"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part III (C): I Am Teh Walrus"
Today we find our lovable but dysfunctional trio watching themselves on screen for the premiere of The Matrix. Halfway into the movie, a lone figure stood as a dark shadow in front of the screen.
"This is bull," Smith said, sucking on an almost empty straw of extra-large root beer. He rattled the ice cubes around indignantly. The images before him flashed hatefully, scornfully…mockingly. "I am NOT that Australian!"
"Yeah, you are," Jones said, dueling Brown to the bitter end with a pair of Pixie Sticks.
"Shut up," Smith commanded.
"Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, you're an Aussie, mate," Jones taunted.
"Aussie," Brown repeated.
Smith frowned. "You're Aussie too, Brown, so shut up…again."
"Not as Aussie as you," Brown said. "Hugo."
"Burn!" Jones exclaimed.
Smith glowered and sat back down.
"OW, MY EYE! MY BEAUTIFUL, NONDESCRIPT SUNGLASSED EYE! YOU BROKE IT, YOU CLUMSY OAF! NOW IT DOESN'T WORK ANY MORE! YOU'RE GONNA PAY FOR THAT!" Brown screamed at Jones suddenly, clutching at a gaping, gory hole on the left side of his face.
"ME! YOU BROKE TWO OF MY LUNGS!" Jones screeched from the operating table as a team of doctors performed open-heart surgery on him. "SOMEONE'S GOING TO PAY FOR THAT 'CAUSE I SURE AS HELL DON'T HAVE THE INSURANCE!"
Smith grinned, having secretly replaced the Pixie Sticks with a pair of fourteen-foot jousting sticks.
"No one calls me Aussie," he said, glaring dangerously at Hugo Weaving, "and lives to tell the tale."
"Why you gotta be so mean?" Hugo Weaving said, crossing his arms. When Smith said nothing, he shrugged, put on his vendetta cape and rode a flying griffin off into the dying sunset.
Smith looked up.
"Weirdo," he said as the other two Agents flat lined.
And then they grew bored. Again.
Because they had no one else to turn to for such times of ennui, the Agents went to the house of the notorious idiot Thomas Anderson.
Some had said he was brilliant, one of the world's finest hacking minds, able to crack a code's logarithm in less than ten seconds. Others said he was horrendously stupid, unable to fall down the stairs without stopping to ask for directions and half a road map recalculated seven times from MapQuest on the exact coordinates as measured by his satellite GPS.
That's why Thomas and the Agents got along very well.
"Pink bunnies! THE UTTER FLUFFINESS OF DEATH!" Thomas shrieked.
"Popcorn! THE 2% SATURATED FAT AND ASSORTED CORN OILS!" Jones shrieked.
Smith smiled as he switched the horror slide show between images of the two despised things, watching with a sadistic pleasure the alternation of their screams.
"NOOO!"
"NOOO!"
"NOOO!"
"NOOO!"
"No! Back!" Thomas screeched, jumping behind a pile of dirty laundry. "I'm part of… I'm part of the underground Socialist Mafia!" he spat.
Smith frowned. He switched off the computer.
"What's the underground Socialist Mafia?" he asked.
Thomas snorted, putting his hands on his hips.
"I AM the underground Socialist Mafia, son!" Thomas shrieked, shaking his head wildly.
"Well then," Smith said, "that makes me the cult of personality."
Jones and Brown stared at one another, and they knew in an instant…
The dreaded "I Am" match was about to begin.
Thomas stuck out his tongue. "I'm the Queen of Sheba."
"I'm the King of Rock, there is none higher," Smith said, tilting his head. "Sucka MCs should call me sire."
"I'm King Henry the Eighth I am!" Thomas declared.
"I am the egg man, they are the egg men, I am teh walrus!"
"I am the ice cream man."
"No… Mr. Anderson… I… am your father," Smith said, breathing heavily. "Damn… it's hot in this room…"
As he crossed the room to open the window Thomas stared at him with the usual blank expression.
Smith shrugged. "I was just… kidding," he said, looking for the right human phrase to use.
Thomas dropped his head. "Fine, you win."
Smith smirked triumphantly as the Agents breathed a sigh of relief. "Damn right I win."
"I'm bored," Thomas said, lying on the couch as another rerun of That 70's Show began to play.
"I love you," Donna Pinciotti said to Eric Foreman.
"I know," Eric said, lifting an eyebrow; and the audience laughed until the government busted in with a full military force and shot them all dead.
"HAPPY DAYS RULES ALL 70'S SHOWS, MOTHAFUCKAS!" they shrieked. "We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming."
Smith, Jones and Brown stared at the test screen, unblinking, for a full, silent ten minutes.
"I think I'm going to need a human brain transplant after that," Brown said, "since the memory of that incident imprinted itself indelibly onto my databanks and thus cannot be deleted by conventional means."
Jones, having hoped that Brown was referring to the usual kind of deletion, sighed and put away his hockey mask and bloodied twin machetes. "Not today, fellas," he apologized. "Maybe tomorrow we'll get 'im."
Watching this, Thomas rose from the couch and turned off the TV, getting a brilliant idea. "I know! We'll take over the world… so nothing like this ever happens," he said.
The Agents stared at him.
"Take over the world?" he asked. "You know… have the run of the place?"
They shifted a little from their places, interested by this proposal.
"Come on," Thomas whispered, pointing quietly to the basement, "I'll show you."
And down in the darkness they went.
Thomas swept away the dust from the table with a long, outstretched arm. The iron darkness that encaged them seemed to penetrate their very minds with sharp silence.
