Random Dingoes

“Oh, umm, well, mumble mumble, air conditioning,” the old man responded.

“I’m sorry?”

“Air conditioning is best in this spot of the bullpen,” the old man claimed. “Don’t want to get overheated – an old body like mine has trouble maintaining homeostasis, don’t you know.”

“It’s the middle of January!” the woman protested.

“Bertrand,” the mid-thirtyish fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs with the sandy brown hair and winning smile with whom the woman had been attempting to converse, stated, “I assure you that what girl investigators talk about is exactly the same as what boy investigators talk about.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” the old man huffed. “I surely did not say that at all.”

“I also happen to know,” the younger man vamped, “that the coolest spot in the room is by Barack Bowens’ desk.” He swept a hand towards a desk on the far side of the bullpen, where a short black fire hydrant with dark glasses and limbs guiltily averted his attention away from them.

“Awrighty, then,” the old man tried to be gracious but ended up sounding like he had just swallowed a butterfly. “Thanks for the tip.” He walked away from the man and woman’s desks. You might think that the slowness of his gait indicated a reluctance to move away from the strange attraction of the exotic, but, since the narrative has barely begun, let’s be generous and say it was merely a symptom of his advancing decrepitude.

“So,” Noomi Rapier said when the old man was out of earshot, “what were we talking about again?”

Before Crash Chumley, her partner at the Transdimensional Authority, could answer, they were called into the office of their boss, Albert Abrachnel, and given a new assignment.

“Have either of you ever heard of a drug called Transdimensional Joy Joy?” Abrachnel asked.

They thought they had heard him wrong, but that was not possible: a strange quirk of Albert Abrachnel’s voice (which he had cultivated for decades) was that it became more audible the quieter he spoke. “Transdimensional Joy?” Noomi asked.

“Joy,” Abrachnel corrected her.

“That’s what I said,” Noomi stated.

“No,” Abrachnel insisted. “You said Joy.”

“Isn’t that right?” Noomi, thoroughly confused, asked.

“Transdimensional Joy Joy,” Abrachnel, whose patience for comic dialogue was unusual for a man in his position, stated. “Double Joy. Do either of you know what it is?”

“A phone app the Transdimensional Authority created to try and get three year-olds interested in joining the service?” Crash suggested.

“Three year-olds,” Abrachnel almost smiled. “Nice callback.”

“Thank you.”

“Unfortunately, no. That’s not it.”

“A Japanese girl band?” Noomi tried. “Didn’t they have a hit a couple of years ago with a song called ‘Yummy Yummy Yummy I Got Love and It’s Gummy?’”

“Thank you for trying,” Abrachnel said. “But no. Transdimensional Joy Joy is a new drug that has hit the streets of Montreal. Reports are that it allows users to access multiple realities at the same time.”

“How is that possible?” Crash asked.

“Doctor Alhambra could explain it to you,” Abrachnel told him, referring to the Authority’s foremost scientist and recreational pottery smoker, “but you would need sick leave for at least two weeks, and I need you on the case right now. It’s very scientific – that’s all we laypeople need to know.”

“Is it dangerous?” Noomi wanted to know.

“Not at first,” Abrachnel answered. “It begins with a high similar to that of LSD, but without the high-pitched screeching or scent of madeleine cakes. Users slowly lose the ability to tell which physical reality they actually inhabit. There have been incidents involving people who thought they were eating breakfast when they were actually walking down the street, or believed they were reading a book when they were in reality in the middle of pitching a no-hitter, or, in one especially unfortunate case, a man thought he was making love to his three husbands when he was actually giving a lecture on particle physics to a graduate seminar.”

“Ouch!” Noomi said.

“Precisely,” Abrachnel agreed. “Ouch.”

“What do we know about… Transdimensional Joy Joy?” Crash asked.

