The last thing Flat Flanagan remembered before being ripped from New, New York City had been working a case with Director Gresson....
It had been about a few months and the spring air had become crisp and cold to the bone in mid-fall. Director Gresson tapped his foot impatiently as he rubbed his cold hands awaiting his driver to get him. He knew Alice would run late on occasion but this was twenty-three minutes late. Much to the CIA Director's surprise, a Duesenberg Model H rumbled up to the small N-NYC Apartment as he checked his watch. The old car's exterior seemed to cut through the dull darkened skies of the early hours in New-New York City. It was a duct-tape gray on the outside with black accents on the untouched rear and front fenders. It was a relic of time, and the director's ride to work this morning. As the director got in, there was a cup of fresh, hot coffee awaiting him as the city's resident 1920s Private Eye and the newest addition to the CIA Roster, Flat Flanagan, picked him up.
"This is your car?" asked Gresson inquisitively. "Don't take any wooden nickels with me wise guy. I may have been dipped into this dimension, but there ain't no way you could convince me to buy one of your modern-day flivvers." Flat chuckled as he finished speaking. "I wanted something familiar, something that screamed "the Cat's Pajamas", ya know?" The Director nodded as Flat shifted the Model H into first gear, the supercharged 55.6L Drusenburg V-16 engine growled as if to intimidate the other traffic nearby as Flat pulled away from the curb.
Gresson eyes' scanned the interior of the car. The caramel-colored leather seats were as if the car rolled off the factory floor yesterday, the dashboard showed no signs of aging and even smelled of fresh wax, and the smell of rich gasoline fumes seemed to swirl around the car as it idled at a stoplight was enough to get even the most stubborn gearhead a high like no other. However, as the engine rumbled, Gresson started tapping his foot nervously as he looked down at his watch. "Flat, we're gonna be late. You sure this old thing can…" Flat looked over to Director Gresson slowing with a grin. "Listen here you fire extinguisher, flat tire. The Model H is rocking a 55.6 liter V-16 engine. I'll make sure we ain't two owls." As the light changed to green, the Model H sped up onto the freeway. They had a tall task ahead as it was three-thirty in the morning with roll call at four and the drive would take about fifty minutes to make.
As they drove, Gresson went to take a sip of his coffee when Flat pushed down the clutch pedal, shifted the Model H into second gear, and let that massive engine displacement sing. The Director forgot his need for caffeine and gripped the above door handle, otherwise known as the "Oh Shit" handle, as the old Duesenberg roared down the silent freeway. His heart raced as if trying to keep pace with the massive engine. Gresson looked over to his driver, that Private Eye plucked out of time to see a grin plastered on his face as his foot pushed that accelerator down further and further. The Duesenberg Model H was known to be within CIA Operational Jurisdiction by the local police, so when this speeding gray and black bullet of a car blew by them, they didn't pull out after them. Even so, that didn't stop the Director's heart raced onward like a wild stallion...
However, now he was in some weird studio, with the man who'd blown a hole in Director Gresson's chest with that fancy cane of his. Flat unholstered his stubnose .38 revolver and drew down on International Dick. "Now, don't you move, buster. I... What's the big idea, HUH!?" Exclaimed Flat, very much in a state of panic. However, a glare from Richardson had Flat holster his revolver out of fear he'd be shot dead on the spot. With the .38 revolver now holstered, Dick invited Flat to sit in the "interviewee's chair" as the audience watched with edge-off-their-seats anticipation.
"Well now, Mr. Flanagan, I know you must be dazed and confused as to why you are here. I can assure you, I will explain everything. First, tell my darling viewers all about yourself." International Dick's gentle smile didn't help Flat relax at all. "V-viewers? Am I on one of those fancy picture listeners-in things Director Gresson was talking about?" International Dick couldn't help but laugh as his audience and viewers became confused by what the hell this living relic actually just said.
"My dearest viewers, what Flat here called a "fancy picture listeners-in" is what you've all been calling "TV or television". Remember my lovely viewers, Flat may be from the 2069 New, New York timeline, but he was ripped from 1921 during an incident involving a top secret organization. So, he has no clue as to what a TV or television is. The audience nodded in understanding as the spotlights and camera cut back onto International Dick. "Yes, Mr. Flanagan, you are on the fanciest picture listeners-in show in the multiverse! Do forgive my rudeness, I am the show's host, or in your terms, the program creator and announcer." said International Dick, smile still plastered across his face.
"Well... huh, ain't this... just the uh... Cat's Pajamas [most incredible thing]." Said Flat, while subtled descriptions of Flat's unique 1920s slang, augmented and edited by Richardson, were converted into the modern day equivalent began to appear beside each phrase on their varying screens and/or biowear. Now that the audience and viewers could understand the slang, they laughed a thunderous laughter that resounded across the world. Flat took a deep breath, cleared his panicked mind, and spoke with confidence this time. "The name's Flat Flanagan. As youse [you all/y'all] already known, I'm a Gumshoe [Private Eye/Detective] from the year 1921..."
Flat was cut off by music beginning to play, and this time it was a song he recognized. "Hey now! This song hits on all sixes now [performs at or is one hundred percent] with me any day!" The audience enjoyed the same song, Wang Wang Blues by Paul Whiteman as Richardson and Flat talked on. Eventually, they reached International Dick's next cue.
"ALL-RIGHTY, FOLKS! It's time for everyone's favorite segment.... WILL-YOU-SIGN-?!" International Dick exclaimed with a cued change in song to Team Blue Hardstyle Remix by Derex & Eiffel 65. As the song blasted across the screens, projections, and biowear of the audience, the cheered and clapped trying to encourage Flat Flanagan to take International Dick's deal.
"Last thing, Mr. Flanagan! Should you choose not to participate, I can't guarantee I'll get you home right away... or... If you so sign this here contract, you have the possibility for earning 19.90 Billion Dollars! MAKE YOUR CHOICE!!!" As Flat looked at the pen and contract, the audience roared at him, all trying to make him sign it. However, Flat calmed them down and looked at Richardson. "Now, forgive my uh... bluntness but... THAT'S A LOTTA FLIPPING CLAMS [fucking money]! You have to be having me tell it to Sweeney [you've got to be kidding me, I don't believe this]! I mean, how am I supposed to "choke down this baloney" [believe this, it's too good to be true]!"
However, knowing there wasn't a surefire way home unless he played along, Flat Flanagan signed the contract, making the audience and viewers erupt in praise and cheers as International Dick got up and went to retrieved the next team member to Team Retro.