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Fly, my monkeys, fly! Do my evil bidding!

-- is what Wash would be saying if knew anything about The Wizard or Oz. Or, in fact, had flying monkeys on hand.

Instead, he has a remote-controlled Hummer, which is turning swift figure-eights around the many table legs in the bar...and, through the miracle of modern technology and a few well-placed modifications, has a small vid recorder mounted on top.

It's almost as good.

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And when the car finishes its rounds and retreats to a nearby booth, there's a pleased, "shiny!" as its owner sees the cookie

Then, a critical examination of said cookie.

"There's no way I can ask if this is poisonous, magical, or some other kind of supercookie and get a straight answer, right?" he addresses the bar at large.

There's a looooong period of non-answering.

Then.

From the couch.

IT'S A UFC!

The UFC (now properly identified as a snickerdoodle) lands haphazardly on Wash's table, sending crumbs everywhere. There's a little note pinned to said cookie.

Of course it's a supercookie, what other sort is there?

AAAH ATTACK COOKI -- wait.

Wash lowers his hands, peers at the cookie, peers at the note, then leans around the booth to peer at the rest of the bar.

And, thoughtfully, breaks of a small piece of the snickerdoodle to nibble on.

There is, amazingly, a smallish pyro watching him from over the back of the couch.

She is, perhaps, attempting to be sneaky.

Or just weird. Weird works.

"Am I going to acquire amazing magical powers of invisibility if I eat this supercookie?"

Nibble, nibble.

A jellybaby hits him square in the forehead.

Red, yum.

Evidently she has run out of cookie ammunition. Blame Raven, he ate most of her cookies earlier.

Wash gapes, wounded, and rubs his forehead.

"See? This is why I need magic invisible supercookies, so I don't get turned into target practice! I demand nothing less than magic invisible supercookies."

And he scoops up the jellybaby and fires it back.

Nyah.

It does not return.

Hey, if he doesn't want her candy, so be it.

...

Well. Maybe he just needs a different type.

Thunk, goes the candy bar on the table.

It's a Yorkie bar.

Don't feed the birds.

"One of these days, you're going to put somebody's eye out," he calls in his best Dad Voice as he promptly unwraps the Yorkie Bar.

Beat, broken by quiet enjoyment of misogynistic chocolate.

"Did that sound anywhere near intimidating? I think I need more practice."

And then, there is a pyro sitting in his booth.

Maybe she's sneakier than she looks.

"Maybe if y'took lessons from Mal?" She suggests helpfully. Or something.

"But Mal's got that built-in intimidaty captain aura. I'm lacking there. I lack the aura."

Vague handwaving over his chest and shoulders.

"And I've been hanging around him for seven years, too, you'd think some of it would've transferred. I feel gypped."

"Maybe there's secret captainy rituals. You should ask." She asserts, cherfully.

Preferably somewhere around someone that has a recorder. Yes.

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