Ok, this is definitely not my normal type of story... I don't know that it even qualifies as a story; more of a drabble really, and a silly one at that. Regardless, it was fun to write, and I'm hoping it's also fun to read! Enjoy! :-)

Soft vs Hard, Chapter 1

He sat at his desk, desperately trying to block out the argument currently raging outside his office door, yet failing miserably. They had started bickering about the merits of soft vs hard foods when in a fight, and things had degenerated from there. He could honestly say the past half hour ranked up there as some of the most excruciatingly painful moments he'd ever experienced which, considering he'd once been held hostage & tortured by a bored sociopath with nothing to lose, was saying a lot...

"Will you two just stop?!" he shouted, finally running out of patience. Five-year olds had more self-control than these two. Hell, mentally-deranged, impulse-control-lacking, inebriated drug addicts had more self-control than they did...

Realizing the feuding agents had no intention of complying with his order – if anything, things were getting progressively louder out there – Stan stood up and made his way to the door, all the while fantasizing about gagging both marshals and enjoying a few moments of blessed silence. He was so engrossed in the idea of a silent nirvana that he failed to heed Marshall's warning about flying food.

By the time his brain caught up with the warning (Flying FOOD??), it was too late. While time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, and he could clearly see the airborne hot-fudge sundae - scratch that, banana split! - coming at his head, he couldn't seem to get out of the way. After what seemed like ages, he heard the 'splat' of the hot-fudge-drenched, already-melting ice cream hitting him in the face & overflowing onto the top of his head, not to mention the 'splort' of the over-ripe banana as it flattened itself against his forehead.

"See!" came the triumphant shout from Mary, "I told you soft food was more effective!!"

"Fine, you win. Napkin, Stan?" asked the younger marshal, holding out a paper napkin the size of a postage stamp.

He just stood there speechless, shedding ice-cream, hot-fudge, and banana chunks all over the linoleum floor. He briefly thought about shooting them both where they stood, but decided he was probably over-reacting.

Marshall had offered him a napkin, after all.

He wouldn't shoot him...