A/N: Hey y'alls! Let's celebrate the tenth chappie with the TENTH CHAPPIE DANCE! (^.^) (^.^) (^.^) (^.^) (^.^) (^.^) OK I'm tired now...
In other news, I've gotten a newer, faster computer that doesn't take ten thousand years to load the home page, yay! And also, I have a new chappie for you... it might not seem as grammatically precise as the other ones because, unfortunately, this computer doesn't have Microsoft Word... NOOOOOOOOOOO!
I NEED SPELL CHECK TO LIVE alright I'm over it already lol.
A/N #2.) COOKIE TIME!
Zack Lector: Yes, you can has cookie. You can has EXTRA BIG COOKIE!
Cerulean, my buddy, my buddy: COOKIES! Ones that were not made with the gifts from Sure-Shits-a-Lot, hehehe.
idestiny: COOKIES! And yes, I'm not going anywhere, I actually live in a dungeon whilst being forced to write random stories about Matrix Agents.
*cracks knuckles and sharpens a katana* Let's go! I'M READY, IT'S NINJA ASS-KICKING TIME!
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, in collective response to the statement above: "Gulp."
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part VIII: Mr. Smith Goes to College"
"What?" said Smith, lividly banging his fists against the executive's dark oak desk. "What do you mean by 'we can no longer fund your insane adventures'?"
"Just that," said the gray-haired executive, looking calmly up at the furious Agent. Looking down at his pocket watch for a moment, he yawned indifferently. "'We can no longer fund your insane adventures'."
"I still don't understand," Smith said, now ragingly confused... wait. "Ragingly confused"? WTF?
Ahem. But I digress...
"How is this possible?" Smith shrieked. "How can what we do cost that much money?"
"In this modern world, everything costs money, Mr. Smith," the executive explained, flipping through a manila folder his secretary gave him. "With the way you're using up your 401K 'insanity' expenses... and given the current state of the economy, in two weeks your funds will be liquidated... you won't be able to do anything. And I mean anything. It costs the bank five cents in blinking tax alone... and you blink how many times a year?"
Smith blinked.
"Nickel," the executive said, picking up a random nickel lying on the floor.
Smith blinked again.
"Hot damn, boy, money don't grow on trees," the executive said, fishing his pocket for a dime.
Smith, in an evil capitalist grin, poured lemon juice into his eye; the executive called Donald Trump for another ten thousand pounds of solid gold. Then, hanging up the phone and sighing, the executive took off his glasses and leaned in on the desk.
"Mr. Smith, unless you have a secret stash somewhere—" he began.
Smith bit the inside of his cheek, worrying if the financial executive was referring to the secret stash of pancakes and syrup he kept underneath his bed in preparation for World War Two Point Five: The Fascist Sequel, now starring Mao Zedong as Benito Mussolini. Now at the closest fascist theater near you... or Beijing. Whichever is closer. Tee hee.
"Don't worry, Aunt Jemima, we'll be safe, we'll go somewhere away, far, far away, someplace nice... when the war's over I can go back to timber cutting and we'll live in a nice little nuke-proof bomb shelter... you won't have to worry about cleaning anymore... are we gonna die, Aunt Jemima? What's it feel like to explode, Aunt Jemima? Aunt Jemima, what does 'brinksmanship' mean? I don't like that word very much... the men on the TV like to say fancy words like that... will you please pass me the syrup, Aunt Jemima?" Smith asked in a sweating trance.
"Um, okay," said the executive. "As I was saying, Mr. Smith, unless you have a back-up plan—"
Smith bit the inside of his cheek, worrying if the financial executive was referring to the getaway back-up plan in case the CSI had caught on to his trail in murdering several kinds of innocent blocks of cheese, which was triggered by a particularly traumatic event during his childhood involving a slice of Colby, earning him the name of 'the supermarket cheese killer' because the guy who came up with the clever killer names had died after nobly defending his container of feta with his shopping cart—
"What the hell is this, Monty frigging Python?" the executive shrieked, clearing the air away from the pointless subplot. "Look, Mr. Smith, if you don't get your act together, the whole Matrix is gonna revert back to the primordial Atari state! And I'm not talking Space Invaders or some other 16-bit decency! I'm talking Pong primordial, bitch!"
