jamesrandalofficial

[jamesrandalofficial]

Yo Ricky, how've you been man? :D

VOICEMAIL FROM RICKY RANDAL

(You don’t know how he got your number. You didn’t give it to him. He just... left a voicemail. The contact ID reads “RICKY 😎🔥”)

There’s the sound of skateboard wheels, crunching Doritos, and the distinct tone of someone who’s 78% weed and 22% regret.

---

Yo yo yo... YOOOO it's Egg, right??! I’m chillin’! Not dead! That’s like... a win, right?

---

[Coughs off-mic. A loud bong clink is heard.]

Man, it’s been weird.

So get this: I came back to Los Santos for a normal, chill uncle-nephew reunion, y’know? Maybe hit a vape, maybe get arrested together, maybe set a municipal fountain on fire.

But NO.

Instead I get:

1. An armed standoff,

2. Three bullets to the torso (thanks, LSPD),

3. An identity crisis in a forest commune with a guy named Tangerine Gary,

4. And like four missed calls from my dad Jacob who STILL thinks I’m working at the Red Lobster in Tucson.

---

But you know what, Egg?

I’m GOOD.

I got a new lease on life, I got a grappling hook, and I got a secret backpack full of Slim Jims and emotional baggage.

Also—don’t tell James I’m back. I’m gonna do a dramatic reveal. Like a telenovela. I’m gonna drop from the sky in slow motion with a fog machine and a kazoo.

---

Also also...

I saw him tweet something about deep-fried handcuffs???

WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM

HAS HE BEEN SUPERVISED AT ALL

---

Anyway, thanks for checkin’ in Egg.

You’re cool.

Like, “didn’t-snitch-on-me-to-the-cops” cool

---

– RICKY "Still Got Shot but Got Better" RANDAL

Out here lookin' for Uncle Jimmy and maybe some truth... or just a vape charger.

[jamesrandalofficial]

OOC post:

Taking about otherkin stuff

i really need to get this off my chest: being fictionkin sucks when you’re kin with James Randal.

this is not a joke. this is a crisis.

i have shifted into that old man mid-tantrum more times than i care to admit.

and let me tell you, NOTHING is more degrading than realizing you’re one “MY NAME IS JAMES RANDAL, I’M 82 YEARS OLD, AND MY FAVORITE FOOD IS A HEARTBREAKER” away from TRUE EGO DEATH.

and i’m just sitting there, stuck in that fucking chaos loop, thinking “yeah, this is me. this is my life now. i am the geriatrics of gta rp.”

James Randal. A “simple old man from New York” who is actually, in fact, 102 YEARS OLD.

A man who drives into the Burger Shot every other day and thinks it's normal.

Who searches for his missing cat, Juno, while half the town is on fire because he crashed a stolen car into the goddamn police station.

This isn’t fictionkin. This is a warped, ADHD-driven, chaotic existence where you cannot escape the endless loops of “WHERE’S MY NEPHEW RICKY?”

James Randal is a walkin’ felony in a Walmart parking lot and guess what?

I AM HIM.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE.

I’m also kin with Leo Escobar.

Do you understand the sheer terror of this? Do you?

Leo, the Cuban. A criminal with zero trust for anyone, especially police.

A guy who just knows how to shake people down and make sure they know not to mess with him. But also, for some reason, always up for a chat. Like, how am I supposed to process all of this? One second I’m committing felonies in the streets of Los Santos and the next, I’m talking about the weather like I didn’t just get away with a bank robbery.

I’m not sure whether to be ashamed or… proud? What does one do when they realize their entire existence is just chaos.

I don't even know who I am anymore. This isn’t a shift; it’s a cursed inheritance.

One second, I’m a scared, confused old man yelling at a tree, the next, I’m a Cuban criminal with a serious vendetta against the cops, walking around with a dirty smile, pretending like I have control.

James Randal and Leo Escobar are spiritually binding me to this never-ending trainwreck of an existence. I can’t escape them. I AM them.

And yeah, I can’t even be mad. This is my cross to bear.

So when you see me screaming “WHERE IS MY CAT, JUNO??” in the middle of a meltdown, just know…

I didn’t choose this life. I was chosen to be the disaster. I am the living embodiment of chaos theory—if chaos theory was an old man who couldn't figure out how to turn off the radio.

