Tag Archives: humor

Memoirs of the Model Agent 2: The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor and Her Daughter

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There are a lot of things the Chancellorate’s Security Forces won’t tell you when you’re considering signing up. They won’t tell you about the extended shifts, the lack of sleep, or the post-traumatic stress disorder; they won’t tell you about the long, slow descent into insanity that you’ll suffer as a result of being forced to work so closely with politicians; and they won’t tell you about the somewhat ironic lack of job security.

Agents quit. Agents die. Agents get fired because their boss is having a bad hair day. Some agents are even lucky enough to retire.

New agents are brought in to replace them. There’s a lot of turnover in the Security Forces, one way or another. The speed with which new recruits are hired and trained can make your head spin. On one particularly crazy day I showed up for work in the morning as part of a team of eight, finished the day’s mission as the second-in-command of a team of four, and clocked out two hours later as the leader of a team of fifteen.

The downside of the system is that you never know when you’re about to meet your replacement. The upside is that if you know what you’re doing, it shouldn’t take you too long to start climbing the ladder.

As I mentioned at the end of the previous chapter, after the incident with Mr. Dimbles I transferred to the protective detail for the Third Assistant Under-Chancellor-in-Waiting. I only spent two months there before I took my next upwards step.

I was hand-selected by the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor to be a personal bodyguard for her daughter, Dorothy. My duties involved accompanying Dorothy to and from high school and sitting in on her classes and cheer squad practices. It wasn’t the worst position I’d ever held. Teenagers can be insufferable, but I did my best to blend in and even befriend a few of them.

For weeks, my most pressing security concern was trying to keep the teenage boys’ grubby little hands away from my holster. They wheedled and whined at me, tried to bribe me, tried to butter me up. “Come on, Ms. Connolly,” they would say. “You’re so pretty. You’re so nice. We just wanna hold your blaster! We just wanna see it! We won’t do anything. We’ll take you out to a movie if you let us touch it.” On a certain level it was flattering to have that much male attention—being an agent hadn’t afforded me much of a social or romantic life for a few years—but I wasn’t yet that desperate for entertainment, so I continually disappointed them.

During my time with Dorothy I directed more of my attention towards protecting her from bullies, blondes, and bad boys than towards keeping her safe from political dissidents and assassins. The girl was much more likely to be struck by heartbreak than a bullet, especially with the desperate, headstrong way that incorrigible flirt pursued her male classmates. I think that may have been one reason her mother hired me to work with her. She was a scandal waiting to happen.

There eventually came a day, though, early one May, when I was required to put away the “don’t-you-look-at-her-that-way,-punk” glare I used on the boys and the “shoulder-to-cry-on” attitude I held towards Dorothy and had to exercise my agent training in a more legitimate way.

It was the day of a big track and field meet between Dorothy’s school and three of the neighbouring schools. Everywhere you looked the students were dressed in purple and gold, showing off their team spirit, and earnest-looking teenagers were running and jumping and flipping and cheering and crying and throwing popcorn at one another. It was chaos, the kind of scenario a well-trained agent really hates.

Dorothy’s cheer squad was in high demand. They were being pulled all over the campus, from the track to the gym to the stands to the cafeteria. I was trekking along after them, keeping a dutiful eye out for anything unusual or threatening.

There were a few quiet minutes between the long jump and the pole vault, and the coach decided it was a good opportunity to get some photos of the cheer squad taken for the yearbook. She dragged the gaggle of girls over to where the photography teacher was taking some wide shots from a verge of grass just inside the 12-foot chain link fence that surrounded most of the school.

The girls began assembling into various team poses on the grass, formations and glamour shots and human pyramids. The school mascot, a big purple teddy bear with enormous googly eyes, was wandering by and decided to join in and ham it up with them. The group’s laughing and chattering and posing began to draw a small crowd, which made me more than a little nervous.

Then Dorothy’s mother showed up, her own entourage of three agents in tow. The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor was a typical politician, which meant she was never one to miss a photo opportunity. She had come by to watch a few events from the stands, but apparently she hadn’t been receiving enough personal attention up there—the Vice-Prime Chancellor of Education was hogging the spotlight, I think. She convinced the photographer to include her in a few shots and joined in with her daughter, striking what she must have thought was a comedic yet dignified pose. She looked like a turkey in a tuxedo. Dorothy was more embarrassed than the time I kicked in the door of her bathroom stall and found her taking a nap to avoid Chemistry class. She was scowling at her mom with the dark ferocity only a 16-year-old can generate.

