotion later. They had reached the conference room and it was filled with nervous employees loading guns and checking spreadsheets. Jimmy would just have to wait until after this Level Ten thingy was cleared up before he got his fat raise and some sweet nunchucks.
Tom had dealt with several Level Ten claims over his career and he knew that they always required the utmost care. To qualify as a Level Ten, the potential damages had to be staggering, the likely outcomes catastrophic. Previous events of such magnitude had caused the fall of empires, the extinction of species, the destruction of worlds, and a great deal of customer dissatisfaction.
Muffy had already prepared the conference room, put a pot of coffee on, and even had time to apply her war paint. She had gone with a festive blue Braveheart theme. “We’re all ready, Mr. Stranger.”
“Excellent. Which Platinum Policy is it, Ms. Wappler?”
“The big one,” she whispered.
“CorreiaTech Prime?”
“The Interdimensional Lord of Hate himself is on the line.”
The room fell deadly silent. A few of the weaker-willed Junior Associates fainted.
Not only was this their biggest account, but this particular claim was coming from the merciless CEO of the most powerful megacorporation in the Multiverse, a man whose hobbies included collecting vintage antique atomic bombs, who subsisted on a diet of endangered unicorn steaks, who was so rich that when he shot trap and skeet, he used Fabergé eggs instead of clay pigeons.
That guy . . .
“Put him through, Ms. Wappler.”
The ruggedly handsome, totally ripped CEO appeared on the screen, smoking a cigar.
“Greetings, sir. How can we serve your insurance needs today?”
The Interdimensional Lord of Hate ran one massive hand through his thick, luxurious, heavy metal-quality hair in a very frustrated manner. “Damn it, Tom! Where’s my manatee?”
“I do not understand.”
“Wendell volunteered to help you at that panel thing this morning, with you, your idiot sidekick—”
“Hey!”
Tom shushed Jimmy.
“And that bald fat clone version of me who writes fantasy books or some crap.”
“Technically, the author is not a clone, merely another version of you from an alternative reality, who is, comparatively speaking, an utter failure.”
“Lame. Whatever. Anyways, my CFO went missing after your presser. I’d leave it up to my private army, but our scans show another dimension was involved, so his abduction should be covered.”
There were gasps from the Junior Associates. Wendell the Manatee had been kidnapped! This was terrible news.
“That is most unfortunate. I can assure you that Stranger & Stranger
will not rest until we find him and your claim is settled.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for, Tom. I don’t know who took him, but you’d better shake the trees until something falls out, or there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
Tom made a solemn vow. “I will not rest until Wendell sleeps with the fishes.”
Only Jimmy was confused. “We’re going to kill him in a mob hit?”
“What is wrong with you?” Muffy whispered.
“What?” Now it was Tom’s turn to be puzzled. “No, Jimmy. He lives in the ocean. We are going to return him to his home.”
“Oh, okay. But I still don’t get what’s so important about one manatee?”
All of the other Junior Associates stared at Jimmy like he was insane. Then they quickly stepped away from him, clearing a circle like he was about to get struck by lightning. Which he probably was, since the Interdimensional Lord of Hate had snarled and raised his mighty finger and thumb, poised to snap.
“Please forgive him, your Hateyness. Jimmy is but a lowly intern, ignorant in the ways of the Multiverse. I assume you are aiming a satellite death ray or some such device at him as we speak. I would politely ask you to refrain from disintegrating any of my staff.”
“Fine.” The Interdimensional Lord of Hate lowered his fingers. “But I’ll elaborate for your village’s idiot. Wendell may be my accountant, and we’ve roped him into playing the cleric in our monthly company D&D night, but it isn’t me you have to worry about. When his people find out, they’re going to be torqued. They will call for a hooning.”
Tom was proficient in six hundred and eighty-five languages so he explained it for his staff who weren’t as knowledgeable. “The word is rather nuanced, but hoon is the battle cry of the Manatee. They are slow to anger, but when it comes, it is terrible to behold.”
“Damned skippy. There isn’t anything scarier than a herd of vigilante sea cows on a rampage. They tend to nuke first and ask questions later.”
It was a race against time. “Understood, sir. Consider it done.”
“Good. Contrary to what my critics might say, I don’t like when whole planets get slaughtered. Losing that many customers sucks. CorreiaTech Prime out.” The screen went dark.
“Okay, am I the only one who is really super confused?” Jimmy asked. “The manatees on my Earth are pretty chill.”
“That’s what they want you to think!” Muffy said. “Does your home world have legends of the sunken continent of Atlantis?”
“Yeah, sure, I think so.”
“Who do you think sunk it?”
“Enough,” Tom ordered. “Muffy is correct. Manatees are known for two things: their fiscal responsibility, and their unrelenting thirst for vengeance once provoked. Wendell is a hero to his herd. His kidnapping will surely rouse their fiery Florida-Man tempers. Their justice will be swift, unflinching, and indiscriminate. If we do not retrieve him quickly, the Multiverse will face a murder of manatees.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Big 10 AM Shakedown
Miami, Florida
Earth #984-A-3256
FOR CLAIMS LIKE THIS, Tom knew it was best to start at the scene of the incident. He quickly assembled a crack team of forensic insurance investigators and they traveled through the Thorne Gate back to the press conference center. The parking lot was quickly filled with Stranger & Stranger battlemechs and hover tanks from across the Multiverse.
