A/N #1.) Hey y'all, whazzups! Sorry about the slow updates, guys, I've been ultra busy lately, what with all the comic drawing, fruitless scholarship searches, and general despair about all the prestigious colleges that will use my poor GPA ass as their whipping post…also add to the mix the fact that I just found my long-lost flash-drive, and you have some cawazay shit goin' on here, y'all!
A/N #2.) IT'S COOKIE AND DEDICATION TIME! YAY COOKIE AND DEDICATION TIME!
A/N #3.) Genius 626—COOKIES TO YOU! HOORAY FOR FIRST TIMERS!
Raionne—for all the epicness, COOKIES TO YOU!
DocterM—well, no, that wasn't the actual electric bill, but COOKIES TO YOU ANYWAY!
CeruleanPhoenix7—my partner in crime robbing the bank last week, hehehehehe…COOKIES TO YOU! And also, this chappie's dedicated to YOU!
A/N #4.) FREE COOKIES TO ALL REVIEWERS! I'M WHIPPING THE ORACLE INTO OVERTIME, WHOO MAKE MORE O' THAT CHOCO-GOODNESS MRS. BUTTERWORTH, MAKE MORE!
Ahem… now… moving along…
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part VI: THE UNDERGROUND SOCIALIST MAFIA!"
"Okay," Thomas said. "So we agree … this is the last time we try to take over the world's supply of soap suds."
The Agents nodded, looking uneasily below them.
Thomas and the trio of Agents were tied to a slowly rotating bough, underneath which sat a large cauldron, boiling over with scalding hot water flavored with a few traces of last Saturday's cheese pizza crust thrown in… yum yum.
"Oy," Smith said, lifting an eyebrow as he rotated again, "this story is only getting weirder and weirder … "
Just as he made this statement, three ghastly black robed figures rose out of the ashes that surrounded the cauldron, chanting ominously as they glided through the smoke and haze.
"Double, double, toil and trouble," they sang. "Fire burn and cauldron bubble … "
As they advanced, the chanting ceased; the figures stopped abruptly.
"What the hell?" the tallest one screamed, smacking the other two upside the head. "Don't you two remember any of your lines?"
"No," said the other two sorrowfully.
"Ugh. I knew we shouldn't have done Macbeth," the tall figure said, crossing its ghastly arms of ghastly doom and pouting, um, ghastily. "Personally, I would have rather done Othello or Antony and Cleopatra, but my wife was all, 'Ooh! I wanna be Lady Macbeth! I always knew I had her proud spirit in me la-dee-dah-dee-doo-dee-dah!' So naturally I says OK even though the woman can't act her way out of a paper bag! Everybody knows that Lady Macbeth doesn't have two android arm cannons capable of vaporizing Macbeth's head off!" One of the figures leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Oh!" he shrieked, throwing up his ghastly arms in defeat. "Then why is the freaking play called Macbeth?"
The other figures shrugged as their leader threw off his robes, revealing a very Jersey Shore looking outfit underneath.
"Fuck this Shakespeare shit, bitches," he said. "Let's go get drunk and moo at walls for no apparent reason."
He whistled and, whooping in sudden joy, the three figures drove off on a flying cow into the depths of the Jersey sunset.
Just as my audience collectively went to the hospital wondering if I overdosed on Malaysian seaweed again, the quartet sat around the cauldron, already bored from their unexplained encounter with Pauly D cleverly disguised as a murderous play character.
Jones and Brown squatted on two large rocks, staring out into the sunset while Smith paced back and forth and Thomas jumped into the cauldron to make a steamy broth which he called his famous "Tommy Stew."
"Hmm," said Thomas, tasting the stale water dripping from his body, "I think this could use a little Mr. Rhineheart seasoning."
Thomas pulled out his boss from his back pocket and sprinkled a few of his gray hairs into the brew. He then put Mr. Rhineheart back into his pocket and sat on his pocket so he couldn't escape and bitch at him about all the LOLKITTEYS and evil sunglassed smiley faces he had put on Monday morning's spreadsheets.
"Another point for Anderson, yeah!" Thomas said, pressing all of his weight down on his back pocket. Smiling blissfully, a couple of warm bubbles rose up out of the quiet water of the cauldron … if you know what I mean. "Take that, Mr. Boss Man!"
Mr. Rhineheart grunted in compressed wallet defeat.
"How? How? How? It was so brilliant! Too brilliant! How, God, how? How did it all go wrong?" Smith wailed, banging his head very existentially aginst the nearest tree as a frowning Agent Brown looked up at him.
"You really want to know what happened? Fine. I'll tell you what happened," Brown said.
A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO
Agent Brown, under the elaborate, covert guise of "cracka-ass white rapper," marched into the mall to bravely scope out enemy lines.