“Oh!” said the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor when the photographer seemed to be getting tired of her. “I have an excellent idea! Why don’t I pose shaking hands with the mascot? It would look great in the papers.”

The photography teacher was clearly reluctant, and seemed ready to go back to covering the sports—the discus throw was about to begin—but after some wheedling and cajoling he agreed to snap a couple of quick photos. The mascot was game for it, so they stood by the fence and struck a pose together.

The cheer squad was getting together and trundling off back to the field to cheer on the discus throwers and shot putters. My attention was turned towards fighting through the crowd to get back close to Dorothy when the shot was fired.

The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor was the first to react, diving to her stomach on the grass and covering her head. In moments her three security agents were at her side, checking for injuries and scanning the panicking crowds for the source of the shot.

I drew my blaster and sprinted towards Dorothy, putting myself between her and the direction I thought the shot had come from. It sounded to me like it had come from underneath the bleachers. Pushing Dorothy to the ground, I stood over her and scanned the bleachers for any gleam of sun on metal that might betray the shooter.

When no further immediate threat presented itself, I grabbed Dorothy under the arms and half-carried, half-dragged her over to where her mother was being guarded by her own three agents. The teddy bear mascot was sprawled out beside them on the grass.

“Is she all right?” I asked.

“The shot missed,” reported one of the other agents. “It got the mascot, instead.”

Another agent was on the phone already, calling for help. I heard an ambulance’s sirens start up somewhere not far off.

“Watch her,” I told the other agents, handing Dorothy over. Then I knelt down beside the mascot to assess the situation. There was an obvious bullet hole at the base of the mascot’s neck, right about where the head of the person wearing the costume would be. The mascot wasn’t moving. I couldn’t hear any breathing, but I didn’t see any blood, either. “Help me get this mask off,” I said, reaching to pull off the bear’s head.

“No, wait!” said one of the agents. “It’s, uh… We might do more harm for good! We should wait for the ambulance.”

The recommendation didn’t make any sense to me, but before I could retort I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, on the other side of the fence. I looked up and saw a man sprinting towards the road, holding a violin case.

I drew my blaster and shouted, “Hey, stop!”

He turned to look over his shoulder, saw me standing with my drawn blaster, yelped, and tripped in a gopher hole. He went sprawling and his violin case flew open. The pieces of a sniper blaster tumbled out into the grass.

I looked left, then right, and saw no quick way through or around the fence, so I jammed my blaster into its holster, took a run up, leapt up onto the fence, and started climbing. The shooter was frantically gathering up the pieces of his sniper blaster and stuffing them back into the violin case. There was panic in his eyes when he saw me climbing. He hugged the violin case shut, jumped back to his feet, and began to run again.

A black car pulled up on the shoulder of the road and honked its horn as I crested the fence and dropped hard onto the ground on the other side. Someone inside the car pushed the rear door open and a hand beckoned the runner on. He only had 50 yards to go, and I had to cover twice that distance to catch him, but I had been a track-and-field athlete myself, back in high school, and the 100-yard dash had been my best event. I dug my toes in, raised my head, and took off running.

The shooter saw me coming and yelped and stumbled again. The driver of the getaway car honked and yelled something. I was making up ground. I reached for my blaster, just in case, but he was only 20 yards away now, 10, 5…

I planted my foot and propelled myself through the air like a long jumper, piling onto the shooter and driving him to the ground. The getaway car squealed off before I could get my blaster up to take a shot at its tires.

The shooter was whimpering like a lazy kid in gym class. “Don’t hurt me! …Not supposed to catch me… Just following orders! Not my fault!”

I wasn’t having it. “You took a shot at a member of the Chancellorate. You may have just killed a kid in a bear suit. If it’s not your fault, then whose is it?” I grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. His tears were turning the dirt on his face into trails of mud, but behind all the mess and the contortion of his features something twigged my memory. “Vizak?” I said. “Is that you?”

His eyes flew open. “No!” he said. “No no no! I’m not… No!”

But I was sure I recognized him now. “It is you. Pokur Vizak. We went through training together a few years ago. What happened to you?”

“I, uh… I went bad!” he declared. “Bad guys kidnapped me and brainwashed me into being a bad guy, too. Nice guys finish last! Down with the Chancellorate! I’m sad and confused and dangerous. You’d better take me to jail.”

