WHO: Simon Liebowitz [THE PHANTOM REPORTER II], Mandy McNamara [ELECTROCLASH] and the ghost of Eli Liebowitz [THE PHANTOM REPORTER I] WHAT: An innocent study session turns into Meet the Dead Grandparent WHEN: Backdated to early in the exam period WHERE: Room #S104, Science Dorms STATUS: Complete!
SIMON: This was not going as Simon had hoped. Thanks to Brad's 'encouragement' he was all neurotic about the pressure to utilize this study session for sexytimes, but seduction was proving to be far from his forte. A total lack of appropriate mood music in his collection, several awkwardly delivered compliments and two abysmally failed 'yawn maneuvers' later, and he was about ready to just bury his head in the sand forever.
"Would you like a soda?" He asked, trying to keep the abject misery out of his tone as he stood. "I'll grab us a couple from the vending machine. If I can find it. Ever since Ira made it ambulatory sodas have been a bit more... evasive." With a lopsided smile he stepped out of the cluttered dorm room he shared with Steve, as well as the monstrous mechanical contraption that took up most of his side of the room, covered conspicuously with a large tarp. Yes, the Phantom Typewriter was here in all its glory, though it had been relatively silent up until now...
MANDY: She'd had better study sessions, that was for sure -- and as rare of an occasion as they were, it didn't say much for the evening. For one, the other half (or halves) usually didn't act like they had a particularly bad case of constipation. For two, the other things in the room usually weren't the most interesting parts. For three, her only previous memory of being in that room involved vomiting on Simon's bed while the island was run over by zombies. And for four, although not even Mandy McNamara was immune to the little smile that came with genuine-sounding compliments, they seemed so out-of-place that even Michael Cera would start feeling uncomfortable.
"Yeah, cool," Mandy said, giving him a tight-lipped smile and an encouraging(?) thumbs up.
The door swung partially-shut.
Sorry, Simon, your privacy simply wasn't at the top of her list of priorities, and covering something with a tarp was just inviting nosiness. She ignored the various calling cards of geekdom and zeroed in on his apparent third roommate, scooting towards it on her knees. She lifted the tarp and stuck her head underneath, which put her face-to-face with the one and only Phantom Typewriter. It looked old enough to be an antique, and she hit a key to see if the thing even worked any more.
GRANDPA LIEBOWITZ: At Mandy's simple touch the steampunk behemoth began to whirr into action, pistons pumping and gears churning. In tandem with the general ruckus, the keys on the keyboard began to furiously tap away of their own accord, sending corresponding hammers down on the roll of paper now churning out of the mouth of the beast.
HEY WHAT'S THE DOPE WHOSE BEEZER IS THAT IN MY TENT PULL THIS SHROUD OFF AND LET ME GET A LOOK-SEE AND LORDY HELP YOU IN YOU'RE HERE FOR TROUBLE CAUSE BY GUM TROUBLE IS MY MIDDLE NAME
MANDY: "HOLY FUCK," she shouted, losing her balance and landing flat on her butt, legs in a tangle. She was still covered by the tarp and lifted it to peek out into the rest of the room and the partially-opened door, wondering if anyone had heard the outburst and was coming to the rescue. Nope. She crawled out from underneath and ripped the tarp off, which was unceremoniously tossed onto Simon's bed.
Well then. Being Science, the most plausible option seemed to be that Simon had invented the antique and infinitely more cryptic version of AOL Instant Messenger's beloved SmarterChild. Artificial intelligence to keep him company on lonely nights? That seemed more characteristic of Sebastian, if anyone out of the myriad geeks. Confirmation, however, was required before drawing such unflattering conclusions.
She stepped back over to the gargantuan typewriter and began to type, capital letter by capital letter, the simple phrase 'WHAT THE HELL'.
GRANDPA LIEBOWITZ: The moment Mandy's typed query was finished the keys set to clattering away again, filling the room with the noise of a press bullpen.
YOU WATCH THAT CUSSING ROUND YOUR ELDERS, MISSY NOW YOU'VE GOT TWO SHAKES TO MAKE WITH A HANDLE AND THE DOPE ON WHY YOU'RE IN MY GRANDSON'S ROOM UNCHAPERONED AND DON'T EVEN CON ANY FLIMFLAM, DOLLY THIS IS THE PHANTOM REPORTER YOU'RE DEALING WITH
MANDY: This was far more sinister than a normal chat bot. It was a chat bot with his grandfather.
"Fine, I'll play along," she said aloud, thinking it was to no one in particular.
Back to the keyboard, where this time she spelled out 'GRANDSON', question mark, question mark, question mark, question mark. She paused briefly while contemplating whether or not to enter the next thing that had come to mind. The thought had her chuckling to herself.
GRANDPA LIEBOWITZ:
WHAT'RE YOU A DUMMERER MY GRANDSON SIMON WHERE IS THE LITTLE NEWSHAWK THIS BETTER NOT BE SOME BADGER GAME YOU'RE PLAYING I WON'T STAND FOR NO FLIMFLAMMING OF MY BOY BY SOME DOLLED UP CON KITTEN STATE YOUR GAME OR GRAB AIR
MANDY: "Con kitten?" she replied, rolling her eyes at the absurd contraption in front of her. She didn't know what 'grab air' meant, but she could state a game.
i'm mandy i'm here to make your grandson a man
GRANDPA LIEBOWITZ:
WELL AIN'T THAT A FINE HOW-YOU-DO SO YOU'RE THE DAME HE'S ALL DIZZY OVER AND AIN'T YOU A RIGHT NUMBER TO BOOT I'LL BE SQUARE WITH YOU, SWEETHEART FOR A WHILE I THOUGHT MY BOY MIGHT BE A GUNSEL BUT HE DOES ME PROUD LANDING A MOLL LIKE YOU
MANDY: The only way to describe her current state was 'flustered' and she had completely blanked on any further ideas for baiting The Phantom Reporter I, or whatever the hell that was she was speaking -- sort of -- with.
