A/N #1: I'M BACK WITH A NEW CHAPPIE AND A TRUCKLOAD OF A/Ns! YAY A/Ns! OKAY, PEOPLE, HANG ON TO YOUR SPATS! THERE'S GONNA BE A LOT OF THESE, SINCE THIS IS AN IMPORTANT CHAPPIE…
A/N #2: …INTERLUDE! HEHEHE. GOTCHA. WE WILL RESUME REGULAR BROADCASTING IN THE NEXT CHAPPIE…
A/N #3: Special thanks to my reviewers…you are awesome. Cookies for you!
CeruleanPhoenix7—My awesomely loyal reviewer and fellow brilliant writer (check out the Fringe fics!), COOKIES TO YOU! And also an upcoming dedication… wink, wink.
glitterthorn—COOKIES TO YOU! Thank you so much for the compliment…I aim to please.
FREE COOKIES TO REVIEWERS OF POINTLESS AGENT INSANITY!
A/N #4: LIABILITY ALERT! NO REFUNDS! Pointless Agent Insanity! never said it would ONLY include Agents Smith, Jones, and Brown…so read at your own risk… and wear a helmet… dun dun dunnnnnnnnn…
A/N #5: Daniel Bernhardt was the actor who played Agent Johnson in Reloaded and was in the commercial for Samsung TVs. Agent Thompson, I think, was in the Power Aide commercial, but I could be wrong… XD
A/N #6: DISCLAIMER NOTICE: As always, I do not own the Matrix and its characters…it'd be a much scarier place if I did.
Now let's get busy, y'all!
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part V: Evil Interludes: In the Age of Underpaid Extras"
Agents Johnson, Thompson, and Jackson sat inside a slow-motion limousine. Inside the armrests of the car laid silent telephones.
Quiet abounded in the Matrix.
Johnson drummed his fingers against the armrest. Thompson checked his earpiece. Jackson polished a random double barrel shotgun just to take advantage of being able to sing "Down Rodeo" by Rage Against the Machine.
There were no calls today.
No calls meant no targets.
No targets meant no fun.
No fun meant dangerous Agents.
"Yeah, I'm rollin' down Rodeo wit' a shotgun, these people ain't seen a brown skin man since their grandparents bought one," Jackson sang.
Johnson took the double barrel shotgun and threw it out the tinted windows, shattering the glass in a torrent of shards. He sat back down and calmly folded his hands in his lap as passerby shrieked in terror with mouthfuls of lead .45 AE.
"No singing," he said.
The trio of Agents stared at one another.
A few minutes later…
"Drink more," Thompson said.
"Oh, blimey!" Johnson shrieked, throwing his hands up in defeat. "For the love of God, Thompson, we've been over this! Power Aide is a sports drink, NOT an interrogation device!"
"Drink more," Thompson apologized, shaking his head in sorrow.
Johnson sniffed indignantly. "Indeed."
"Sir," Jackson said. "How long have we been riding?"
"Approximately three days, two hours, fifty-seven minutes, eighty point two sevenths seconds and three thousand, one hundred and forty-six milliseconds," Johnson said, staring out the broken window. "Why?"
"I do believe this vehicle truly is in slow-motion," Jackson said. "Look."
Johnson looked.
They had gone two centimeters down the street.
Butterflies on Hell's Angels motorcycles flipped him off as they zipped past. Turtles blew out their built-in speaker horns honking at the almost-scientifically-impossible-slow-motion limo. Snails swerved to avoid colliding with the limo and smashed into one another in a small-scale thermonuclear explosion. It took paramedics thirty hours to arrive on the scene. Upon their arrival the snails involved in the accident were lifted on a Mercy Animal hummingbird copter and carried over to the prestigious Pound Puppy ICU, where only twenty years later they died from their extensive injuries.
Johnson sat back in the limo, rolled up the passenger window and screeched the world's loudest decibel WTF.
Then the trio arrived in the company of another trio we know… Smith, Jones, and Brown.
