carefulinspekshun | Bizzyboys H.Q.

Bizzyboys H.Q.

The Bizzyboy's headquarters is, in truth, just Hector's house, but it's more than the apartment he'd run it out of before.

The main room of the home has been pulled apart from what was once a living room to a "base of operations," with a couple desks, a few filing cabinets, and a phone. Cabinets stand tall, filled with cluttered supplies, and most of the desks are presently empty, save for two: a particularly orderly one, and another covered in notes, doodles, and garbage. Dividing screens separate what appear to be the more resided in parts of the home, and they appear, at a glance, to be cluttered with the furniture that was moved out of the "main office."

Upon entering, a door chimes, from where a little bell was jury-rigged just above the edge. It doesn't take long for the leader of the Bizzyboys (or his first in command) to make an appearance from somewhere inside!

(Open to visits, calls, or any other manners of run-in!)

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Upon a cork board hanging on the wall, there are scraps of paper hanging, detailing the Bizzyboys' currently ongoing projects and their assignments as follows:

(None yet, but soon!)

So you want to be a Bizzyboy, do ya?

Well drop on by! Capochin is always in the office when he's not in the field. Though it's easier if you call ahead to make sure he's got time. He is, after all, very Bizzy.

At your appointed time, he waves you back to the desk he's set up. He's short, and his blue-green face is only just fully visible from behind the normal-human-sized wooden desk. His tail curls above him like a periscope. "Sit, sit. You want a coffee or anythin' before we get started?" His thick and cartoonish Brooklyn accent makes it even harder to take him seriously. He sounds gruff and nasally, like an animated mafioso. His silly little paws grip the side of the desk. He looks like a stuffed animal, with the energy of a disgruntled Italian uncle.

This is going to be a very interesting job.

...the actual...fuck?...

John sees the posted flier, the addendum with its little sketch--and he's pretty sure he's even seen one of these little guys scuttling around town. He wasn't sure, but...this clinches it.

He can't think about it too hard or he'll start snickering--not out of disdain. Yeah, it's ridiculous, but the fact is that John appreciates ridiculous. He's fond of the absurd. He respects anything this over the top and this plain old earnest.

These fellas ain't kidding, and he just--he has to see it for himself.

He doesn't flinch at the bell, lots of shops in town have them. Looking around with keen interest, John's a little bit impressed with the setup. The whole billboard posting is kinda nuts, but someone here has a fairly level head. Maybe it's just eccentricity?...

"Hello?" he calls out, moving further into the apartment. "Anyone home?..."

He's been by before, he's met Hector, and he's just sticking his head in to say hi...

The offer comes from the desk before he can say anything, and before John Rambo knows it he's sitting across from a tiny blue-green primate-esque person who sounds like a distant uncle on his father's side he just barely remembers. He's pretty sure he's not even remembering his mobster accent right, he was four and time distorts memories.

He's gonna be hard pressed not to try and pick the little critter up and squish him like a plushie.

"Uh...sure? I mean--coffee sounds good." John replies. "Listen, I'm--"

"Oh! Be with yew in just one second!"

The voice, upbeat in something that's a ridiculous-sounding sibling to a Bronx accent, comes from the back. The man of the house makes himself present after just a minute, wrapped up in the middle of shuffling off a new-but-already-thoroughly-stained apron to hang by the entrance to the kitchen. In spite of his slightly absurd appearance, he holds himself tall (well, as tall as he can, being fairly short) and proud, giving John a grin that practically radiates enthusiasm.

"Hey, nice to meet'cha! Yew here from the ad?" Cripes, this guy is tall. Why is everybody here so godsdamned tall? And he looks like he could break Hector in half if he tried. (They need that kind of muscle, though, honestly.) That doesn't stop him from offering a hand to shake, fuzzy and clawed but ever-confident. "I'm Hector! And who do I got tha pleasure of speakin' with today?"

...oh no, this critter is fucking adorable.

John can't help but smile at his appearance: an actual anthropomorphic little...primate of some kind. Maybe? He's lean as hell, working some opposable thumbs, and he can talk. The way he talks--John's kind of in love with it.

"Uh--yeah, sorta. I was mostly curious 'bout the whole operation." he replies, gesturing with a small glass bottle in his hand as he offers the other one to shake as he looks down at him. "Name's John Rambo, I run Baker Ranch up in Northwest Hollow. No real, uh...'case' to speak of, but I brought some dandelion syrup as a kinda housewarming gift. Besides raising animals, we do a lot of forage farming, small batch goods, stuff like that."