After interviewing the witnesses and watching the security camera video, Tom had a good idea what had happened. After concluding the panel, Wendell’s handlers had wheeled his giant fish tank back to his signature monster truck. Of course, Wendell had been given the VIP parking space. While loading they had been set upon by invisible attackers (good invisibility cloaks, too, genuine Predator brand, not the chintzy knock-off invisibility cloaks you could pick up at Walmart on any half-decent world).
The handlers had been stunned with phasers and had not seen a thing. Wendell was a fearsome warrior, usually armed with several advanced CorreiaTech weapons but, alas, had been distracted looking at his phone, having a political debate on Twitter (where the popular manatee had more than ten billion followers) and had never seen them coming. His fish tank had been shot with a freeze ray, instantly solidifying the water and placing the noble sea cow into cryostasis. Then the whole thing had been rolled into a suspicious black van with out-of-universe plates which had been waiting nearby. The kidnappers were gone in seconds.
This was the work of professionals. The only DNA found at the scene was aquatic mammal. The kidnappers had left no tracks, and according to Miss Cleo, no psychic residue. They were well trained, well armed, and highly motivated. This was shaping up to be quite the challenge.
“All right, listen up Junior Associates, our manatee has been missing for 90 minutes. Average rocket-boost-assisted hover van speed is 400,000 miles an hour. That gives us a radius of 600,000 miles. What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse in that area. Checkpoints go up at the edge of the solar system. Your manatee’s name is Wendell. Go get him.”
“Whoa! I love that movie too, Mr. Stranger!”
“What movie?” Tom was momentarily puzzled why Jimmy the Former Intern was present at all, but then he remembered that in the heat of the moment he had neglected to finish firing him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jimmy. I forgot to tell you that you’re fired.”
It took Jimmy a moment to process that. “Huh?”
“Fired. Terminated. You are no longer employed by Stranger & Stranger. It was due to your terrible performance review. I should have told you back at the office and saved you the drive. I would be happy to discuss this with you later so that you may learn from your mistakes, but right now I must focus on staving off the Sea Cow Apocalypse.”
Tom did not enjoy rudeness, but he had no choice but to leave Jimmy befuddled and stammering in the parking lot. He had much work to do. The rest of his team were running back to their vehicles. There was a series of sonic booms as mechs blasted off. He found that Muffy was busy consulting the Galactic Data Sphere, searching for any individual or group which might hold a grudge against the manatee, either professional or personal. Professionally, the Chief Financial Officer of an ultra-powerful, Multiverse-spanning megacorporation tended to make enemies. The personal list was far longer, but mostly because Wendell tended to talk a lot of trash while playing Call of Duty online multiplayer.
“Ms. Wappler, this morning a reporter asked a pointed question about a hostile takeover. Do you have any further information concerning that?”
“I sure do. CorreiaTech wants to merge a whole bunch of super evil companies together, and really corner the market on evil products.”
“Sounds evil, yet efficient. Do you have a list?”
“A bunch of our clients are already on there: Weyland-Yutani, Cyberdyne Systems, LexCorp, Umbrella, Kentucky Fried Velociraptor, and United Airlines.” Muffy sent the data directly to his infolink. “You got a hunch, Mr. Stranger?”
“A good agent must follow his instincts,” Tom said as he picked up his Doomsday Briefcase and headed for his mech.
As Tom strapped into the pilot’s seat and prepared for takeoff, he noticed poor Jimmy still wandering the parking lot, lost and forlorn, dreams shattered, forever deprived of the opportunity to provide quality customer service. Perhaps Muffy had been right, and it would have been more merciful to put him out of his misery. Just not on the new carpet.
“This sucks,” Jimmy muttered as the last of the groovy space tanks and giant robots blasted off, leaving him all by himself. There was a conveniently located can for him to angrily kick down the road.
It wasn’t fair. Jimmy had been awesome as an insurance intern. He’d made copies, fetched coffee, and only ate an appropriate amount of doughnuts when Muffy brought them in. Where did Mr. Stranger get off with his fancy evaluations? That cabbage dude had been stone cold. Nobody could ha
ve sold that heartless bastard insurance.
He had never really been good at much. Sure, he had a whole bunch of participation trophies, but now he was beginning to suspect those weren’t as meaningful as he’d always thought. But he’d worked super hard to get good at insurance, harder than he’d ever worked before. He’d even been pumping iron. Heck, he’d gone from a .07 on the Grylls Survivability Scale to a .09. A 1.0 was how much trauma it took to kill a single Bear Grylls, and Jimmy had a ways to go before that, but he’d started out equivalent to a standard Earth chicken, and now the GSS ranked him as survivable as a ficus plant. Though Jimmy didn’t know what a ficus plant was, he was certain it had to be pretty badass.
He’d come too far to give up now! He was going to show Mr. Stranger that he had what it took to be an insurance agent! He knew he could do it if he believed in himself hard enough. Only, unlike college, Mr. Stranger had standards. Begging wouldn’t work. Mr. Stranger only cared about customer service and results.
That gave Jimmy an idea. Everybody else was out trying to find their missing client, but if Jimmy could find that manatee first, he’d be golden. He wouldn’t just get his job back, he’d be Employee of the Month! All he had to do was figure out the Crime of the Century before all of the trained, competent people did.
Only he had something those guys didn’t. Most Junior Associates came from super tough worlds, where every day was a fight for survival, so they didn’t watch a lot of TV, but Jimmy had mastered the art of binge streaming and most of that had been cop shows. He’d had to keep his love of cop shows a dirty little secret from the other Gender Studies majors because they mostly watched Girls on HBO and if they found out, they would’ve yelled at him about cisnormative fascism or some other big words he didn’t really understand.
Target Rich Environment 2 Page 34