A/N #1: Hey, I just wanted to say to all who reviewed to the second chapter of "Memoirs of Insanity" (you know who you are), THANK YOU! I was having such a crap mental day (you know, the one where you're super down on yourself about stuff and all that Dr. Phil negative self-talk blah blah blah), and making you guys laugh is what really makes me happy. Thanks for understanding my nuclear meltdown and hanging in there with the lil' SAT rant back there.
A/N #2: I'm losing track of reviewers. I'll try to get cookies in whenever I can. To all who review, as well as the regulars, EXTRA COOKIES! HAVE THE COOKIE JAR TODAY! I'll reestablish proper connections as soon as possible. Cookies to ALL!
A/N #3: I just watched the first Matrix today and it gave me an idea...unfortunately, this means breaking up the chapters like Ch. 3, 4, and 5 and making each a bit shorter. Fortunately for YOU, this means more chappies. Unfortunately, again, I must insert a disclaimer here that some of the lines quoted are from the first Matrix, that I do not own the Matrix or any of its characters, they are copyright the Wachowskis/Silver Productions/Warner Bros... ummmm...and I think that's just about it, so let's get goin' along now.
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part IX: The TRUE Matrix, Part A"
The Agents sat around the kitchen table, not doing much.
All of a sudden, a plastic clock bolstered to the wall sounded a chime, temporarily breaking their lethargy.
"Uh-oh, it's three o' clock. I have to water Charlie Sheen," Jones said. "He'll die if he doesn't get his water at exactly three o' clock."
Jones walked over to a flower pot sitting on the sill, revealing Charlie Sheen's head dressed in a Phil Collins giant petal costume. Charlie opened his mouth and Jones poured some Aquafina into it.
His thirst quelled, Charlie Sheen flashed a satisfied grin and wiggled his giant petals as he sat perched on the window sill. Then, glancing at his watch, he realized the time and jumped out the window, stretching his new pterodactyl wings he had purchased off of eBay, his cries of "WINNING!" ringing in the distance as he smacked himself across a Metro bus windshield, wiped off when the bus driver groaned, thinking the usual, and turned on the super-heavy-duty-it's-raining-Charlie-Sheen-again windshield wipers.
A flyer that had slipped out of Charlie Sheen's back pocket fluttered to the floor. Curious, Jones picked it up.
"'Now Wanted'," he read. "'New Actors to Play in New Movie. Must be willing to work for payment in dirt coins and bring Samantha her dry cleaning 'cause she's a real bitch about those things in the morning.'" Jones looked up, then resumed reading. "'The movie is a sci-fi called The Matrix. Uber-Republican conservatives wanted to play part of bad guys. Must have slight personality disorders.' Hmmm, you don't think that applies to us, do you?"
"I don't know," Brown said, rearranging his schizophrenia-manic-depressive-bipolar-OCD pills in alphabetical order as he smiled and cried on opposing sides of his face.
Jones sat down. "What is this anyway?"
"It's a casting call," said Smith, bored. "They send those out whenever movie directors don't want to pay ten grand for two and a half minutes of Orlando Bloom's time."
"Well...it might be fun to be in a movie. We'll have a chance to get out of the apartment, y'know?" Jones mused, his voice revealing a particular strain of longing.
Smith shot straight up, now alert.
"No. No. No. Don't you dare say it. You know we all get launched into a random-ass adventure every time that that wretched word is implied, spoken, uttered, whispered, thought, felt, screamed, or said. I'm too tired to deal with it right now. I don't want to do it. I'm already pooped from scooping up after that runaway African elephant," he said. He shuddered at the thought of the twenty-ton plastic scooper, and also at the fact of having to be sprayed with a maelstrom of giant kitty litter bits.
"I'm bored. Let's go on a cheap cinematic adventure!" Brown shrieked. Upon mention of the vile word 'bored,' Smith immediately began loading a sniper rifle and painting a red-white bullseye on the back of Brown's head.
"All right, I'm in. What about you, Smith?" Jones asked.
Smith rifle malfunctioned, firing prematurely and the bullet cracking clean in half upon impact with Brown's hard skull. Sputtering incoherently, he swore the words "go-shove-a-turquoise-pineapple-up-your-nose-you-wax-eating-turtle-head" in Tagalog.
"Soooo, I'll take that as a yes," Jones said, busily filling out the information card.
"No. No. I'm not doing it. I'm not doing this. I'M NOT GONNA DO IT!" Smith shrilled.
…
FIVE SECONDS LATER
…
The trio sat on the movie set.
Smith glared.
The unit director, arriving slowly, sat down in front of Jones and Brown opened the character notes.
