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Hawaii Five-O: Implosion (2/3?)

Title: Implosion (1/3?)
Series: Hawaii Five-O
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Beta'd by the fabulous frauleinfrog, who for some reason continues to stick by me as I descend into tinier and tinier fandoms.

Summary: Danny's apparent death leaves Five-O struggling to solve the murder without falling to pieces. Because every fandom needs a crazy stalker fic.

Prologue
Chapter 1


HPD rounds up suspects in waves, bringing them in for questioning by Chin and Ben down in the interrogation rooms. Chin has met most of them, and the rest he knows of – only big fish and fools play with explosives, and the fools don’t last long. It would have been more politic to run the interviews in the field, but no one feels like pandering to politeness. And, to their credit, the crooks are smart enough not to push. Chin would bet a month’s wages that crime has dropped like a stone across Honolulu since last night – no one’s sticking his head above the line for fear it will be shot off.

Chin takes the interviews slow and easy – big time boys like these exude more slime than a bucket of mud worms, and once you let them get under your collar you won’t ever get your cool back again. But hard as he’s looking for any sign of fear or guilt, any tiny flash of weakness, he sees nothing in any of his four guys. He releases them reluctantly one by one to slither off to their dens, and when the fourth one is gone, sits in the empty interrogation room making quick notes on each unproductive interview.

The interrogation rooms have thick cement walls to ensure no sound leaks from room to room, but no particular effort was made to stop noise filtering in from the corridor. Chin is used to tuning it out, but as he sits writing, he slowly becomes conscious of an escalating fracas in the hall. Frowning at the distraction, he tucks his notebook away in his jacket and goes to leave – he can finish up at the Palace.

Chin opens the doorway, just in time to catch a reeling man dressed in slacks and a loud aloha shirt, holding the side of his face. Dave Kinomoto, a punk with a long rap sheet for petty crimes – and a longer list of unsubstantiated and considerably more serious allegations to his name which no one here has any doubt about.

People are shouting from all sides all at once, and it takes a second for Chin to process exactly what’s going on. The man he just caught hops out of his arms and scrambles back down the corridor towards the main stairs, expression somewhere between angry and terrified. His right eye is in the early stages of blossoming into what’s sure to be a beautiful shiner. “Hey, man, he’s pupule – you keep him away from me! You just keep him the hell away!” He’s pointing towards the scrum at the other end of the hall, and Chin turns to follow his finger.

At the other end of the hall, being dragged backwards by two of HPD’s larger beat cops, is Ben. He’s fighting hard, face dark and twisted in fury and despite the fact that the two uniforms have easily fifty pounds on him each, they don’t have it all their own way. “You snot-nosed little son of a bitch, you think that slick smile’ll get you out of this? This has got your signature all over it – how smart is that? You think we can’t put two and two together? Think I don’t see the fear in your eyes? I’m gonna nail your skull to the wall for this one!”

Chin hurries forward to lend his weight to forcibly marching Ben down the hall in the opposite direction. He doesn’t stop struggling until they get around the corner, where the two uniforms pin him up against the wall. The fight finally drains out of him and he falls silent, jerking himself free when the HPD cops loosen their grips. Ben turns away to comb his hair back into place with his fingers as the crowd disperses slowly, ignoring them all. He’s cursing under his breath, and as the last of the cops trickle away around the corner, he kicks out hard at the wall. “Goddammit.”

Chin lays a restraining hand on his shoulder, and he shrugsaway. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” agrees Chin mildly. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

If they’re lucky, maybe Steve won’t hear about it for a couple of days.

-------------------------------------------------------

They aren’t lucky.

It’s obvious from the minute they walk into the office that something’s up. The look Jenny gives them is more than enough warning. “The boss wants to see you,” she says quietly, in the kind of tone used to offer last cigarettes. Ben grimaces and marches forward. Chin takes a deep breath and follows.

Steve’s standing with his back to the door when they enter, staring out the window behind his desk. When he speaks, it’s with deceptive calmness.

“I had a call from HPD a few minutes ago. Apparently Dave Kinomoto’s threatening to press charges. Police brutality. Seems in the course of his visit to the interrogation room he spontaneously developed a black eye.”

Ben opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance. Steve swivels, and slams his hands down on his desk so hard the phone rattles. “No hotheads, I said. And five hours later, I find my own detective beating up suspects in the station house. That is far beyond unacceptable!”