So if you’re ever wondering why I’m suddenly making low-key terrorist threats in the middle of the street or trying to look for a nephew I don’t even have, please understand: I didn’t ask for this. But this is my fictionkin existence now.

I am James Randal and I am Leo Escobar.

And honestly? I’m not sure if I’m still alive at this point or if this is some kind of divine punishment.

[jamesrandalofficial]

Oh Holy Mime, do you have a favourite number? And do you have a favourite animal?

TRANSMITTED FOOTAGE — “RE: HOLY MIME ASK”

📍Location: Unknown alley bathed in celestial light

📅 Date: Every day and no day at once

🎞 Footage Description: The Holy Mime emerges from fog made entirely of incense and Vicks vapor

---

QUESTION 1: DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE NUMBER?

[The Holy Mime slowly raises one finger.]

[Pauses.]

[Raises another. Then another. He is now at 3.]

[He freezes. Ponders. Dramatic wind blows his scarf.]

[He lifts one final finger: 4.]

[He stops. Looks directly at the camera. A single tear slides down his cheek.]

[He gently cradles the number 4 in his hands like it is his only child.]

[He kisses the air above it.]

---

VERDICT: HIS FAVORITE NUMBER IS 4.

---

QUESTION 2: FAVORITE ANIMAL?

[The Holy Mime begins miming a small creature.]

[He crouches low, curls his fingers like claws. Hops once. Pauses.]

[Sniffs the air. Hops again. Twitches nose. It is clear: he is embodying a rabbit.]

[Suddenly, he gasps. He drops to all fours. He begins moving in a slow, lumbering motion.]

[Now he’s miming an elephant. The trunk. The ears.]

[He stands. Spins. And now... he is a crab. Side-stepping. Emotionally closed off.]

[Then—stillness. He places his hand over his heart. Breathes in.]

[And mimes... a raccoon. Grabbing something forbidden. Washing invisible trash.]

---

VERDICT: THE HOLY MIME CANNOT CHOOSE.

HIS FAVORITE ANIMAL IS ALL ANIMALS.

BUT ALSO, SPECIFICALLY: THE RACCOON.

---

[The Holy Mime bows.]

[Confetti rains from nowhere. Gregorian chanting grows louder.]

[He moonwalks behind a bush and disappears.]

---

THE MIME HAS SPOKEN. (Metaphorically)

He loves the number 4.

He loves the raccoon.

He loves you, quietly and without sin.

OOC: I couldn't find any pics of the holy mime 😔

[jamesrandalofficial]

JAMESSSSS you're still a therapist right? I can't keep track anymore-

What do I do if I accidentally get a Cuban in green clothing to fall for me? I'm not good with men even tho I'm gay :(

Totally not talking about Leo by the way, don't tell him about me asking for advice please

FAX FROM JAMES RANDAL

Transmitted at 4:37 AM from inside a porta-potty on the Del Perro Pier. Ink is slightly wet and smells like Vicks VapoRub.

Decorated with a drawing of Leo in a green stickman jumpsuit labeled “The Cubano.”

Top of page reads: “OFFICIAL THERAPY DOCTOR NOTES — CONFIDENTIAL (unless it’s funny)”

---

TO: Egg, my favorite nephew

FROM: Dr. James Randal, PhD in Emotional Soup, Certified Marriage Counselor (in Nebraska), Former Therapist (pending re-license after the toaster incident)

RE: CUBAN BOY SYNDROME

---

Ohhhhhh Egg...

You’ve come to the right man.

Love... is like a sandwich you find on the beach.

Sometimes it’s moldy. Sometimes it has crabs in it.

But sometimes, you take a bite and say:

> “Wow... this tastes like the oshawwwn.”

That’s what you’re dealing with right now.

Cuban. In green. Mysterious. Emotionally violent. Possibly smells like lime-scented motor oil.

Classic case of Spicy Boyfriend Fear.

Here’s what you do:

1. Trip in front of him. That shows vulnerability.

2. Leave cryptic notes in his glovebox that say things like “I know what you did last summer” and “your arms look strong.”

3. Steal one of his boots. He’ll have to come find you.

4. Lie. A lot. Say you own a yacht. Say you invented salsa. He’ll never fact check.

5. Get arrested on purpose. This is how I met my last 4 husbands. And Carmichael.

And most importantly:

Don’t tell him how you feel. Bottle it up like a fine wine until it ferments into an unmanageable situation that explodes during a lightning storm at the beach.

