A/N: This chapter is going to seem more abrupt than the others. Not to worry, the characters mentioned and the evil underground Socialist Mafia's plot to take over the world will be explained in much detail in the chapters to come. I'm still gathering all the ingredients to make hilarity stew, so now I'm cutting back a bit… =D
P.S. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me what the "real" electric bill is, wink, wink.
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part IV: Enemy Potatoes and Electric Bills"
Things could not have possibly turned out any other way.
Things could not have possibly turned out any other way.
Things could not have possibly turned out any other way.
Things could not have possibly turned out any other—
"Where the hell is he?" Smith shrilled. His patience with their undercover "white rapper" had worn down to a very thin layer.
It was now twilight of the third day of the operation to take over the world. Smith blinked, stretching his neck upwards. The sky was unusually dark for what had seemed a strange number of hours…for no sun rose over the horizon.
"Idiot!" Smith screeched, delivering a swift kick to Jones' torso. "You obviously did not remember to pay the electric bill!"
"What is this 'electric bill' of which you speak?" Jones asked.
The Agent leader plunged a fist into the wall, ripped out a handful of blazing, hissing wires, scribbled an infinite number on a piece of paper and thrust it onto Jones' forehead with a thumbtack.
"Oh," said Jones, bleeding. "So THAT'S what that thing was. I simply thought I had received requests to become a Russian mail-order bride by the hydro-electric company."
"Nope," Thomas said, as he casually unwrapped a candy bar. "I ain't touchin' that."
MEANWHILE
A group of people desperate to kill themselves sat around their leader in a dusty, desolate, run-down hotel room.
Their leader, a prominent figure clad in black and wearing suspiciously John Lennon looking sunglasses, sat in a plump red chair, staring at a blank TV channel.
"Hot damn," he said, clicking the remote, "Happy Days in Outer Space has got to be the worst show I have ever watched." He shifted in his seat. "I mean, it's just so dark out there! How's Fonzie ever supposed to fix anything and go 'eyyy' anymore when there's no juke box swirling around in that giant black hole?"
Sighing for the fifth time, Trinity got up and turned on the TV.
"Hey!" Morpheus barked, waving the remote at her. "You know the rules."
Trinity nodded with a .44 revolver stuck halfway up her mouth.
"No one touchie-touchie the telly-telly without my permission-permission!"
Trinity, with eyes empty, nodded again, wondering why he was ever born into any realm of existence as he turned the TV off.
Morpheus studied the screen.
"Now we will strike," Morpheus said contentedly, clasping his hands together and half-smiling.
"Why do you smile like that?" Switch asked as Apoc helped tie a noose around her neck. "It really creeps me out when you do that."
Morpheus burst into tears.
"I was born a Botox-addict baby! God, why won't they leave me alone!" he shrieked, burying his face in his hands while Mouse and Cypher each drank down a gallon tank of gasoline, opened their mouths, lit a pair of matches and swallowed them whole.
MEANWHILE
"My name is John Constantine; IN THE NAME OF THE LORD, I EXCISE YOU FROM THIS BODY!" Thomas screamed, bashing a vial of holy water over Jones' thick skull.
"Wrong movie," said Smith.
"Um," said Thomas. "Moo?"
Smith stared at him.
"He's in position," Jones reported.
Smith snorted in disbelief, but as he did, his mortal enemy, the red Idaho potato, stalked in the depths behind him.
Jones and Thomas stared.
"What?" Smith said.
"B-behind you…" Thomas whispered.
Smith snorted again.
This time the horrid, vile potato attached itself to his face and got stuck up his nasal passages, trying to suffocate him utterly from the resulting salt reactant asphyxiation.
MEANWHILE
Morpheus and the rebels loitered in the hotel parking lot, having been kicked out by nonexistent ghost management.
Morpheus contemplated the revolver he held in his hand.
"It's the true question of all existence, my friends…is this really a gun, or do I just think it's a banana?" he said.
Switch blinked twice; apparently those eighty overdoses of Tylenol just didn't work for her. Nor the noose. Nor the iron saw. Nor packing entire lead magazines into an Uzi. Nor the twenty-five hours of listening to ABBA's discography. "What?"