Smith screamed at the utter horrors of blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, blip, aw you lose...blip, blip, blip, blip.
"NOOOOOOOOO I CAN'T EVER GET THOSE STUPID BANK SHOTS!" he screamed.
"Mr. Smith!" the executive screamed, standing up suddenly. The force of this stress ruptured a major blood vessel in his neck and caused massive brain hemorrhage. The executive died instantly and fell to the floor, but, coincidentally, his body was undead enough to get up and walk down the hall to call two security guards to take Smith away and throw him out—literally.
"I'm gonna sue your ass! I'm gonna pull a mega Bill Gates on you, bitch!" Smith screamed as the two guards thrust him out the bank's six-story window. "I'm gonna go to the civil court! The court of appeals! The Supreme Court! I'm gonna pull a legal suit on you so big Judge Judy's gonna say 'daaaamn'! I'm gonna get a chunk of change so large Judge Mathis will take a 36-year vacation in Jamaica! I'm gonna win so hard it'll make Obama cry OW THE DEMOCRATIC GROUND HURTS," he shrieked.
Smith sat at the kitchen table, despondently looking at a spot of wood and burning a hole through the support structure with his depression-activated heat vision... but the origin of this random superpower is another story for another day.
Jones and Brown stood behind the door frame, glancing upon their cohort with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
Jones nodded to Brown with the customary Uh-oh, he's burning things down with his depression again look.
Brown, in reply, shot Jones a Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it, it's his issues look.
Jones gave Brown a curt I'm the one who pays the bills, and I pay for that table, therefore I make the rules, and I rule that you go in and talk to him first glance.
Brown retorted with a Yeah right! What kind of job is it cross dressing and hitting on a guy named Felix anyway? At least I have some decency to indicate that I am not hitting on guys at the club like some cheesy Jude Law glare.
Jones' face shrieked at Brown's in middle-age fury, unleashing its most potent, most horrible attack... wrinkle lines.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO! cried Brown's young face, unused to such grotesque aging. In a hysterical fit, Brown's face melted off and dropped into a puddle on the floor, running in circles on the kitchen floor trying to scurry away from the horror.
Jones, scowling, picked up Brown's disconnected face and put it on upside down.
"Hmm," said Brown, "so THAT's why the ceiling looks like an M.C. Escher painting right now."
"I heard all of that!" Smith shouted from the kitchen. "Now, you two come in here... I have to talk to you!"
Jones and Brown went in the kitchen and sat down as Smith lifted up his head.
"Uh," he said. "I don't know how to say this... but... um..."
"What? Did you get caught spraypainting the color brown on public toilet seats again?" Jones asked. Getting up, he rolled up a magazine and smacked Smith across the face with it. "Naughty Agent! Naughty, naughty Agent! You know better than to use the color brown! What have I taught you? You always use a brown-green variation so the public restroom patrons think the person who used the stall had contagious diarrhea!"
"I know," replied the Agent. "Naw... it's something else."
Jones sat down again, breathing an audible sigh of relief.
"We have no money," Smith said.
"What?" came the collective response. Then, 0.00253 seconds later... "Ooo! Pretty white butterfly!"
"Focus, men! Look, we have no money. And, unless someone here has a million dollars, 'cause I sure as hell ain't selling my stash of pancakes and syrup, we're going out of business... permanently... but... but now, I think I have a solution, but only I can carry it out, since I think you two cannot amass enough brain cells to operate a loaf of bread—"
Brown and Jones sighed at the closed loaf of bread sitting on the table, who stared evilly back at them with its twist-tie psychological complexity.
"Men... I have no choice... in order to obtain more money for us to continue our insane, cherished existence... I must go away to college," declared Smith.
Jones and Brown, at the mention of the dreaded word "college," looked once at each other, then ran away in opposite directions, just like the time Thomas made a whole apartment building implode on itself with the world's largest chilidog-induced fart. What, you thought the ending of the first Matrix was special? That Thomas was actually becoming the One in that scene? Ha, ha, ha! Brad Pitt's the One, you fools... but, unfortunately, Morpheus didn't jack him out in time, so now he's stuck out in digital limbo somewhere robbing trains as Jesse James. Stupid Brad... that's what you get for dumping Jenny.