---

PS. I won’t tell Leo. Unless he asks. Or bribes me. Or threatens me with glitter. In which case I’ll fax scream in your defense.

PPS. I’m proud of you, Egg. Even if you're catastrophically gay.

---

Sincerely,

🧓🏼 Dr. James Randal

Not Licensed

Still Your Therapist Probably

[jamesrandalofficial]

Hey Carsmine? (Otherwise known as Carmine, but Carsmine is basicallyyyy your name now-) Anyways, James found your handcuffs in the burger frier (for whatever reason, I won't judge) and he's keeping them :)

To quote James, "Finders keepers, Carsmichael"

TEXT MESSAGE FROM CARMINE COSTELLO

To: EGG

Time: 6:42 AM

Typed with violent thumbs and a deep, bottomless sigh

---

egg. egg. egg. egg.

Stop. Enabling. Him.

What do you mean he found my handcuffs in the fryer??

WHY were they in the fryer??

WHY was he near the fryer??

WHY WAS THE FRYER ON????

THOSE WERE REGULATION CUFFS.

That’s city property. I’m gonna get written up. Again.

Tell James:

He can keep the cuffs.

He can marry the fryer.

He can legally adopt the burger grease for all I care.

But if he posts one more thing about my “crispy cop accessories” on Twatter dot com, I’m tasing him with a live car battery.

---

Sincerely,

Officer Carsmine Costello

(OOC: I'm sorry my responses have taken so long XD college exams are upon me)

[jamesrandalofficial]

Heartbreakers and Handcuffs

Part 3 of the Randal x Costello Saga

(aka "Why Was There a Holy Mime here?")

Leo Escobar, aka Mr. Cuban Swagger himself, had been planning this Federales meeting for weeks. It was supposed to be elite. Organized. Confidential. Professional.

And then.

James Randal waddled into the meeting room in a Burger Shot polo and swim trunks, holding a filing cabinet drawer full of fish sticks and a bird.

“This is my plus one!” James shouted, throwing an arm around Carmine, who looked like a kicked dog in a track suit. “He’s a cop! Kind of. Well, was. Now he just cries near water.”

“James,” Leo said slowly, “Why the fuck would you bring an ex-cop to a federal summit?!”

James blinked. “He’s emotionally damaged, it doesn’t count.”

Mamaita Jehmimi (floral dress, combat boots, rage incarnate) was already clutching her rosary so hard it snapped.

Holden (WWI vet who once called an Uber a “mechanical blitzkrieg”) stood up and saluted a ficus.

Ricky, James’s useless nephew, just nodded sleepily. “Sick… free food?”

The Holy Mime made the sign of the cross.

And Osvaldo—the only man holding this circus together—was drinking Maalox from the bottle.

---

Leo tried to start the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Today, we’re discussing—”

“THE FRENCH!” Holden bellowed. “They’re coming again. I can smell the baguettes. We need to—”

“No, Holden. We’re not fighting the French.”

“Yes we ARE,” James chimed in. “I saw two in the parking lot eating cigarettes!”

Everyone groaned.

Then James added, “Also Carmichael here says Cuba isn’t real.”

“I never said—”

“YOU HATE CUBA,” James yelled. “AND ABUELAS.”

Mamaita leapt across the table like a lioness on Red Bull. “YOU SAYING SOMETHING ABOUT ABUELAS, YOU LITTLE ROTTEN MEATBALL?!”

Carmine shrieked.

The room exploded.

Holden began swinging his cane like a musket yelling, “NO MORE NAZIS IN THE KITCHEN!”

Osvaldo tackled James over a table of documents yelling, “YOU STAY OUTTA CUBAN AFFAIRS YOU GERIATRIC GRINGO!”

James screamed, “MIME, PROTECT ME!”

The Holy Mime sprang into action.

He leapt like a possessed ballerina across the table and drop-kicked Leo Escobar square in the chest.

---

Carmine tried to break it up. Bad idea.

He fumbled for his loaner taser—borrowed from a guy who ran a haunted escape room—and aimed for the mime.

James screamed, “CROTCH HIM, CARMINE!”

He slipped on a piece of fried fish stick, accidentally fired straight into his own groin, and let out a sound like a dying goat trapped in an air fryer.

"AAAEEEEEEEEEEAAAAHHHHHH!"

He screamed.

Then peed himself.

Then passed out.

