Week Resolve
WEEK RESOLVE
by David White
Music by John Williams
Executive Producer - Ponsonby Britt, O.B.E.>
New Year’s Day at the Rescue Rangers headquarters was not usually a day
of rest. Although New Year’s Eve was a night of celebration and party-hopping
about the city, morning found the Rangers hard at work on two very difficult
tasks. Party clean-up and resolution one-upsmanship.
“Come on, pally,” Monty said as he picked party debris from the big table. “You tried giving up candy once. A miserable failure, it was.”
“I’m not kidding, Monterey,” Dale said firmly, pausing from his floor mopping. “I’ll give up on chocolate. That’s my New Year’s resolution and I’ll stick to it!”
“Don’t give me that malarkey,” Monty grinned. “You couldn’t make it a week without chocolate.”
“I could do it easier than you could go without cheese!”
“That’s ridiculous, Dale. What’s a man to eat?”
“How about chocolate?”
“Right, then!” Monty exclaimed, tilting his hat forward. “I’ll give up cheese for a week if you give up chocolate. You’ll crack like a freezer full of frozen fudge!”
“Honestly!” Chip said, toting a box of party decorations. “You two should know better than to make resolutions you know you’re not going to keep.”
“Well, Chipper,” Monty said cockily. “That’s because a tough resolution is a test of a man’s character. Not something you’d care to take on.”
“Oh, yeah!” Chip said as he set the box aside. “I can keep any resolution you can dish out!”
“I’ll bet!” Dale snapped. “Betcha you can’t quit being a detective in the house for a week. You can’t even quit reading those old cases of ours!”
“He’s gotcha there, mate,” Monty said slyly. “You drag those old files all over the headquarters.”
“I don’t either!” Chip insisted.
Dale reached over and grabbed Chip’s jacket. A few vigorous shakes and three of the offending file folders tumbled out onto the floor.
“Nuts!” Chip said. “Busted!”
“So?” Dale said. “No more detectiving?”
“It’s a bet!” Chip said. “It’ll be a lot easier than what you two have to give up.”
“Did I hear someone making a bet?” Gadget said, entering from her workshop. “And can I have a chance to take someone to the cleaners?”
“We haven’t even decided on the bet yet, Gadget,” Dale said.
“There’s one worthwhile bet at this time of year,” Chip said with an evil smile. “The inventory.”
“Golly, Chip!” Gadget said. “Inventorying the rescue equipment is a hard job for all of us together! Getting out the equipment, checking to make sure it all works, writing up the repairs...”
Dale folded his arms and leaned against Monty as if he were a lamppost. “I might have known that a girl wouldn’t take a really tough bet.”
Gadget bristled. “I can do anything you three can do twice as well in half the time! Name your game!”
“No more explosions,” Chip demamded. “That’s your New Year’s resolution. Or at least for the week.”
“He’s right, luv,” Monty said. “We’ve replaced every window at least twice since Thanksgiving!”
“And you’re liable to hurt yourself!” Dale said, concerned.
“Gosh, you guys!” Gadget said. “I don’t start any dangerous projects in my workshop...”
A deep GRAWUMPH came from her workshop.
“...although they sometimes turn dangerous after I start!”
Gadget bolted for the workshop. She had just made it inside the door when...
BLAAAMMMMMO!!
The explosion was not powerful, but it was loud and quite nimble. Gadget tottered out the door; dazed, soot-spotted but uninjured. Her hair had transformed into a neat ponytail. Tied up with her OWN tail.
“No problem!” Gadget declared. “Just a bit of rocket propellent I left on the hot plate too long.”
Chip guided his woozy teammate to a chair. “Gadget, your life would kill a normal rodent.”
“Oh, thanks Chip. That’s nice of you to say,” Gadget said, missing the point entirely. “Umm, could someone help me with my hair?”
Dale stepped up behind her and tugged gently at her predicament. Zipper buzzed in, checking up on the latest blast damage.
“Ow. Ow. Ow. OWW!” Gadget squeaked as the knot came loose. “Thanks, Dale. Okay, Chip. You’ve got your bet. I’m off explosions.”
“I’m off the case,” said Chip.
“I’m off chocolate!” declared Dale.
“And I’m off (sigh) cheese,” moaned Monty.
