Bob & Dave-OPERATION: Bright Lights, Big City

One: The Proposition

It was three o' clock in the morning; the silence of the night stood as simultaneously eerie and soothing. It was the time of night where crime crawled out of its holes and conducted its business, and when the righteous decided to take their leave to dream.
It was three o' clock indeed, and on the corner of Marigold and 14th, stood the building with the sign that simply read, "THE BUSINESS". Walking toward the building, hunched over in pure exhaustion, were the two owners of said building.
Making it up the set of concrete stairs to the main door, Dave Poll sloppily pulled out his keys and stuck them in the lock above the handle.
He dropped his keys.
Taking a couple seconds to register what just transpired, Dave looked down at the keys and reached for them. He took hold of them, and went to insert the key again.
It wouldn't go in.
With a sharp exhale, Dave examined the key, and realized it was the wrong one. Fumbling through the key ring, he found the right key and went to insert it again into the lock.
His keys fell again.
Dave moved at twice the speed he had been, snatching up the keys and shoving them into the lock, turning to the right, and twisting the handle with force. He pushed the door open.
It wouldn't open.
Flustered, frustrated, Dave whimpered. Bob Samson was standing behind him all that time, shaking his head. He tapped Dave on the shoulder; facing his friend, Dave saw Bob gesture to the door. Dave nodded, and stepped out of the way. Bob rolled back his shoulders, stretched out his muscles, and raised up his leg to kick open the door.
He snapped off the chain lock, and it clattered onto the floor. As the door swung open with enough force to swing into the wall and put a dent into the drywall, Bob and Dave saw the lock on the ground. They looked at each other, then back at the bronze lump of metal.
"...Huh." Bob chuckled.
"Remember how we'd been forgetting to get one of those?" Dave asked.
"Yeah," replied Bob.
"How did we forget we already installed this one?"
With a shrug, Bob strode into the building, Dave following closely behind. He closed the door, patted it, then proceeded upstairs. Bob walked to his room, and opened the door.
"Good night Dave."
Dave, approaching his room door, waved at his friend. "Good night Bob."
And so they went, entering their rooms and closing the doors behind themselves.
Until they opened up the doors, exchanged rooms, and then closed the doors behind themselves again.

—

DING!
With the bell, two slices of crisped toast popped up from the toaster, which Bob grabbed sluggishly.
His hazel eyes, normally lively and alert, were bogged down by bags and reddened with apparent tiredness. Today was the day to rest, for sure. After all, two days straight of chasing down domestic terrorists took a lot out of a man.
There was hardly a hesitation; without buttering the toast, he took a massive and messy bite. Crumbs stayed around his mouth, but he didn't care to wipe them off.
He went and sat down at the small dining table next to the kitchen, and stared out the narrow window right next to him. He caught his reflection faintly in the window; his military-style short hair fade somehow managed to look messy, there was still lines of dust and dirt on his face in addition to a deep cut across his left cheek, and a few scratches could be found on the right side of his neck. All things considered, he was Gucci.
The room door adjacent to Bob's opened up, and out stepped Dave, his bed head like that straight out of a SitCom. Dave normally had a lean frame, but this particular morning due to his sheer amount of sleep deprivation, he seemed even smaller than usual. Clad in striped pajamas like any regular joe, Dave stepped over to the counter where the coffee maker was, and poured himself a healthy cup full. He held the mug up to his lips, took a deep inhale and exhale, then took a hearty drink. Lowering the mug, he winced and squinted his eyes. So what if his tongue felt utterly burnt, he was just happy to drink coffee again.
Taking strides over to the dining table, Dave sat down opposite of Bob and looked out the window as well. Seconds turned into a straight minute, and then Dave finally opened his mouth to speak.
"...old man Freeman finally caught that stray cat, huh?"
Bob scoffed. "About time too. Freeman's pigeons were certainly declining in number, too much for comfort."
Dave chuckled, then rubbed his forehead. "What do you say, Bob? Take a month off?"
"A month??" Bob piped up. "Sweet boy, the world ain't gonna stop spinning for a month."
"Sweet Boy?" Dave took a sarcastic look at his friend. "See, it's been a while since you've put any moves on the ladies. Don't let that bleed onto me now."
"Sooner would I shoot all of Freeman's pigeons than put any moves on you, honey," Bob winked at Dave, who simply rolled his eyes. Bob heartily chuckled, then let out a big groan.
"I need some socializing certainly."
"So let's take a month off, then! It's only fitting seeing as how the country may owe us that much."
"Oh, not quite Dave. That was only the entire city of Ontario."
"You know what I mean, Bob, Ontario was only after a brief two day break."
"We still got gas in the tank, baby. I will admit though, at least one day and one sip of whiskey before going back out."
"We should put that on the front door then." Dave replied.
"It ain't like we are a supermarket! I doubt anybody will be coming by in the next hour to ask us to lend our services to a cause, big or small."
DING-DONG!
Both men froze, and Dave's annoyed gaze pierced through the macho soldier that even he felt the embarrassment.
"You ever hear of the Law of Attraction?" Bob smirked.

—

"I heard you two provide security, is that correct?" Mr. Larson asked.
In front of him sat Bob and Dave, both clad in dress shirts, blazers, and slacks. Both looked like Men in Black, but on their way to a club, or at least this is what Mr. Larson thought.
"You heard correctly, my good sir," Bob replied, "You need heavy lifting or someone to watch your six, we're your guys."
"Perfect," Larson smiles brightly, "because my proposition is that of, well how you put it, watching one's 'six'".
"Who might we be watching over?" Dave asked.
"Well, you might've heard of him, his name is Bram Doker," Larson said with a tongue in cheek look on his face.
Bob and Dave's faces remained blank, and even awkwardly confused. Larson cleared his throat.
"His stage name plays off Bram Stoker...anyways, he's a magician hailing from Oklahoma. I'm his manager. Well, he's on a tour, and his next stop is Las Vegas. Our security detail heads caught a terrible worm back in Portland, so we're approaching you to become our security."
There was more silence, and finally Dave spoke. "Sounds like an easy enough job. Bob?"
Bob slowly nodded, his expression still blank. "Easy indeed. Well, you know our rates?"
"Absolutely, we can accommodate."
Bob and Dave looked at each other, then stood up. Larson followed suit. Bob extended his hand. "We're open to business with you and Mr. Stroker."
"Uh, Doker," Larson shook Bob's hand.
Bob chuckled. "Yes, my mistake."