A/N: Okay guys, I really hate to do this, but my brain's just not working right. For this chapter, Part III is gonna be broken up into three sections, A, B, and C. They will be chapters inside chapters; I am SO sorry for the inconvenience, I know it's a major pain to get cut off so short. My brain simply refuses to function as of late—writer's block!

Pointless Agent Insanity!

Part III (A): The Matrix: Path of Neo…

Yeah Right!

T'was a dark and stormy night when Agent Jones came home… Smith and Brown busied themselves during the storm with the theory that, if one were to open the window and allow the rain in, become "wet" and then "stick their fingers in an electrical socket," the result would cause a peculiar type of reaction called "electrocution." It was always a warning for humans, illuminated by the constant array of yellow stickers that adorned every electrical appliance in the house. Who was that stick man? Artists certainly never paid any respect to anatomical truth anymore.

"You are the most human," Brown said, "therefore your reaction will be most like that of a human's."

"What are you afraid of?" Smith asked. "Our reactions will be the same."

"I just don't think—"

"Dammit, Brown, we are AGENTS! We are IMMORTAL! Nothing can happen to us because we are NOT HUMAN!"

"This coming from the man who bursts into tears every time Ethan and Theresa get back together again... for five episodes."

Smith went to the bathroom, retrieved the showerhead, flushed the toilet and doused Brown with its painful water. "For one thing, my dear Brown, I believe you and your comrade Jones are to be responsible for my newfound partiality to soap operas. Second, I only seem to be the most human because of the depth of the Agent complexities I possess. A feeble mind like yours could not possibly understand the true nature of my being."

Floored between the sofa and the kitchen island under barrages of water, Brown mumbled something about Smith's true nature of non-being.

"What did you say?" Smith asked sadistically. "You are thirsty? Like a human is? Very well then, have a drink… on me!" He flushed the accursed toilet again, and just as the burning switched to freezing the flow of water suddenly stopped.

In its place, something else began to flow.

"Shit!" Smith screeched.

Brown, now drenched, slowly sat up and brushed himself off. "You know, Smith, you should indeed cease your verbal profanities. It's beginning to have a detrimental effect on this household."

"No, I'm being literal, it's real human shit," the Agent explained, running back to the bathroom. "The damn septic tank's backed up again."

"Oh FUCK," Brown stated.

Smith stared at him amidst the flow of waste covering the walls.

Brown shrugged. "Hey, I told you it was detrimental."

"It does not matter. Find some way to get this out, it's already filling up the bathtub and the knobs are not responding well. NOW!"

"The window, perhaps?"

"That'll have to do."

And as the two Agents ran for the only solution, the only haven they could find within this waste-filled hell, was the single moment when Jones opened the front door, carrying with him a large cardboard box. When Jones saw the showerhead, the eyes behind his sunglasses grew flat and wide; the next few moments slid by in bullet-time, as he met up face-to-face with the showerhead. Smith and Brown could only stare in horror as it knocked Jones and his package straight to the linoleum ground.

Time resumed again.

"What the HELL?" Jones shrieked. Smith and Brown braced themselves for yet another explosive altercation. "I go out for one hour, and expect YOU two to keep the house from destruction, MY house, of which I pay the mortgage with MY money and everything in it as well, with MY job as a waitress at the local restaurant—"

The talk of Jones's work was strictly taboo for that very reason.

"—and every day I receive the most peculiar stares from programs, MY programs, programs that I MYSELF am in charge of, and, apparently, along with TWO OTHER AGENTS TO SHARE THE WORKLOAD, BECAUSE THE MATRIX LIKES THE NUMBER THREE AND THUS, EVERYBODY WORKS IN THREES, BUT NOOO,

"I HAVE TO WORK ALONE, PUT ON A WIG, SMILE, AND SAY TO FORTY YEAR OLD CREEPERS,'HELLO, MY NAME IS ALICE! HOW MAY I SERVE YOU TODAY? MIGHT I RECOMMEND THE CHICKEN? WOULD YOU LIKE THE CHECK NOW, SIR? NO, THERE ARE NO MORE HIGH CHAIRS! PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE WAITRESSES, SIR! I REPEAT, DO NOT TOUCH THE WAITRESSES! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS FIFTEEN PERCENT OF A $24.98 CHECK OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD! NO! IT IS NOT POSTED ON THE SPECIALS BOARD! GET A DAMN CALCULATOR! I AM GOING OUT FOR A CIGARETTE! TELL THEM TO SEAT THEIR DAMN SELVES! I DON'T CARE IF THEY ARE FROM THE SENIOR HOME, THEY STILL HAVE LEGS, RIGHT? NO? WELL TOO BAD!'"

Brown glanced over at Smith, who was already asleep.

Jones continued his rant. "Just who do you think you're fooling? Do you think I was born yesterday?"

Brown almost interjected, to say indeed, he was created yesterday, to replace Agent Greene after the "perfect world" disaster. Greene claimed to have created the perfect human world. It was designed to keep programs from escaping; a world in which one was granted what one wished for, and, in the end, the Matrix was overrun by giant pink bunnies.

Therefore, Greene was erased, and Jones was created in his place. And it just so happened to occur yesterday, at 1804 hours Western Pacific time on the 4th Monday of March 1999.

"For the love of Baudrillard, shut up," Smith hissed at Brown. "Just let him speak."

"—and to think I would have let you two play with this new PlayStation 2 I bought! Oh well, if you can't be good little boys when Mommy is not home, then I shall take it back to the nice cashier man at Wal-Mart." Turning around for dramatic effect, Jones picked up the package and headed for the doorway.

Smith and Brown, with eyes wide and alert, threw themselves down at the other Agent's feet, shredding any hope of dignity they still might have had. Jones struggled on down the hallway, ignoring the pleas of the comrades attached to his legs. Their waste-covered suits left twin trails down the carpeted floor; yet Jones persisted for the stairwell.

Meanwhile, a disgruntled Thomas Anderson left his apartment, dragging behind him three garbage bags to the front yard for Tuesday pickup. Apparently his landlady had gotten rid of her old collection of stuffed pink bunnies, and whenever she got rid of her collections, she employed Thomas to carry them out front.

Although he did not know why, he had always thought they were staring at him. Watching him. Whispering strange, pink bunny things about him. And somehow, he was glad for today, glad for the thought that at some point today they would be shredded alive inside someone's giant garbage disposal, or, at least, rot their insidious pink stuffing inside an acid landfill by the side of a highway somewhere near Detroit, or maybe be claimed for liquidation by the IRS, whichever would happen first.

For once, Thomas hoped the IRS would win.