"Pointless Agent Insanity! Part III (B):

There Is No Rogaine"

Smith studied the choices before him.

Smith looked up.

This was the most vile of secrets… it had to be discreet. The very balance of the universe depended on it. All would come to ruin or culmination because of this.

He looked down.

He frowned.

He ran a troubled hand through his hair.

There was no Rogaine.

There was no Rogaine, only… himself.

If you catch my drift.

"Um," he said, stuffing fifteen boxes of hair growth products in his shopping basket, "this is research. Yeah, research. It's how, uh, Zionites will respond to various forms of torture, starting with men's hair growth products and then progressing down to…" He tossed a couple of gels and combs into the basket. "To the alpha-wave enhancing effects of…" He studied a small purple box. "'Strawberry Unicorn Sunshine Rainbow Banana Sparkle Fruit.'" He shrugged, throwing it in. "Meh."

As he placed more products in the basket, another shopper's cart rammed into him.

"What the hell?" he shrieked. He rubbed at his sides. "Someone shall perish for that!"

He whipped out his Desert Eagle, firing off seventy-two clean rounds. All of the bullets had wrapped around their targets in a circle, leaving the people before him untouched, actually in better health because the shock waves of the bullets impacting the air had caused a mass body detox. The people blinked, having each shed fifty pounds, then sprung up with joy and ran out the door to go join an international marathon.

"Hey, I'm getting pretty good," Smith mused. "Last time they only went to Weight Watchers."

"Shh, be quiet, strange man," said the program Thomas Anderson. "I'm hiding from them."

"What—" Smith began; but Thomas placed a finger to his lips and looked around suspiciously.

Thomas Anderson was disguised as a toddler riding in his mother's cart, who turned out to be Dujour, the woman with the white rabbit tattoo. She stood quite conspicuously, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke into Smith's face.

"Wanna hit, kid?" she asked, extending the cigarette to Thomas.

"You have got to be kidding me," Smith said.

Thomas frowned and pointed behind him. Smith whirled around, only to see Agents Brown and Jones sprinting down the frozen foods section with a butterfly net and a pair of pink bunny slippers. Thomas shivered at the thought of the pink bunnies…

"They're dangerous," Thomas said. He leaned out of the cart, whispering toxically. "One of them is a waitress at the noodle shop down on Main Street, named Alice Jones…" He pointed to Jones. "She ain't right. There's something off with her, I tell ya. She just ain't right."

Smith ground his teeth. "And the others?"

"Well, I haven't seen them myself," Thomas said. "But I heard they're deadly."

Smith grinned slightly. His proud reputation preceded him.

"Didn't one of them fall down the escalator at Woolworth's?" Dujour asked. Smith blew a poison dart into her neck, and she collapsed.

"Look, I'll help you hide from… them…" he sighed, stuffing her dead body into the ice cream freezer and thinking of all the innumerable ways he could use rusted medieval tools to disembowel the two absolute dimwits he had the misfortune of calling cohorts. "But you have to help me with something in return. Deal?"

"Deal," Thomas said. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and whined for sugary cereals as Smith pushed his cart down the aisle.

LATER

"Damn, dude," Thomas said. "This 'Path of Neo' game is hard."

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST PICK THE RED PILL," Smith screeched. "ALL YOU DO IS PRESS LEFT AND HIT X! HOW HARD CAN IT BE?"

Thomas winced as the screen twinkled with the soft green light of the Matrix code.

"Now, now, these things can't be rushed." He inhaled sharply. "Just you wait. I'll get it for sure this time; I can smell it."

"Sorry, that was me," Smith said sheepishly, ducking into the bathroom.

Two minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, triumphant. The toilet had sucked him into Narnia, whereupon his arrival he was imprisoned and forced to labor as a resident dragon slayer. He dripped wet with the blood and gore of victory. Not today, he laughed. Not today.

Two minutes later Thomas was still stuck on level one, carefully considering his choices.

He whispered. "Hmm… blue or red candy… both are so pretty… yum, yum… ugh!" He looked up, pointing to the screen. "Why is this guy wearing a green tie with a purple shirt? Like, ew! Okay, Tom, focus, you can do this. Just pick a pill. Pick a pill. Pick a pill. Pick a pill. Pick a pill. Pick a—seriously, what's up with those John Lennon glasses? Go to Len's Crafter's like everybody else, you jackass!"

Smith seized the controller and beat the game on Hard Mode in less than 0.00000005 seconds—0.0003 seconds later than usual because he was feeling tired from slaying dragons.

"This is not the purpose for which I enlisted your assistance, Mr. Anderson," Smith said.

"Tommy," Anderson corrected, busily searching for the M&M he had shoved up his nose a moment earlier.

