2010-07-16: Little Red Wagon To The Rescue



Guest Starring:


Date: July 16, 2010


Muff the tragic wagon, lived by the street,

And rolled along the boulevard, through rain and snow and sleet.

Little Tommy Pumpkin loved that wagon Muff,

And rolled him home and filled him up, with toys and other stuff.

"Little Red Wagon to the Rescue"

Precinct 13 — General Holding

"Noboooody knows the trouble I seen~"

"Nooooobody knows my sorroooowwwwww~"

"Noboooooody knows, the trouble I seen~"

"Glooooory halle— "



Blossom sits on her cot, swinging her legs idly as she peers through the steel bars of her cell. Rather than keep singing and risk a beat down later on, she hums… very quietly. She'd been practicing that song in particular, in order to feel more of a sister bond with Shanniqua, her cell mate and a prostitute from the corner of 5th and Lexington.

A Penthouse Suite — Park Avenue

A pair of slim hands come up to straighten the knot of a dark blue, silk necktie. The understated red pattern of the tiny circles isn't enough to catch the eye, but enough to keep the tie from being too boring. A flash of white teeth as the man practices a charming smile in the mirror. He relaxes his mouth and then smiles again. Relax. Smile. Relax. Smile. Practice makes perfect.

He is perfect.

Life is perfect.


"Blum speaking," he answers, cutting the factory ring tone off after the first chirp.

"Yeah, R.F., this is Marty DeMaggio over at 13th. Listen, there was a protest last night…"

The smile falls away, not as rehearsed this time, but more genuine overall. With a suppressed groan, his eyes roll rather irritably. His throat clears as he straightens his tie once more, and purposely whisks the emotions from his mouth. "I will be down at the station in short order," the words come out flat, unemotional, and particularly detached. "Do not tell her I am coming. She needs to recognize these childish games ought to be put on the shelf. And Martin? Thank you for calling."

With that, Blum snaps his phone shut, pocketing it and flashing his white teeth at his reflection. "And thus, the whole world smiles." Readjusting his tie one last time, he's out the door and at the station.

Precinct 13 — Reception

Blum refuses to sit while he waits for his sister's entrance. Having posted her bail, smoothed things over with the police, and apologized profusely for her behaviour towards law enforcement, Blum leans against the wall, arms crossed rather defiantly over his chest. But his expression remains neutral with that emotionless detachment he prides himself on. Emotions are for the infirm, not for lawyers, in fact more of a pokerface is better than not in his line of profession.

He stares at the door he expects Blossom to walk through, mentally preparing his lecture for her.

Precinct 13 — General Holding

"Hey Coppah, when we gonna get some waddah over 'ere, huh?" She's doing her best impression of a Chicago mobster. Moon Unit will be showing something on the roof tonight, the regular crowd will be there, everything will be just dandy. Now if she could just get out of this place.

"Cracker, if you don't shut your fool mouth, I'ma slap it off your face," Shanniqua's high pitched voice rings over the sound of Blossom's own and the redhead turns to glance at the hooker.

"Bitch please," the young Blum chirps back, the accent all gone with the addition to her conversation. Her green eyes widen to the size of saucers as she sees the lady of the night fly up off her cot and charge over. And finally, kkrrrrrk is the sound Blossom makes when the other woman's ebony hands wrap around her throat.

"Ey! Ey! Ey!!!" shouts one of the cops as he ambles over to the cell. "Blum, your bail's posted, you're getting out of here."

Shanniqua lets go and claps the little protester on the shoulder. "See you again next week, Cracker, stay cool."

"Seeya Shanniqua, keep fightin' the man!"

When Blossom emerges, R.F. straightens a little, not that he's trying to impress her; he's attempting to set a good example. The best example. The only positive example in the entire family. Again he straightens his tie. The neutral expression turns disapproving at her entrance, his eyes narrow, his nostrils flare slightly, and his lips tighten.

"Mildred," is his greeting as he tugs on his jacket sleeves, his tone is obviously disapproving, but it never quite reaches an angry simmer. "When will you recognize how incredibly juvenile this all is?" There's an almost bored lilt to his voice, not really dark, just unimpressed. Turning on his heel, he steps outside the station; it wouldn't be appropriate to have this conversation in the presence of others.

Silently, rigidly, almost robotically, Blum leads the way to his car.

Beep Beep

It unlocks thanks to the remote entry he carries in his pocket. Automatically, he opens his door, not even considering getting the door for his sister. Once seated in the vehicle, he turns to face her, his expression stern. "You need to put these silly protests behind you. No one even could tell me what the protest was for. Mother and Father at least have direction in their protests…"

"Radio," Blossom shoots back when her brother calls her by her given name. She's always been the black sheep… named after the establishment, a relative they'd never met that willed the family farm to her parents. Mildred Ruthann Blum. Horrible. "It's the furthest thing from juvenile, I'm exercising my rights as a consciensious citizen of these United States of America." The willowy young woman's tone takes on a solemn air, as though she is talking about perhaps the most important thing on earth.

