"People like us don't have families." - Captain James T. Kirk to Spock in the otherwise forgettable Star Trek number....um.... I forget.
Okay so you want me to describe my protagonists thanksgiving dinner??? Can't do it - I mean I could but then I'd have to kill you. Or spam your computer to death anyway.
You see the thing is - I don't know if my protagonist even has a family. I know I know - you're supposed to have this big list of everything about your characters from what kind of drink they like to what side of the bed they sleep on to whether they wear boxers or briefs. I don't know those things either. And I think that's a good thing.
So instead I will imagine a mythical family, made out of various famous spies and heroes. It goes something like this.
A beautiful house in suburban America. Cars in the driveway - except they're not your normal cars. There's an Austin Martin, a black Trans Am from the 80's with a red dot swishing back and forth like the Ceylon's eye in the original Battlestar Galactica. There is also a 80's Charger with a Confederate flag painted on the roof and 70's Firebird with that awesome giant decal.
Note to this decade - come up with some iconic cars already - I mean what are we supposed to remember about these years - the Prius?
Inside we find a bucolic scene (not really sure what bucolic means but it's one of those words that sounds like it should be here - if it has something to do with farmland, sorry that's what copy editors are for and we don't have one at Criminal Minds just yet)
Anyway - there we have the big table; turkey, mashed potatoes, sodas beer, a medium dry vodka martini, shaken not stirred. A guy with big hair and a black leather jacket looks at the Vodka Martini. "What is that?" he says.
"This is a civilized drink," the tall, rugged, slightly older British sounding man replies.
Be careful Michael, it could be a trap. Leather jacket man snaps to attention.
"Are you alright?" British man says.
"Yeah," Leather jacket replies. "Just inhaled a little too much hairspray this morning. I start hearing voices, even when I'm not in the car." He blinks. "I'm going to go get some Yams."
As Leather jacket walks off British guy looks across the table. There, serving little dinner rolls is a gorgeous woman with dark hair. 36/24/26 in tight little cutoff shorts and a plaid top tied off at the bust. She notices British guy staring.
"Can I help you sugar?"
"I certainly hope so."
British guy moves across the room. Picking up a bottle of Champagne. He walks smoothly up to the beauty in tight cutoffs. "This is Dom Peringnon 1983. that was a heck of a year."
Tight shorts cocks her head. "83?"
"Yes," British guy says. "Fantastic year. A little movie called Moonraker came out..."
"Sorry," tight shorts says. "I was five."
At just that moment a blond haired man and darker haired man come racing in from the kitchen. Instead of jumping into their chairs, they launch themselves onto the table, sliding across its polished surface in their impossibly tight jeans. Belt buckles catch the light, blinding onlookers as the Turkey, Stuffing and Potatoes go flying off onto to the floor. The two tight jeans wearing men land solidly onto their appointed chairs.
"I beat you," blond man says.
"The hell you did," dark haired man says.
"Best three out of five?"
They race off crashing through the kitchen door. An older woman dodges them and pirouettes with a plate of cookies in her hand.
"That was close, Moma," tight shorts says.
"Yes," the older lady says. "Those boys are a lot more active then Bobby and J.R. were at dinner. The most we ever did there was talk about the oil barrons ball. Cookie?"
As British guy takes a cookie and dunks it in his martini, tight shorts bites into one and the crumbs fall down on her cleavage. She starts to brush them off. "Well, I might just have to take this shirt right off now."
"Let me help you with that," British guy says.
Before he can do anything A tall guy with a mustache stands up. He has sunglasses on, a terrific grin and his cowboy hat is perfect.
"I gotta go," Cowboy hat says.
"Well you just got here," the older woman says.
He shrugs. "Snowman's eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin. I got to go do what they say can't be done."
They all know what that means. "grab your keys."
And with that, the game of musical cars in the one lane driveway begins.
Thanks for stopping by - hope your Thanksgiving dinner is far better than this one.