One of the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor’s agents caught up to us. “Oh!” said the agent. “You caught the guy. Uh, nice work. I guess we should, uh, bring him in, then.”

“How’s the mascot?” I asked.

“Oh, fine, fine,” said the agent. “I mean, well, hurt pretty bad, probably. Might be dead. Ambulance is picking it up right now. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it? A kid might be dead inside that suit, maybe a kid I’ve been seeing every weekday for the past few months, and you’re telling me not to worry about it?” Grabbing my prisoner by the wrist, I hauled him back towards where Dorothy and her mother were being watched. Through the fence I saw the ambulance coming to a stop, and two paramedics stepped out nonchalantly, one carrying a stretcher. I rounded the far end of the fence, near the bleachers, and arrived as they were sliding the mascot on the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.

I handed the prisoner to the other two agents and stomped up to the ambulance. “What’s going on?” I demanded. “Aren’t you even going to look inside the suit?”

The paramedics looked sheepish. “Er, no need,” said one. “I’m afraid it’s dead, so… No need.”

It?” I was furious. “What is with you people and calling this person an it? That is a human being in there.”

The paramedics cast glances at each other and at the ground. “Er,” they said. “Sorry.”

I wasn’t appeased. Something about the whole scenario wasn’t sitting right with me. The behaviour of the paramedics, the other agents, even the shooter… It was all wrong.

The paramedics took advantage of my momentary silence to begin closing the rear doors of the ambulance, but I reached out and grabbed the door to stop them. I pushed them back and climbed into the ambulance where the mascot was lying. Sliding forward to the mascot’s head, I slipped my fingers around the edges of the mask and pulled on it.

“No!” said the other agents.

“Wait!” said the paramedics.

“Stop!” said the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor.

The mask came off smoothly and fell to the floor. Underneath was a mass of gears, servos, wires, and circuit boards.

“What in the world?” I said.

Then the ambulance doors slammed shut on me, locking me in, and the paramedics jumped into the front of the ambulance, started it up, and drove off.


You won’t have heard this story before. You might not even believe it. Their plan worked. The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor was able to spin the “assassination attempt” into a ton of great press and earned three consecutive promotions in the span of 18 months, eventually spending two full terms as Unilateral Forthchancellor, directly advising the Over-Chancellor on public relations and media issues.

I could have retired young on the money they paid me to keep my mouth shut. Instead I bought a house, went back to school for a Master’s degree in Security Operations, and invested what was left.

Sure, I could have blown the whistle, but it wouldn’t have accomplished much. I was already feeling pretty jaded about the entire Chancellorate at that point, anyways, and to be honest that hasn’t really changed. I still think the Chancellorate is filled with idiots and crooks, and I’m not the only person who holds that opinion, not by far. Nobody seems to want to do anything about it, though. Even publishing a story like this one in this book won’t cause much of a stir, probably.

The next two chapters might.

Year of Stories – Week 17

Welcome to week 17 of the Year of Stories!

Free this week is Memoirs of the Model Agent: The Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor and Her Daughter, a 2,500-word sci-fi comedy that acts as Chapter 2 of the earlier How I Rescued Mr. DimblesRead it now! You can also buy it for 99¢ in the Store.

Agent Connolly continues to rise through the ranks of the Chancellorate’s security forces. She finds herself the personal bodyguard to the daughter of the Associate Bilateral Forthchancellor. At a school track meet, chaos erupts, and she finds herself caught up in a dangerous and reckless conspiracy.

The highlighted Store release for this week is The Interno, a 1,700-word sci-fi piece. Read it now for only $0.99!

Dr. Graeme Carter and Dr. Jefferson Parkindale have been coworkers for many years, but lately Dr. Parkindale has been acting, well, a little more eccentric than usual. He smiles more, for one thing. In fact, he never seems to stop smiling anymore. Does the mysterious new Interno technology have something to do with it?

To read previously released stories, check out the Year of Stories page.

Jary’s Got a Gun

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On the morning of the day Jary Tomlin found the world’s last remaining gun, he and his wife were having an argument in the kitchen. As is so often the case with arguments, it was one they had been through several times before.

Linda was pulling mugs and measuring cups and self-baking cake mixes out of drawers and cupboards and throwing them into plastiboard boxes. “If you’d stayed in school instead of dropping out like a lazy bum,” she said to Jary, “this wouldn’t be happening.”

