Previously: On their way to New York, Digger told Twain the story of Frog Boy, the most annoying bad guy he ever met. And now…
The alleyway stank. The smell reminded Digger of the fair, a sour-sweet reek that brought to mind a dead rat mired in a puddle of congealed sticky soda. A grim thought, but then, these were grim times. Digger was wearing skater pants.
Twain had insisted on putting a disguise on Digger for their visit to the museum. When Digger objected and asked why, Twain had simply stated it was â€œhis thing,â€ and besides, they didnâ€™t want to attract undue attention on a simple recon.
So Digger now sported a T-shirt, a tasteful green one rather than one with a ridiculous slogan. The Drillers were wrapped in bandages and further hidden in slings that Twain had pulled out of a cabinet overflowing with medical and first aid supplies. Twain was both taller and slimmer than Digger, though, so he had nothing that fit Diggerâ€™s legs beyond sweat pants and the skirts worn by Judy Buckle, the Crime Clown. And the skater jeans.
They were ludicrous, huge things, like denim bells on his legs. Instead of ringing, though, they just made preposterous flapping noises as he paced back and forth, waiting on Twain and trying to get used to the slings constraining his movement like a straitjacket.
The back doors of the van opened and Twain stepped out, wearing a charcoal gray suit. â€œReady?â€ he asked.
â€œThatâ€™s what youâ€™re wearing?â€ Digger asked.
Twain looked down at himself. â€œWhatâ€™s wrong with it?â€
â€œNothing,â€ Digger said. â€œItâ€™s just, it took you so long, and knowing how you operate, I figured you were dressing up like a spaceman or something.â€
â€œI told you, this is a recon,â€ Twain said. â€œNo reason to get nervous. Just relax.â€
â€œI am relaxed,â€ Digger said. â€œOr I would be if I could move my arms. Where is this place?â€
â€œItâ€™s this way, about a half-mile,â€ Twain said. He turned and walked out of the alley.
Digger walked fast to catch up to him, his skater jeans flapping. â€œSo no more stalling. Where exactly are we going?â€
Twain sighed. â€œItâ€™s easier to show you than tell you,â€ he said, â€œbut itâ€™s the Kessler Museum of the World.â€
â€œNever heard of it,â€ Digger said.
â€œItâ€™s small and private,â€ Twain said. â€œGuy named Gordon Kessler, made big money importing heavy metals. Stuff they use to make batteries and things. Fascinated by anthropology, collected all sorts of stuff on his travels. Problem was, he wanted his name on a building, but he wasnâ€™t rich enough, and his collection wasnâ€™t good enough, to get one of the big museums to name anything after him. So he put together a foundation and built his own museum out here in Brooklyn.â€
â€œGeez, what is it with you and museums?â€ Digger asked.
â€œItâ€™s just my thing,â€ Twain said. â€œWhat did Monty Python call it? My idiom.â€
â€œAnd this is where weâ€™ll get the thing that helps me rescue the hostage?â€
Twain smiled. â€œYouâ€™ll see.â€
â€œDonâ€™t smile,â€ Digger said. â€œIt makes me nervous when you smile.â€
What will happen next? Find out tomorrow in our next episode!
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