They’re all off their rockers, Zipper buzzed.
* * *
By 2 P.M., Chip knew something was up. The Ranger headquarters was never this quiet during the day. Chip prowled silently through the halls, finding not a trace of his fellow Rangers, except for Zipper, who sat on the far side of the front room as if waiting for a television show to start. Only, he was facing away from the TV, and the TV was off.
Chip stole into the kitchen and found it empty as well. Then he noticed something out of place. Someone had left a small chunk of cheese on the counter. Gadget might have made herself a sandwich and forgotten to put it away. Or had a trap been set for Monterey Jack?
Chip heard footsteps approaching and hid in the broom closet. Peeking through the door, Chip saw Monty breeze into the kitchen, muttering to himself, “If other mice can live on bread and vegetables, I can do it for a week.” Then he spotted the cheese. Chip knew it wasn’t a classic Monterey cheese attack because the ends of his moustache didn’t explode. But he was drawn to the wedge like iron to a magnet.
Monty picked up the cheese, and Chip was about to rush out to stop him when Monty froze, blinked rapidly and sniffed the wedge suspiciously.
“Crikey!” Monty declared. “Velveeta! That’s not cheese, it’s orange Spam!”
With that, Monty covered the alleged cheese with plastic wrap and returned it to the refrigerator, then exited the kitchen with a shudder at his close call.
Chip slipped out of the kitchen, puzzled. If this was a trap to get Monty to break his resolution, it was a poorly planned scheme. One might say, a cheesy one.
Entering the front room, Chip was confronted with another remarkable sight. Dale was at the large dining table in the middle of the room, apparently trying his best to violate Miss Piggy’s Dictum. Dale was not only trying to eat something bigger than his head, but he actually had it all in his mouth at once.
“Dale,” Chip said sharply. “That better not be a piece of chocolate!”
Dale spun around in his chair and shook his head vigorously. Whatever he was eating had given his head definite edges and corners. “Eesa rooker cloup!”
“A what?” Chip demanded.
“Ah looper kaloub!”
“Dale. Swallow it.”
With an effort worthy of Hercules, Dale did. He didn’t look happy about it.
“I said ‘it’s a sugar cube!’” Dale was beginning to turn a rather pleasant shade of green.
“Since when did one sugar cube make you feel sick?” Chip said suspiciously.
“Since this one is following three others,” Dale said “I only said no chocolate. I have to have something sweet to compensate.”
Chip was about to deliver a sermon on overindulgence when something odd caught his eye. Something strange was happening in the nearby hallway.
Chip went into the hall and looked and listened. There was not a sign of movement or any sound at all. The classic case of “too quiet.” He stood in the center of the hall, scratching his head, when he felt the fur go up on the back of his neck. It couldn’t be. Not the oldest trick in the detective’s handbook. Wanna bet? Chip thought.
He looked slowly straight up. There, an inch above his head was Gadget. With one hand she dangled from a light fixture, with the other she clutched a large cylinder.
“Hi, Chip,” Gadget said as innocently as she could, as if hanging from the ceiling were a daily occurrence.
“Gadget,” Chip said with a strained excess of calm. “Is that a stick of dynamite you’re holding?”
“Oh! This? Well, you know, HAHAHAHA. Yes.”
“Would you, very carefully, come down here?”
“Umm, sure Chip.”
That was the moment that the light fixture became unfixed. Gadget and her cargo landed squarely on Chip. He might have better appreciated saving Gadget from any injury if the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes had not been the letters TNT. Dale and Monty hurried in from the front room.
“What happened?” Dale said.
“Gadget almost got out of her bet,” Chip said, “by blowing up the whole block.”
“Don’t worry, Chip.” Gadget chided as she helped him up. “TNT takes a detonator to set it off. Or was that potassium perchlorate that takes a detonator? Whatever!”
“Gadget! you’re supposed to keep that stuff in the basement bunker! It’s dangerous! What are you doing bringing it up here?”
“Gee, Chip. I was going to use it for a counterweight. It’s just the right size.”
“You were going to use a stick of TNT for a counterweight?”
“Chip, I said ‘no exploSIONS,’ not ‘no exploSIVES,’” Gadget shouldered her hazardous burden.