“I seem to remember you encouraging me to drop out so I could get a job,” protested Jary, as he packed away the coffee machine robot.

“Well you were failing every class,” Linda retorted, emphasizing her point by flourishing a whisk. “If you’d actually ever done any of your homework, things would’ve been different!”

“You wouldn’t let me do any homework,” said Jary. “You kept forcing me to take you on dates to the laser-skating rink, and watch your holovision shows with you, and visit your mother every other day of the week…”

Linda whirled around with her hands on her hips. “So it’s my fault now? I’m the one to blame that we can’t make rent, that we’re getting kicked out onto the street? Go on, tell me how it’s my fault!”

Jary raised his hands defensively. “Don’t bite my head off!” he said. “All I’m saying is if we want to live in nice houses like this one, and buy unnecessary robots to make our coffee for us, then maybe you need to get a part-time job.”

The robot in the box at Jary’s feet beeped and burbled.

“You heard me,” said Jary, giving the box a kick.

Tears flashed into Linda’s eyes. “You don’t appreciate all the work I do,” she said, pointing an accusatory ladle at Jary’s chest. “I’m your wife, Jary. My job is to take care of you. Haven’t I always done that? Haven’t I kept you fed? Haven’t I kept you happy?”

Jary sighed. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Look at the holes I’ve worn in my socks, running around the house every day, making your dinner and washing your laundry and dusting your TV. Look at the holes, Jary!” sobbed Linda. She held up her foot and looked at it herself. “Oh my. I need new socks. And some pants, too, probably.”

Jary rolled his eyes. “You don’t need any new pants. You just bought three pairs last month.”

“What would you know?” snapped Linda. “You’d dress yourself in the same jeans and t-shirt every single day if I wasn’t here to take care of you. Don’t you try to tell me what I do and do not need to buy!”

“You’re impossible,” groaned Jary, stomping out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To the garage, out of range of your voice.”

“Fine!” called Linda. “Take the shelves down while you’re out there!”

Jary slammed the door behind him.

The garage was a total disaster. It was supposed to fit two hovercars, but it would have been a challenge to park two hovercycles in it at this point. Jary stood for a minute and let the steam seep out of his ears.

That woman was sapping his life away. She refused to get a job, spent every dime he earned, and didn’t even want to have kids. What had ever induced him to marry her?

He kicked the dusty treadmill that Linda had promised she’d get good use out of, and a side panel broke off. Junk. It was all junk. Jary wasn’t even sure where some of it had come from. Maybe they’d reached some kind of critical junk mass, and it was starting to reproduce. He was sure he’d never seen those laser skis in the corner before.

The shelves along the back wall were layered with boxes and bags. Jary didn’t even know what was in half of them. A couple on the end looked like they might be intended for recyclables, but Jary never put anything in the recycling. Maybe Linda did. Not likely.

The shelves were probably the only worthwhile thing in the whole garage. He’d built them when they first moved in. Oh, what wonderful plans he’d had back then for a neat, tidy garage, with a place for everything and everything in its place. The shelves had been a key element of that vision. Now they just sat there on the wall, looking down over the mess, mocking him.

Well, he wasn’t going to leave them behind for whoever moved into this place next. The landlords could evict them, but they weren’t going to get any free home improvements out of it. Besides, Jary was in a destructive mood, anyways.

He climbed over the old laundry-bot to retrieve his hammer from the crowded work bench along the far wall. He’d been intending to fix that bot one of these months, and sell it once he get it working. Why hadn’t he? All it needed was a new battery, probably.

Hanging the hammer on his belt, Jary leaned a stepladder up against the wall beside the shelves and started bringing boxes down. He found a bunch of scrapbooking materials in one, and a collection of How-To manuals in another. There were a few boxes of pieces for a model train set, and ah ha! The Halloween decorations that had gone missing a couple of years back, and that he’d forgotten to ever go looking for.

Jary stacked all the boxes on top of his work bench. By the time the shelves were clear, he’d worked up a decent sweat. It felt good, and when he looked up to the empty shelves he got a bit of that original optimism back. Eviction wouldn’t be so bad. They’d find a new place soon, maybe even a better place, and it would be a fresh start. Everything would look like these empty shelves, bare and clean. He’d finally be able to get things organized, especially if he brought the shelves along to help.