Fortunately, Brown ran into the escape door as he was going out, catching his eyelid onto a coat rack in the hall, ripping off his face again and putting it back on correctly as he sprinted out the apartment in the customary Agent I just got my face ripped off hooray I'm a man now hysteria.
SMITH'S COLLEGE APPLICATION
NAME: Agent Smith. Ask anything else of me and I will shoot you.
AGE: What part of "ask anything else of me and I will shoot you" don't you understand?
SEX: Blam! ...Wait. That wasn't the gun. Hehehehehe.
NAME OF HIGH SCHOOL: This is not a gun.
HIGH SCHOOL ADDRESS: Guns go boom.
HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT: Wheeeeeeeeee guns.
ADDRESS: Boom shaka laka. That was the gun. Boom biddy bye bye, sucka.
PHONE NUMBER: What did I just say! *click* *click* WHAT THE—oh shit. I forgot to reload.
EMAIL: Uh, this is a Civil War musket...this is gonna be a while...
SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER: Why do I keep all of these fifty-pound Civil War weapons in my back pocket? What, have I become Robert E. Lee's pocket bitch or something?
GPA: Now, where the hell did I put my black powder horn...hmmm.
INTENDED MAJOR: Ummmmm, maybe I could sharpen my katanas. Banzai!
AWARDS AND ACTIVITIES: Naw. I'm super queasy about the flying manga-gore uberTERIAAA stuff. Maybe I'll just drive back home and retrieve my medieval jousting sticks instead.
LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION: Screw this. I lost my keys. You're frigging brilliant, Smith. No wonder Anderson is still on the loose. He's still alive because you can't organize.
SAT/ ACT TOTAL SCORE: Anderson... you Socialist.
VERBAL: Socialist duck lover.
MATH: SOCIALIST DUCK LOVER! SPAWN OF HELL!
PERSONAL ESSAY: At our university we encourage diversity among our students. Describe a situation in which you fostered diversity. YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT DIVERSITY I GOT YOUR DIVERSITY RIGHT HERE UP THE BARREL OF YOUR SOCIALIST DUCK-LOVING ASSES—oh wait I didn't even put the ramrod in yet. DAMN YOU, YOU DAMNABLY DAMNABLE DAMNED DAMNING DAMN DAMN DAMN damn damn my pen is running out. (Below the pen marks running out a hole the size of a jousting stick is crafted in the shape of a signature named "Smith", although below the signature there is a picket sign that reads "DAMN SOCIALISTS! I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER... AND AS A LIBERTARIAN I DO NOT APPROVE OF IT, BUT WILL SUPPORT YOUR INDIVIDUAL POLITICAL RIGHT TO DO IT ANYWAY")
FIRST PERIOD
Smith sat in first period film studies, awaiting the first day of college with dread.
After the initial chaos of the lecture room died down, a strange-looking man, of whom Smith deducted to be the instructor, walked up to the podium, clearing his throat as the five hundred students grew silent in academic reverence.
"Welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives," the instructor said.
"Ugh," said Smith.
His words echoed in the religious silence, intruding the sanctity with its blunt overtones of cynicism. Everyone turned around to look at him with wide, questioning eyes.
"Excuse me?" said the instructor.
"Okay, I gotta say this for the sake of everybody... Jackass is not a film, it's just a bunch of guys running around thinking of all the ways someone could potentially die without having to do any of the 'killing oneself' process," Smith said.
"Oh, so he is a nonbeliever, I see. He is a nonbeliever, class! WOLF DOWN THE NONBELIEVER!" Johnny Knoxville shrieked, sending his massive army of bored adolescent boys out to decimate Smith via hitting him over the head with wet flying tuna fish.
SECOND PERIOD
Second period studio art, Smith hoped, still dripping wet with Chicken of the Sea, was going to be a lot better than first period. He had assumed a lot of things in his life, and every time he did, this made an ass out of you and me. But this time, he hoped his assumptions would make an ass out of you and an ump.
