Typo squad, p.3
Typo Squad, page 3
part #1 of Typo Squad Series
“Richard!” the woman shouted, bounding out of her chair and nearly leaping the counter to get to him. She grasped him in a tight bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides.
“I prefer Dick,” he wheezed.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,” the woman said, and her raucous laughter echoed off the lobby walls. She leaned back, getting a better look at his face. “My God, it’s good to have you back.”
Thea sidled up next to them, smirking. “I’d ask if you remember Autumn Leeves, here,” she said to Dick, “but apparently you two remember each other just fine.”
Autumn finally released her grip on Dick and smoothed out his uniform shirt for him, taking her sweet time.
“Oh honey,” Autumn said to Thea, “you don’t forget a man like this. You sure do miss him, though.”
“And a man like this misses you too, sweetheart,” Dick said, leaning down to kiss her blushing cheek. He looked briefly around the lobby. “This place hasn’t changed much. Hey, do they still give you the confiscated typos?”
“Oh yeah!” Autumn said excitedly. “I was just reading one when you came in. C’mere—you gotta hear this one.”
She made her way back around the desk, Dick and Thea following. Autumn flipped open a folder and began to read. “From a cookbook, okay? ‘Add cinnamon, vanilla, and sugar, and stir in a small bowel.’” She burst into howling laughter, loud enough to echo off the lobby’s marble walls, as Dick and Thea looked on, their expressions unchanged.
“BOWEL!” Autumn shrieked. “Can you believe that? A small bowel!”
“Good one,” Dick said flatly.
Autumn’s laughter slowly tapered off. “Oh, you’re no fun. You used to be fun. Dick.”
Thea snorted laughter and offered Autumn a fist-pound, which Autumn was only too happy to return.
“Well, anyway, welcome back,” Autumn said to Dick. “The place was never the same without you.”
Dick and Thea made their way farther into the building. They turned a corner and entered an open, brightly lit office area dotted with old, industrial-style desks. Dick slowed down and eventually stopped, drinking in the familiar space.
Near one of the middle desks, four agents in Typo Squad uniforms were casually talking: a heavyset man with a dark crew cut, an older gentleman with a meticulously coiffed mane of silvery-white hair, an intense-looking dark-haired woman with her thumbs hooked into her uniform belt, and a very good-looking blond man with blindingly white teeth whom Dick didn’t recognize.
Before Dick had a chance to approach, a door on the far side of the office slammed open. A fat, sweating Asian man came through, holding a sheaf of paper. Everything stopped and all eyes were upon him.
“The mayor cut our goddamned budget again!” the Asian man shouted. “How the hell am I supposed to run this organization with no money?”
The other four looked to answer him, but he pointed a warning finger at them. “That was rhetorical! I’m not done ranting yet!”
The agents nodded and remained silent.
“I mean, look at these numbers!” The Asian man slapped the papers with his free hand as he began to pace. “What, are typos suddenly less deadly now? Can I just lay everybody off and hope that no typos make their way out into the general public?”
He had built up a head of steam, and the veins in his forehead stood out, pulsing. “I’m just barely getting by with what I have!” he suddenly exploded. “And if the mayor thinks I’m just going to sit by and let him slash a crucial service like Typo Squad, I will tell you this: he doesn’t know . . .” he stopped as he caught sight of Dick and Thea across the room. Dick winked at the man and offered a jaunty wave.
“. . . Dick,” the man finished.
After a few moments of silence, Thea gestured toward the Asian man. “I’m sure you remember Lieutenant Tanka,” she said.
Dick crossed the room and shook Tanka’s hand. “You never forget your first. Hey, boss.”
Tanka shook Dick’s hand in a bit of a daze, as though he couldn’t accept the reality of what he was seeing. Then he shook his head, let go of Dick’s hand, and folded his arms in front of him. He turned to Thea. “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped.
“Hey!” Thea said. “You told me to go get him, and I did!”
“Why did it take three days?”