Chin tenses with the effort of not stepping backwards in the face of his boss’s rage. He’s used to seeing Steve hollow-cheeked and pale-faced after gruelling 30-hour shifts, and he’s used to Steve’s occasionally scalding outbursts. But Steve is riding dangerously close to the breaking point now; Chin can see the sweat beading along his hairline and the twitching muscle under his eye.

“We’re front and centre under the press’s microscope right now. If they get one whiff – one whiff – that the cops’ve been leaning on helpful citizens who voluntarily came in to be interviewed, what do you think will happen?”

“Helpful citizens – Steve, the guy’s slime!” Ben steps forward, gesturing angrily. “He’s behind the parkade bomb last summer that almost killed that kid – you and I both know it.”

“Maybe, but we have no solid evidence of that. He’s never been accused of that crime, which means in the eyes of the law – and the press – he is an innocent citizen cooperating with the police.”

“You’re saying I should’ve just sat there politely and listened while he gloated over Danny’s death? ‘Poor little piggy, was the luau too hot for him’? He reeks of this one, Steve!”

“I’m saying,” snarls Steve, leaning low over his desk, “that you never strike a suspect. You do not lose your cool.”

“So we should all just play like you, and pretend we don’t care that Danny burnt to death in that parking lot yesterday? We should just shake hands with his murderer?”

Chin grabs his shoulder and pulls him back. “That’s enough, Ben. Come on.”

Ben shakes him off with an angry jerk and steps forward. “No, it’s not enough. I want to hear him say it. You haven’t once said it, haven’t admitted it, even to yourself, have you? You just keep pretending like this is any case, like it’s some kind of routine. But it isn’t. Your second in command – your best friend – is down in forensics, because they haven’t been able to separate him from his car to get him to the morgue! Danno is dead, Steve. And ain’t no one but you trying to forget it!”

For an instant a wave of some unreadable emotion washes over Steve’s face, and Chin feels himself tensing with the age-old instinct of prey under the eyes of a predator. And then it resolves into white-faced rage, Steve’s hands tensing into claws with the effort of not striking out at the items on top of his desk.

“Get out,” hisses Steve, furiously.

Ben pauses, but Chin grabs him again and doesn’t let him get away this time. He swivels the newest member of Five-O around and pushes him out the door, before he can provoke Steve into a full explosion.

-------------------------------------------------------

Jenny waits a good half hour after Chin and Ben come tearing out of the office, their faces showing uneven mixes of rage, pain and guilt. While she didn’t hear the words, the tone of the conversation with the boss was unmistakable – like everyone else, she can feel the tension rising to the boiling point, its heat only increased by Steve’s absolute refusal to acknowledge its existence. Or the reason for its existence.

The office is absolutely silent after the detectives’ departure; Steve makes no calls or requests for coffee. Jenny goes on typing, but as each minute ticks by on the ancient wall clock she feels herself growing tenser, her stomach twisting itself into knots. She stops typing to listen, and still hears nothing. Not even Steve pacing, like he did all morning. Biting her lip, she picks up the phone and orders a delivery of Chinese from across the street.

Jenny only gets through one more page before it arrives, too jumpy to concentrate on the shorthand notes in front of her. She pays the delivery boy and takes the steaming cartons, checking absently to see that he’s included chopsticks. Then, balancing the tray with ease of practice in one hand, she knocks on Steve’s door. There’s no answer. Setting her shoulders, Jenny opens the door and goes in.

The lights are on against the approaching evening, but the room is empty. On the far side, the lanai doors are open; a soft breeze slips through them to play over the papers weighted down on Steve’s desk.

“Steve?”

Still no answer. Jenny crosses the room and rounds the desk to glance out the doors into the dusk beyond.

Steve is sitting a few yards along, with his back to the wall and his long legs drawn up in front of him. She can’t see his face in the poor light, but he’s staring out at the Palace grounds below. It doesn’t take any imagination to know what he’s looking at. The Palace’s paths and gardens are symmetrical – while this is the opposite side to that where Danny’s car sat, it’s the mirror image of the lot.

“Steve?” she says again, quietly. He raises his head and turns, face still in shadow.

“Yeah, honey?” His voice is too low for her to read anything but exhaustion into it.

“I brought you some dinner. Hot and spicy soup, lemon chicken and mixed veggies from the Golden Dipper.”