Just checking things out? A shame, but Hector can work with that. Word's getting out already! That just means he'll have to put on his best face, make sure this guy leaves with something to talk about. (Eugh, he feels like he's on the campaign trail all over again.)

Hector shakes his hand firmly, eyeing that bottle with clear interest as it's gestured with. A housewarming gift! The people here sure are friendly.

"Huh! I didn't know yew could make syrup with dandy-lions. I learn something new every day here!" Hector takes the bottle when it's offered, turning it over a couple times in his hands, before lifting it with a grin. He almost considers taking a drink from it. Almost. "Thanks, neighbor! We're still gettin' set up, but how'z'about I give yew a little tour, get'cha up to speed?"

He's already taking a few steps back into the rest of the room by the time he asks, already gearing up to give this new face a tour. Trying to turn over a new leaf doesn't quite mean he's gotten past being exceptionally presumptuous, after all.

"We've got our base of op-her-ray-shuns all set up, of cawse, but we're still gettin' all our pieces together! It's just me n' one other fella right now, but plenty of space to grow. Before I get into too much of it, though, I gotta know! Was yewr home world much like the one we're in now, Mr. Rambo?"

"Syrup, wine, salads--you name it." John assures him. "You ever wanna try some, check out some of the shops in town that sell from Baker Ranch. Or the Oak & Iron, I paid to get a wild salad on their menu. Seasonal thing."

Fortunately, John's ex-military and doesn't take this kind of presumptuous behavior in a negative light. Give him direction, he will follow...so a tour of the place it is as he follows Hector and looks around with unabashed interest.

"This place is like something outta the past of my world." he admits. "Maybe...roughly a hundred years? Except magic and the like, we don't have that. Or gods with the kind of presence the Mothers have here."

John can't quite stop himself from smiling as he absently touches his favor from Serranai. Spring is coming, after all...he almost feels like he should do something for her. Like Cecil does Yamsgiving...

He stops short at that, remembering the flier.

"...hey, your flier. It said you worked for some gods? You investigate stuff, but...offer general help, too?"

"'Course we do!" Hector's reply is upbeat as ever, hardly skipping a moment. It's easier to get back into work-talk than trying to figure out how to explain the way magic operated back at home, either, nor figure out if that's something he still has to any degree.

He has no idea what a guy like this could possibly need, but he's hoping that's a precursor to a request. Not a bad place to get started, really! Hector waves him along, to their work-board, currently sitting empty.

"We were da first-and-foremost investy-gators for the gods, but Bizzyboys always been problem-solvers at heart. Sometimes those problems just show up as mister-ees!" He explains as he walks, grabbing one of the little hand-written forms that he'd made and offering it over, allowing John a better look. "We handle anything from missin' objects, errands, jobs that need several sets o' hands, n' just about anything yew could think of! We gotsa stay bizzy, don't we? And it's like they say, y'know. Jack of all trades, master of none, but better than being master of one, right?"

The whole presentation of this Bizzyboy stuff is...pretty entertaining, but when Hector offers him the little handwritten form--pretty neat and to the point, too--and makes a point with that quote, John realizes he may have grossly underestimated this guy. And he is a guy, for as tiny as he is, he's gotta be older than he looks.

Scanning the form, he looks back up at Hector with a pleased, but vaguely surprised look on his face.

"You got a solid head on your shoulders, Hector." he decides aloud, patting his shoulder with a firm, but friendly level of force. "Guess what I'm thinking is...kind of a think tank thing? I know you're new, but have you heard much about the goddesses here yet? The Four Mothers...or paladins, for that matter? Cause I am one--I serve one of the goddesses as a kind of soldier."

Capochin hops right back up, trotting over to where a metal carafe is keeping some coffee from the morning warm, pouring John a cup. "Don't worry if you ain't got a resume or nothin', we ain't so formal," Capo assures him, cutting of what he assumes to be nervous rambling.

He returns with the cup, passing it over. "So! What's your name, kid?"

"John." he replies, distracted by accepting the coffee. "But I should..."

He pauses, sipping the coffee.