"Strike three!" said the disgraced umpire, jumping over the Brooklyn Bridge in utter dishonor.
Smith raised an eyebrow at the bad 'assumption' pun as he took a seat in front of a bowl of fruit, bottles, carved figures, and other assorted objects lying on a large table in the center of the room.
"I didn't know you were good at art, Smith," said a bored student sitting beside him. She flicked off the eraser from her pencil, which landed in the bowl of fruit and caused it to detonate in a cataclysmic fruit-eraser nuclear reaction. "Whoops," she said, staring at the empty room of dead art students.
"Yeah, I am. I can do anything I want to," Smith said nonchalantly. Then, realizing something, he looked up. "Wait... how do you know my name?"
"Ha ha, gotcha Smith, you Aussie," I said, flashing a billowing black cape and flying straight through the roof before the fanfiction critics could bitch at me about a potential Mary-Sue author insert.
Smith looked up.
"I seriously have to stop the LSD," he said, sketching a piece of rubble made in the shape of the Mona Lisa in his notebook, "because Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds is actually starting to make sense to me now."
THIRD PERIOD
After second period Smith had to go to room H210 for "Shakespearian Studies," which is affectionately known among creative writing majors as "I Have No Fucking Clue What You're Saying, You Dead English Son of a Bitch 101." But as soon as he arrived he saw that everyone was already sprawled across the lecture floor, dead.
"Meh, it's all the same anyway... all the fluffy-ass characters die at the end," he said, walking out of the mattress-padded room as Romeo dueled Othello with Hamlet's blood-stained Q-tips as flying cottonball missiles brutally tickled Macbeth's head, causing him to chortle himself to death with their fatal featheriness, tossed lightly across the room by Malcolm's hearty army of mighty twigs.
FOURTH PERIOD
"Math review," Smith groaned as he chewed on his pen cap. "Ugh."
Name: Agent Smith
Chapter Review
Pages 511 to 513, numbers one through six.
Remember to include all formulas, diagrams, drawings and substitutions.
1.) X is equal to the ratio of times the Oracle bakes delicious cookies and the Architect comes home drunk. If the Architect was hanging out with the guys at a strip club in south Tunisia at 8:17 p.m. EST, how long will it take, given the time shift, jet lag, and relentless snot-nosed kid kicking chairness, for the white-haired dumbass to safely return home to the US and delete all the 57 Facebook messages posted on his wall by the lovelorn stripper, sober himself up in a ice cold shower, and effectively invent an elaborate lie about an illness he contracted at work the Oracle will feel sorry for and bake him a batch of 'get-well' cookies over before 10:00 p.m. EST, in terms of X?
2.) X is the standard deviation of mean Z. If Thomas Anderson is being a dumbass and takes both the red pill and the blue pill X times less than the mean of Z, how long will it take you to realize that this question is a stats problem and requires needlessly lengthy data lists to solve, in terms of X and Z?
3.) Agent Johnson, like Thomas, is also a dumbass and stops during an important kill to measure an angle adjacent to the side of an escape building. If a ladder holding the escaping Zionite measures 42 feet, and the adjacent side of theta measures 34 degrees, what is the measure of the side the Zionite slides down on past the Agent who is too much of a dumbass to get a damn calculator to figure it out?
4.) Trinity must rewire the entire electrical system of the Nebuchadnezzar before Morpheus the Socialist I-Don't-Believe-in-Numbers-Because-They're-All-Equ al-to-Me dumbass realizes that it has been down for seventeen days straight. She has already calculated the green wires to have voltages measuring the negative square root of 239. What is this measurement in terms of i? Remember to reduce your answer to simplest radical form, you decimal-loving dumbass.
5.) Professional dumbasses Agents Jones and Brown are arguing over who will get the last slice of delicious blueberry pie. If they decide to settle the matter via playing Russian roulette in rotations of two, there is a one in six probability that some random person walking by the scene will get shot in the head very Cold Case melodramatic style. Given that this has not yet happened, and two of the empty pistol slots have already been triggered, what is the probability that Agent Jones will shoot himself in the head and reenter the body of Penelope Cruz?