“Oh, he was ready to come back on the first day,” Thea said dramatically. “But we decided to stay on the mountain and make passionate love out under the stars—”
“All right, all right, shut it!” Tanka barked.
“Shutting it. Sir,” Thea said, grinning.
As Tanka silently sized Dick up, the other agents made their way toward him; the blond stranger with the bright teeth hung back. Thea gestured toward the heavyset man with the crew cut. “I’m sure no introductions are necessary. You remember Chris ‘Big’ Whig?”
Chris and Dick grabbed one another in a fierce hug. “Hey, Big,” Dick said with a grin. “You look like a million bucks.”
“Only if they’re paying by the pound,” Big said. “Good to have you back, my man.”
The men released one another and Thea nodded toward the older man. “And Ewan Hoozarmi?”
Ewan shook Dick’s hand and offered a small bow. “Having you back here is just like old times,” Ewan said in a clipped British accent.
“Every time with you is old times,” Big offered.
Ewan ignored him, nodding his head toward Thea. “Can you believe how young they are now? I daresay I was a member of Typo Squad before she was born.”
“You were a member of Typo Squad before everyone was born,” Big said.
Ewan turned to Big. “Christopher, as I have told you on numerous occasions, I refuse to engage your juvenile banter. On a related note, I engaged in intercourse with your mother last night, and must express my profound disappointment.”
Big laughed. “You have the most proper insults I’ve ever heard, you know that?”
“And of course,” said Thea, nodding toward the dark-haired woman, “Anna Flaxis.”
Anna approached Dick, unhooked her thumbs from her belt, and slapped him hard across the face.
“You lost me a bet, you son of a bitch,” she said. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Anna smiled, threw her arms around Dick’s neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Thea turned to Big. “Jesus. Her too?”
“Now that Dick’s back, that’s a phrase you’re going to be saying a lot,” Big said. He leveled a gaze at her. “A lot.”
Anna released Dick from her embrace. “Welcome back,” she said gruffly.
The blond man finally made his way over. His arms were crossed and he had a cocksure sneer on his face, to which Dick took an instant dislike. The man took a few moments to look Dick up and down, and then his sneer turned to a smirk as he at last held out his hand.
“Scott Shwiski,” he said, aggressively grabbing Dick’s hand and squeezing tighter than was necessary. “Typo Squad field commander.” Dick squeezed back, but when he let go, Scott held on. “I wasn’t aware that we were in the business of teaching old dogs new tricks,” he said.
Dick stared at Scott as an uncomfortable silence filled the room. He took back his hand and smiled. “Well, see, the great thing about old dogs is that we’re well-trained,” Dick said. “The problem with pups is that they’re always pissing all over the floor. Oh, and they’re all bark and no bite.”
Scott’s expression turned thunderous. Dick turned away from him and addressed the rest of the team. “Well, thanks to most of you for that warm reception.” Dick looked around. “So. What now?”
Tanka approached and thumbed the old insignia on Dick’s uniform sleeve. “Old school may be popular these days,” he said, “but you’re out of uniform, Agent Shonnary.”
“Same ol’ Tanka,” Dick said. “Hey, it’s weird that this is just occurring to me. I’ve known you for, what, twenty years now? Do you have a first name?”
“No,” said Tanka simply.
Dick paused for elaboration.
“Do you have a last name, then?” Dick pressed.
“No.”
“So you’re just Tanka?”
“Just Tanka.”
“And you never considered a career as a pop star?” Dick asked.
“When I’m stuck in conversations like this, I do regret my career choice,” Tanka said. He picked up the budget paperwork from a nearby desk. “Oh yes—and when I have to deal with bullshit.”
“Hey, if I’m not in the budget, I’ll go back to my cabin on the mountain and resume my career as the world’s worst fisherman,” Dick said.
“He really is pretty bad,” Thea interjected.
“After it took this long to get you back to civilization?” Tanka asked. “Not on your life. Get a new uniform and meet us on the range in half an hour.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Typo Squad shooting range occupied the entire basement floor of the headquarters building. At one end was the armory; at the other were paper targets that approximated the human form.