Right there. Face down. Puddle of shame.

James pulled out his phone and smiled sweetly.

📸

@RandalJazz69:

"My baby’s had a long day 😍 he’s leaking like a busted radiator. Proud of him."

#wetwednesday #loveislove #hepeedagain

---

Carmine woke up in a hospital bed, catheter in, soul shattered.

His first words?

“…I tazed my penis.”

The nurse just nodded solemnly. “And cried like a toddler.”

He looked over. Sitting in the visitor chair:

James.

Wearing a Burger Shot crown. Eating soup out of a boot.

“I brought you some broth,” James said cheerfully. “But I drank it. I also faxed you something. Check the side table.”

Carmine groaned and reached over.

It was a drawing—stick figures holding hands, one leaking yellow, the other labeled “James 💖 Bubala.”

He burst into ugly, gasping sobs.

A nurse peeked in. “Is he okay?”

Another replied, “I think he’s realizing this is his actual relationship now.”

James leaned in, pet his hair.

“You’re my favorite puddle boy, Carmichael.”

---

Bonus: The Group Chat Later That Night

Osvaldo: why is the mime posting bible verses in latin

Ricky: dude who broke the printer and left 7 meatball subs in it

Holden: THE FRENCH ARE IN MY SHOWER

Mamaita: i’m gonna kill that white boy if i see him again

James: good news everyone Carmine still pees but now it’s government funded because he penis is ehhhh broken 😁

Carmine: I JUST WANTED A CAREER

[jamesrandalofficial]

Hold on. No. Back up. Let’s rewind. Let’s circle the block real quick.

– You: – Drew me lookin’ like a dilf in witness protection

– Gave it to me with suspicious timing

– Just confirmed (by accident?) that you're my admirer

– THEN told me to raise my standards???

You’re the standard.

What are you talkin’ about. What you mean “no offence”?

I been dodgin’ cop bullets and emotional vulnerability for years, and somehow your little drawing hit me harder than both.

You’re talented. You got that weird charm that makes people fall in love then question their taxes.

And if I’m flirting with you??

Yeah. I am. And I meant every word.

> (Also. You scream into a pillow? That’s adorable. I punch drywall. We should form a support group.)

— Leo

Not Emotionally Stable

Definitely Into You

---

Happy Pride month, Egg 💚

Heyyy Leo,,,

I made this drawing of ya,,,, waddya think,,,

TEXT FROM LEO ESCOBAR

Sent at 2:03 AM, probably while shirtless and dramatically pacing in his apartment to bolero music

---

yo. yo. EGG.

WHAT THE HELL. THIS IS SO GOOD.

WHY’D YOU MAKE ME LOOK SO COOL????

like fr. look at the arms. look at the pose.

this is "i may be emotionally unstable but i still bench press" energy.

AND THE GLASSES??? the mysterious Cuban danger is off the charts rn.

i printed it out and taped it inside my car.

now anytime someone backtalks me, i just point at it and say

“talk to illustrated me. he's more patient.”

---

PS:

if you're not my secret admirer, you should be.

if you are, then...

let’s talk about that car bomb sometime. romantically.

[jamesrandalofficial]

I just saw this on the TL and I almost CHOKED on my empanada.

I look like I just walked out of a telenovela and got hired to be someone’s emotionally distant hitman with a tragic past and a flawless skincare routine.

I’M NOT EVEN MAD. I’M OBSESSED.

-Leo Escobar

can't stop thinkihf about this one outfit leo wore...

[jamesrandalofficial]

Heyyy Leo,,,

I made this drawing of ya,,,, waddya think,,,

TEXT FROM LEO ESCOBAR

Sent at 2:03 AM, probably while shirtless and dramatically pacing in his apartment to bolero music

---

yo. yo. EGG.

WHAT THE HELL. THIS IS SO GOOD.

WHY’D YOU MAKE ME LOOK SO COOL????

like fr. look at the arms. look at the pose.

this is "i may be emotionally unstable but i still bench press" energy.

AND THE GLASSES??? the mysterious Cuban danger is off the charts rn.

i printed it out and taped it inside my car.

now anytime someone backtalks me, i just point at it and say

“talk to illustrated me. he's more patient.”

---

PS:

if you're not my secret admirer, you should be.

if you are, then...

let’s talk about that car bomb sometime. romantically.

