“Riiiight, doomsday machines… rentals. I don’t recall any businesses auctioning off any type of machinery, nonetheless doomsday devices—as I’m pretty certain they would’ve secured a sponsorship slot in my broadcast…”
It was likely that a small, radioactive-ridden child asking for such items would be seen as concerning at the very best, catastrophic at the very worst, but really - if Cecil received a paycheck for every time the topic of apocalypse-generating tools were discussed, he would be able to afford a much larger apartment by now. Considering how often the end of the world occurred, this was fairly routine.
“I’m likely not the best candidate for discussing Armageddon and its potential causes, as I’ll probably be too busy reporting the numerous fires, break-ins, and hellish beasts intruding on our once relatively peaceful burg, but I’m sure I can refer you to someone?”
Nimble digits carelessly flip through documents, likely previous segments, present segments, orfuture segments that are subject to change any second from now, concentration evident. Surely such a proposal had come up at a time—it was practically (and metaphorically, literally) illegalnot to memorize the coordinates of each and every device that could procure any fatality. After tossing a few pages out, adding a few in, and scribbling a few words in a totally undoctored style that was definitely not supposed to mimic the handwriting of the Station Management.
“… Have you tried the Ralphs by the Dog Park?“
HIS SOMEWHAT diminutive stature makes it difficult to get a good look at the papers Cecil is fussing with: even perched on the chair, he can barely see over the edge of the desk. Not a problem. He decides to stand on the chair, slamming tiny hands down onto the desk as he smacks Cecil’s nimble fingers away from the papers, sweeping them into a tidy pile.
❝ I’LL JUST go through these myself, ❞ he coolly explains, ❝ ’cause I’m sure you missed something. I saw a billboard advertising doomsday machines when I flewAAGHHH -- I mean -- I MEAN, when I drove here. But I wasn’t the one driving, because I’m a mere earth larvae, and I haven’t won my battle against the driving instructor yet. GIR ! Take these papers for the computer to sort through later, ❞ he commands, and his obviously-not-robotic doggy salutes him from under the desk as he opens his mouth wide to inhale all the papers, as voracious as a vacuum cleaner.
❝ PAPERS TASTIN’ LIKE KALE, ❞ GIR offers. Zim shushes him -- talking could blow their cover ! After all, Earth dogs do not speak.
❝ OF COURSE I have ! Wait -- no, actually, I haven’t, ❞ he remembers -- he’s accomplished so many amazing feats, they blur together in the larger scheme of things. ❝ What is at this Ralphs by the Dog Park, and what sort of secrets are to be unlocked there ? ❞
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