Dick finished buttoning his new uniform shirt as he and Thea arrived at the range’s outer door. Tanka, Big, Ewan, Scott, and Anna were waiting for them.
“Lookin’ good,” Big said. “Black really is your color, Dick.”
“They say black is slimming,” Ewan said, eyeing Big. “Of course, they say a lot of things.”
“Oh, good one, Ewan,” Big said. “Hey, how exciting was it to carve the face on the Sphinx?”
“Nearly as exciting as suckling on your mother’s teats when you were finished with them,” Ewan replied, not skipping a beat. “Nearly.”
“Knock it off, the both of you,” Tanka growled. “Are you ready?” he asked Dick.
“Let’s find out.” Dick followed as Tanka swung open the heavy steel door that led to the range.
Dick was surprised to find the range already occupied. Standing near the firing stalls was a tall, skinny man with a prominent nose and tight black goatee. He was speaking quietly with three young recruits, easily spotted by their red uniforms and caps.
Dick wasted no time in sneaking up behind the man. “Well, well, well,” Dick said loudly, and the man jumped. “If it isn’t my old friend, Justin Case.”
A huge smile spread across Justin’s face, revealing two rows of crooked teeth. “Dick Shonnary!” he cried, grabbing Dick’s outstretched hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “What’re you doing here?”
“Haven’t you heard?” he smiled. “I’m back on the team.”
“Provisionally,” Scott called from a distance. Everyone ignored him.
“Wow,” Justin said. “Wow. Well welcome back.”
Dick turned his attention to the recruits: a dark-haired kid with glasses, a teenage girl with piercing blue eyes, and a gangly redhead boy. They were regarding Dick with a mixture of awe and fear.
Dick looked over his shoulder at Thea. “And I thought you looked young.”
“I am young,” Thea replied.
The kid with the glasses swallowed hard and seemed to find his voice. “Are you . . . are you the Dick Shonnary?” he asked timidly.
“Yes,” Dick replied simply.
“Wow,” he heard the redheaded boy say under his breath.
Dick turned to Justin. “Do you mind if I take over for a minute?”
Justin smiled and spread his arms wide. “By all means.”
Dick clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the three young people in front of him. “What, cadets don’t stand at attention anymore?”
The three of them immediately slapped their arms tight by their sides, stood up straight, and puffed their chests out, staring straight ahead.
“You,” Dick said to the dark-haired boy, starting to pace back and forth in front of them. “What is Typo Squad?”
“Typo Squad is a division of law enforcement charged with protecting the general public from typographical errors,” the boy said quickly. “Sir.”
Dick stopped in front of the girl. “And why does the general public need protecting from typographical errors?” he asked.
“Because typographical errors are fatal to ninety-eight percent of the population,” the girl replied. “Sir.”
“And what about the other two percent to whom typographical errors are not fatal?” he asked the red-haired boy.
“They join Typo Squad,” the boy said with a proud smile. “Or the Civilian Language Inspection Team.”
“And how do we more commonly refer to members of the Civilian Language Inspection Team?”
The boy turned slightly pink in the cheeks. “CLITs.”
Dick turned to Justin and gave an appreciative nod. Justin returned the gesture.
“And those who do join Typo Squad or the CLITs,” Dick said, returning to the first boy. “How do typos affect them?”
“With tics, sir.”
“And what is a tic?”
“It’s a physiological response upon encountering a typo,” the boy said. “Each person’s tic is unique.”
“And what is your tic, son?”
The boy’s eyes grew wide. He looked over at Justin, who nodded as he mouthed the words It’s okay.
“I get a terrible nosebleed whenever I see a typo,” the boy said quietly. “Sir.”
Dick turned to the girl. “And you?”
The girl paused, and then said haltingly, “Typos cause my legs to go numb, sir.”
Dick blinked at her for a long few moments. “That’s going to be a tough one to manage,” he said kindly.
The girl looked at him. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ll manage,” Dick said with a small pat on her arm. The girl blushed, smiling.
