Evan Edgelow punched Timothy Thicke in the face. Hard. “TELL ME WHAT I NEED TO KNOW!” he screamed.
“I don’t know anything!” choked Thicke.
“Just tell me and I’ll stop!” shouted Edgelow. “You have my word!”
“I didn’t take your candy bar!”
“Oh, it’s in my pocket,” said Edgelow. “Sorry.”
The only difference between this torture scene and any given torture scene in 24
is… Well, nothing, really. Marginal justification? Check. Personal relationship or history with the victim? Check. Unrealistic success rate? Check.
“Did you just shoot the chief of police?” asked Timothy Thicke, incredulous.
“No,” grunted Evan Edgelow. “It’s a mask.” He peeled off the imposter’s fake face.
“Wait,” said Thicke. “It’s another mask.” Underneath the second mask was the chief of police.
“Hold on… A third mask?”
Phew. No fourth one.
“We have to whack the President,” said Evan Edgelow.
“What?” said Timothy Thicke. “Barack Obama, the President of the United States?”
“No. The President of the Miley Cyrus Unofficial Fan Club. We have to hit him with a rolled up newspaper.”
“I don’t ask questions. Publicity stunt, probably.”
“Do you expect me to talk?” scoffed Evan Edgelow.
“No, Mr. Edgelow,” said Dr. Maisoui, “I expect you to shout.” He pressed a button. The laser-light machine was very loud.
Edgelow only smirked as Timothy Thicke crept up behind the doctor, hit him with a potted plant, and shrugged modestly.
Timothy Thicke peered through the binoculars, watching as Evan Edgelow lobbed a smoke grenade. He paused a moment to wipe condensation off the binocular lenses.
When he looked back, Edgelow was gone.
“Mission accomplished,” Edgelow whispered from beside him.
“How do you do that?!” Thicke asked, amazed.
“Optical illusions, mostly.”
Timothy Thicke shivered as Evan Edgelow put all of his poker chips in the middle of the table. Thicke knew what the other onlookers didn’t: Edgelow was putting more than just his money on the line.
“I fold,” pronounced Edgelow’s opponent in disgust.
Thicke and Edgelow smiled, relieved.
“Remind me again,” shouted Timothy Thicke, “why I just fell out of an airplane.”
“Because I pushed you,” yelled Evan Edgelow.
“And why did you push me?”
“Our cover was blown.”
“And why did you grab the stewardess, too?”
“I have a thing for redheads! Also, she has the parachute.”
“Evan,” said Timothy Thicke, “do you think these crazy spy games will ever end? Will we ever be free to walk openly in the streets? Will I ever be able to start a family?”
Evan Edgelow thought for a minute. “Yes to the first two questions. No to the third.”
They stood back to back, gripping their handguns nervously, surrounded by a leering ring of well-armed henchmen.
“We’re so going to die!” Thicke sputtered, his eyes clouding with tears.
“Hush!” commanded Evan Edgelow. “No one is dying tonight!”
He paused, looked around, then grinned eagerly. “Ok, I take that back.”
After evading terrorist capture, two men checked into a backwater motel using pseudonyms.
“Are you married?” Timothy Thicke asked Evan Edgelow.
“No,” said Edgelow. “Everyone I get close to ends up dead.”
Thicke thought about this. “You wouldn’t call us… friends, would you?”
“Thank goodness,” said Timothy Thicke.