Three life-size posters of Smith, Jones, and Brown, that is, as I have finally submitted my evil script and the Wachowski Brothers have approved, and now I shall RULE THE REALM OF ORACLES AND ONES AND ZIONS AND AGENTS AND RUBBER DUCKIES AND UNDERGROUND SOCIALIST MAFIAS AND PRETENTIOUS COSTS OF MOVIE TICKETS AND THAT VAGUELY UNKNOWN BRAND OF THE SLIMY STICK OF GENERIC GUM THAT'S SOLIDIFIED UNDER YOUR SEAT AND THAT SNOT-NOSED LITTLE KID THAT KICKS YOUR CHAIR FROM BEHIND SO YOUR HEAD KEEPS HITTING THE SCREEN AND CASTING A PARTICULARLY CRUCIAL OVAL ECLIPSE OVER THE CLIMAX OF THE TWO HOURS AND SEVENTEEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE YOU JUST WASTED BY WATCHING THIS DAMNABLY POINTLESS MOVIE WHEN YOU SHOULD BE OUT PROTESTING THE UTTER SOCIAL INJUSTICE OF WHY MY CAR HAS A $2,000 DOWN DEPOSIT BECAUSE ALLSTATE CAN KISS MY NON-DEDUCTIBLE ACCIDENT-FORGIVING INSURANCE POLICY A—
Beep.
We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.
Beep.
Sparks has just reestablished the connection. Thanks Sparks!
"No prob," Sparks said, grinning and flashing the camera a thumbs-up before busily crashing the Logos into the Statue of Liberty and ducking Niobe's female wrath.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming… OW YOUR NAILS HURT!
The Agents walked along the highway.
"Samsung TVs are sooooo much better than Sony," Johnson said, smiling commercially. "Thus, by deductive reasoning of capitalist media, I am sooooo much better than Smith."
"Drink more?" Thompson inquired.
"No, Thompson."
"Drink more," Thompson agreed, nodding.
Johnson patted him on the head as he swilled another gallon of suspiciously electric-green Power Aide.
Meanwhile, Agents White, Pace and Grey arrived on the scene.
"Oh, look," Johnson said. "It's the upgrade upgrades…which, I just realized, doesn't make any sense right now."
Thompson fell backwards.
"Drink more! DRINK MORE!"
His voice rose in alarm as he pointed to Pace.
Johnson looked once at Pace, then to something forming strangely at Thompson's…lower abdomen…
Johnson sacked it with a carton full of Idaho red potatoes. Unfortunately, Thompson had just gotten his annual booster shot for that particular strain of Idaho-red-potato-itis and was immune to the resulting subduing effects.
"Oh God oh God oh God," Johnson hyperventilated. "Agent White will have us all deleted if he sees this!"
Agent White, the leading stand-in for Smith during Smith's summer ice fishing vacations at the North Pole—
"What? Like you don't go on vacations too, you liar," Smith said, gathering up an array of harpoons and fishing poles. With a tilt of his hat he grunted a command to Jones and Brown, who scurried behind him and rolled him down the hill with the sheer weight of his fifty-seven bear fur parkas. "Mush, you fools! MUSH!"
—approached the trio, oblivious to Thompson's current condition. He nodded in greeting as he advanced towards them, extending a solid arm to his fellow Agents.
Thompson wailed. Jackson sang uneasily to Cypress Hill. Johnson ran around in circles.
"What? What? What? Are you turning human?" the dark-haired Agent screamed, clapping his hands over his face. "Oh God, we're all gonna dieeeeeeee!"
Meanwhile, Daniel Bernhardt was busy sipping on a citrus mojito in a sunny plaza in Madrid when his cell phone rang.
"Hello?" he said. After listening for a few minutes and picking at his teeth with the yellow plastic umbrella he closed the cell phone. "Huh. So the Samsung fucker's finally lost it… okay. I'll be there ASAP."
He rose from the table.
"Where are you going?" his confused friends shrilled…in French, oddly enough.
Daniel's face grew dark and his voice edged with danger.
"I ordered a lemon citrus mango twist with exactly two drops of lime," he growled. "They gave me three point five…now Bernhardt's got some lemon-sucking fuckers to deal with."
His friends wept in Mandarin Chinese as he left the Spanish plaza.
White did not delete Thompson upon witnessing his condition. He was strangely magnanimous, offering, instead, his services to fix the glitch.
"Drink more?" Thompson asked nervously. He lay suspended in space, tied like a hostage to a rooftop radio station receiver.
"What…what is that?" Johnson said, straining to see over White's work. He extended his hand to contact the code of the glitch.
"Don't touch," Grey said, slapping away Johnson's hand. "It's dangerous."
White pulled out an enlightening-looking book from his back pocket and began reading its contents.
"This, my sirs, is what humans commonly refer to as erection," he said. "Other names for this physiological phenomenon: Boner. Stick in the mud. Spear. Cannon. Rocket. Pole. Sucks to be me dancing in the club right now. What do you think it means, baby? No, I don't want to talk. Don't be afraid of it. I'm just happy to see you."
"Where did you obtain that book?" Johnson asked.
"That is classified information, Johnson," White said, tossing Justin Bieber's fourth grade diary away in the nearest dump. "Such fact cannot be compromised. It cannot be dispersed easily as does the government."