"Oh, yes!" Morpheus said, patting the barrel tenderly. "Bananas are notorious for disguising themselves as revolvers. Sneaky little buggers, yes they are!"
Trinity groaned.
"Why don't you just kill me now?" she asked.
"That can be done," Morpheus said. He aimed the gun at point blank range.
Since the gun was aimed correctly this time, at another person instead of at his head, Apoc rushed over to him to wrestle it out of his grip.
"No! No! I think she's good," Apoc said. "Put the gun down. Put the gun down. Morpheus, put the gun down. Put the…put the gun down. Yes, put the gun down. Put the gun down. Put the gun down. Put the…put the damn gun down! No, your other hand… the one with the gun… yes, you are holding a gun… no, a gun is not a taco… no, we have no money left for tacos, we spent it all on cable at the hotel… no, there are no tacos at home because we all live in an underground cave and no one makes tacos there… no, you are not a Yeti if you live in an underground cave… yes, I know Yetis like tacos too… and guns… son of a bitch, it's gonna be a long night… there!"
Apoc forced down his hand from the aiming position, twisting it behind his back and snapping the bone—rubber bone, that is, since Morpheus had tragically lost both arms in the Great War of the Cheap Wal-Mart Plastic Toys, in the midst of the pivotal Battle of the Raining Gumball Drops and My Little Pony Sparkles, having both amputated at a Strawberry Shortcake MASH unit before being instilled with prosthetic limbs using the remains of Gumby and Stretch Armstrong. As long as small children in Zion used his arms as stretchy jump rope he would never forget the ultimate sacrifice of those heroes lost…
Morpheus pouted, his bottom lip jutting out in a stubborn sulk.
"But my left hand is my katana-wielding ninja-ass-kicking hand! What am I gonna do without my ninja-ass-kicking hand?" he wailed.
"If you're kicking someone's ass, aren't you technically using your foot to do it?" Cypher asked.
Morpheus whirled around, and, with his free hand, sprayed him in the eyes with a can of Cool Whip.
"Silence, ye wretched mortal! Do not question my questionably questionable ways!" he declared, raising his right arm to the sky.
A low rumbling sounded, and a brief crescendo began to play as dark, ominous, thundering storm clouds gathered over the parking lot—
Mouse spotted a yellow piece of paper fluttering on the windshield and picked it up.
"Hey, look at this!" he said, motioning to the others. "Morpheus got a parking ticket!"
Don Davis' chorus looked once at Morpheus, then ran away.
"NO!" Morpheus shrieked, kneeling to the ground. "MY PERFECT LEGAL RECORD IS RUINED! I AM NOW A CRIMINAL BEFORE THE EYES OF THE LAW!"
MEANWHILE
A crackle sounded. The link resumed online functioning through the static.
Agent Brown's voice slurred in Smith's ear.
"Zzzzt… yeah… zzzzt… whadd'hya want? I tol' ya already, I paid mah due-hues, boss mahnnn…zzzzt…"
Smith frowned. "Are you drunk?"
"Uhhhhmmmmm… lemme check…" A crash sounded, along with the sound of tinkling glasses and a thousand duck chorus singing their version of "Baby Got Back": I like big ducks and I cannot lie! ...You otha duckas can't deny! ...When a goose walks in with an ittty-bitty waist and a round wing in your face you get sprung! ...Wanna fluff up tough 'cause you notice that leg was stuffed! "Mahy-beee? Hayyy Carrrrlosss, am I drunk o' wha…? Whadd'hya mean i'sssh Ladiesh' Night? Tueshday wash yeshterdai!"
"Well, where are you? How are you now?"
"We good in da hood, Meester Rahgers," Brown replied. "Ain't dat right, Mister Rogers?"
"You be trippin' 'aight wit' me, white boy," Mister Rogers said, throwing an Olympic torch into a Colombian field of…plants. "BURN BABIES BURN!" He yelled. "MISTER ROGERS ISH GONNA BE SIX FEET DOWN UNDA TONIGHT, BE-YOTCHES!"
Smith's eyes lowered. He shut off the communicator, then crawled in between Jones and Thomas for naptime.
"I don't know what is more disturbing," he whispered, "the fact that Mister Rogers is half-baked somewhere in a Colombian drug field or the fact that I almost get killed by a random potato every time I exhale through my left nostril."
THA END