"I wonder if the Wachowski Brothers are having a better time than this," Smith grunted.

MEANWHILE

The Wachowski Brothers sat at the desk of a movie agent.

"Okay, let's hear some ideas for your next movie," the rep said. "Throw them at me."

Without a word, the Wachowski Brothers walked out of the room. The rep raised an eyebrow, puzzled. He shifted in his seat and folded his hands together in the sudden quiet.

Moments later two tons of script crashed through his ceiling, dropped in from a ten story crane.

"They're just some ideas. They're not much, but I think today's demographic audience will enjoy them," Andy said to the rep's crushed, bleeding corpse.

The brothers sat together in the crane.

"ALL HAIL THE NEO, FOOLS!" Larry screamed, raising his arms.

"Larry, Larry," Andy said, shaking his head and patting his brother's shoulder. "Nuh-uh. We're over that, remember? We have a thing called straight jackets for that."

"What'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Larry said.

Andy punched him stiff in the face, accidentally knocking down the throttle to "super ultra wreckage speed" and destroying half of Chicago in the process.

MEANWHILE

Jones and Brown had finished up their game of "Catch the Invisible Butterfly at the Supermarket." Nightfall descended over the edge of the lake they drove by, shrouding the waters below in an ebony shadow.

"Damn butterfly," Jones groaned. He scratched his head with the end of the butterfly net.

"He's quite capable of ruse, if I do say so myself," stated Brown.

"I have already expended my reserves of 'fun'," Jones said, his voice pitched full of sorrow. "What shall we do next?"

Brown grinned and threw his pair of bunny slippers into the lake.

"'Swim for the Pink Bunny Slippers in the Lake and Do Not Drown in the Process,'" Brown said, braking. "Go!"

As Jones leapt into the dark water, Brown slammed down on the gas pedal to the Audi, cackling hysterically.

"Sucker! Lakes don't drown people; people drown people!" he squealed.

MEANWHILE

A few hours later, Thomas had somehow managed to gather enough brain cells in his head to perform the simple task of styling Smith's hair. Amazingly enough, Smith had somehow managed to gather enough patience in his mind to allow him to do so.

"You're done," the program said, turning off the sink faucet. "How does it feel?"

"It doesn't seem any different," Smith said, examining for any change in the structure of his hair's code. Although it was the same type of code, he noticed that it did seem to glow a little brighter… a bit brighter than usual. "What did you use?"

"Let's see," Thomas read the box. "'Strawberry Unicorn Sunshine Rainbow Banana Sparkle Fruit.'"

Smith's eyes widened behind his black sunglasses.

"Dude, chill out," Thomas said. He wiped his hands on a towel. "It's not that bad."

"Not that ba…?" Smith's question was silenced by a great, horrendous sight that met him in the mirror.

Smith screamed, his voice ablaze with rage. He tore at his hair and scratched at the mirror with his nails.

"My hair… my beautiful, full, thick, shiny, luscious hair… it's turned PURPLE!" Smith shrieked. "To entertain even the notion, for a weak, rare moment, that I ever trusted a mere human… but YOU! You, my sir, are the worst, most odious, most despicable, most pathetic, vile, terrible, horrid waste of stinking human mass I have ever had the utter misfortune of knowing! EVER!"

"Aw, gee, you really think so? Well gosh, thank you so much! I love you too, strange man," Thomas gushed, his face turning red.

Smith promptly shot him in the face.

"What are you doing in my house?" Thomas asked, walking in to see the dead body lying on the floor. He wore his business suit.

"You… y-you…" the Agent sputtered.

"You killed my stunt double," Thomas sniffed. "Named 'Keenan' or 'Keanu' or 'Kenny' or something weird like that. That ain't cool, dude. I paid him big bucks to watch over my shit while I was gone, you know that, right?"

Smith stared at him.

Thomas tossed his suitcase on the floor. "Look guy, I don't know what your get-off is in all of this; all I know is, I gotta shit. Right now. So leave or it won't be pretty."

Smith started involuntarily convulsing. Thomas tilted his head.

"Why is your hair that color, strange man?"

"YOU STAINED IT PURPLE, YOU ARSEHOLE!"

Thomas frowned, spotting the box of hair coloring on the sink counter. Picking it up, he studied it for a moment. "No, no," he protested, pointing to the box's description, "here it says it's only a soft violet blend of red lavender subtly mixed in with the lush hues of blue forget-me-not…"

Smith glared the fires of hell and damnation at him.

"So purple, yeah," he said, jumping out the nearest window as a Bazooka bombed his bathroom door.

THA END

A/N: This is why Smith hates Anderson so much. =D

Again, I apologize for the story's abruptness.