When he walked into the store, he witnessed in its entirety the belly of the beast … Men dug trenches and wore gas masks to escape the horrors of cinnamon-white-flower-sandalwood-orange-apple-coco nut-strawberry feminine perfumes, the gas of which saturated the air with heavy, oppressive clouds, thundering with seas of Candy Land bubblegum earrings and hailing torrents of Marie Claire lemonade lip gloss. Men were bloodied with lacerations of smoky beige eyeshadow that accented their mortal wounds of burgundy lipstick, blotting the field of combat with the pathetic sight of infantry units scattered across the store, their cries drowning in the enemy's perpetual shrill of "OMG. O.M.G. OMG! This one will look gorgeous on you!"
Brown stared, looking on with glassed eyes the utter horror. In an instant he knew his life's purpose—the ultimate mission that was to be accomplished.
Picking up the cash register speaker phone, he spoke nine words.
Nine words. Nine words had sealed all of their fates ... forever.
"There is a lipstick stain on your teeth," Brown announced on the speaker, promptly walking out of Woolworth's. Since he knew that there would be some picky government official actually counting his words on an intercepted frequency, he walked back to the cash register, and, clearing his throat very appropriately, he burped his name, at oscillating sonar frequency, into the store speakers to ensure the aforementioned total count of nine words, thus killing two birds with one stone: disbanding the innumerable hordes of bloodthirsty plot-loop-nit-picks while effectively driving the government radio interceptors away.
But by then it was too late.
"Ah," said Smith, clasping his chin and nodding empathetically, "so THAT'S why you look like Vanna White right now."
Brown stood up suddenly, his stomach-length pink sequin tank top hitting Jones square in the face with its graphic Ed Hardiness. "I am NOT Vanna White! I'm Hannah Montana as an alcoholic former child star!" He put his hands on his hips, but as he did, two purple silicon breast implants fell out of the tank top. "NO! NOT MY LAVENDER SMOOTH PRETTYS!" he shrieked, dropping to the ground as he chased the two purple beach balls down the hill. "COME BACK MY LOVES! PART US NOT, PART US NOT," he shrilled, his indigo mascara running wet lines down his cheeks. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, COME BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!"
"How come it's me who actually disguises himself as a woman, yet Brown gets to wear all the pretty clothes?" Jones sulked, pouting. "This sucks mucho grande ass."
"Um," said Smith, backing away from his cohorts. "I think I'm gonna go cower in that random corner over there and pretend not to hock a noogey thinking about that image."
TWO MINUTES LATER
It was a little rainy that afternoon, so Thomas and the Agents went back to his apartment to formulate another brilliant plan watching Jersey Shore on TV.
Minutes later Morpheus busted in, along with the waiting rebels.
"Hello, Neo, I have been waiting for you," Morpheus said. "Well, no, not really, I've just been stalking you and your workplace for five months while you didn't even know I was alive, but please disregard the contents of the aforementioned statement and come with me to an abandoned hotel in the dumpiest part of the city late at night where you'll take a powerful drug and be launched into a whole cyber world where you become Superman and must save the world from a whole bunch of American black-suited badasses and meet a truckload of annoying stereotypes along the way... oops."
"Um, hi, ever hear of knocking?" Thomas said, lifting an eyebrow. "Go outside and knock."
Morpheus grumbled and closed the door as Thomas rearranged his pile of Beastie Boys CDs. "No sleep till Brooklyn!" the program shrilled, pulling a shoulder muscle suddenly executing a full windmill air guitar move. "OWWW FUCK THIS HOT YET STRANGELY THIRTY-FIVE YEAR-OLD BODY!" he screamed, swiveling around in the computer chair while clutching his shoulder.
"I have a night class degree in chiropracting!" Morpheus chirped from behind the door.
Thomas stared at the door, then at the Agents whom were rendered inert by their mortal enemy, the TV, then at his shoulder, then at Morpheus, who scattered his atoms and materialized into the room at will.
He stared at him.
"Fine," Thomas said.
MEANWHILE, ON JERSEY SHORE
Snooki sat on the couch, impatiently waiting for Pauly D to come home.
Moments later a rustle sounded, along with a low bellow, as a shadow opened the front door.
Snooki flipped on the light switch and saw Pauly gallop in the living room riding on a dairy cow.
"Heyyyyyyyyyyy, Snooks, whazzup!" Pauly shrilled drunkenly.
"Don't you 'whazzup' me, Pauly! Have you been mooing at walls again?" Snooki shrieked, waving a DUI notice in front of Pauly's face. "God, I can't keep bailing you out like this! I gotta save some money to pay off the manicure bills! These diamond-encrusted nail studs don't pay for themselves, you know!"
