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This was the worst idea he'd ever had.
But he was desperate.
Strickler slipped the grit-shaka over his head, and smirked.
Worst idea? Nah, this was the best idea.
He might have business to take care of for the Janus Order, but surely he could sort out a certain personal problem first?
Not half an hour later, Stickler was confidently knocking on the front door of the Lake house.
Barbara opened the door and frowned upon finding the man she had thought had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Before she could even get a word in, Strickler took her hand, kissed it, and said with a flourish: "My Dear! I have come to apologise."
Surprised, Barbara stepped back. "Walt? I haven't seen you in-"
"Can you ever forgive me?" Strickler cried, striking a rather pretentious pose, leaning against the door frame with one arm high in the air and the other on his hip. "Of course you can, I'm a delight after all."
At this Barbara's features hardened.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said calmly, "but you have five seconds to stop being an asshole or get off my porch."
Strickler, or rather the grit-shaka, chose to disregard this warning and stepped forwards into the house.
"I'm off the porch," he said cockily.
Barbara decided she'd had enough of whatever this was and, recalling her Krav Maga training, pushed Walter's face away from hers with the palm of her hand and swept a leg behind him, effectively knocking him to the ground.
"And now you're back on it. Get off my porch."
Strickler however had his own training and, in one swift move, took Barbara down from below, caught her so he'd cushion her fall, and then flipped over so he was looming over her.
"And now I'm on you."
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "I bet I can get you off me."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yep." And with that Barbara employed rule number three with a quick jab of her knee, and Strickler squeaked softly before rolling to his side, clutching his gronk noks.
All this commotion had summoned Jim, and he ran downstairs to find his mother dusting herself off while Strickler struggled to pick himself back up off the ground, legs wobbling slightly from the pain.
"Y-young Atlas, how are-" and that was as far as Strickler got before Jim decked him with a mutter of 'not this again'.
The changeling went sprawling back onto the floor, the grit-shaka flying off his neck.
This was not a good day for Walter Strickler.
He grunted and rubbed his chin, then sat up and blinked. Why was he at Barbara's house and why was he- oh. Yes, of course. The grit-shaka.
Shaking his head, Strickler stood up once more.
"Thank you, Jim," he said gruffly, "for punching me to get the grit-shaka off."
Jim raised his eyebrows - he hadn't even noticed the grit-shaka. Quite frankly, just seeing Strickler anywhere near his mother after what the changeling had done to her was enough for Jim to punch him.
Strickler didn't have to know this of course.
"Yes… that's why I punched you," Jim said slowly, "To get the grit-shaka off. Yes."
It was a lie Jim would take to his grave.