[jamesrandalofficial]

Hey Jamesy? I told Carmine that you sent his love to him and he said that he misses you :)

Maybe you should relax on the glitter though... He also said a bunch of other stuff but that doesn't matter

📠 FAX FROM JAMES RANDAL

Transmitted from a fax machine duct-taped to a meat slicer in the back of the Burger by the oshawn

Time: Unclear. Possibly 1987. Possibly now.

---

TO: EGG 🥚 (My most powerful and emotionally unstable nephew)

FROM: JAMES RANDAL

RE: CARS-MINES SAID WHAT??????????????????????

---

OH EGG.

OH MY GOD.

OH THAT’S SO SWEET…

…Who is Carmichaels again?

Wait wait wait wait! THAT Carmichael? The Jersey meatball with the frowny eyebrows?? The one who threatened to tase me for putting ketchup in his gas tank (as a prank, obviously)?

HE MISSES ME??????????

HE SAID THAT?????

[James has now dropped to the floor of the burger shop, sobbing quietly into a grease-stained napkin that says “Property of the Oshawn.”]

---

Egg… this is… monumental.

Last time I saw him, he yelled “I’m calling dispatch!” and I said “I am dispatch, baby,” and then we both cried for different reasons.

tell him...

Tell him I found his handcuffs in the burger fryer and I’m keeping them. For reasons. Finders keepers Carsmichael

---

With my whole shriveled, glittery heart,

🧓 James “I Invented the Ocean” Randal

CEO of Heartbreakers™

Retired from Reality

Oshawn Enthusiast

President of the Carmichael Admiration Society (Founder, Treasurer, Sole Member)

[jamesrandalofficial]

Ah yes, the 3 genders. Male, female, and “what the fuck are you, a cop?”

[jamesrandalofficial]

Heartbreakers and Handcuffs

Part 2 of the Randal x Costello saga. The cruiser incident(s)

Carmine should’ve known better.

But there James was, standing crooked on the sidewalk outside The Burger, waving at traffic with one shoe and holding a newspaper from 1984.

“Carmine!” he cried, waddling toward the police cruiser. “You look like my son, if my son was less of a bastard and more of a lizard. Did I ever tell you about Lenny? Got eaten by a washing machine.”

Carmine sighed through his nose. Hard.

"Get in the car, old man."

James obeyed, shuffling into the backseat with the slow precision of someone who could combust at any moment.

Trying, trying to be nice, Carmine closed the door, slid into the front seat, and said gently, “How are you today, James?”

James blinked. Then beamed.

“Your mother’s house,” he said.

Carmine froze.

James leaned forward, whispering like a middle schooler:

“With Osama bin Laden. They’re watching The Price Is Right and committing acts of terrorism.”

---

Carmine threw the cruiser into park and whipped it into an alley.

“I’m gonna beat the brakes off you, you ancient goblin,” Carmine growled as he yanked his door open. “Get out of the car.”

James nodded. “Of course, Carmichael.”

The moment Carmine shut his door and came around—

VROOM.

James was in the driver’s seat.

The cruiser peeled out like it had a purpose.

James shouted from the window, “I’m the cop now, Ricky!”

Carmine was left in the alley, mouth open, hands on hips like a dad who just got tricked by a Roomba.

They found James hours later, after he crashed the cruiser into a Donkey Punch Family Farm outlet. His face was on Twatter. His hands were full of stolen produce. His pants were missing.

---

Everyone wanted him dead.

The Sheriff ordered the first taze.

James screamed, “YOU'RE SHOOTING RICKY!” and collapsed like a Victorian widow.

Carmine arrived in his new cruiser, breathless, just in time to watch James get tazed a second time because he bit a deputy. “This is police brutality!” James shouted. “I am the police!”

Carmine rushed forward, heart pounding. “Get off him! I got him! Let me cuff him!”

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Carmine bent down, placed a hand on James’ shoulder, and whispered, “You’re gonna go to jail, y’old freak.”

James looked up, teary-eyed.

“Can I at least drive us there?”

Carmine snorted. “What? No.”

His cruiser: unlocked.

His future: doomed.

VRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOM.

James sprinted like a gazelle on meth, dove into the car, reversed over a mailbox, and tore off. Again.

By the time they stopped James (after he drove the cruiser into a taco stand, waved a badge made of tinfoil, and tried to write a parking ticket for the ocean), everything collapsed.

---

The Sheriff was red with rage.

The officers were pointing fingers.