There’s an over-long pause, and then, “Thanks. You should head home; it’s past knocking-off time.” Maybe it’s the fact that Steve doesn’t rise to take the tray from her, or maybe it’s the fact that he has both realised it’s the end of her shift and instructed her to go home. Whatever it is, his behaviour is abnormal enough that she screws up her courage and steps closer.

“Is there someone I can call? Your sister?” Even as she asks, she knows what the answer will be. Danny Williams was Steve’s touchstone, the only one he allowed himself.

“No,” barks Steve immediately, and then sighs. “No, Jenny. Thank you.” His tone is laced with unmistakable finality. Jenny purses her lips, but puts the tray down beside him.

“Goodnight, boss,” she says softly, drifting back inside on a raft of pain and guilt.

Steve doesn’t answer.

----------------------------------------------------------

Danny’s first real thought is that he’s hungry. His stomach is churning painfully, and he finds that at some point he has twisted to lie curled around it, as if that might lessen the discomfort.

He slowly realises that the sudden spike in hunger has been prompted by the scent of food – greasy take-out pizza, in fact, still in its box. The perfect food for a captive not allowed cutlery, his cop’s experience tells him, but it’s overridden by his hunger.

The box is sitting halfway between the bed and the door, and he rolls off the bed to scramble to it with speed if not elegance. Lifting the lid he finds there’s only half a pizza inside, but that doesn’t matter either – nor does the fact that it’s gone pretty cool and the cheese has hardened. Danny crams it into his mouth all the same, salivating so quickly it’s painful as the first drop of rich tomato sauce hits his tongue.

He eats three slices in quick order, so fast he would have burnt the whole roof of his mouth if the pizza had been fresh out of the oven. There’s a plastic cup filled with water, and he drinks all of it in one go, then pauses for breath. There’s one piece of pizza left, and he picks it up and carries it over to the window where he stands leaning against the wall for support, trying to stare through the thick plastic covering.

It’s dark outside – 8:10 by his watch – and the streetlights must be pretty faint because he can only see a vague gleam of light through the plastic. He can’t hear anything, which means either they’re in the middle of nowhere or there’s glass on the other side of the plastic, or both. He knocks his elbow into the plastic and finds it bends out about a quarter of an inch before stopping – glass, then.

“Danny?”

Danny starts and turns, chain rattling. Hank is standing in the doorway, watching him. “Did you like the pizza?”

He looks down at the remains of the crust in his hand. “Oh, yeah. It was great. Thanks.”

“I know you like Chinese from the Golden Dipper, but pizza’s easier.”

Danny crinkles his brow theatrically. “You don’t like chopsticks?”

“Oh, no, it’s just that it’s pretty – never mind.” Hank shifts gears in mid-sentence, suddenly suspicious, and Danny berates himself for pushing.

“Okay,” he says, with docile cheerfulness. “Well, thanks for getting it. I hope you had some?”

“Yeah.” Hank still looks suspicious, and Danny wracks his brain for something to say to keep him talking, keep him from getting the drugs out.

“Good. Hey, listen, Hank. I was thinking. About Mattie. He’s not gonna be put out that you’re looking after me like this, is he? I mean, I know you used to look after him, and I wouldn’t want to make trouble or anything…”

For an instant, Danno thinks it was the wrong thing to say, was the worst thing to say. Hank’s face contracts in anger, whitening in the poor light. But then he fists his hands and shakes his head. “You don’t remember. He made you forget, didn’t he? Made you think it wasn’t important. That’s okay. I know he won’t let you care, won’t let you help.”

“Right. I know that now. So why don’t you tell me what happened? So I can know the real story.”

Hank paces back and forth, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his sleeves. Finally, he stops and turns. “Mattie’s gone,” he says, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. “It wasn’t his fault. He said it was, he made up lies about Mattie. You tried to stop him, but he stomped right over you and spread them around in the papers and on TV. He made everyone blame Mattie, made everyone hate him. They wouldn’t even come to his funeral – not his friends, not his colleagues. They all believed the lies.” Hank is breathing hard now, words pouring out coated in fury. He trembles with the strength of his emotion, and Danny swallows thickly. He needs to derail this, fast. But his head is spinning slowly again, hands and feet oddly numb.