6.) Sentinels travel in paths resembling the function equation of y equals one half sine theta minus 2 sevenths. Before the robotic dumbasses get bored and decide to collide themselves into B-52 stealth bombers, what is the amplitude, period, and frequency of this equation?
When Smith was finished answering the questions, he put his calculator away and stared at the paper rather soberly.
"Why do I have the vague feeling my mathematics teacher considers me a...'dumb ass'?" he asked.
DURING FIFTH PERIOD LUNCH... SMITH IS TAKING A COFFEE BREAK, Y'ALL, HIS BRAIN HURTS LIKE A BITCH WHO CUTS YOU OFF WHEN YOU MERGE INTO TRAFFIC AND YOUR INSURANCE PROVIDER TAKES YOUR HOUSE AWAY BECAUSE YOU FORGOT ABOUT THE WHOLE 'YOUR HOUSE IS DEDUCTIBLE TOO' CLAUSE AT THE END OF THE CONTRACT. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT TRAFFIC BITCH, I SEE YOU! CUT ME OFF WILLYA! I SHALL UNLEASH MY CARDBOARD BOX WRATH ALL OVER YOUR LITTLE SIDE-SWIPING ASS...RIGHT AFTER I SEE WHAT'S INSIDE THIS HERE EMPTY PLASTIC CONTAINER ROLLING AROUND ON THE DUMPSTER BOTTOM. YUM, IT'S BANANA YOGURT! OH SHIT... THAT'S NOT BANANA YOGURT.
Brown was watching Wheel of Fortune as Penelope Cruz walked in carrying a large slice of blueberry pie.
"Whoa!" Brown exclaimed, falling over the back of the couch. "It's Jennifer Lopez! My dreams have finally come true!"
"Eres una pieza de mierda, puta de quien le aman las tartas," Jones said, tossing the pie in Brown's face as he sat down. "And I am NOT Jenny from the block, you American pendejo!"
"Awww, you're so cute when you're mad," Brown said, his face covered in blueberry jam as he licked off the last of the pie crumbs off the floor like a hungry Groucho Marx. "Does my little buddy have PMS today?"
"Shut up," said Jones, stuffing another small-town drug store filled with Maxi Pads into his purse. "I feel horrible. Like...like somebody punched me in the ovary," he groaned, clutching at Penelope's stomach.
"You're so cute when your fallopian tubes shoot out an egg, at high velocity, from the approximate five hundred that reside in your ovaries. Do you want me to throw you a super special menstrual party so we can celebrate the shedding of your uterine wall together?" Brown asked. Waiting a moment for the female audience to stop loading their U2-37 assault rifles, he shuddered. "Ew! That sounds like the subject matter of a disturbing alien movie."
Jones grinned. Jones the cat from the Ridley Scott 1979 Alien movie, that is. He smiled at the alien reference, licking himself soundly and watching on as Jones the menstruating Penelope Cruz/ J. Lo busily subjected Brown to a slow, painful torture by tying him to a stake and burning his ears off alive listening to various Radio Disney-Italian concerto remixes.
SIXTH PERIOD
"Maybe forensics class will be interesting," Smith said.
As he walked by the science building, studying his schedule, he saw Agents Temperance Brennan 'Bones' and Seeley Joseph 'Booth' sprint out of the anthropology department, running frantically away from the 'real' cops as they cross-examined the crime scene of dead dinosaurs.
"I told you, this protoceratops had died of a blood infection from the lead bullet sinking into his brain tissue, not from the trauma of actual impact," Bones shouted to her partner. "You can even see traces of the infection here in the outer cleft. I swear, Booth, you're such a scientific poohead about these things! You're nothing but a overgrown piece of XY chromosome outgrowth!"
"First of all, Bones, as I was telling you before you kicked me in the nads and ran off with the dinosaur skulls, it's called balls, every guy has them, and no, they're not mini-testicular tumors growing out the side of my clitoris," Booth shouted back. "I have no clitoris! I'm a hermaphrodite... I have both!"
"You're clearly intersex, with orientation inclining towards more male characteristics," Bones said, dodging incoming SWAT team bullets. "To what extent, however, may be safely pulled into question."
"Ha, ha! Intersex virgin! You're an intersex virgin!" said Booth.