“I hope our survival doesn’t depend on semantics,” he sighed.
“Wait a second,” Gadget said suspiciously. “What were you doing looking for me on the ceiling?”
“And sneakin’ up on me while I was munchin’ a snack?” Dale said.
“And spyin’ on me in the kitchen?” Monty said. “Didn’t think I saw ya, did ya?”
In unison, they pointed the Fatal Fingers of Guilt at Chip and declared, “You’ve been detectiving!”
“Nuts!” Chip said with disgust. “Busted!”
Just as Chip was about to begin a most contrite apology, he glanced down at the floor. “Hold it, Dale! What’s that on your feet?”
Dale had left a trail of footprints across the front room. “Oops! Forgot to wipe my feet when I came in.”
“That’s not mud,” Chip stated. “That’s melted chocolate!”
Chip ran to the dining table and threw back the tablecloth. “Just as I thought! A stash of ‘soft centers’ with fresh chipmunk teethprints in ‘em! You kicked them under the table when I walked in.”
“Oh, shoot!” Dale said. “Caught by a hotfoot.”
“Hold on,” Chip continued. “This isn’t a tablecloth. It’s a big slice of white cheddar!”
“So much for ‘hide it in plain sight,’” Monty said with resignation.
Gadget had stepped to the door of her workshop and was peeking in nervously. “Chip, there’s a blueprint on the table, there. Does it say three thousand pounds pressure, or three hundred pounds?”
Chip checked the document. “Ummm, three hundred.”
“Ooops!” Gadget said as she tried to sneak away from the door.
There issued a loud KA-CHUG from the workshop.
“Hit the deck!” Chip shouted. They never got the chance.
CHERNOBLOOEY!!
The explosion was loud. And creative. And reasonably powerful. Gadget wobbled away from her door a somewhat orange color and remarkably pungent. Her hair had been blasted straight past her face, giving her the appearence of a badly animated hairbrush. Her tail had knotted itself around her throat in a fetching bow tie.
“No problem!” She said with an unconvincing tremor in her voice. “Just my turbo-microwave pressure cooker letting go.”
“Gadget, what were you cookin’?” Dale asked, sniffing her hair. “It smells yummy.”
“It was jalapeno cheese chili,” Gadget answered.
Monty wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Gadget-luv, that ain’t cheese. It’s Velveeta. And you’re supposed to add it after you’ve cooked the chili.”
“Really? Is that efficent?” Gadget asked, trying to smooth her hair back. “Golly, does anyone have a comb?”
“That’s going to take a washing to straighten out, Gadget,” Chip said. “And I think we should all come clean. We all broke our resolutions today because they were silly resolutions that we made to try to win a bet, instead of resolutions to give us better habits. I say the bet’s a four-way draw. We’ll all help with the inventory this month. Agreed?”
His companions all nodded their assent with a sense of having dodged the bullet.
“And I’m making a new resolution. A worthwhile one,” Chip declared. “I’ll leave my case files and detective work at my desk.”
“I’m with you, Chip,” Dale said, the effects of sugar loading now making themselves known to his stomach. “Only one piece of candy at a time. And I’ll brush my teeth afterwards.”
Gadget was beginning to appreciate the adhesive qualities of pastureized process food when applied to mouse fur. “I resolve to only work on dangerous things in the basement. It’ll remind me to be more careful.”
“And I resolve,” Monty said. “That when I feel a cheese attack coming on, I’ll think Velveeta.”
Zipper buzzed over from the couch and said, as clearly as he could manage: I’m going to keep an eye on all of you. You’re not going to last the week.
“Wanna bet!?” they all replied.
THE END
DISCLAIMER: The Rescue Rangers, Gadget, Chip, Dale, Monterey Jack, Zipper, are © and T.M. The Walt Disney Company, and they are used here without permission.
All other characters, locations, equipment and situations are © 2001 David D. White. Use only with appropriate explosives handling procedure. Permission to copy and re-distribute without charge is granted, provided the work is not altered, edited, or otherwise fiddled with.
Spam is the T.M. of Hormel Foods, and has no proven genetic relationship to
Velveeta.
Velveeta is the T.M. of Kraft Foods. The exact origin and nature of Velveeta continues to be studied by the Sandia National Laboratory. The outlook is not good.