“You’re right, Hank,” he says, softly. “You’re right.” Hank looks up at him, hands still fisted by his side and eyes still narrow, and Danny hurries on through the cotton wool in his mind. “He made everyone believe him, made them believe the lies. But we can stop that. We can put the truth out there – you know it, and I know it. I’ve got a lot of friends in HPD, Hank. Lots of pals who know what Mc – he’s – really like. We can reopen the case. You can give evidence, show that it wasn’t Mattie’s fault. Together, we can clear his name. Just think … what it would look like … what he would think... if you showed him up…” Danny trails off, thoughts slipping away from him. He’s having trouble grasping them, can’t seem to concentrate…

Across the room, Hank is much more blurry than he was before. Danny takes a step away from the wall, and the room tips suddenly. The floor is hard under him, linoleum cool against his face. “What’s… Hank?” He feels the pizza crust tumble from his finger, stares at its fuzzy outline in slowly dawning comprehension.

“Don’t worry, Danny. I think you’ve got him beat. You’re gonna be okay, now. You’re gonna be okay.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Steve will never forget the day his nephew died, the way his own throat filled with salt in sympathy with his sister, choking on the other end as she pleaded with him through her tears.

He’s sitting here again, alone in the dark Honolulu night with the cool breeze fanning through his hair, but there are no tears in his eyes tonight. The baby’s death, heart-wrenching as it had been, had been a long time in coming. And his grief on his sister’s behalf, although keen as a knife, had been so quickly turned to rage towards the quack who was exploiting her, who promised down to the last minute that she could still save the dying infant.

What he feels now… Steve doesn’t have a word for it. It isn’t grief, or rage, or guilt. It’s not even numbness. It’s like a ragged, serrated hole has been carved into his chest, black and gaping. And the instant he probes it, he slices loose such a torrent of pain that it’s all he can do to shove it back again before it overwhelms him.

Giving your life in the line of duty is a concept that Steve understands implicitly; one he’s even had to force Danny to accept in the past. Steve himself has long lived with the awareness that he might some day lose his life to the job that’s already taken it in every other sense. Objectively, he’s always been equally aware the same could be true for any man in the office – especially for his second in command. And objectivity is what he has based his entire world on. Without it, a state police becomes a police state, and nothing distinguishes it from the criminals it’s supposed to be locking up.

Everything he believes, everything he knows, everything he has ever said or done – they all uncompromisingly set out what he has to be and do now to solve this case.

But the hole in his heart is slowly slicing him apart. More and more, it seems that all he can think of is Danno, screaming in a split-second of agony before the heat of the flames seared the life out of him. And, as he sits alone in his office with his hands laced together so tightly his nails are blue, he’s not sure how much longer he can keep his heart from destroying everything he believes.

----------------------------------------------------------

Danny wakes fully lucid for the first time in a day and a half. There’s no more blurring in his vision or curious deadness in his limbs. Most apparently though, there’s no more dullness hovering at the edge of his thoughts, leaving him feeling disconnected and unable to link ideas. It’s clear to him for the first time just how doped he’s been kept. Shivering, he kicks the sheets away and stands.

It’s light in the room, as light as it ever gets. Checking his watch, he finds it’s just after nine. More than 36 hours since he was nabbed, more than 24 since he would have been missed at work. The fact that he hasn’t been found means there are probably no leads, which makes sense. The Palace parking lot is the last thing he remembers, and nothing other than the Palace has a clear line of sight to it. After six at night, the offices on that side of the building would have been empty. And, of course, there will be no ransom demand. No clues at all other than his abandoned car.

Danny walks over to the covered window, resting his arms on the windowsill. His wrists are stinging badly, and for the first time he notices that the skin there is heavily bruised and abraded. He shifts the cuffs further up his arms and smiles grimly: at least there was some benefit to the drugs.

Standing in the weak daylight, Danny tries to assess his options. There is always the possibility that Hank will let him go once he’s convinced his captive has “broken free” of Steve’s influence. Danny weighs that hopeful prospect against the darker possibility, that the obviously highly unstable Hank’s current attachment to Danny will morph into the same hatred he feels for McGarrett, and lead him to commit violence or murder. Danny doesn’t like the chain, he doesn’t like the stalking, and he doesn’t like the drugs; they speak not only of cunning premeditation but the kind of unhinged desperation that can so easily escalate for no rational reason.