"Well, what do we do now?" Johnson said. "Do we operate?"
"The remedy, my sir," White explained, cracking his knuckles, "is a simple dose of this."
A fist connected with Thompson's lower abdomen, sending him soaring backwards through the air and crashing through the city's neon Power Aide billboard, cutting off the power lines in half of Sydney, Australia and causing a massive worldwide systematic breakdown of wild kangaroos, which sputtered and shot out brilliant blue sparks from their pouches.
In the distance a bush rustled.
"They're on to us, Charlie," Crocodile Dundee shouted to his partner. "But they'll never obtain our secret plans for the emus! Go! Go! Go! GO!"
Charlie's Jeep dissolved in the horizon, along with a crate of bouncing emu heads and a resounding chorus of maniacal cyborg laughter.
The five Agents hovered over Thompson's limp form, standing still in the morning city wind that blew through the gaping hole of the Power Aide billboard.
"Ah, he's coming to," someone said.
"¡Para español, oprima número dos!" Pace squealed in relief.
Everyone stared at her.
"Isn't she Italian?" Jackson asked.
"Yes," Grey said, swinging his legs over the edge.
Pace walked over to White as he stared dramatically at the highway and embraced him from behind.
"She switches languages every Saturday morning," White said. He shrugged. "I think it's quite cute, actually."
"Sí, Blanco, anoche me prometiste tu amor," Pace giggled, flashing a grossly giant diamond ring whose gem smacked Jackson in the face with its utter girliness.
"Drink more," Thompson said sorrowfully, having missed his only chance at true love. With a wistful step he gracefully plunged the fifty feet from the smoking ruins of the neon billboard, caused a slight shift in the space-time continuum, picked himself up and sauntered back to the car still riding down the two centimeters of Adams Street. "Drink more…"
Johnson imagined stabbing himself in the eye with a mace to escape the utter absurdity of this story, but realized he only had a standard Agent copy of Justin Bieber's fourth grade diary on his person.
"Meh, it'll have to do," he said, stabbing himself with the soft blunt Styrofoam edges.
Since Jackson insisted upon finding Thompson, Johnson followed along. They walked along the city side, scanning the code for the unmistakable sign of a despondently lovelorn Agent.
They went inside a bar whose sign read "Despondently Lovelorn Agent Inside."
Johnson glowered, crossing his arms.
The sign shrugged and walked across the street, morphing into a "Yield".
The two Agents walked into the bar, approaching the counter. Thompson, alarmed, whirled around with a beer in his hand.
"Drink more!" Thompson beamed, pushing the beer to his cohorts.
"Oh," said Johnson. "So that's what he meant."
A few hours later Daniel arrived at the bar, dripping with the heavy gore of many citrus casualties. He panted; his eyes were wild with rage and glazed red in burning lemon acid.
"Agent Johnson! It is I," Daniel said in doomsday voice.
Johnson lifted an eyebrow. "Who, now?"
"Your soul, Johnson," Daniel declared. "Your poisonous lemony-citrus soul…"
Johnson rolled his eyes and went flying through the open bar.
"I'M THE MOST UNDERPAID EXTRA IN HOLLYWOOD, BITCH!" Daniel screamed. "ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU AND YOUR BLANDNESS! GOD, EVEN SMITH SOUNDS A LITTLE BIT LIKE CARL SAGAN, BUT YOU! YOU'RE JUST FLAT-FUCK BLAND! BLAND LIKE TOFU!"
"I like tofu," Jackson offered sheepishly.
"Oh," Johnson said, "it's on."
"¡Espera!" Agent Pace shrieked, running to shield Thompson from the fight.
Everyone in the bar stared at her as she offered a full-winded speech, in Spanish—one of many languages in which I am too lazy to depict in the proper dialogue, since laziness knows no cultural bounds—about how she never loved Agent White, but the idea of love, and how she had always loved, instead, Agent Thompson, to whom she felt a true connection because of their similarities in peculiar speaking choices, and how, just as she knew he always loved her, she knew in her deepest heart of hearts she had always loved him and would continue to do so until the end of time…Alas, she was to wed White by the break of the first spring dawn, warm and anew…but it would be a day of darkness for her, bound forever without the embrace of her one true love.
Daniel sniffed. Agents, actors and patrons alike started clapping. The bar immediately erupted into a fanfare of joy.
Pace tore off her engagement ring and kissed Thompson.
Thompson blinked.
"Can anyone tell me what the hell she just said?" he said.
THA END
Stay tuned for Pointless Agent Insanity! Part VI: THE UNDERGROUND SOCIALIST MAFIA!