He moved on the redheaded boy. “And you?”
The boy looked at his feet. “I’d really rather not say,” he mumbled.
“Come on now, son,” Dick said. “Everyone in this room has one. There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”
The boy looked up at Dick, suddenly defiant. “Typos cause me to wet myself.”
Dick’s expression remained set. He leaned close to the boy. “Kid, believe me when I tell you this: I have seen much worse tics than that.”
The boy’s face brightened. “Really?”
“Much worse,” Dick repeated. “You’re gonna be all right.”
Dick took a step backward, regarding all three of them. He spread his arms wide and said, “Now who can tell me why this is the most important room in the entire Typo Squad organization?”
The cadets looked at one another helplessly. They clearly hadn’t gotten to that point in their training.
“Because,” Dick said, “this is where you train to use your weapon while managing your tics.”
He pointed to the far side of the range. “You see those targets down there? When the range is active, a card with a typo will drop down into your field of vision. It’ll activate your tic, and you’ll learn to take your shots while it’s happening.”
He turned back to his crew. “Hey Big, c’mere. Show them what I mean.”
Scott stepped in front of Big, blocking his way. “Sorry, old timer,” he said. “I give the orders around here.”
“Shut your hole, Shwiski,” Tanka growled. “Big, go ahead.”
Big trotted over. “I get to shoot stuff now?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dick said. “Show ’em how it’s done.”
Big stepped up to the nearest shooting stall. He put on ear and eye protection, then unholstered his sidearm.
“Active range!” Justin called out, flipping a large switch near the door. A Klaxon sounded and twirling yellow lights flashed along the ceiling. Dick gathered up the three cadets and pointed to a sign on the left-hand wall that read ALL NON-ACTIVE SHOOTERS LOOK HERE.
“It’s so you don’t have to deal with your tic while watching someone else shoot,” Dick explained. So no one was watching Big on the range, but they could hear him.
Bang!
“Fuck!” Big shouted.
Bang!
“Cunt waffle!”
Bang!
“Prick flaps!”
Bang!
“Nut bucket!”
Bang!
“Cock bunker!”
A silence fell over the range and remained unbroken until Big shouted, “Clear!” Dick, Tanka, Thea, Anna, Justin, and the three cadets crowded Big’s shooting stall, while Scott remained in the background.
“God, I’ve missed your tic,” Dick said as Big pressed the button to retrieve his target.
“I never know what’s going to come out,” Big said, “but y’know, I think ‘nut bucket’ might be my new favorite.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Thea piped up. “I think ‘cunt waffle’ could be a contender.”
Big unhooked the target and handed it to Dick, who displayed it for the cadets. Three perfect head shots, and two in the chest.
“See that?” asked Dick. “Big curses uncontrollably with his tic, and he can still pull shots like these. You guys will, too.”
The female cadet timidly raised her hand.
“Yes?” Dick asked.
“Um . . . I wondered if we might see you shoot,” she said quietly. “Sir.”
Dick looked from the girl to the rest of his team. Tanka shrugged.
“I’m sure you could use the practice,” Scott said waspishly. Again, he was roundly ignored.
“Go ahead, Dick,” Anna said. “Shake off that hermit rust.”
Dick looked at her. “Hermit rust?”
“Well, you weren’t shooting the fish, were you?”
“To be fair, he wasn’t catching them either,” said Thea.
“All right, all right,” Dick said. “I’ll take some shots.”
He stepped up to the shooting stall and put on the protective gear. As he unholstered his weapon, he saw the yellow lights flash and heard the Klaxon and a very muffled Justin call out that the range was active.
As he lined up his shot to the dead center of the target’s head, a sign swung down from the ceiling and into his field of vision. In bold black letters against a white background was the word THIER.
He felt it immediately. A warm sensation that seemed to bloom from the center of his brain, numbing his senses and making the world go hazy. An easy, lopsided grin came to his face and he felt his shoulder collide with the side of the shooting stall. He thought he heard voices calling from behind him, but with the ear protection he couldn’t be certain.
