A/N #1.) All right, folks, it's mini story time...of course you can choose to ignore this (you always do, it doesn't matter to me) or you can read it. Out of all the A/N dramas I've posted, this one is by far the most important. So all I simply would like, as always, is your attention.
I am going to be a senior this year, so it's just going to be a given that I won't update as often. (Or, dare I say it?...No, I dare not say it. Not yet.) In this chapter I want to get back to those good old roots. Well, as good as they're gonna get: Smith, Jones, and Brown, being bored, on a bizarre adventure! It's a peculiar kind of nostalgia...it hasn't even been a year yet and already I'm feeling ages away...I've gone from funny to weird to darkly insane and...frankly, I'm not sure how it's fitting now. Well, anyways, it doesn't matter, since we're going to be kicking it old school, y'all.
I really want to deliver a heartfelt thanks to all who have read, will read, and do read this story. In real life, I am a deadly serious, easily irritable person. This is my livelihood. Without it I'd probably explode. The greatest gift, though, is making, sharing, and transmitting laughter, inspiration, and, if you're lucky enough, perhaps insanity. ;D Thank you, thank you, thank you! It's funny; my stories don't make me smile and laugh, but your reviews do! I love that you're loving it, but what's most important is that we all love lovable Agents.
Did you know that the first and second chapter of this story were written a year and a half before I even got the Internet? My then-fifteen-year-old self was bored and decided to write the story, but it was stuck inside my computer for nearly two years. I never thought it would reach anyone, ever. But, because I edited, plotted, planned, and perfected them all that time, they became my two best chapters, I think.
I am also incredibly glad to see that the Matrix is not a dead horse. It still has meaning to people and serves as a wellspring of creative imagination. I can't really express the gratitude for all of the reviewers I meet. All of you have so much patience, kindness, humor, creativity, insight, and compassion. And LOVE for the movie, holy cow!
Lastly, if you really want to know the secret...I got inspiration from some truly genius Smith and the Agents stories written long before this one, most notably the one called "Agent Smith Studies" by Troll (a brilliant spin-off is also from Geriatric Yoda) and also the genius Trinity/Smith series written by 5M1TH. Hopefully, they all won't mind a bit of free advertising, wink, wink. =D I almost wet myself reading those. So when you read these chapters, don't look at me—I'm just the messenger—credit those guys before, now, and after for their inspiring genius.
A/N #2.) I've been reading too much of The Once and Future King. You've been warned! XD
A/N#3.) This could be of use to you:
bard=poet
chain-mail= a thin armor of interconnecting metal rings knights wore underneath their regular armor
doth= does
durst= dare to
ere= before
fere= friend, companion
hath=has
hast= you have
hence= thus
henceforth=from this point on
hither= here
lore, scribe, verse= story, writing, legend
mayhap= perhaps
nigh= near, close to
oppunmany= a lot, many, too many
quaff=drink
shan't= shall not
spake= spoke (did speak)
thence=therefore
thither= there
thou= you (informal)
wreathed= covered
ye= you, your (polite)
yon= your, their
yore= years ago
"Pointless Agent Insanity!
Part XI: Yon Most Holy Boredom"
Ahem...
since the times of now passed many yore,
hither shall I recount my lore:
In ye good Matrix of olde, upon the highest tower of Sydney of Australia,
those phantoms of three, Smythe, Browne, and Joneseth, in yon attire dark
and eyes glassed in cold ebony did sit,
mayhap for love o' th' art of th' idle sit, as did claimeth some,
mayhap filled with th' love o' the
most Holy Boredom—
"Something's different today," remarketh'd Agent Smythe of Sydney.
"Quite so," did concur Browne, while in th' most mirthéd eye declared Yahtzee, and seized the riches of the Agent Joneseth, who surrendered from his very pockets the oppunmany precious baubles of Lint.
Thence did Smythe walketh out into the streets, and, in lieu of cars, telephones and such metal objects, he witnessed a procession of ne'er-do-wells ride along a dirt road, shackled and filthy, to a most disgraceful horse-drawn cart. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Ooo, a cart party, those can get pretty wild," Joneseth sayeth'd blissfully. Smythe smacked himself most fruitfully upside the cranium.
"I don't know how," stateth'd Browne slowly, " but I think we went back to the Dark Ages."
"WHAT THE—"
With a frightful heave o' breath the phantom breathed to the count of ten, within ye olde paper bag, as did recommendeth his revered psychotherapist.
Finally, spake a most hyperventilating Smythe: "You have got to be kidding me."