"...I should--"

John blinks, stares down at his cup, and takes another sip. It's not great coffee by general standards, but it's great by his. Look, Army joe wrecked his taste buds.

He looks back up at the other guy, visibly surprised, his protests momentarily forgotten.

"This is fucking amazing coffee." he huffs with a little smile, going back for a third sip. And a fourth.

...yeah, this guy's not his type, but if he were, John would be flirting badly for more of his coffee alone...

"Hey, t'anks," Capochin replies with just a bit more brightness, pleased with himself. "And there's more where dat came from if you get the job, eh?"

He takes a seat once more, grabbing a paper. "So, what kinda gig you lookin' for? We got full time, part time, and freelance."

John looks down at his cup, back up at Capochin, then back down at his cup again...and smiles to himself.

What the hell.

"...probably freelance." he replies finally, looking back up again. "I run a ranch up in Northwest Hollow, so I'm just lookin' for a little something on the side. I've heard a little about you guys, but I'm still kinda more curious than anything, though. Duties, pay, what I can expect from the action. Looking for information before I put in my uh, formal application, know what I mean?"

"Yeah, sure, of course! Y'know, if you do good work, a location like that might make a good spot for a sentry location. Can't be too careful with dis curse business." Capochin rubs his chin thoughtfully, then waves it away.

"I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Duties are gonna be kinda mixed. We are, first and foremost, problem-solvers. What dat means is gonna depend on the day! You could be solvin' mysteries, lookin' for clues, gettin' da scoop on spooky things or whatnot. You could be helpin' folks with stuff that needs doin', like fixin' a kid's broken toy or gettin' someone's favorite pen outta da storm drain or helpin' old ladies take out garbage. We do it all! Within reason. Nobody's gonna expect ya to do stuff y'ain't comfortable with. But we do appreciate a Bizzyboy who's not afraid of a little danger. As for pay..."

Blah blah handwavey money stuff--- the wage Capochin proposes seems fair, if not a little low for now, but promises a raise once the business gets on its feet and a nice bonus.

"Sound good?"

The pat gets a little grin out of Hector, his whole posture brightening, his tail doing its best impression of a question mark in its little delighted curl. What can he say? Apocalypse or no, caught in a ditch of self-loathing or otherwise, he's so easily fluffed up by praise. Some things simply never change!

"Never heard'a pally-dins, but goddy-soldier makes enough sense to me," Hector offers, falling thoughtful as well. Would the original Bizzyboys have counted as paladins? That's an odd thought. He shelves that for now. "I heard a lil' bit, though, and met one of 'em on the way in! Think tanks we can do, though, easy-peasy. What'cha got on the mind, pal o' mine? Lookin' to do something for the ladies in charge?"

Edited 2025-01-11 01:21 (UTC)

Yeah, alright. She might as well be doing this.

It wasn't as though she's got a job yet, of course. She'd considered joining the Enforcers, but thinking back on how that went last time, that's... likely not a great idea, when taking everything into account. She's never had a great draw to the arts, a personal garden is enough farming for her, and nothing else that she's considered has enough of a challenge to it, as absurd as that feels. What can she say? She likes to solve a puzzle, to get the satisfaction of a problem sorted out, a mystery uncovered, one way or another.

So, when an advertisement looking for "investigators, go-getters, and problem solvers" got posted to the board, all strange spellings (and passive-aggressive placement to the other local detectives' ads) aside, she couldn't find a reason not to look into it. All this free time of hers is starting to lose its charm, anyhow.

(Besides, she's done worse, job-wise. At least it's not the Magnus Institute.)

Maybe she should've expected, from the advertisement, to be getting interviewed by a little monkey-man. It's a good thing she's had all these years not to look fazed by these sorts of instances. The call ahead of time keeps his voice from being too much of a surprise, but that voice out of this little guy is going to take some getting used to. All types of worlds out there, apparently.

"Coffee's great, thank you," Basira closes the front door behind her, moving to drop the bag off her shoulder beside the chair. "Hope I'm not running too late. The snow's made getting anywhere take longer than I've been expecting it to."

"Eh, whaddaya gonna do, weather's weather," Capochin agrees, apparently not too concerned as he pours her a coffee from the metal carafe near his desk. He slides it over, along with a dish full of sugar cubes. "Outta cream, sorry 'bout dat. Hector ain't come back with more yet."