"Hey, back off, 'aight, Snooks? I'm home, I mean, Bessie drove me home, ain't that right, Bessie?" Pauly said, petting the mooing cow's muzzle affectionately.
Snooki stared at the cow, which blew a straw of hay at her.
"Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong, bitch," Snooki said, jumping atop Bessie the cow and wrestling into a ball onto a random puddle of mud, punching the cow stiff in the face with fists of Jersey rage.
"Yeah, Snooks! Work dat hussy!" slurred Pauly, taking off his shirt and waving it as a banner in the black midnight sky as he collapsed shirtless into the hottub and slipped down the drain into the Atlantic Ocean.
"Ha ha, Snooks doesn't like cows," Smith laughed.
MEANWHILE
"Whoa," Thomas said, blinking as the Agents watched the TV.
"Yes, Neo," Morpheus said, half-smiling in agreement ... with himself. "Yes, Morpheus ... yes."
Sighing, Thomas looked up; the black guy with the John Lennon sunglasses was still talking to him.
"Everything that is wrong with the world can be traced back to one source: the capitalists," Morpheus said, his voice dark with solemnity.
"Whoa," replied Thomas.
"You see, Marx predicted that the communist revolution would emerge in an industrialized, developed nation. But it really started in Russia, an agrarian society which was running on empty from the heavy financial, societal, and emotional losses from its participation in World War I, as well as those borne of incessant civil unrest. The basis of Marx's thought has roots in time periods before the Bolshevik Revolution, and Socialists existed in the US even by the time of the Haymarket Riot in 1868. However, it is still thought today that Socialist philosophy is the root cause of all political tumult, when in actuality these may be assigned to extensions of anarchist, syndicatist, fascist or even Western democratic trains of thought. When the Schenck case ruling of 'clear and present danger' was passed by the US Supreme Court (subsequently placing limits on First Amendment rights during wartime, I might add), many assumed it was Schenck's Socialist affiliation that led him to his radical spurs of draft dodging, however few this following became because of widespread 'total war effort' sentiment—"
"Whoa," Thomas drooled, as did I, forgetting what I was going on and on about Socialists for.
Morpheus sighed.
"We are the most undermined, underpaid, and underestimated political party, Neo. We are a brotherhood of equality and equanimity, yet we are among the most persecuted of parties. We, Neo, we are the underground socialist mafia," Morpheus said as a dramatic thunderbolt appeared and hit some poor jaywalker crossing the rainy street down below.
"Whoa," Thomas said.
"Are you listening to me, Neo? Or are you just saying 'whoa' to be a Ted Preston jackass?" Morpheus asked. "As you know, I am a very busy man."
"Busy meaning he gets stoned and makes prank calls to Switzerland asking where the hell all of their cheese mines are," Mouse said, twirling one of Thomas' Beastie Boys CDs in his hands.
Morpheus whirled around and blew off Mouse's head with an ICBM. The other rebels rushed over to his corpse, not because he was dead, but because he was dead and they wanted to catch his deadness.
"Damn it," Trinity said. "We missed it."
"Yeah, we can't even get Agents to kill us for us anymore," Switch said sorrowfully, remembering something ...
LAST FRIDAY NIGHT
Agents Jackson, Thompson, Johnson, White, Grey, Pace, Jones, Brown, and Smith all sat around a busy green poker table at the local casino.
Switch danced in front of them, waving her arms before each one...alas, none responded, transfixed by the stimulating exchange of cards, chips, drinks, and cigars.
"Oh, look at me! I'm running away now! Look at me! Look at me, lalala, I'm running awayyyy! Look at me!" she sang. "LOOK AT ME GODDAMMIT! KILL ME ALREADY WILLYA YA MOTHAFUCKING BUNCH OF METAL RUBIX CUBES!"
No response.
She snatched up Agent Johnson's Desert Eagle, slipping it away from his grip. "Excuse me, I'mma just borrow this a minute," she said sweetly.
"Nuh-uh, no touchie, Cypher," Agent Johnson said, busy glowering at Thompson who was using his super X-ray vision, empowered by the mass consumption of green Power Aide, to look at Johnson's cards as well as what was underneath Pace's silk blouse ... A tattoo of the Periodic Table of Elements. "Hmmm, very interesting," Thompson said. "It seems to me that you have a royal flush, Johnson ... And yes, Pace, plutonium-239 is very interesting indeed ... Hehehehehe."
Then, all of a sudden ...
"AGGGGGGGH GOD I'M BLIND!" Thompson screamed, running out the door. "DRINK MORE! DRINK MORE!"
Johnson grinned evilly, flipping his iPhone picture of Charlie Sheen out from underneath the table.
