Get In, Loser - We're Committing Grand Larceny

Chapter 1 of 3: The Pickup

It was 3 AM on a cul-de-sac in West Brompton — when the roar of a car engine, whistling of wind, and bass-boosted Billie Eillish ripped through the night.

Within a breaking-the-speed-limit second, the jet-black Lamborghini screeched to a halt in front of a small Wright-style mansion. The horn honked thrice, music and headlights still blaring.

Inside the car, $15,000's worth of customizations made all the lights green and turquoise, and the seats were upholstered with cheetah-skin leather. The man at the wheel was Professor Maelstrom, wearing Opinari driving gloves with Tom Ford sunglasses tucked into his lapel, and sporting a smirk. "We have arrived at our destination," he said drily, before honking the horn, which was custom-fitted to emit the eponymous 'Move, Bitch!' clipped from the Ludacris song "Move Bitch, Get Out The Way."

Cleo was in the back, inspecting her black-and-white outfit in the mirror. "Ugh, this place is a slum! Honk again."

"Now, my classist Countess," began Gunnar, eying her through the mirror, "we must be patient with our potential recruit. Roundabout needs his chance to prove himself a worthy addition to our team. We mustn't let ourselves get angry."

As he spoke, Cleo reached past him and smacked the horn, emitting another Move Bitch!

"I get angry whenever I see his god-damn bowtie," growled Coach Brunt from the shotgun seat, using her slav-sleeve to polish a shotgun.

After an awkward rumbling silence (despite the music), the car dinged and flooded with green light; the left passenger door had carefully creaked open.

"Oh — hello? I hope I'm not too late?" He laughed in a chipper manner.

"Stop being so British and get in."

"Certainly, Gunnar! Pardon me." The sweaty tuxedo climbed in beside Cleo and pulled the door shut with the delicacy of a monk turning an ancient page of a King James Bible.

"Close the door," muttered Gunnar.

"Oh? I thought I did — I'm dreadfully sorry — "

"Cloooossse itttt," said Professor Maelstrom through his teeth.

He slammed it, and the brisk lights finally faded to nil.

"Good evening, Roustabout," said Cleo, being polite.

"Roustabout? Did you say Roustabout? I'm sorry but my name is Roundabout, you know, like the traffic...road...type? They're the very safest traffic junction."

"Oh," Cleo said. "Very villainous."

"Yes, innit?" He presented a small crinkly bag of Terra vegetable chips to the car. "Oh, by the by, anyone up for a little nosh? I brought some crisps—"

Professor Maelstrom nearly jumped out of his seat to turn around. "Are you JOKING? The Cleaners JUST vacuumed TWO DAYS prior! Do you know what I would DO if I saw a single crumb in thi — "

In a swooshing split-second, Coach Brunt grabbed the skinny man's jacket and shoved him back to his seat. "Cool it, Slim!" she loudly whispered. "I thought you wanted to hire this guy, not kill him on the first outing!"

Of course it was not a very effective whisper. Roundabout paled. "I don't think killing me would be the best idea...it would likely require more cleanup than the crisps."

Gunnar soon sighed and uttered, "I — apologize," but only because Coach Brunt was discreetly aiming her shotgun at him.

"No worries," said Roundabout, still trembling.

With that, Gunnar fiddled with the stick-shift, slammed the gas, and did a screeching double-donut out of the cul-de-sac. The greased Lambo zoomed through the neighborhood streets at 70 miles an hour, still blasting Billie's voice through its subwoofer.

Meanwhile, Chase had had an absolutely incredible evening. After a lot of tireless work, and after hours of effort, he had finally done it. FINALLY!

"I GOT LAID!!" he screamed into the empty street.

He had just clambered down a hall's stairs and burst out of a random brownstone's front doors, and was presently smiling madly at the dark street. His tie was loose; his jacket was crooked; his hair twirled in on itself as if he just did a mile run in a hurricane. With the exuberance of a lottery ticket winner, he flung both his arms up in victory.

"HA HA! YES! "

Even though it was not raining, he twirled around a lamppost and began a terrible rendition of Singin' In the Rain .

"Je vieeeeens de baiser, je vieeens de baiSEEER! What a won-derful FEEELING, I'm HAPPPYYY agai — oh, shit."

Mid-twirl, he was struck by the reasons tonight's spelunking had been a terrible idea. The ACME Detective Conference was at 9 AM and he was going to have to act like he wasn't freshly squeezed and hungover in front of the Chief, and hundreds of agents, and maybe Julia and Zari, if he happened to run into them.

But, more urgently, Chase had to get back to the London Marriot across the river (ACME had funded his suite). It was a 40-minute walk to South Bank and Chase knew he would pass out of exhaustion if he even tried to walk to the closest Tesco's. He'd already done enough exercise for the night.

Grumbling resolutely, Chase withdrew his cracked phone and drunk-ordered a Lyft back to the hotel. Sadly, because of the odd hour, it was a 15-minute wait until the arrival of 'Frederick.'

"DIEU! I'm hungry. I should see what else I can get. Besides laid! "