Following her much older, much taller, and much more grounded bother out of the precinct, Blossom turns to give them one last taste of her defiance. Two middle fingers, up in the air, and a shout of "See ya next week guys!! P.E.T.A. RALLY ON 5TH!!" Then she turns and throws open the door of the luxury sedan. American made, Perfectly shiny and perfectly clean… until Blossom's jailhouse bottom hits the seat.

"The protest was about a bunch of stuff, I was there for the homeless. There were other people there protesting the…. war?… somewhere?… in the world?…" It's rather obvious that R.F.'s sister has absolutely no idea why they were picketing, other than the plight of the missing homeless. "So… Radio… has video killed your star yet?" Big grin.

"Ha," it's not even close to being a laugh as it lacks merriment, mirth, or any kind of emotion. It's not even haughty. "Please refrain from calling me Radio, it is a useless name for a lesser man," his eyebrows arc while he twists in his seat to face her. "And the missing homeless have likely moved from one place to another. They are very transient, which makes doing their taxes nearly impossible. Your protest, was essentially, a fool's wish."

His lips play at a frown without actually frowning, "Apparently things at your protest became violent and the charges are not going to just disappear. The police are tired of tolerating your tirades." There's a pause as he taps impatiently on the steering wheel, "As am I."

"Radio Flier Blum," Blossom continues as a narrow eyed, Cheshire grin spreads across her face. "Stop calling me Mildred and I'll stop calling you Radio Flier~. How does it feel to be named after a little red wagon?" She's pushing the buttons like only a little sister can. Truthfully, she's always been jealous of his name. It was a great wagon.

"Taxes are just the man's way of pinning us down and turning us into drones. Seriously Radio, you need to do something with your law degree. You know, Shanniqua needs a good lawyer, she'd like you." The redhead widens her eyes again as she looks pleadingly at the driver. "Think of all the prostitutes you could get off the streets, you could do their taxes~. You like taxes~." The violence, the charges, the tired police and brother, all of it seems to go in one ear and out the other. In fact, it seems the more she actually sits and listens, the more of a glaze forms over her eyes.

"R.F. or just Blum, thank very much. And Mildred is a perfectly respectable name, one that Mother and Father did well to choose," like his sister, Blum feels a distinct kind of name-envy over her handle, what he wouldn't give to NOT be named after a red wagon.

Uncanny, like his voice is coming through a long tunnel but he's sitting right beside her. The drone of his voice entrances her and Blossom sits there, staring at him. Her eyes fixed on his lips as they move rhythmically with every syllable of his speech. Slowly, her head tilts to the side as the weight of her long hair becomes too heavy for her head to support.

Finally he starts the car, turning the keys in the ignition. His attention is now on the road, but this doesn't mean that Blossom is remotely off the hook. "Think of all of the people that could be hurt by your protests. If this one turned violent, what of the next? And the one after that." Fixed on the road, his features turn grim. "And what of your own life? When will you finish school, find a job, and move on? We all need to embrace reality eventually, Mildred. It would be better if you managed it sooner than later."

The purr of the nearly silent engine accompanying the slight inflections and lilts of voice blends perfectly into a hum that lulls the beast within the feiry redhead. Like music of the flute that quashed the anger of the giant dog in the first Harry Potter movie, Blossom (rather Mildred), is quelled and held transfixed.

He tsks. "And mother and father were never gifted at sending any of us away, but you can be better. You are still young enough that you can change the direction of your life. Can you not see this? If you wanted you could enter politics and make a difference to people in a tangible way instead of this flitting from one activity to the next. Keeping up with your extracurriculars is exhausting, dear sister." Stopping at a light he also pauses for a quick breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, regardless, it has more weight than he generally intends.

Darkness clouds her vision for a half a moment, her eyelids slide and become glued together. Fighting the urge, Blossom pries her eyes open, only to be doomed to repeat the activity again and again. The white noise of R.F.'s voice drowns out any and all that might draw her attention away from him. Slowly. Slowly. Her head bobs downward, jerking up with every epic win of the battle against her eyelids.

"Think about your future. Where do you want to be? Do you wish to live in a commune filled with unwashed hippies— greasy and covered in their own filth? Needing to shave your head to remove the inevitable lice that will live there? Perhaps you will only be content after you receive something truly detrimental like leprosy— which is treatable, yet we both know you would never accept treatment anyways."

Resistance is futile, the lure of the dark side of the force is much too powerful for the young padawan. With every small battle won, it only brings Blossom closer to losing the war. Every defense against the front line of his assault causes her to fall back to regroup. The regrouping takes longer… and longer… and longer…

His lips purse before he continues, "And consider, dear sister, the object of your art. I believe your teachers were accurate in your lack of improvement as you have not stayed with any one form long enough to actually improve…"


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