Smith walked up to Bones and Booth, who were tucking and rolling on the concrete, arguing their way out of yet another thirty minutes of plot substance.
"Uh, hi? When you guys are done denying your clear sexual attractions towards one another, can one of you help me find the forensics department?" Smith said, handing his schedule over to Booth.
"Oh, sure, buddy," Booth said, taking the schedule. "It's in the science building to the west of the Jennings memorial—OH FUCK THEY'RE HERE FOR THOSE SKULLS BONES, RUN AWAY, RUN THE HELL AWAY!" he shrilled.
"What?" said Bones, sleeping with the dinosaur skulls. Quickly throwing on her suit, she got up and sighed. "Oh, yeah."
"Shit! I'm dead, you fucker," Booth said as he died from the SWAT team packing sixty straight magazines of ammunition through his head. "Thanks a lot!"
"Sorry," said Bones, stepping over his dead body. "I'mma go return these, I'll be back in a few."
"Oy," said Smith. "I should have just watched CSI instead, what with all this extensive character development."
SEVENTH PERIOD... THE LAST PERIOD OF THE DAY, YAY!
"Philosophy?" Smith asked, glaring at his schedule. "I'm the antagonist of the most philosophical movie ever made! Why do I have to take philosophy?"
Just as he asked this question, Friedrich Nietzsche swooped down on a magical bicycle that had a 'PHILOSOPHY IS FUN... JUST DON'T ASK TOO MANY QUESTIONS ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE AND YOU'LL BE FINE' flag fluttering in the wonderful nihilist breeze.
Smith lifted an eyebrow as Soren Kierkegaard followed in a jet plane, pressed down on the throttle and blew up Nietzsche's magical nihilist bike with a medium-range heat-seeking missile, the smoke of the exhaust reading, 'YEAH RIGHT, LEAP OF FAITH BABY! WHOOO'...
The remainder of his message was obliterated by a hydrogen bomb inside Kierkegaard's jet going off as it flew by a meditating Lao Tzu, who transformed into a pretty butterfly and flew away into the sunset as a bunch of philosophy teachers eating their lunch in the witnessing square threw up from the inconsistent ontological absurdity of what they had just seen.
"Oh yeah, I remember the reason now," said Smith, ducking nervously into the classroom before Carl Jung could jump him for his extra archetypes in the parking lot.
Smith entered the room, which was strangely green and smelled suspiciously of chocolate chip cookies.
He turned around.
"Oh geez," said Smith, dropping his books. "It's you."
"Sorry, kid, the Wachowski brothers couldn't get more philosophical with any other genre-significant character," said the Oracle. "What ya see is what ya get, son."
"I'm no one's son," Smith said. "Smith was from his mother's womb untimely ripped... wait. I'm still stuck in Shakespeare mode... I meant I have no Mom."
The Oracle lifted her head. "Mm-hmm. And how does that make you feel?"
A therapist's chair materialized beside her.
"Okay," Smith said, staring at the chair blankly. "I don't know what a Mom is. I just heard that word on MTV once."
The Oracle nodded. She pulled out something that looked like a clipboard and began looking studiously at the drawings on it. Gesturing towards the Agent, she flipped the clipboard over. "What does this look like to you?"
"I don't know... Sati's crappy drawing of Natalie Portman?" Smith asked.
As soon as he made this statement Sati ran in and kicked him in the No-No Place. As Smith staggered over from the stinging consequences of his wrongful comment, Natalie Portman ran into the room, kicked Smith in the Happy Sunshine No-No Place before running out, called the Happy Sunshine No-No Place because the pain in his No-No Place made sunshine... and that is what you tell kids who get kicked in the nads for the first time why the sky is blue... their pain must fuel the sky gods with painful ball sacrifice. WE MUST ALL MAKE SACRIFICES, KIDS, SUCK IT UP AND REMEMBER TO WEAR AN ATHLETIC CUP WHEN THE SUN IS SHINING!
"What the hell? Is Anderson writing this script again? Ugh. I knew it. I shouldn't have left the Architect with that idiot," the Oracle shuddered.
MEANWHILE
Thomas and the Architect were playing Super Mario Brothers. Well, Super Mario Brothers for the Architect's new multiscreen Wii.
