The TSA agent concentrated, hoping her face looked appropriately dour. Her supervisor was persnickety about his agents’ level of austerity. She suspected she was failing, and she couldn’t help it; Agent Kristina Blanchard had adored the curly-haired musician for decades. “I’m sure it’s just a blip in the tracking system. We’ll find everything, Al. Um, Mr. Yankovic. Now, you were telling me about Crate 3…”
“Yes,” Weird Al said softly, sipping from his Orange Julius cup with purpose. “Uh, one fat suit. One Segway. Four Star Wars outfits. Four Amish hats.” He look thoughtful. Agent Blanchard smiled, making a note.