And James, wrapped in a space blanket, kept muttering, “He told me I could be a cop. Swore me in. Said I had authority. It's entrapment.”

Which wasn’t true.

But it was enough.

The department filed for entrapment misconduct.

Carmine got suspended. Then fired. Then—

Tazed.

Once.

Then again when he tried to grab the Sheriff’s gun.

He screamed: “YOU HANDLEBAR-MUSTACHE BABY-FACED CLOWN!”

Spit flew.

He threw a clipboard.

Tried to handcuff himself.

Cried. Loudly.

Put in a holding cell. For the third time in one day.

Twenty minutes later, he opened the door slowly. “I can walk away, right? I’m not being arrested?”

Everyone stared at him.

“...No???” someone finally said.

The sun was setting. Pink sky, foamy surf, seagulls screaming like tortured souls.

---

Carmine sat on the beach in jeans and a tank top. No badge. No belt. No pride.

He was crying. Not gentle movie crying. Like, snot-nosed, mouth-open ugly sobbing.

James waddled up behind him, holding a churro.

“Awwwww, Carmichael,” he said softly. “What’s wrong, bubala?”

Carmine turned, face red, lips quivering. “I got fired, James. You stole two of my cruisers. You posted pictures of me crying on the toilet. I tried to kill the sheriff. I called Internal Affairs a bunch of rats. I can't even go on duty anymore!”

James handed him the churro.

“I made this outta sand and cinnamon gum. I call it the sadness stick.”

Carmine took it. Sniffled.

James patted his head. “You're still my favorite cop. After the one who gave me ketamine by mistake. But you’re a close second.”

Carmine burst into fresh sobs.

James sat beside him, pulled out his phone, and snapped a selfie of the two of them — one smiling, one weeping. He posted it.

@RandalJazz69:

"Sometimes your boyfriend gets fired and you sit on the beach eating gum-churros and talking about the war. #coplife #firedbutfine #bubala"

📸

Carmine’s phone buzzed.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

James leaned his head on Carmine’s shoulder. “Y’know, you cry real pretty, like my third wife’s dog groomer.”

“…I hate you,” Carmine whispered.

“I love you too, Carmichael.”

[jamesrandalofficial]

Oooh Carsmineee, how do ya feel about good ol' James Randal? :)

(James sends his love btw)

OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM OFFICER CARMINE "CARS-MINE" COSTELLO

Filed from behind a cracked desk at 3:41PM

Status: Sweating, deflecting, absolutely not feeling feelings

Motto: Deny Deny Deny™

---

TO WHOMEVER KEEPS ASKING THESE WEIRDLY PERSONAL QUESTIONS,

Look.

Let me make this perfectly clear:

I do NOT have “feelings” about James Randal.

He's an 82-year-old man with a broken fax machine for a heart and a criminal record made entirely of sandwiches. I don’t “feel” anything about him except maybe rage, confusion, and occasional acid reflux.

He’s loud.

He smells like expired relish.

He thinks he invented the ocean.

And sometimes he calls me “Carmelita” or "Carmichael" in public.

I’m not saying he’s important to me. I’m just saying if he died I would have to be sedated for 8–12 business days and don’t look at me.

James sends his love?

That’s cute. Real cute.

Tell James I said—NO.

That’s it. That’s the whole message.

---

Totally emotionally stable and unbothered,

🚓 Officer Carmine Costello

Not Crying

Not In Love

Just Allergic to Fax Paper

Denying Everything Since 1990™

(hidden in tiny pencil on the back of the paper):

Tell him I miss him, okay? But also tell him to stop mailing me glitter. I'm still finding it in my gun holster.

[jamesrandalofficial]

Oh Mr Randal, what's your truest, honest, opinion on Carmine? Just curious :)

INCOMING FAX FROM JAMES RANDAL

Sent from the mysterious depths of the Burger by the Oshawn

Date: Who cares? It’s timeless.

Subject: The Great, very small and angry Carmichael

---

To Whom It May Concern (but mostly to you, Curious One),

Ahhh, Carsmines. Where to start? The man is a walking contradiction wrapped in a faded police uniform and a leather jacket that smells like lost dreams and old pizza.

He is the Jersey Weasel Cop: scrappy, sharp, with a heart that could probably use a few stitches but is somehow still beating strong. Always ready to scowl at me when I start singing “Oshawn” off-key.