Mounting the ladder again, Jary turned his hammer around and started pulling at the nails he’d used to hang the shelves. Most of them came out quite easily. It probably would’ve been smarter to use screws. He’d do that next time. And he’d have to get a stud-finder to make sure he wasn’t just anchoring into drywall, like he’d apparently done in a couple of places when he’d put these up. Oops.

One of the nails, at least, had gone into something solid. It had probably done most of the work of holding all the boxes up for the last couple of years, and it sure was being stubborn about coming out. Jary braced himself and yanked at the hammer with both hands, gritting his teeth.

The shelf came loose and collapsed with a crash. Jary’s momentum carried him off the ladder and he fell onto a couple of garbage bags which, thankfully, were stuffed with old clothes. He blinked and sputtered. Drywall dust showered down around him.

Wrestling himself free of the garbage bags, Jary got back to his feet and looked up. There was a hole in the drywall where the shelf had been anchored. Where Jary expected to see a vertical wooden stud, though, he instead saw a small, horizontal shelf that had been hidden inside the wall, with a little red box sitting on top of it. What was that doing there?

Jary climbed up the ladder and took out the red box. He lifted off the lid just as Linda pushed open the door.

“What’s going on?” demanded Linda. “What was that crash? Are you breaking stuff out here? You look like a mess!”

“I found something,” said Jary, “hidden inside the wall.”

“What? What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Jary took the object in the box and held it up in front of him. It had a wooden handle that fit nicely into his palm, a short, round tube sticking out in front of it, and some metal mechanisms in the middle.

Jary,” said Linda, breathlessly, “that’s a gun!”

“You think so?” said Jary. “I thought guns were bigger.”

“It’s a gun, Jary, I know it’s a gun! Guns are illegal! Guns are dangerous! Put it down! You’re going to blow us both up, or set the whole neighbourhood on fire or something!”

Jary held the gun—if that was what it was—gingerly as he climbed down from the ladder. “Don’t worry, I’m being careful,” he said.

Careful!?” screeched Linda. “A gun isn’t something you can just ‘handle carefully’! We should be evacuating!”

“There’s no need to get hysterical,” said Jary.

Oh yes there is!” Linda shrieked. “Guns aren’t safe, like peace weapons. They aren’t like Pacifiers or Tranquilasers or Harmony Beams. They’re violent. They’re meant for war, and murder, and killing people!

Jary rolled his eyes. “Does this little thing look like it’s going to just jump up and murder someone?”

Linda just whimpered.

“Fine,” said Jary, “I’ll call the police, just in case.” He put the gun back in its box and carried it into the house.

“What are you doing, carrying that thing around? You shouldn’t even be touching it!” warned Linda. “And don’t get the carpet dirty! You’re covered in dust.”

Jary tried to tune her out as he went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and scrolled through the contacts list to find the local police department.

The civilian dispatcher who answered the call took his name and address. “What can I help you with, Jary?” she asked.

“I, um. I found something hidden in the wall of my garage,” said Jary. “My wife thinks it might be a gun.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “What have… What are you doing with it?” asked the dispatcher.

“Nothing,” said Jary. “I just brought it inside and thought I should call it in. You know, just in case.”

“You brought it inside? Are you insane, Jary? This is a gun we’re talking about! Where is it right now?”

“Beside me on the kitchen counter. I—”

Another voice broke in. “Mr. Tomlin, this is Agent Parsons of the CIA. We advise you to remain in your home, and leave the gun where it is sitting right now. Do not attempt to leave your home, or your actions will be viewed as indicating hostile intent. Our agents will be arriving in approximately 15 minutes to secure the gun. I repeat, we will be on site in 15 minutes. Remain where you are.”

“Um… Okay,” said Jary. “Should I stay on the phone, or…?”

“That’s your call, Mr. Tomlin,” said Agent Parsons. “If you want to talk, we can talk. It’s up to you.”

“It’s just that I’m kind of dirty right now.” Jary plucked a little chunk of drywall out of his hair.

“I see,” said Agent Parsons. His voice had a rasping edge to it. “So it’s like that, then. Very well. Like I said, it’s your call. We’ll be seeing you in 15 minutes. Will you be ready for us?”

“I intend to be,” said Jary.

“I assure you that we, too, will be ready.”

“Er,” said Jary, “great, I guess.”