"Let's see...you two are Agent Jones and Agent Brown. Your aliases are Bread'n'Butter, PeeBee'n'Jay, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Stupid and I'm-with-Stupid, Donny and Marie, Barbie and Ken, Scooby-Doo and Shaggy, Dumb and Dumber, Amos and Andy, Salt n' Pepa, Thelma and Louise, Tom and Jerry, Bill and Ted, Batman and Robin, Johnson and Johnson, Bones and Booth, SpongeBob and Patrick, Bert and Ernie, Gumby and Pokey, Itchy and Scratchy, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, Ren and Stimpy, Wallace and Gromit, Cookies'n'Milk, Peaches'n'Cream, Tristan and Isolde, Chalk'n'Cheese, Cheech and Chong, Dorothy and Toto, Fish'n'Chips, Scully and Mulder, and Starsky and Hutch."
Jones and Brown shrugged. That was all the character depth they needed. Then, five seconds later, they turned back to the director and asked: "What do we do?"
"You fight. A lot," replied the director.
Jones and Brown looked at each other, then promptly jumped into two tanks and launched fifty short-range missiles at one another.
"Okay," Smith said as the two jumped out of the tanks and hit the flaming ground as their parachutes made out of plastic sporks deployed. "Who am I, then?"
"You? You're Agent Smith. You're the epistemological badass of this movie. You explain everything in lengthy speeches that put St. Augustine to shame. You are by far the most annoying, enigmatic, hot-headed, volatile, non-Australian Australian that has ever existed, you have a professional personality that rivals that of a wet paper bag, you send to the audience the message that you secretly pick your nose and eat it when the others aren't looking, your American voice is gravelly, you are the only Agent alive who can shoot a target that is thirteen stationary inches in front of your face, you are colorblind and optically dependent upon wearing a greenish-variation-of-black suit and subsequently obsessed with your sunglasses, you detest everything that is even a little bit left of the Margaret Thatcher political spectrum, you like watching Guatemalan soccer on ESPN, and you often belt it out to James Brown in the car with the windows rolled up all the way...that's just about it, I think...oh, and you also say 'damn' excessively."
"Damn straight," said Smith, flashing a damn proud thumbs-up.
…
FIRST SCENE WITH THE AGENTS- AUDI SCENE/ BROWN CHASING TRINITY
TAKE ONE
...
Smith was late to the shoot, speeding along the highway.
"Whoa!" Jones screamed. "Slow the hell down!"
Brown leaned out the side of the car, his head sticking out the window. He threw up in the wind, the puke of which formed a neat little toll booth in a nearby vacant parking lot.
"I have no damn clue how to drive this damn thing," Smith said, running over several pedestrian signs. Glowering, he stuck his hand out the window and flipped off a nonexistent penguin as he hit another sign and the trio of Agents simultaneously bounced up and collectively banged their heads on the metal roof. "Damn city can't even bother to fill in the damn potholes in the damn road, goddammit!"
Jones looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a dead Carrie-Anne Moss lying in the middle of the road.
He shrugged.
Bouncing along with the car's bumpiness, Brown nonchalantly glanced at his wristwatch. "We're supposed to be stopping in three, two, one..." A hard thump sounded. He looked up. "And we just ran over the Joe Pantoliano."
"Meh, Cypher was a creeper anyway," Jones said.
"I kinda liked him, but he had too much of a goatee," replied Brown. "It was like a mini Chuck Norris; it would punch you in the face with its muscly goatee-ness if you weren't looking directly at it."
"Shut up, guys, hot damn, we're gonna be on camera soon," said Smith, getting out of the Audi. Rising up, the three of them closed their respective car doors and gazed blankly into the florescent camera lights. Waving two fingers in front of his face, Andy, the director for the day, signaled action.
"Lieutenant," Smith said.
The Lieutenant looked up, red jelly spattered across his nervous face. "Wuh? I didn't do it. It was all Johnny's fault, it was all his idea, see? But Johnny's in the slammer now, they got 'im in now. It was all Johnny's idea to hide the doughnuts' bodies in the plastic Tupperware container and ship it off to sea. Johnny hated doughnuts, man. He beat them to death with his nightstick, screamin' all 'bout how they be perpetuatin' them doughnut-cop stereotypes, and then all of a sudden they just fell dead. I dunno, man, I dunno, sometimes me an' Johnny be 'wake on our shifts and we hear them screamin' revenge in the night, like, I dunno, like ol' powder-spooks or somethin'. I don't know. I just got caught up in alla' it. I didn't know what we were doing. We were scared and stupid and we didn't know what was happening. GOD, I DIDN'T DO IT! I DIDN'T DO IT!"
The Lieutenant shot himself in the head with his revolver and fell dead before them. The Agents blinked.
"Sergeant?" Smith asked. A cop came over and stepped over the paranoid Lieutenant's body.
"Awww shit," said the Sergeant, dipping his head down.
"Sergeant, you were given specific orders," Smith said, measuring his words out in American precision. You so much as say 'mate' and I will skin you alive and cook you as environmentally safe chicken, the director had said.
The Sergeant looked up. "Hey, I'm just doin' my job. You give me that 'juris-my-dick-tion' crap, you can cram it up your ass."
"The orders were for your protection."
The Sergeant chuckled.
"I think we can handle one little girl," he said.
Smith looked down as the police apprehended a vigilant Dora the Explorer.
