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Freakazoid stepped out of Cosgrove’s squad car hesitantly, scanning the area anxiously. His eyes narrowed at the massive blue-and-yellow building looming in the distance. "Are you sure this is the right address?"
Cosgrove nodded with certainty. "Yup. Conshohocken, Pennsylvania."
Freakazoid rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the stapled stack of crumpled papers in his hands. "This is supposed to be where the Lobe built his—" he flipped a page upside-down, "—Labyrinth of Doom?"
"Yup." Cosgrove pointed at the big, boxy structure in front of them. "Maybe that's it. The International Killing Enterprise Agency."
Freakazoid squinted. "Oh. I thought that was the Immoral Knavish Evil Antagonists."
Cosgrove shrugged. "Could be. These things are usually acronyms. Nobody ever tells me what they mean."
Freakazoid puffed his chest out and planted his hands on his hips. A conveniently timed gust of wind tousled his hair. "Whatever evil lurks within, I am prepared to face it with courage, cunning, and maybe a few well-timed quips!"
He strode into the building, the automatic IKEA doors whooshing open with a pleasant chime. Never willing to let his friend face danger alone, Cosgrove followed right behind him.
They emerged from the store six hours later.
Freakazoid's hair was more unkempt than usual—somehow both staticky and flattened. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and haunted by visions of flat-packed chaos. He pushed a wobbly shopping cart overflowing with inexplicable merchandise: three artificial plants, a child-sized plastic chair, several packs of teal napkins, a lampshade with no lamp, a suspiciously heavy box labeled "Tökrolig," and countless odds and ends.
Cosgrove strolled beside him casually, holding a Styrofoam container of Swedish meatballs in one hand and eating with a plastic fork.
Freakazoid blinked at the daylight. "What... what happened?"
Cosgrove took a bite and shrugged. "I think you blacked out in the curtain section."
Freakazoid looked at the shopping cart as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, he leaned sideways at the waist, peering down into the cart with increasing horror. "Why did I buy all this?"
Cosgrove pointed. "You said that one was whispering to you." He pointed to another item. "You said somebody named Sven would really like that."
"Who's Sven?"
Cosgrove shrugged. "I thought you knew."
Freakazoid stared at the cart, questioning many of today's decisions.
"Wait! The Lobe!" Freakazoid blurted. "We didn't stop the Lobe!"
Cosgrove didn’t look up from his meatballs. "He got stuck in the kitchen showroom trying to find a drawer organizer."
"Why didn't we help him?"
"You said—and I quote—'He made his meatball, now he can lie in it.'"
Freakazoid frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."
Cosgrove shrugged again. "Neither did buying seven colanders."
Freakazoid looked down. "...They were on sale."
Freakazoid suddenly lit up, triumphant. "It's okay! Good has triumphed, evil has been vanquished, and all is well that ends well. This is victory, Cosgrove!" He stepped forward and raised one leg, planting his foot heroically atop a round cement bollard.
Cosgrove, still chewing, pointed with his fork beneath the shopping cart. "You still have to put that together."
Freakazoid looked down.
A box the size of a bathtub sat wedged under the cart. The label read "Tökrolig," featuring an incomprehensible diagram of wooden dowels and Allen wrenches.
Freakazoid deflated instantly. "Ah, nut bunnies."