In the middle of the room lay a large, fortified metal safe, sitting alone, encased with bulletproof shields and microscopic laser detectors. A dim blue light swung overhead from a cone-shaped shade, casting blunt gray shadows from the cobwebs and dustings of time.
With hands of careful precision, Thomas unlocked the box with a digital code and activated two retina identification scans.
The box beeped once in confirmation, then clicked open.
"With this, we shall rule the world," Thomas said. "None shall stand in our way."
The Agents smirked at one another as he pulled out with the folder containing the intricate plans, preparing himself to explain the extremely sensitive, incredibly dangerous logistics of the plan for taking over the entire world. Their destinies were at stake, not to mention the fact of their very existences. Here, in the hands of a mastermind, it unfurled beautifully, like poetry… it was a thing of radiance, down there, being birthed… once put into effect, it would burst into its true potential, and grow exponentially, a thing of terrible power, a thing of unthinkable magnitude. Smith closed his eyes, savoring the anticipation. It was going to be absolutely glorious, a grand herald of their cold, authoritarian magnificence.
Thomas opened up the manila folder and began reading.
"We shall cut off the world's supply of soap suds until every national government decides to comply with our demands for domination," Thomas said. "Until then, every Bed, Bath and Beyond and JC Penny's in the world shall sell, instead, only those pugnacious rock exfoliators, and all of the world shall have to scrub without those precious poofy loofas that make you itch bad in really embarrassing places for six hours afterward, and at someplace important, like at a conference meeting, and I mean a really important conference meeting, you know, like that one you know you need to kill the audience with, because if you don't, your boss will give you the pink slip and a boot up the ass after your terrible quarterly review, and during the meeting you totally realize you really need to shit but you can't, so you just do it in your suit pants, because no one's looking, and, I mean, you just do it, like, let it out, like heaving a great big sigh of relief, but then halfway through the process you realize you had just eaten lunch at the Mexican place earlier that afternoon, where you knew you shouldn't have had the super burrito bean supreme with the three cheeses, but you did it anyway because your Nicaraguan friend Jorge slapped you on the back and told you to 'just live a little, muchacho,' right before he blackmailed you about those drunken-ass pictures on Facebook, and now you're trying to hold in your runny shit with your hands, and then you think, Oh, hell no! because now the conference is over and now you have to shake hands with all the top CEOs, and now they gotta shit, and then they shake your hand, and then when you go home you don't know whose shit is whose, because the shit is all the same, yours mixed in with some strangers' shit you never met before, and you try to scrub it off with those damnable perfumes that don't do shit but add shit to your shit, and now you're standing shitful in the shitty shower just full of shit—" Thomas paused to take a breath. "—and now, with this brilliant plan in effect, absolutely no blond-haired tan forty-three-year-old-something woman who tries to pretend she is still twenty-two by wearing obnoxiously large white plastic sunglasses on her head while chewing pink bubblegum noisily and listening to LL Cool J on a puke-green iPod Nano Touch shall ever open another sample of God-Awful-Bag-of-Flaming-Dog-Shit-Disguised-as-Sup er-Tropical-Cinnamon-Bubble-Burst-Candy-Land-Mushr oom-Fantasy-Cloud-Aqua-Fresh-Lemony-Lime-Yummy-Cit rus-Freezer-Burn-Car-Freshener-Pine-Sol-Lavender-W asher-Dryer-Lint-Chanel No. 5 in another cheap knock-off department store ever again! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The Agents all died just hearing the plan, the graves of those assimilated programs' bodies marked but with one word for each, in a neat little row of headstones:
What. The. Fuck.
"A duck," Smith said. "Your brilliant plan is going to use a duck to cut off the world's supply of soap suds."
"Not just any duck," Thomas said. "BEHOLD THE ALMIGHTY RUBBER DUCKY!"
A large red curtain lifted, revealing a large duck costume made of paper mache.
Smith lifted an eyebrow.
"I don't recall this being in the plan," Jones whispered.
"Shut up, they'll hear us speaking to him if they catch our frequency," Smith replied harshly.
"Fuck dat shit, bitch," Brown said. "I ain't goin' out like no punk ta get my ass busted up like no cappin' bitch."
Brown stood in the middle of the store, and the only thing recognizable about him was his Agent's earpiece. He had gone undercover, at first as a rubber ducky piñata, but when he was almost mauled to death by an onslaught of sugar-high children and half the crew of Jackass he decided on another plan of action: that is, posing as a white rapper pitching various perfume samples to old women at Woolworth's.
"Yo, shawties," he said, sauntering toward a group of women who just had arrived from the senior home. "Who wanna get summa dat shit?"
He held out the tray of perfumes and one of the old women whacked him in his baggy shins with her walker.
"Wow," Thomas said, "that guy's got a real talent for stereotyping."
Smith grumbled. He seized Jones' earpiece and barked an order into Brown's receptor.
"You be trippin' epic, Smith-dawg," Brown said, "but you be trippin' 'aight."
Hitching down his belt over a pair of red plaid briefs, tilting his white hat to the left, sticking out his heavily tattooed chest and flashing the ladies the fifty-three solid bars of gold alloy that hung from his neck, Brown proceeded down the mall department to go directly into the belly of the beast and scope out enemy lines.
He walked with rhythm, with style, with spice… that is, until a stray strand of hair got caught in his eyes, and, screaming blindly, he tripped into the community nudist pool located exactly below the department store; and Jones, Smith and Thomas had a collective brain hemorrhage rofling and emoticoning in the 18-million hit YouTube video, "White Posa', Y'all Be Trippin', My Brotha.'"
THA END