…
There once was a fellow named Smythe
who with his feres, Browne and Joneseth,
Did quest to save a kingdom most perilously
in Perilous Peril
(For it is in most loathéd sloth I shan't scribe hence more verse, nor the curses of spell-check!),
for there lurked in shadows
most Perilous Times ere they!
"Shut up!" thence shrilleth'd the high spirits of the Agents three.
Alas, very appropriately did I clear my throat, and did hence proceed to announce loudly:
There once was a man named Dave
who kept a dead whore in a cave.
He said, "Though I admit
I am a bit of a shit,
Think of the money I save!"
"What the bloody HELL?" shrieketh'd Smythe, waving his hands in most admirable defeat.
"Oh, but the bard is bored," said I, sitting nigh ere this magical box contraption christened 'the Internet'. "I am simply having some merry mirth, my good sir."
Sighing, Smythe, Browne and Joneseth thus traveled to the Network Perilous, embarking upon the Most Perilously Perilous Quest of Peril where they—
"Will you cut that out! Your narrator voice is starting to give me a headache," sayeth'd Joneseth, swallowing a mighty Tylenol herb.
I gonna talk tha' way I want, mothafucka! I declared, drawing on my almighty powers of blank verse,
If you wanted real Shakespeare shit then FUCK YOU, 'cause he dead, he tied up in my basement like Roman Polanski!
It's 2011, baby, you be my slave now!
so you don' give me nunna dat lip-slip,
'cause I da real shit!
"Yes, ma'am," did replieth Joneseth meekly, verily freakethed out by my superior literary prowess. Merrily and hardly soberly did smileth I, for I, drunk with power and madness, smiled like a fool, and have had one too many quaffs o' bubbly soda-pop today. Hence, I apologize most humbly...hic.
...
For our Agents three,
a bridge fell onto the banks of the rivers
where twin worlds cross'd;
the real, and the path that reach'd their distant homeland o' the Matrix.
They approached the bridge with caution,
for, thither in the light, atop a monstrous steed, sat a
Black Knight,
solid as statue, terrible, stone,
brewing silently in that summer haze.
"Hark! Toll," declared the stolid Knight, wreathed of layers of black steel on that most humid of days.
"But I forgot my rolls of quarters at home," Browne sayeth'd most ruefully, ere he was dealt a fatal tickling blow with the Knight's feathery jousting lance. "Shit! I'm ticklishahahahahahahahaDAMN IT ALL!"
"Fool, not that kind of toll!" shrieketh'd the Knight, drawing back his lance to point it at the others. "Shall ye be next to meet your feathery doom?" he rumbled, his voice dark and booming. And Joneseth did tremble, wondering why he was standing in the middle of a puddle formed only at his feet.
"Who are you?" asketh'd Smythe.
The Black Knight, most uncomfortable in the summer mist, removed his helmet;
Hence the booming voice-changer box fell out.
Smythe did hath a most furious aneurysm upon witnessing th' face of't.
"I am Sir Thomas of Zion, yon blackest knight from o'er the longest lake and the tallest mountain," spake the Black Knight proudly. "Are ye worthy, humble travelers? If th' toll shan't be paid, ye shan't pass hither ere ye first succeed my test."
Smythe looked once unto his two feres, then turned to address direct the Knight: "Fine. We have no money anyway. What's the test?"
"Ye must drink from this most Holy Grail, insolent man, and live," declared Sir Thomas. Within that digital sun he held nigh in one wonderfully gauntleted hand a grail gleaming of ruby and silver.
"That's a Coca-Cola can," Smythe commented.
"Fool! Thou durst blaspheme th' Holiest cup—and lo, thence, heavens be!—the glory o' God?" bellowed the terrible Sir Thomas, his voice rolling upon the earth as thunder, thence swilling the magical quaff which doth rendered him most 'sugar high'. "Now we must battle! For honor!"
Drawing upon his sword, the Black Knight of Zion prepared for battle. Smythe unsheathed as well, and drew upon his quaint blade, called the Desert Eagle.
"I durst bring a gun to a sword-fight; alas, judge me not, good people, but tell me thus: doth that make me a coward, or alive?" Smythe grinned, for the Carl Sagan-ness of his speech induc'd in my poor audience much groaning.
"God don't drink Coca-Cola, that's for sure," with great wisdom did chimeth Joneseth, much to th' resulting peril o' his belovéd fere Smythe, who henceforth was most whooped in the buttocks region by the noble and righteous Sir Thomas of Zion.
Browne and Joneseth, in concern and love for their companion, did sit upon the summer grass and watched, filled with evil mirth, Smythe's cruel medieval punishment.
"For the love of God, I just want to go home!" did weep Smythe in a manner akin to a small girl-child, "GET ME OFF THIS FREAKING RIDE!"