first i don't know wtf a gunsel is second i don't know what you're talking about third i was kidding fourth this is fucking creepy
SIMON: It was in the midst of Mandy's flustered keysmashing that Simon made his return, awkwardly bumping the door open with his arms full of a variety of sodas. "Man, that soda machine can really move. I didn't know what you wanted so I got a little of DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!" The cans went clattering to the ground as Simon lurched forward, grabbing the corner of the tarp and flinging it crookedly over the Phantom Typewriter. Beneath the tarp the keys began to clatter away in response, but Simon stood stoically between Mandy and the hidden machine, his back pressed protectively against its frame.
"That's just... a science project of mine. Heh. So are you a cream soda or root beer girl?"
MANDY: "Hey! Your thing was talking to me," she protested. She wanted to add 'and you're not allowed to read', but that would be near enough to inviting him to take a peek.
"If I can just--have that transcript--" she said, trying to squeeze herself between Simon and the typewriter, one hand already on the tarp ready to pull it off.
SIMON: The realization that his senile grandfather's ghost had been talking to his crush sent nearly visible shivers of utter terror up and down Simon's spine. He jumped sideways to intercept Mandy, keeping himself in the now-might-tighter space between her and the tarp.
"Talking?" He repeated, with one of the most nervous chuckles in the history of such chuckles. "That's crazy, because it's-- It's just a typewriter, right? But I programmed it to, you know. Type for me." His voice nearly cracked it was so strained, an absolute testament to his inability to lie under duress. "We should probably be studying more now."
MANDY: "If it's just a typewriter, why won't you let me look at it?" she said indignantly, all the while trying to elbow and bump Simon out of the way (a feat easier said than done when standing only a hair over five feet tall.) She was getting visibly irritated, which she knew spelled trouble for both Simon and the typewriter -- how much electricity could that thing take, anyway?
"I think we're done studying!"
SIMON: "It's not interesting! Just an old antique." He insisted, while visions of being exposed as a poltergeist host and getting shipped off to the Gothic Castle whirled through his head. It wasn't too often Simon had the upper hand in terms of size, but in this case he was ready to use it, awkwardly taking hold of Mandy's shoulders trying to lead her back away from the clacking typewriter.
"So we can do something else! There's atomic fooseball in the commons room..."
MANDY: If there was one thing Mandy hated, it was being lied to. This was a very conspicuous one; an old antique was great-grandma's decrepit rocking chair, not a typewriter that talked back and claimed to be your grandfather. If there was another thing she hated, it was being pushed around, and although being grabbed by the shoulders wasn't the same thing as being shoved out of the way, well, same difference.
"Damnit, this is pissing me off, and the thing with new powers is --" she began, pausing briefly to give him a solid, two-handed shove so he wouldn't receive a personal demonstration of what she was trying to explain, and by the time she was ready to add 'they're hard to control' poor Simon was jolted back like he'd stuck the fork in the toaster.
Mandy looked back and forth between Simon and their point of contention. When she'd accidentally knocked out a first year in Latent Skills, he didn't stay unconscious very long -- typewriter it was. She ducked back under the tarp and ripped off the evening's new printed material, skimming quickly in case Simon rose from the (temporary) dead to snatch it back.
SIMON: Simon didn't even know what hit him - with a loud BZZT he was knocked backwards onto the bed, the tips of his now on-end hair quietly sizzling. He laid still for a couple moments before coughing heavily, and were this a cartoon one might imagine black puffs of smoke on his breath. "Did anyone get the license plate number of the verklempt dame that hit me...?" He mumbled dazedly, slowly trying to right himself.
MANDY: "It was your fault," she responded automatically. She didn't even notice the sudden adoption of some of his grandfather's vocabulary; in fact, she didn't really hear anything he said.
"But sorry, I guess." She hastily folded up the paper in her hand and tucked it under her arm. "Yeah, so like, I should probably go now. Unless you have brain damage. What's today's date?"
SIMON: "That depends on if I just time traveled or not." He answered only half-sarcastically, glancing around to get his bearings. Still, he seemed to be coming out of the stunned stupid fairly quickly, and his eyes drifted slowly back towards the typewriter as the fog of recollection began to clear. "Hey, did you--?"
MANDY: Nope, no brain damage.
"I studied you the shit out of some Covert Ops, that's what I did," she said, quickly turning towards the door to try to flee in a manner that didn't look like fleeing. Instead, her power walk quickly turned into a trot which turned into a run, and all three definitely spelled 'fleeing' clear enough for Simon to tell. Before she was out the door, however, she did manage one glance back for a quick wave goodbye.
SIMON: Simon had barely managed to find his phantom legs by the time Mandy was already halfway back to Capes, and he wobbled over to the typewriter. He thumbed the torn edge of paper morosely, but before he could dwell too much the keys were clattering away again;
WELL AIN'T SHE A POCKET FULL OF FIRECRACKERS, SONNY JIM YOU'VE GONE DONE FOUND A FEMME WITH SOME FATALE IN HER NOW DON'T YOU GO QUEERING THAT RACKET, MY BOY I WANT TO SEE SOME GRANDKIDS BEFO--
"Grandpa!!" Mortified, Simon threw the tarp back over the typewriter, his imagination wheeling with the things that may have been said in an exchange between his deceased ancestor and his not-so-secret crush while we was AWOL. Oi vey.