Trying to wet his mouth against the lingering dryness, Danny makes up his mind. A glance at the door confirms that it’s closed. He turns so that his back is to the window, finds the bottom corner with his elbow, and jams it backwards forcefully. There’s a quiet tinkle of glass and he remains tensed, but the door doesn’t open. He waits for several seconds longer, than turns back to the window.

The hard plastic cover is still in place on the inside of the glass. Examining it closely with now-sharp eyesight, Danny can see that it is screwed into the window frame by L-shaped pieces of metal, one positioned every foot or so along all sides. The plastic has been cut to fit the window’s dimensions exactly, making it impossible to pull it towards him. But with the glass on the other side now broken, Danny is able to push the corner of the plastic covering outwards until it bends stiffly under the pressure, enough to wrap his fingers around it. There isn’t much give at all; he can barely force out a gap two inches wide from the window corner to the plastic. Fingers aching, Danny squats down to peer out the tiny opening into the bright morning.

The window is ground-level, and faces out onto a wide, dirty alleyway. The wall opposite him is lined by a wooden slat fence covered in carvings and graffiti; the concrete road between him and the fence is uneven and cracked, with weeds growing up between the fissures. A blue metal dumpster is just visible at the edge of his line of sight, the paint faded and scraped. He can hear engines roaring in the distance, a constant low hum, but not much immediate traffic. The breeze now drifting in has little of the tropical scent common to Honolulu’s greener areas – if anything, there’s a tinge of exhaust in the air. A residential slum, Danny concludes, probably on the outskirts of town near a highway or one of the major overpasses.

Danny tries to fold the plastic further back to gain a better view, hopefully with some sign of a street or sidewalk. The plastic under his fingers gives a surprisingly loud crack and slaps back against his palm, the corner broken clean off. It falls from his stinging hand to the ground below, leaving a very noticeable triangular hole behind. Danny swivels hurriedly, covering the gap with his body and tensing to make a rush at Hank, but there is still no movement from the door. After several seconds his heartbeat slows, and he slumps back against the window. His mouth and throat are still dry, stomach churning in hunger, but he doesn’t dare to leave to go to the sink.

Behind him, Danny hears a soft tread, and he turns with a metallic clatter to look out the window again. There’s a young Hawaiian boy hurrying along the alleyway, stick-thin in dirty clothes and shoes that are far too big for him. He’s about 10, Danny judges, a typical Honolulu street rat. Probably skipping school to shine shoes or clean windshields for nickels.

“Hey, kid.” He’s torn between whispering for his own safety, and speaking normally to hook the kid, and the compromise is a suspicious hiss that meets neither need. The boy stops and looks around, but stays close to the fence. “Over here, here, the window.” Danny can’t wave, can only watch the boy’s eyes dart across the face of his building until they find the hole in the window. “I need your help.”

“What’cha want?” The boy crosses his arms and rests his weight unevenly on one hip, the picture of scepticism.

“I need you to take a message to someone. It’s important.” Danny runs a harsh eye over every detail of the boy’s appearance, searching for anything that would mark him as having reason to fear the police – needle marks, bruises, clothes or trinkets out of his price range. He finds nothing, and ventures out over a wide chasm. “I’m a cop,” he says, and waits for the boy to run, jaw clenched tightly. The kid raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t take off.

“I know – it’s hard to believe. But I’m in a lot of trouble. Look.” He steps back and raises his hands to display the handcuffs and heavy metal chain. Not much of it can be visible through the torn plastic, but hopefully enough of it is. “I need you to go to Five-O headquarters. In the ‘Iolani Palace – you know it?”

“I know it,” agrees the boy, noncommittally.

“My name is Williams, Danny Williams. I work for McGarrett.”

“Where’s your badge, cop?”

He glances around the room behind him, but his jacket is nowhere to be seen. He checks his pants pockets again, but there’s nothing there. He turns back. “It was stolen; I’m locked in here. You’ve got to tell McGarrett.”

The boy steps closer, appraising him. “How much’ll you give me?”

“I don’t have anything on me, but Steve – McGarrett’ll pay you.”

“Uh-uh. Bread up front or nothing. I ain’t going all the way across town for some pupule promise.”

“I – please –” Something behind him creaks, and Danny swivels with his heart in his throat, hands raised to strike. But there’s nothing there; the door is still closed. “I’m in real trouble here. McGarrett’ll give you ten dollars if you bring him here – promise.”

The kid shakes his head. “Sorry, man. Ain’t good enough. I don’t take jobs from crazy haoles for free.” He starts walking.