…
Ever-courtly, Sir Thomas spared that wretchéd life of Agent Smythe of Sydney
but not ere coercing the poor man to watch
oppunmany episodes of Lost, and henceforth asking him
to reconstruct a coherent sequence of events
from it.
The punishment, though cruel and unusual, was most merciful,
for it best served Smythe's transgression
and was also not the movie
eXistenZ...
"You're white," remarketh'd Smythe quite randomly to Sir Thomas on their journey back. They had since then become feres...if feres signified blood enemies.
"So?"
"So...aren't you supposed to be a white Knight instead of black?"
Sir Thomas' eyes narrowed into twin slits aflame beneath his chain-mail. "Are you being RACIST, good sir?"
"I ain't if you ain't, sucker," sayeth'd Smythe most wisely.
"I am colorblind," interjecteth'd Browne, his breast swelling with much honour, "that is why they named me after the color of poo."
"Eww," gallantly replied Sir Thomas, who gallantly galloped to th' meadow in th' West to hock his most gallant noogey thither in the clear blue streams.
Thus, together with the three phantoms, did Sir Thomas of Zion, Sir Thomas the Brave,
Sir Thomas the Gallant, Sir Thomas the Courtly,
Sir Thomas, the Guardian of the Idiots, Sir Thomas, the Protector of the Dimwits,
Sir Thomas, the Knight whom Cannot Open his Own Peanut Butter Jar Lid without Running the Lid Under a Faucet of Hot Water and Accidentally Dropping Said Lid, When Finally Opened, Down the Garbage Disposal, Where It Clogs the Blades and Backs up the Entire Contents of the Disposal into the Sink, Thus Stinking the Entire Kitchen with the Acrid Smell of Saturday Night's Pizza Crust mixed with that Vague Scent of Last Month's Thai Noodles which Reminds Him Slightly of his Dirty Socks, Upon which He Calls the Landlady Over to Help, Only to Realize He Did not Pay the Rent Since January and Must Hence Get a Job working as a Hot Dog Mascot in a Strip Mall,
—I must pauseth now to taketh a brief breatheth, for Sir Thomas was much belovéd in the Court of Zion,
and the list of his titles is
Indeed most admirable—
they traveled far to reach the Court of Zion,
where King Morpheus and his noble Knights and Dames
awaited their fere's triumphant return.
"My lord," sayeth'd Sir Thomas, low'ring his head.
"Ah, Sir Thomas, rise!" King Morpheus cried joyously, clapping his happy palms together like a madman. "And thou hast brought friends to bear witness now! Come, all! Come, Queen Niobe! Friends, ho, heed me this day henceforth, and rejoice! For I have discovered th' most holy relic!"
"Ay?" replied his court. "What is it, my lord? A sword? A scroll? A grail? A cross?"
He held the most Holy Taco for all of the Kingdom of Zion to bear witness, upon which Queen Niobe did rolleth her eyes, reminded also o' his 'most holy' discovery of socialism three nights ago (most practised was the Queen in th' art o' sarcasm concerning matters o' her idiot husband). Sir Thomas the Brave grinneth stupidly beneath his armour, while Sir Apoc of the Moussed Haircut, Sir Mouse the Meek, Sir Cypher the Creepy, Sir Tank the Loyal, Sir Dozer of the Greased Cap, and Dames Trinity and Switch of the Kingdom of Kick-Ass-Dames slappeth'd themselves forcefully in their countenances. Th' three phantoms of Sydney stareth'd most appropriately for the passing of ten straight suns.
…
Smith awoke with a start. "WTF?"
He looked about him, patting the bed, doors, and windows suspiciously. No kings. No courts. No tacos, Coca-Cola grails, no Shakespearean narrators...he sighed, shaking his head.
All was strangely normal.
"DAMN YOU, JONES!" Brown shrieked from the kitchen, running about the table like a deranged chicken, accidentally spraying his ice cream sundae with the fire extinguisher Jones had replaced the whipped cream with. "I'M FLAME RETARDANT NOW!"
"No you're not, Brown, you're just flame special," Jones snickered, scooping out some more peanut butter to slather all over the toilet seat.
Agent Smith vowed never to get drunk at Medieval Times ever again.
…
THA END
…
"Lying in the dark,
the Queen asked the King,
'Why, darling husband,
do you have such a tiny
little thing?'"
IT'S FROM ROBIN HOOD! I COULD NOT RESIST! XD
Also, I wished that that dirty "Dave" limerick were mine, but it's not. I saw it in a video called "The Matrix Hotboxed".
COOKIES TO BE BROUGHT TO THE COURT OF REVIEWERS!