Suddenly, Thomas looked up from his controller and turned to the Architect.
"What is the meaning of life?" he asked.
The Architect shrugged.
"Who am I?" Thomas said.
"Keanu Reeves," said the Architect.
"Who is Keanu Reeves?"
"Why do you keep asking me all these philosophical-ass questions? It's your turn, you jackoff," the Architect replied coolly, turning to the many screens showing a jumping Mario.
"Okay," said Thomas as Zion and the entire Matrix blew up. "Uhh, I think I forgot something... what did I forget?" he said, tapping his lip.
Suddenly the bright door of light opened up.
"You forgot your keys," said a dead Trinity. "Here."
She tossed the keys to Thomas as she collapsed, rose up, and became a goth vampire.
"All right, I'm dead, I get to be Kristen Stewart now! Whoo hoo!" she shouted, running gleefully off into the sunset.
MEANWHILE, DURING THE MEANWHILE
"Um," said Smith. "Okay...?"
"Heh. I always thought that man was a load," said the Oracle, as she lit a cigarette, set the curtains on fire and put out the flames by glaring at them. "A load of pure bullcrap..."
Just then a bull walked by, ears raised to hear the species-ist comment. The Oracle, hating to be politically correct, narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat.
"Sorry, did I say bullcrap?" she said. "I really meant the excretions of cattle made upon the natural time of digestion."
"Damn straight," said the bull, turning around and walking proudly down the hall with a tattoo that said 'FIGHT THE BURGER KING POWER' on its triumphant derriere.
Smith had an aneurysm, which he has pretty often these days because of state budget cuts, falling dead to the floor. Unfortunately, he reentered the body of Natalie Portman and was sucked into V for Vendetta for a while before blowing up several fascist buildings in a Guy Fawkes mask in 2068 Britain and returning to the obsolete 1999 Matrix.
Smith stepped in front of the Oracle, desperate.
"Look, how do I get a job?" he said. "I'm eating Ramen noodles and consuming orange juice in record amounts! Oh God oh God oh God I'm worse than all the Chris Cornells of the world put together! I'm talking Scream and Euphoria Morning Chris Cornell, without the Soundgarden cult following!" he hyperventilated.
"You wanna job? You wanna get money? Okay. It's simple. You just close your eyes, click your red heels three times and wish with all your heart: I wish I had a job. I wish I had a job. I wish I had a JOB!" the Oracle said.
"What if I don't have red heels?" Smith asked, looking down upon his shiny leather feet.
"Then no job for you, Dorothy! You'll have to toil in the cheap plastic factory making obsolete children's board games until the day Social Security kicks its butt into high gear and pays everybody's pension an extra twenty-five percent interest... and that's until the end of time! MWA HA HA," said the Oracle, laughing hysterically and choking on the Social Security reference. "Damn, I gotta stop the cigs," she said. "Mama wants to get her slice o'the cheese, fool!"
Smith inched away from the classroom as she immediately lapsed into an old people spiel about the days when Sega made thirty-two forms of video game systems for the same damn five Sonic the Hedgehog games, children learned their manners, the spreading of mayonnaise on Oscar Mayer bologna served as a sacrificial rite in the refrigerator religions, Reaganomics were the prevalent business policies during the presidency of Thomas Jefferson, Toyotas were low mileage cardboard cereal boxes, record players were invented to serve as wheels, Social Security was the responsibility of the government, and everyone spoke Mandarin Chinese and ate French bread crusts while dancing the Charleston and the robot at the discotheque.
HALF AN HOUR LATER
Smith waited at the bus stop, hoping above all hopes that this time his bus driver wasn't a distraught Gwen Stefani high on cherry vodka and sugar pills. He shivered slightly at having to hear the whiny, glass-shattering pitch of "If I was a rich girl, na na na na na na na na na see I'd have all the money in the world if I was a wealthy girl WAH WHERE'S MY BANDMATES I'M SO SAD ABOUT THE 2000S NOW!" over the speakers.
A quiet, friendly looking man who was carrying a guitar case was waiting at the bus stop. Smith looked up, noticing the black cap reading "Unite!" worn forwards on his head.