“No – wait!” Danny pats himself down – no tie pin, nothing in his breast pocket, nothing in his pants, his watch – “Wait! Here!” He strips the watch off, metal clasp digging harshly into his already raw skin as he rips it off hurriedly. The kid reappears, closer now, and he pushes the watch out the small hole in the window. “You can get five bucks for that, easy. Go to McGarrett and he’ll give you another five. ‘Iolani Palace, top floor. Tell him Williams is here, and I need help. Got it?”

The boy takes the watch, examining it from all angles in the bright sunlight as he repeats in a bored tone, “Tell McGarrett Williams is here and needs help. Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Great. Will you hurry? Please?”

The kid looks up from the watch, vaguely irritated by the distraction. “Man, you’re really strung out about this.”

“You’ve got no idea. Just go.”

“Okay, okay, I’m gone.” He puts the watch on his tiny wrist – even at the tightest notch, it’s still too loose and bounces like a bangle as he moves – and heads off at a reasonable jog. Danny sighs and closes his eyes, turning to rest his back against the wall.

If the kid gets to Steve – and the fact that he didn’t take off at the mention of cops is a good sign – everything will be alright. Steve can be here in an hour, maybe less, and they can get this whole fiasco wrapped up before the end of the day.

“You lied,” whispers a quiet, outraged voice. Danny’s eyes snap open and he jumps up from the wall to see Hank standing in the middle of the room, staring at the broken window beside him. “Everything you said.”

“Hank, just listen to me –”

“You never believed me. You never cared about Mattie. You’re just like him.” Hank’s eyes track from the window to Danny. They’re hard and intense, staring with the absolute conviction of a pure fanatic. Danny steps away from the window, careful to keep his movements slow and open.

“That’s not true, Hank. I was just getting a bit cooped up in here – I needed some air –”

“LIAR! You want to go back to him! You want to be like him! DON’T LIE TO ME!” He scrabbles in the pocket of his pants as he shouts, and comes up with a capped syringe.

Danny raises his hands, tensing for the spring. The adrenaline rush seems all the headier on an empty stomach, every line and shadow in the room standing out in sharp relief. “Hank, don’t do this. We can still end this happily – you need help, Hank. I can get it for you. I can help fix things.”

You want to help me? Like McGarrett helped Mattie?” He shakes his head, lip curling. “I know you now. I know you – I should have seen it all along!” Hank launches himself forward, syringe in one hand, the other fisted tight.

Danny’s ready for the charge, and despite having his hands cuffed together he has the advantage of training and experience. He side-steps the first mad rush and turns ready to fend off a grab, expecting Hank to go for his arm. Instead he’s forced to throw himself out of the way as Hank charges at him full-tilt, bringing the syringe down like a knife at Danny’s chest.

Danny keeps his balance through the dodge and comes around to meet the next attack, but forgets to protect the fully extended chain. Hank stomps on it, hard, and Danny gasps as the cuffs slam into his bruised wrists and force him to the ground. Then Hank’s boot is in his ribs, kicking him over onto his back and expelling all the breath from his lungs. He tries to use the motion to roll all the way over onto his knees, but the second kick catches him under his chin and sets off an explosion of lights behind his eyes.

After them, the sharp stab of pain in his arm is hardly enough noticeable. Danny slowly unfolds onto his back while above him, feverish mutterings degrade into background noise.

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
frauleinfrog
Jun. 29th, 2011 06:53 am (UTC)
"Mwahahaha", says Athena. XD

Also, I forgot to mention before, but I kind of love how much money is worth here. Oh, inflation, you so silly. XD
what_we_dream
Jun. 29th, 2011 02:37 pm (UTC)
That's pretty much my standard feeling upon posting. XD

Yeah, it's pretty awesome. Sadly in the show they never talk about small amounts of money, but people are always being ransomed from rich industry kings for 50,000 and what not, and I just have to sit there thinking "I know it's a lot, but I have no idea how much."

Also I totally was going to comment on your post but LJ crashed last night. So I will have to do it tonight. don't hate me!
frauleinfrog
Jun. 30th, 2011 02:17 am (UTC)
Good to know. :p

Right? Man, old shows are so crazy. It makes that part of Austin Powers even funnier. "One MILLION DOLLARS, MWAHAHAHAH."

Too late! :DDDD
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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