“This is not a game, Mr. Tomlin,” said Agent Parsons. “Remember: 15 minutes.”

Jary hung up. “That was weird.”

“What did they say?” asked Linda. “Are they coming here?”

“Yeah, in about 15 minutes,” said Jary. “He was very clear on that point. I’m going to go rinse off all this dust before they get here.”

“Ah, oh,” Linda moaned, “why did this have to happen to us? And right in the middle of all our packing, too.”

“It’s fine,” Jary assured her, already on his way to the bathroom. “I’m sure it’ll only take a minute or two to deal with.” He ran the hot water, hopped into the shower, and began scrubbing his head.

Two minutes later he heard someone pounding on the door. “CIA! Open up, Jary Tomlin! We know you’re in there!”

Jary shut off the water and hopped out of the shower, muttering to himself. “Fifteen minutes? Doesn’t the CIA know how to tell time?” He ran a towel over himself as quickly as he could. “Linda, get the door!”

Linda poked her head into the bathroom. “I’m scared!” she said.

“Well I’m wet!”

The pounding continued. “Open the door, Mr. Tomlin!”

Jary sighed as he hurriedly pulled on his underwear and pants. The fabric stuck to his still-wet skin. He dragged a shirt over his head and trotted into the kitchen to retrieve the gun.

“Last chance, Mr. Tomlin! Open this door right now!”

“I’m coming!” Jary called. He jogged up the front door, turned the handle, pulled the door open, and held the gun out in his palm.

He was greeted by half a dozen imposing CIA agents in dark suits and sunglasses with very serious expressions on their faces and Pacifiers in their hands. Each thumb-sized silver peace weapon was pointed straight at Jary. The front yard was ringed in by a telecopter, two SWAT helivans, and at least two dozen nervous-looking police officers.

The CIA agents looked down at the gun in Jary’s hand and smoothly, slowly, began to back away.

“Here it is,” said Jary. “It isn’t mine. I just found it.”

“Steady now, Mr. Tomlin,” said one of the agents, a black woman who was holding her hands placatingly out in front of her. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“I don’t want things to be difficult.”

“Good,” said the agent. She licked her lips. “Good,” she repeated. “I’m Agent Smithers. Can we talk? All I want to do is talk.”

“Sure, yes,” said Jary. “Let’s talk.”

“Why don’t we talk inside,” suggested Smithers.

“Fine,” said Jary.

“Okay, I’m going to come towards you, and I’m going to keep my hands out in front of me, where you can see them. Why don’t you lead me to a couch, or a table, or really anywhere you’ll feel comfortable.”

“Um,” said Jary. “Okay.” He brought Smithers into the front room. She sat down on an easy chair, seeming decidedly uneasy about it. Jary put the gun down on the coffee table and sat on the couch.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” said Smithers. “You’re trying to make a statement. You want to shake things up a bit. I get that.”

“I… What?” said Jary.

“I don’t know where you got this gun. The technology for making them has been lost for decades. But here we are.”

Jary wrinkled his forehead. “I just… I found it in my garage.”

“Uh huh. Really, it doesn’t matter where it came from, Mr. Tomlin. That isn’t why I’m here. All I want is to get the gun out of your hands without any bloodshed.”

“That sounds very reasonable,” said Jary.

“Good,” said Smithers. “So, down to business then. First, let me turn this off…” She reached into her jacket, took out a small audio recorder, and thumbed a switch. A red light on its side blinked out. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we’d prefer not to have a record of these negotiations,” she said. “Official policy states that we do not negotiate with terrorists.”

Jary’s eyes popped open. “With what?”

“Now, here’s the really good news for you,” continued Smithers. “I don’t actually work for the CIA.”

“You don’t?”

“Well, I do, but not only for them. I’m here on behalf of a foreign government. Exactly which government is not your concern. Suffice it to say that I think your interests and our interests align in this scenario.”


“We want this gun, Mr. Tomlin. It is of extreme value to us.” Smithers stared at Jary intensely. “The Global Disarmament accords did their job well. Too well, we think. Look at us, armed with nothing but Pacifiers and Peacemakers and other pitiful nonsense. All that hype and rhetoric about Mutually Assured Destruction means nothing now. With this gun in our hands, there would be nothing ‘mutual’ about it. You may have your demands, Mr. Tomlin, but we have much larger fish to fry.” Smithers paused. “And I’m not saying that because we’re a coastal nation. I mean, we might be, but we aren’t necessarily. Water-related metaphors exist in landlocked countries, too. We might have lakes.” She frowned. “Don’t read too much into that.”