"Hey, kids! Can you say 'the police force is a piece of shit' with me in Spanish?...You can?...Okay! La policia es una pieza de mierda," Dora spat, huffing as a policeman yanked on her cuffs. "Yeah, you act all high and mighty now! Wait 'till Swiper steals your identity and wrecks your perfect little lives forever! Wait 'till you get so pissed at living in a cereal box that you try to kill him with a half-expired credit card and the po-po comes along to apprehend your lil' vigilante ass and they throw you in the slammer and give you a green-ass lawyer who don't know his own ass from a hole in the ground and then you turn into a security blanket for some former linebacker named Fish Sticks! Just you wait, you mothafuckas! Me and Boots are gonna bust this joint and have you all on yo' hands and knees! Just you wait!" she screamed.
"Dora, I just got a call from the station. They killed Boots because he was holding a five-pound stash of Pixie Sticks, refused to hand them over to the authorities, resisted arrest and opened fire," said the Sergeant.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cried Dora, dropping to her knees. Breaking free of her Band-Aid handcuffs, she plunged a Q-tip dagger into her heart as little kids around the world watched on in horror, knowing in their hearts that they would forevermore have to watch iCarly on Nickelodeon.
Smith knew it was going to be a long day.
…
SECOND SCENE WITH THE AGENTS- INTERROGATION SCENE
...
A few hours later Smith, Jones, and Brown stood beside the interrogation table, watching on as Andy flipped through the script.
"No, no, no," said Andy, pressing his finger down on the interrogation table, "you launch the authoritarian speech first, THEN close his mouth and put the bug on his belly."
"Sounds kinda gross," Jones said, flipping through page two of a Vogue magazine. "Can't we just take turns having sex with the guy and get over it?"
Frantically, Andy pointed to the director's chair that had the label 'THE MATRIX' on it.
"Oh. OH," Jones said, realizing something. "OH. I thought we were in John Tucker Must Die. Oh. Okay."
Getting up, Jones walked out of the room.
"WTF?" screamed Andy. Whirling around, he gripped Smith's jacket with sudden terror. "Agent Jones just left!"
"Yeah, what about it?" grunted Smith.
"What about it? What about it?" the director shrieked."He's the one who gets shot in the head by the hot female lead! He's absolutely crucial to this story! He offsets your lack of a personality and Brown's lack of Americanness! He's your right hand man! He's the butter to Brown's bread!"
Brown looked up, forlornly holding up an empty knife in one hand and a loaf of butterless bread in the other, the camera slowly zooming in to his almost-teary face and trembling bottom lip as sad violin music played in the background. Andy pulled a switch and an avalanche of margarine landed atop him.
In the quickflash storm of I-Can't-Believe-it's-Not-Butter, Brown's hand poked through to reveal a very buttery thumbs-up.
"Well, we do have a replacement," Andy mused. "But...but I think you might not like him very much."
Smith hit Brown in the head with an iron mallet just as he emerged from the depths of the butter mountain, the evolutionary Agent tendency to hit emerging things over the heads with iron mallets stemming from unknown causes...well, no, just the fact that the Machines' ancestors were the primordial carnival Wack-A-Moles.
"Look, I have to deal with cross-dressing, drunken Spanish exclamations, thermonuclear explosions, Russian ducks, every possible fart, shit and poop joke known to man, rabid Socialists, Idaho red potatoes, guns whose bullets make people lose weight, purple hair dye, punk butterflies on motorcycles, Bill Gates alter egos, Miley Cyrus, nickel taxes on blinking, the IRS, stuffed pink bunnies, getting sugar high, relentless boredom and subsequent wanton destruction, falling down escalator stairs that go up, unpaid electric bills, getting kicked in the nads by a little kid every seven chapters, Jersey Shore Macbeth productions, a dumbass neighbor named Thomas who can't even be bothered to shorten his name to Tom, taco stands, coffee, fanfiction matches, lengthy government propaganda speeches that aren't even factually consistent, the DMV, hocking noogeys, getting drunk, a half-baked Mister Rogers, a growing stash of pancakes and syrup underneath my bed, bad singing that destroys half the world, Chris Cornell, Penelope Cruz, Russell Crowe, a myriad of famous names tossed willy-nilly, bulls that have 'fight the Burger King power' tattoos on their butts, soap-opera virus purging, and dead Keanu Reeves stunt doubles on a daily basis," Smith said. "What makes you think I won't be able to handle this sucker?"
Andy shrugged and pointed behind him, indifferently walking away from Smith's reaction.
"Drink more," nodded Agent Thompson from the make-up chair.
Smith's infuriated screams pierced the heavens with their blazing shrill; meteorologists all over the world reported a seventy percent chance of dead angel showers coming in and crashing giant ten-foot solid gold harps over your Hummer.
"Oh, for the love of GOD!"
…
TO BE CONTINUED
...
I was hungry when I wrote this, tee hee. Oh, now it's dinnertime. YAY DINNERTIME! Let's EAT! Oooo chicken, potatoes, stuffing, beets and cinnamon doughnuts, yum, yum. XD