Quickly scanning the Matrix's data banks for the program's information, Smith was only able to come up with the name Tom... the databanks were running extra slow that day due to the hot turkey and gravy sandwich Agent Brown had shoved into the Matrix's VCR player in an attempt to mechanically reboot a few inert Sentinels.
"Tom? Tom Anderson?" Smith asked, tapping the man on the shoulder.
The man named Tom blinked and turned around, puzzled.
"Anderson? No. I don't know any Anderson. I'm Tom Morello," he said.
"Ah," replied Smith, wondering where the hell Zack was... and, if you understood that, you're way too obsessed with a certain band. That's all I'm sayin'. Koff koff.
Tom Morello turned to look at Smith, the strange establishment man who was staring at him and his guitar case.
"So, what do you do?" he asked.
Tom Morello the greatest guitar player of our generation almost had an aneurysm at hearing this question... oh wait, no, that was me.
Then, all of a sudden, Chris Cornell rounded the far corner, seeming to look for someone he knew...
"Shit, shit, SHIT!" said Tom Morello, hiding behind his guitar case. "It's Chris Cornell, he's looking for me again...um, um, um, TELL HIM TOM HAS A GRAVE MASCARA ILLNESS!" he screamed.
Tom dove into the bushes. A few minutes he reemerged as Miley Cyrus.
"I have a crush on Billy Ray," he said shyly, twirling a strand of dirty blonde hair. "Bye!"
As he skipped off with his guitar case Chris Cornell walked up to Smith. He sported a short, spiky black haircut and large sunglasses, the latter of which he tipped curiously.
"Excuse me sir, but was that Miley Cyrus you were talking to just now?" Chris Cornell asked.
Smith shot him at point-blank range.
"TRY TO BREAK UP RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE WILLYA YOU SCREECHY AUDIOSLAVE BITCH!" Smith screamed from behind two smoking German chain guns at the singer's dead body. "And no, that was Tom Morello. Miley's across the street over there."
Just as Miley Cyrus looked up from her international democracy newspaper Smith rained down a hail of bullets on her.
After the smoke cleared she yawned and walked away.
"Oh yeah, I forgot, it's Ashlee Simspon who Disney hired me to kill," Smith said. "Oops."
Then the weary Agent returned home, to a refuge of... even greater insanity than that in the day he just had, which, logically and grammatically, doesn't make any sense... but OH WELL! I'm high on Reese's Cups now, so to all I must say a collective Wheeeeeeee haaaaaaaaa suckas!
Ahem... moving on...
Smith returned home to see Agents Jones and Brown dead.
"Aw, shit," said Smith. "Did you two forget to breathe again?"
"No. We're just possessed by the spirits of dead people," Jones replied, pointing to an Ouija board positioned in the middle of the room. "It's fun."
"Uhhh... okay. Who are you possessed by?" Smith said.
"Adam Sandler," Jones said.
"Adam Sandler's not dead," Smith said.
Jones chuckled. Smith, realizing something grave, opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by his cohort.
Walking over to the closet, he opened it. A flood of money rushed out, nearly burying him alive and spilling out the contents of his apartment into the city street below.
"Is that where you got all this money from?" Smith blurted, ecstatically swimming in money. Finally, his days at the hell called the collegiate institution were over, gone, a distant memory..."Wait."
A few seconds later he choked the Adam Sandler spirit right out of Jones and beat the living, er, living dead shit out of the Agent.
"You FOOL! THIS IS A MILLION DOLLARS' WORTH OF ARUBIAN MONEY! IT'S NOT WORTH MY SHIT IN GOLD!" Smith screeched.
Just then, looking on the scene with sadistic pleasure, the proud bull with the 'FIGHT THE BURGER KING POWER' tattoo on its heiny walked up.
"Ha, ha, ha, you ish a greedy human. How does it feel, the shoe on the other foot now, greedy human?" the bull asked. Then, looking at the camera, it flashed a very capitalist thumbs-up as Jones ran out into the street, pantsless and in hot pursuit with Smith spraying him down with a fifty-foot fire hose, effectively creating the world's first panstless waterslide and earning back the insanity funds through the patent of this brilliant creation.
THA END