Jary said, “What?”

“You want numbers? I’ll give you numbers. How about a million dollars?”

Jary sat up a little straighter. “A million?”

“Ten million, then. We aren’t some poor, backwater nation. Or maybe a back-land nation. What I’m trying to say is we have resources. But not that many resources. Enough resources. Stop trying to make me slip, Mr. Tomlin. I’m not telling you anything more than you need to know.”

Jary blinked and looked down at the gun. What in the world was going on?

“Wait! Last offer!” said Smithers. “Twenty-five million dollars. We’ll walk out of here together, you and I, take that telecopter in the front yard, and jump away to Rabat before they know what’s going on. Or to any other city. Whatever city I’m from. Because maybe I’m not from Morocco. But I could be. But maybe I’m not.” Smithers bit her lip.

Twenty-five million dollars. Jary surreptitiously pinched his leg. Nope, he wasn’t dreaming. The things he could do with twenty-five million dollars… But from the sounds of it, that would mean giving the gun to Morocco. Should he do that? They seemed to want it really badly. Was it really that powerful of a weapon?

“Um,” said Jary, “what happens after you get the gun?”

“Whatever you want,” said Smithers. “You fly away free. You can even keep the telecopter.”

His own telecopter? It was like a childhood fantasy come true. “That sounds… really good,” said Jary. “But I think maybe I should talk to my wife.”

Smithers leaned forward. “Certainly,” she said, with a Cheshire grin. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“Linda!” called Jary. “Linda, where are you? Come in here!”

Linda peeked her head in from the kitchen, behind the couch Jary was sitting on. “Yes?”

“I need to discuss something with you,” said Jary. He turned around to look at his wife. “This lady says…”

As soon as Jary had turned, Smithers pounced. She flung herself forwards, grabbed at the gun, and crashed through the coffee table. Jary was so startled that he tipped the couch over backwards. Linda screamed.

Smithers came up with the gun in her hand. “Ha! Now the tables have turned!” she crowed. “You should have taken my offer, Mr. Tomlin.”

“I was going to!” squeaked Jary, raising his hands above his head.

“Too late now,” barked Smithers. “But you’re coming with me anyways, both of you. You’re going to be my insurance policy until we get on that telecopter. Get in front of me. March!”

Jary and Linda scurried ahead of Smithers as she led them to the front door.

“Open it,” ordered Smithers.

Linda slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The CIA agents and police officers in the yard were instantly alert, raising their Pacifiers.

“Nobody makes a move!” shouted Smithers. “I’ve got the gun!”

There was a collective gasp. “Veronica, no!” cried one of the agents. “What are you doing?”

“I’m securing the future prosperity of Morocco!” boasted Smithers. “Or maybe some other country. Morocco might only be an example. You’ll find out soon enough! Don’t try to track me when I leave, or else.” She waved the gun in the air.

Everyone cringed.

Smithers glared evilly. “I’ve got hostages, and I’m taking them to the telecopter. First person to make a move gets to experience the full destructive power of this marvel of pre-Disarmament technology!” She prodded Jary and Linda with her free hand. “Move,” she commanded. They began taking slow steps across the yard towards the waiting telecopter.

A young, steely-eyed police officer waited until they were just passing by, and swiftly raised his Pacifier.

Smithers whirled on him and pulled the gun’s old-fashioned trigger with an evil, triumphant grin. There was a loud BANG, and the officer was knocked over backwards.

“Ooh, ow!” moaned the officer. He sat up, holding his shoulder. Blood was streaming out between his fingers. “Ooow.”

Smithers looked at the gun in her hand and furiously spun Jary around to face her. “That’s it!?” she bellowed. “That’s all this gun does?”

Jary shrugged meekly. “I don’t know! I just found it!”

The CIA agents, several of whom had dived to the ground when Smithers fired the gun, were getting back to their feet.

Smithers defiantly raised the gun in front of her. “You’ll never take me!” she cried, and sprinted towards the telecopter.

Four Pacifier beams struck her at once, and she and the gun disintegrated into a neat little pile of dust and salt.

“Interesting,” said one of the CIA agents.

“Very interesting,” said another.

“I guess it really was quite a small gun.”