Switch jumped atop the table, kicking away the poker chips and cards and dancing wildly with a marching band that had the phrase 'SHE'S A ZIONITE GOING TO STEAL ALL OF YOUR PRECIOUS FUEL IF YOU LET HER LIVE ANOTHER MINUTE' plastered in glowing blue neon letters which rotated in front of the circle of Agents.
"Meh," said Johnson, chewing on a Cuban cigar as he flipped his royal flush. "If we run out we'll just buy some Five Hour Energy Shots at the local gas station."
Switch fell off the poker table as Smith announced another Go Fish.
Just as Thomas' head was going to explode along with his aching shoulder, Niobe arrived, diverting Morpheus' attention away from Socialists for a moment.
"Morpheus! Come here!" she beckoned.
"Yes, my dea—wif—partne—soul ma—spou—lov—old flame who does someone else now—Niob—Jada Pinkett Smith," Morpheus stammered. He threw up his hands as she approached him. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"Morpheus! I told you, you will always refer to me as 'Princess I-Am-Sassy-Ass-Sparkle-Bitch-But-I'm-Cute-Therefore-It-Doesn't-Matter-So-Go-And-Make-Me-A-Taco-My-Man-Slave,'" Niobe said, smacking Morpheus upside the head. "And where is my taco you jackoff?" she shrieked. "Hot damn can't you read fanfics, son?"
"I told you, Apoc says there are no tacos left," Morpheus said, rubbing at the back of his head.
Niobe glared at Apoc, who shrugged.
"That doesn't mean you're relieved of your duties, Morpheus," she said, folding her arms dangerously. Stepping in closer, she stared at Morpheus, who stared at Thomas, who stared at the Agents, who stared at me staring at you staring at the computer screen staring at the UNIVERSE STARING AT … UM … GEORGE CLOONEY, WHO ISH THE SOURCE OF ALL CINEMATIC COOLNESS.
"Damn straight," George Clooney said, glaring at his other two contenders for the title: Sean Connery and Russell Crowe.
Then, tired of being stared at by George Clooney for five hours straight, Russell Crowe got up and kicked him down into a random everlasting abyss that manifested itself somewhere on the east side of Detroit.
Russell Crowe looked up, his arms raised in victory, and, since I can't officially use movie lines in fanfiction, Russell Crowe shouted thus: "THIS. IS. FARTAAAAAA!"
Russell Crowe then farted in Sean Connery's face, who blinked and subsequently got shot with a metal crossbow by a random evil knight dude who just happened to trot by on his Shetland Pony. Sean Connery blinked again, flipping off the other two actors and also Richard Gere as he fell.
"Lancelot becomes king of Camelot my Scottish ash!" Sean Connery shrieked with his last few dying breaths. "King Arthur all the way whoooo—"
And just as he made this particular "whoo" he died of his crossbow injuries, leaving only Russell Crowe sitting in a random tree staring pensively out of an arrowhead for the next emo-ass Robin Hood movie. The End.
Morpheus blinked, looking casually at his red plastic Mickey Mouse wristwatch.
"You're on now," a camera operator whispered.
"Oh, uh, yeah, a .38 fragment, I think it should be left to ballistics," Morpheus said.
Frantically, the camera operator signaled a slit throat.
"Oh ... OH. Matrix. Morpheus. OK. Gotcha," Morpheus said. "Dr. Langston has left the building."
The camera operator flashed an uneasy thumbs up, now worrying if Morpheus was going to strip down to his whitey-tidey undies and choke a random teenage girl as Othello.
Very romantically, Morpheus knelt to the ground before Niobe, producing a black velvet box from his back pocket. "Well, I was gonna do this on Tuesday, but then I realized I would miss the Packers-Redskins football game," he said. "So I'm doing it now."
Niobe opened the box. Her eyes grew moist and wide at the contents inside.
"Will you do me the honor … ?" Morpheus asked, his head humbly lifted up.
Niobe dropped the black velvet box on the ground and embraced Morpheus. Her frame quivered as she wept with ecstatic shock.
"Yes! Yes! Yes! I will!" she shrieked.
"Whoa," said Thomas. "Keep your lovey-dovey stuff outta my apartment, dude, alright?"
He ushered everyone but Trinity out into the hallway, slamming the door with a definite bang.
The Agents shook their heads, having been largely absent from this story. They quickly detected Morpheus' status change on Facebook even before Morpheus knew what the hell Facebook was.
"Awwwwwww," they said collectively. "Congratulations on your engagement!"
Looking up, Morpheus lifted an eyebrow.
"What? No, God no," he said. "We're opening up our own taco stand!"
Curious, Smith picked up the black velvet box which laid on the floor and shook it.
A taco fell out.
"Ay carumba," he said, dropping to the ground and having a sudden stroke from all of these taco references.
THA END
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