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08 January 2009 @ 12:34 pm
Accidentally millicanon.  
[ooc: Pursuant to this.]



It had taken a week for the bag to get returned to its rightful owner. A week, and several phone calls with various airline representatives with questionable English skills. Suddenly, a phone call:

"This is Matt with Newark Baggage Service. I have your luggage on my truck and am in your neighborhood. Is 11:30 too late to deliver it?"

The girl who answered her cell phone to this, bleary-eyed and doped up on NyQuil, roughly twists her alarm clock to face her. It was 9:30 pm already. Why does your damn website say 'no deliveries will be made after 10 pm' if you want to deliver my goddamn bag at ass o'clock?

"Sure," the girl says, pulling on something respectable to answer the door in. It's not as though she has a choice - her presents from Spain were in there! The last thing she needs is to wait another day and then have no one to be home if they tried to deliver it tomorrow. "Just call me if you knock and no one answers, okay?"

Migrating down to the living room, orange tabby cat trailing close behind, the girl with sleep in her eyes pulls a throw blanket off of the back of the loveseat under the window and curls up. She even turns on the television in hopes that it will stave off the antihistimine-induced sleepiness threatening to separate her from her world-weary baggage.

She blinks. Then, a large hand ruffles her dark curly hair.

"Steph," Will calls quietly. "The dude delivered your shit. Go upstairs and sleep, okay?"

"Nnn." Too tired to complain, too tired to even really be happy her bag was safely home, Steph crawls back upstairs to go to sleep before work the next day.


Beeep Beeeep Beeeeep Thunk!

Alarm now silent, Steph gets up quickly enough, rushing through a shower. There was a gas station to get to before getting on the road; maybe the newly-opened Dunkin Donuts too if she is lucky this morning. (She's not.)

Wrapped up after the shower, the girl rushes downstairs again where she remembered her bag getting placed in the living room by her brother late last night. It is unzipped quickly and rifled through; a lot of the clothing has shifted.

"Goddamnit they took my caramels," Steph curses to herself, not finding the bag of sweets her boyfriend bought her while in Spain for the New Year. Upon further investigation, Steph finds a TSA search card in her bag, rumpled from the transportation from the no less than five airports her bag had traveled through.

At the bottom of the usual rigamorole about confiscation of items and apologies for inconvienence, there is an odd handwritten note.

Apologies. - Management

Those caramels would never have wound up with Steph anyway, and a simple apology note is easier to explain than offering a coupon for their replacement at the end of the universe.
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