He offers a furry hand to shake, with short, blunt claws at the ends. "Capochin Bastone. Second in command of the Bizzyboys. And you?"

"Basira Hussain." She shakes the hand offered to her, taking a seat. A couple sugar cubes in the coffee, and she takes it with a short nod of thanks, using it mostly to warm her hands for the time being. "Good to meet you, Mr. Bastone."

Basira looks a bit out of place here, considering she's nearly twice Capochin's height, and twice as serious at least. The mental image that lingers for a moment is hysterical, quite frankly: her standing tall over a team of little teal guys, working as part of an absurd little team with as little hesitation as she gives just about anything else in her life. Maybe after all the things she's seen, though, some workplace levity is what she needs.

"I brought a resume with me, if you need it," Basira offers, nodding slightly to where her bag sits. "The ad didn't mention it, but I thought I'd have it, just in case."

Moiré's getting sick of not having a job - holding out for an opportunity in their field, which there aren't many of on this little Victorian island, feels less worth it every week they spend being lulled to sleep by the sounds of rowdy drunk people - and the ad sounded like the kind of thing they did with their motley back in DC, except they'd get paid for it and hopefully run into fewer murderers. The 'boy' in the job title sticks in their craw a bit, they haven't been keeping up their estrogen supply from the astonishingly well-stocked local apothecary just to get called a boy all day, but there was that footnote specifically saying that all genders were welcome; if it weren't for that, they wouldn't have bothered.

The interviewer looks and sounds like a goofy little guy, but honestly he's just on the high end of the weirdness range they've seen from other changelings; their old Autumn Court monarch looked like an anthropomorphic woodland creature in a little pair of spectacles and wasn't any taller.

"Yeah, sure, coffee sounds great." They take a seat.

"Yeah, kinda." John replies, huffing out a quiet little chuckle as Hector's tail curls up with such painful good cheer it's more than a little infectious. The laugh is a by-product of that contagious brightness, and it's...nice, if sad only because it strikes a strangely familiar chord in him.

"I've met Mortanne, too--couple of the others, like Kora and Celestine, but Serranai is the one I serve. She's..."

He trails off, and the way his smile turns so painfully tender? Yeah, that says a lot.

"...thing about the goddesses is that in their season, they can come to us, y'know? Walk around like people if they want to. Serranai's done so much for me, and with the waiting--a buddy of mine who's been helped by Celestine does this thing in the fall, Yamsgiving. Like a holiday I celebrate back home involving a big kinda feast to recognize our blessings and have a moment of community. Thought about doing something like that for Serranai, but...I don't even know what that would look like, or what it would be for. That's kinda where the 'think tank' thing comes in. Make any sense?"

"Eh, we don't worry too much about dat, seein' as we're used to takin' rookies, down and outs, people with no job experience, people who just don't know how to write one... But I won't say no, makes my life easier."

He holds out a fuzzy hand to receive the paper in question, the other going for his own cup of coffee. He wrinkles his nose. Seems like maybe it went cold.

"Comin' right up," Capochin agrees, turning to the little metal carafe by his desk and grabbing a clean cup from the little stacking set that he's thrifted. He fills the cup before passing it over, along with a little bowl of sugar cubes. "If ya want cream, I'll hafta go get it. I don't wanna leave it out when I ain't usin' it. The sooner these folks invent almond milk, the better it'll be for everyone whose gotta share a room with me."

If the voice didn't give away Capochin's middle-agedness, certainly the TMI complaints about assorted bodily ailments must do the trick. He offers a hand to shake, covered in short teal fur like a thick peach fuzz.

"Capochin Bastone. Second in command of da Bizzyboys."

It occurs to Moiré that they have no idea how you milk an almond. Or what sort of equipment might be required.

"I don't need it, and it sounds like it's better if I don't put either of us through that," they say, straight-faced. They drop a few sugar cubes into the coffee. Setting it aside, they extend a hand gloved in white like a classic cartoon to shake Capochin's fuzzy one.

"Moiré Myrekrig. Formerly of the Autumn Court."

"Cool," Capochin agrees, having no clue what an Autumn Court is and having no intention of asking. He shakes their hand.

"So! I take it ya seen our ad. What interested you about da position?"

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Bizzyboys H.Q.

CURRENT CASES

Intie-views

Just Visiting (?)

Accidental Intie-view (or J Joins Da Bizzyboys)

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Re: Intie-views

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