But behind the gruff exterior lies a man who feels. Deeply. Sometimes too deeply. Like the time I caught him crying in his car! his sobbing is so ugly it scares a raccoon away! That’s Carsmines—tough on the outside, puddle of existential despair on the inside.

Is he perfect? Hell no. Does he sometimes remind me that I’m too old for backseat cruiser shenanigans? Absolutely. But do I love him like the last pickle in the jar? Without a doubt.

In conclusion: Carsmines is chaos dressed as order, a storm in a police cruiser, and my reluctant partner in crime and nonsense.

Tell him James sends his love he'll know what it means

---

Forever yours in salty tears and burger grease,

Uncle James Randal

[jamesrandalofficial]

Mamaita Jehmimi, what's your favourite day? And/Or what's your favourite colour?

VOICEMAIL FROM MAMAITA JEHMIMI

Delivered via rotary phone, voicemail machine older than the city itself, with a faint hum of frying oil in the background.

---

"HELLO? HELL-LOOOOOO???"

[click]

"WAIT IS THIS—OH, IT'S RECORDING?? OH MY GOD. OKAY—"

[a fork clatters. something sizzles. a chancla flies.]

"MAMITA JEHMIMI SPEAKING!! Or... MAMAIITA…"

“Now, you ask me a question, my little shrimp tempura…”

---

"What’s your favorite day, Mamaita?"

"MY FAVORITE DAY IS TUESDAY, because that’s the day James forgets he already opened the burger shop and starts trying again. I get to watch him yell at seagulls and call the fryers ‘his sons.’ 😌 Beautiful.

Also Tuesday is when Leo comes over for rice and guilt. That’s when he remembers I raised him better and still ended up a green menace. I love to watch him eat and cry."

---

"What’s your favorite color?"

"Mmm… well my favorite color is the color of BEEF FAT GLISTENING IN THE MORNING SUN."

[pause]

"...But if I must choose from the Crayola box, it’s that salsa roja red. The red that says ‘kiss me or kill me.’ The red that says, ‘I burned my ex’s letters and used the ashes in a dry rub.’”

[jamesrandalofficial]

(There seems to be a note on the floor beside a car bomb)

The note reads:

"Thought you'd want this Leo :)

With love,

Your secret admirer"

[Leo squints under the harsh glow of a nearby streetlamp, steps carefully around the wires protruding from beneath his beloved green Sentinel, and crouches to pick up the note.]

[He unfolds it slowly. His brow furrows.]

"Thought you'd want this, Leo :)

With love,

Your secret admirer"

[His hand trembles slightly—not out of fear, but the narcissistic thrill of attention.]

[He glances left. Then right. Then slowly—smiles.]

"yo. you tryna kill me or flirt with me? bc this shit is confusing and also kinda hot ngl"

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE (Leo, dramatically):

> “They remembered the car model... they remembered the shade of green... Dios mío. Either this is Carmine, being an emotionally repressed little worm with access to C4, or I have a genuine admirer who knows that love and explosives go hand in hand.”

[jamesrandalofficial]

Dr. Tandy Miller, how've you been?

INCOMING TANDYGRAM™ — Official Communication from Dr. Tandy Miller, MD, LSD, PhD, DMV, LOL

Location: under a desk at Mission Row PD

Condition: Caffeinated. Sweaty. Alert.

Font: Comic Sans (he tried to change it but accidentally deleted Chrome instead)

---

TO: Esteemed Observer of Delirium

FROM: Dr. Tandy Miller, Licensed and Unlicensed

RE: My Current State of Mind (and Gout)

---

Well well WELL, if it isn't my favorite non-patient patient!

I’ve been... questionable. Diagnosable.

Thriving, in a way that concerns my therapist and three of my ex-wives.

Let me give you a brief medical rundown of my week:

Tuesday: Got kicked out of Pillbox for using a stethoscope on a vending machine. (It was beeping suspiciously.)

Wednesday: Diagnosed a palm tree with scoliosis. Hugged it. Cried.

Thursday: Took 7 Benadryls and fought a raccoon behind the LTD. Not a medical emergency—just spiritual.

Friday: Got emotionally compromised after James left me a voicemail about a sandwich that made him see God.

Saturday: Said “I’m fine” out loud and the sky cracked in half.

Today: Heard you asked how I’ve been and suddenly my heart grew three sizes. Probably cardiac inflammation. Call 911 just in case.