“Local law enforcement…” Abrachnel paused for a few moments so that they could all sneer derisively, “started hearing about a new drug about six months ago. It started with posters around town – at first, they thought they were for a new kind of pyjama party – Quebec culture really is different from that of the rest of the country. The posters had pictures of shattered mirrors and the line, ‘Decuple the realities, twice the joy!’ After a couple of months, hospitals around Montreal began noticing strange, delusion-based accidents. It only took local law enforcement…” Abrachnel paused for a few moments so that they could all sneer derisively, “until last week to make the connection.”

“Sounds like a local problem,” Crash commented. “Why involve the TA?”

“This is all in the file,” Abrachnel pointed out. “However, since I am well aware that investigators reading files is a pleasant fantasy that helps Transdimensional authority bureaucrats sleep at night, I’ll give you the short, unnuanced version: local law enforcement…” Abrachnel paused for a few moments so that they could all sneer derisively, “started working its way up the food chain. Unfortunately, they only got one level before they found out that the drug was being smuggled into the city from another universe. That is where we become involved.”

“Did local law enforcement…” Noomi paused for a few moments so that they could all sneer derisively. Unfortunately, Noomi did not have enough seniority to trigger the ‘all sneer’ response, and the few moments were filled with an awkward silence. “Uhh,” she eventually continued, “did…they figure out how the drug was being transported into their universe?”

“Mules,” Abrachnel replied.

“Well, sure, that’s what they’re called…”

“I wasn’t being metaphorical,” Abrachnel cut her off. “Joff Gomez, Ambassador from Earth Prime 5-0-3-4-6-8 dash epsilon to Earth Prime 7-4-3-9-0-1 dash iota, uses the mules to transport official diplomatic communications. He rotates members of his herd every two weeks, so they are constantly travelling between universes. Unfortunately, the mules have diplomatic immunity, so there’s nothing we can do about them.”

“What kind of a sick bastard concretizes a metaphor so casually?” Crash asked.

“That’s what we need you to go to Earth Prime 7-4-3-9-0-1 dash iota to find out,” Abrachnel told him. “As well as who is bankrolling the operation. The Dimensional Delorean^TM will be ready for you in five minutes. Any questions?”

“Sure,” Noomi started. “What –”

Holding up a hand to stop her, Abrachnel said, “Could you please humour an old man and read the damn file?”

Noomi and Crash looked at each other. “Uhh, yeah. Sure,” Noomi said in a voice that wouldn’t have fooled a lobotomized Mother Teresa.

“You’re not going to read the file, are you?” Abrachnel asked, his voice dipping ever so slightly in disappointment.

“Regulations require that we read all relevant documentation before going into the field,” Crash assured him. “We would never –”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Abrachnel agreed with Crash to stop him from being too dishonest. “Only, I was a field agent myself, once, and I know that regulations come in two flavours: by the book, must follow vanilla and slow you down, get in the way of capturing the bad guy chocolate. Did you know that the active ingredient in chocolate, the thing that actually makes it sweet, is vanilla? That’s why gourmet chefs and Transdimensional Authority senior management recommend vanilla for…uhh…everyday use in…in…”

“Union rules forbid us from discussing our choice of sweets with management,” Crash pointed out, preventing Abrachnel from getting too deeply lost in his metaphor.

Abrachnel raised an eyebrow slightly. “Oh, yes?”

“For your own protection,” Crash assured him. “In case we do something against regulations. And get caught. And face disciplinary action. And are subsequently fired, fined, jailed or forced to watch thirty-six straight hours of Law and Order: Tuktoyaktuk in order to be rehabilitated. If you weren’t aware of what we were planning, you could be fired for not having better control of your subordinates, but at least you wouldn’t be subjected to any Dick Wolf marathons!”

Abrachnel smiled with his eyes, which sounds like something grotesque out of a Sandman comic, but which poets assure us is actually quite charming. “Good of your union to be concerned for the welfare of somebody in management.”

“It’s very progressive that way,” Noomi told him. She had been a Transdimensional Authority investigator for such a short period of time that she actually believed it, too.

“Well, just in case you…don’t have the time to read the entire file before going into the field,” Abrachnel stated, passing a newspaper clipping across his desk to them, “you might find this useful.”

Taking the article, Crash said, “For your benefit, we make no promises…”