A little fanfic

[Master Procrastinator]

I apologize for the delay, but here is a new chapter.

HANNAH MONTANA AND THE HOLLYWOOD CONSPIRACY

ACT 1: SEARCH FOR THE MISSING HAIRBRUSH

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John leaned against the side of the pony barn, cleaning his gun.
On the barn's second floor, where Hannah lived, a door slammed
with enough force to shake the heavily reinforced building.
“Where's my hairbrush?!” yelled Hannah. “It's a hairbrush,
why don't you just buy another one?” John asked. “Because it's
my favorite one, silly.” was her reply. “Come help me look for
clues, I just know somebody stole it.”

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Hannah, of course, had an entire room devoted to hair-brushing.
Her training in the forensic sciences had taught her that a criminal
almost always leaves some trace at the crime scene, and she
intended to find it. John was grumbling about being forced to
search the hairbrush room when the glint of something quite
possibly worth money caught his eye, and he bent down to
pick the object up. It was a small golden loop, like a link
from a tiny chain. “Hey, check this out.” he said.
Hannah examined the loop. “I need to analyze this!”

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Fortunately, the basement under the pony barn was, of course,
a fully equipped laboratory. “Hmm...” Hannah mused.
“It's made of pure gold, but there are traces of sand on it.
Beach sand, from the west coast, probably California.”
“Don't tell me you're going to search all of California.”
John protested. “Nope!” Hannah said. “That would be
a waste of time. Everybody knows there's only one place
in California worth mentioning: Hollywood!”

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The two investigators rode in to Hollywood on the back
of Hannah's favorite pony, which was so fast the journey
had been shorter than Planck time. Hannah led the pony
as John gawked at the sights. In all of his travels, he had
never seen a city such as Hollywood. Scale replicas of all
the world's wonders could be seen, and actors and actresses
in all manner of costumes walked the streets. From the
shadows, a massive figure watched the girl and her companion.
He could sense that they had the fragment of gold he had
left behind. How convenient. He had already been charged
with bringing them in, but now it was personal. He
pitied the fool who messed with his gold.

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In one of the plazas of restaurants and gift shops
strategically placed to ensnare tourists, Hannah noticed
a familiar face. Behind a table piled high with books
(entitled Avoiding Detonation: How I Learned to Live
With the Bomb in Me) sat Reginald, the englishman she had
encountered in her last adventure. “Oh, Hannah! I hadn't
expected to see you here.” he said cordially. “What are you
doing here signing books for?” she asked. “Oh well, I'm afraid
I'm unemployed at the moment, my dear. The disbandment
of the Cult of Awesome has caused more than a fair bit
of chaos in Europe. It was the only thing keeping the
Vikings on our side, and now, well... The European
Space Agency was scrapped entirely to allow more
money to go towards national defense. We've tried
sending diplomats to negotiate a peace treaty with the
Vikings, but they all had their faces bitten off.”
“Ouch.” Hannah said. “Ah yes. Face-biting is the traditional
Viking greeting. If the person on the receiving end survives,
they are considered tough enough to be among Vikings.”
John stroked his chin. “So this book-writing gig... does
it pay well?” ”Not now, John! Reginald, I'm here
looking for a hairbrush that was stolen from me. Have
you got any idea where I might start looking for it?”
“You might try asking that tough-looking gentleman
behind you.” Hannah whirled to face the man, and
gasped in surprise when she recognized him.
Mr. T.

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“I pity da foo' who holds onto my stuff! So gimme
back my gold!” the mohawked muscleman bellowed.
John drew his gun and took aim, but before he could even
pull the trigger Mr. T had lashed a golden chain around
the weapon and yanked it out of his grasp. “I'm hella
fast, suckas, don't even try to get past my necklaces!”
Mr. T wrapped another shining chain around John's
arms, pinning them to his sides. Hannah tried desperately
to land a blow on the huge man, but though she was fast
she was not quite hella fast, and before long she too was
ensnared. The bejeweled brute laughed heartily, and lifting
one under each arm carried Hannah and John off into the
dark alleys of Hollywood.

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After a long, sweaty ride in Mr. T's gargantuan armpits,
Hannah and John arrived at a great brick mansion standing
alone on a hill. Inside the front room, Mr. T pressed a hidden
button on a statue beside the door and an elevator rose up
out of the floor. “So, where are you taking us?” Hannah asked.
“I don't gotta tell you foo's nothin, and I ain't got time for your
jibba jabba! Just wait an' see!” he replied. The elevator doors
opened, revealing a long, poorly lit room, with cylindrical pods
lined up against the walls. The sides of the pods facing away
from the walls had oblong windows built into them,
and through the translucent, foggy portals a faint and eerie
green light shone. “You've done well, Baracus.” a voice
spoke from the darkness at the end of the room. “Put those
two down, and remove their bindings.” Mr. T reluctantly
freed Hannah and John from the weighty mass of gold
wrapped around them, returning it to its rightful place
around his neck. “You'll be wanting a nice glass of milk,
I expect. There's a fresh jug waiting for you in the fridge
upstairs.” The urban warrior rushed back to the elevator.
“Now, Hannah, you must be wondering why I needed
your hairbrush. I wanted a sample of your hair, because
it was necessary for a little project of mine. You see these
pods here? Take a look at what's inside them.” Hannah
approached one, wiped some of the fog off the glass, and
peered inside. A face stared blankly back at her. Her face.
“I love it when a plan comes together.” said the voice
hidden in the shadows.

TO BE CONTINUED