Discovered this picture during a Google Image Search: G.I. Joe villains The Baroness, Destro, Cobra Commander, and Storm Shadow, created in Rock Band.



Awesome. Though honestly, Cobra Commander looks like the bastard child of Scott Ian from Anthrax and a Blue Man.

[Source: Halolz.com]

We walked down the long central corridor of the local mall in search of our quarry: a watch kiosk. Gordon needed to get a battery in a watch replaced, or some such nonsense. I was really just along for the ride and maybe to score a Pretzel Dog or something.

After the seventh cell phone dealer and half a dozen oddly named retro/hipster/geek-chic/wanna-be trendy clothing stores we found what we were looking for. Gordon approached and struck up a conversation with the 20-some year old girl working the counter.

You'd think one would open with something like "Hi, I need a watch battery" or "Watchie brokey!". No, Gordon is a gentleman, and prefers to ingratiate himself with whomever he's speaking before asking them to do something. He proceeded with a friendly, "Hi, I'm Gordon!"

Better than "Wanna see if my Timex is still ticking?" I suppose.

The girl smiled brightly and with surprising cheer returned his friendly hello. "Hi, I'm Cindy!" she said. Her name wasn't Cindy. Or maybe it was. Honestly, I wasn't paying enough attention to catch it, and damned if I remember it now. So, we'll go with "Cindy". It's shorter than "whatever-her-name-was". Maybe it was "Jane". I don't know.

Gordon smiled. Her response wasn't saccharine like a Chic-fil-A employee trying to hard, no, it was more playful. Apparently Gordon appreciated it. "Ah ha! Always nice to get a pleasant response in return!" he said, or something kinda gay like that. He really can be quite the dandy lad. Although I say that mostly because I suspect he's reading this (though it is kinda true). Hi Gordon, are we still on for lunch?

"Don't I get an introduction?" I chimed in, without bothering to look up from my iPhone. I was probably playing Tetris. Stupid z-shaped block, why won't you leave me be?

"This is Kato," Gordon acknowledged, nodding my way. Replaying it in my mind I imagine her standing on her tiptoes to look over the counter, like I'm a small child standing there playing my Gameboy. It didn't happen that way, but it's funnier to think of like that.

Cindy opened her eyes wide at hearing this and exclaimed: "My dog's name was Kato!" I looked up at hearing this odd coincidence and was about to ask the origin of his name when she continued: "The cops killed him."

Gordon and I channeled Neo: "Whoa."

"What kind of dog was he?" asked my inquisitive friend, even though he really wanted to say "What the fuck?"

"A big ole pitbull," replied Maybe Jane.

I think Gordon's eyebrow raised a bit at this, not the curious Spock look, but rather the smug look one gets when they can finally put to use some of that questionably useful information they've been hoarding in their brain all these years. "Also known as a Staffordshire Bull Terrier," he noted, rolling a Natural 20 on his [Knowledge: Animals] skill check.

"A what?" asked Cindy-Jane.

"Staffordshire Bull Terrier," he said again.

"Stepchildshore..."

"Staffordshire Bull Terrier."

"Stepfordwife..."

"Staf-ford-shire."

"Stayfoldshirt..."

"Say it with me," Gordon patiently instructed. "Staffordshire Bull Terrier." This went on for like ten minutes. It reminded me of a Señor Wences routine. My eyes began to drift back down to my Jesus Phone.

Finally moving on, Gordon broached the "sensitive" topic of her dog's demise. "Not to bring up any sad memories but... what happened?"

"Well," Cindy-not-Jane began, before rattling off the next bit, "my mom was living with this drug dealer at the time and they trained the dog to hate cops and black people." The last bit was delivered with less embarrassment than one would hope, sort of matter-of-factly, like it's what everyone does. The first chapter of "How To Train Pitbulls" as it were.

I'm sure I emoted at this point, either a wince, or raised eyebrows, or something else to express my surprise and discomfort. I managed a measly "I see" all the while thinking "Where the hell is that watch battery?"

She elaborated: "The house had these vault doors..." (An inconsequential detail.)

"Uhuh."

"And the cops bust in," continued Let's-Say-Cindy, "and he took off and bit the first cop's balls off."

At this point the other young lady working the chronologically-themed kiosk felt compelled to jump in. "Bit them off?" she asked, which in her native tongue, Text Message, is written: "OMG! WTF?!"

Cindy replied with her rapier wit: "Yea, he had a high voice from that day on!" How droll. Kudos to you.

"Ouch," I mustered.

"So they shot the dog," she concluded.

"I think I would have shot him too," Gordon offered, logically, adding: "And I'm a dog lover!"

I felt the need to inject a quick aside. "You love your Joy Department more, though," I quipped. Hard to follow up that "high-voice" gem, but somehow I managed.

"Well, they shouldn't have broken into the house!" was Cindy's defensive response.

At some point a watch battery was replaced, I'm not sure when. It doesn't really matter. Gordon payed whatever ridiculous (and possibly usurious) fee is associated with unscrewing four screws and we went on our way.

When we were out of earshot, Gordon commented on the transaction. "See, now, being friendly and striking up a conversation can have its rewards: Sometimes you walk away with a great story."

He certainly had a point, but I couldn't help but think that we'd have been better off not engaging whatever-her-name-was to begin with.

"There are two word for that," I said, nodding back at the girl in the booth. "'Damaged Goods.'"