Disclaimer: Although I'm not sure if I'm ever going to name the agent, he is indeed a creation of the Brothers Wachowski, as are his mannerisms. The unnamed character is mine, and the patent is pending. Thanks to Lewis Carroll for the title references. They are from "Jabberwocky."
Rating: PG for the use of the word "bra."
The Vorpal Blade is Drawn
I was having really weird dreams that night. I was floating among all of these lavender and taupe clouds and then there was this giant Lollipop who called himself the Frubjous Man, and I reached out to take his hand and suddenly we were deep in the forest, and I had to save the Princess Thumbtack from the evil men, but there were all these benches in the middle of these clearings and the evil thumbtacks were hiding under the leaves and kept jumping out at us. Then the forest caught on fire, and everything was burning, and all the trees and the leaves were on fire, and the light from the fire was so bright, so bright, and I opened my eyes.
My bedroom light was on. It seemed only vaguely odd through the thick haze that clouded my thought at that hour that there was a man standing in my bedroom doorway. Leaning against it, in fact, with arms folded and one shin crossed over the other. Seemingly jaunty and completely at ease, with muscles taut as a bowstring, ready to spring.
This did not seem a curious thing to me, though, so I sat up, hugged my knees to my chest, and asked rather foolishly, "Who are you?"
It was a stupid thing to say, really, because he was in uniform – or, at least, what passed as uniform these days. The precise black suit, the square sunglasses still on at – what was it, 3:30 in the morning? – and that obnoxiously shiny tie clip.
He took a step into my room. The only thing I could think about was how many bras I'd left laying around my floor.
"We got a call, about half an hour ago." The thought inexplicably flashed through my head and I wondered if he was breaking and entering, and maybe I should call the police. Then I slapped myself. He was the police! "It seems that a man who calls himself H. Walker has a connection with someone at this address. As you well know, this Walker fellow has been indicted with many counts of larceny and theft, but he has hitherto not been charged. We were called in to investigate this connection. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?"
Jesus Christ, my brain does not work at that hour. It feels like a horse-drawn snowplow through wet cement, and works about as well. Strange theories that involved my mother's ex-boyfriend's nephew's chauffeur's half-cousin's accountant who I met at a wedding came into mind, but somehow I didn't think it would be very plausible.
He stood there, waiting. His long, tall figure was framed in the doorway, arms still crossed. I traced the line of his suit down to the floor.
What was that poking out from under his foot? Hey, he was standing on my favorite bra!
On complete impulse, with no help from my entirely inactive brain, I jumped out of bed and gave the agent a shove to get at the crushed item. In one fluid movement, he grabbed my hand, spun me around, drew his Desert Eagle out and pointed it at my temple. Like I said. Snowplow through cement.
Suddenly and without warning, my brain started to kick in. 'I only heard of Walker at my friend's party!' 'I swear, I didn't know that he was going to use my information to hack into the government database!' 'Yes, I told him some confidential details, but I had no idea that he was Walker until later!' 'I don't know where he is, and even if I did I wouldn't tell you, scumbag!' 'Go ahead and shoot me. I would rather die than betray him!' were all things that went through my head. "You're standing on my bra" was what came out of my mouth.
I could hear him raise an eyebrow.
The next thing I heard when I opened my eyes was his feet scraping slowly across my bedroom floor. Something was very different here. For one, the sun was shining straight into my room when just a minute ago it had been 4 o'clock in the morning. Secondly, there seemed to be something wrong with my head, because it felt like it had been replaced by a watermelon in the middle of a Gallagher show. I reached up to feel it and confirm this suspicion when I realized that my hands were tied behind my back with rope that felt like it was made of rusty saw blades. Hmm…quite a predicament. I congratulated myself on not being dead.
