Saturday, April 17, 2010

We Three Kings: Fellowship of the Kings 

Holy shit, I'm still alive! Yeah, I slipped a little there. Anyway, I'm going to get back to updating this blog now. More random humor and gripe articles are likely forthcoming....but in the meantime, it's time to check back in to this pointless spy action story that for some reason I'm determined to finish.

"Is there any hors d'oeuvres?" Don said as he dug around in the miniature refrigerator. "I like me some hors d'oeuvres."

Stephen sat on the cheap, button-tufted wing back chair on the opposite end of the green room, arms crossed and eyes closed. He opened his eyes and sighed.

"Just sit down, Don. You're like a little kid half the time."

"Fuck off, Steve," Don said as he settled on a bottle of Coke and slammed the refrigerator closed. "My ass is hungry."

"Okay," Stephen said patiently. "What would your ass like to eat?"

"I done told you," Don said as he took one drink, screwed the cap back on the bottle, and threw it across the room. "Hors d'oeuvres."

"So what, you're expecting a party tray or something?"

Don fell heavily into the chair next to Stephen and narrowed his eyes at him. "The fuck's you talkin' about?"

"Hors d'oeurves don't just come anywhere. You serve them on trays at parties."

"You so full of shit," Don scoffed. "I get hors d'oeuvres all the time at the grocery store. Frozen. I heat 'em up in the microwave."

"I think you're confusing 'hors d'oeuvres' with 'snack food,' Don," Stephen said patiently.

"Same fuckin' thing, dumb fuck. 'Hors d'oeuvres' is a fancy way of saying 'snack food.'"

Before Stephen could retort, the door to the green room swung open, and with the swagger of an old gunfighter, in walked the man, the myth, the legend: Larry, the oldest living King. Stephen and Don both stood immediately to formally great him, but Larry waved them off.

"Save it, fellas," Larry said dismissively. "Now I need to know why you're here. And I don't want to hear anything about SCEPTER sending us on another mission. I'm retired. From that, anyway."

"Yeah, when did your ass retire?" Don asked. "I didn't get the memo."

Larry hesitated, then: "Well, I guess I took it for granted that agents leave the field once they turn eighty. I figured you all knew."

"So you're eighty?" Stephen asked.

Larry grinned. "I'm not falling for this one. Nobody knows this old boy's age except the old boy himself. Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Well, I think you already know," Stephen said. "SCEPTER. I haven't been briefed yet, but Don knows about it."

Larry looked to Don, who shook his head and pulled a cigar from his pocket.

"They told me they want to do the briefing," Don said as he bit the end off and took out his lighter. "I ain't supposed to say shit."

"You're not supposed to smoke in the green room, sir," Larry said pointedly.

Don struck his lighter and paused, looking up at Larry, the unlit cigar still dangling from his lips. He snorted, then lit it anyway.

"Fine then. I can see we're not playing nice," Larry said. "Why exactly do they have to tell us themselves?"

"Knowing SCEPTER, so it will be more dramatic," Stephen sighed.

"I'm the attestation of privileged information," Don said between puffs. "I got it, ya'll don't."

"What's the deal with him, anyway?" Larry asked Stephen, pointing a thumb at Don. "Kind of a pissy mood."

"Yeah, you'll have to excuse him," Stephen said. "He just drove cross country, twice. Three times, if you count laterally as 'cross country.'"

"And ya'll don't have no hors d'oeuvres," Don fumed.

Larry nodded at this, then did a double take. "Wait, what?"

"Do you still have the Larrycopter?" Stephen asked hopefully.

Larry shook his head. "No. I got rid of that when I retired."

"Shit. Looks like we're still stuck traveling in Don's Pimpwagon."

"I done told your ass," Don growled, blowing smoke in Stephen's face for effect. "It's called the Big Ticket."

"Yeah," Stephen scoffed. "Named after all those unpaid citations in your glove compartment."

"I can pay off that shit any time I want," Don muttered, jamming his cigar back into his mouth.

"Alright, fine," Larry said. "So we're going to DC then, I guess, and we're going in the Big Ticket."

Stephen and Don both nodded simultaneously.

"Great," Larry continued, with a hint of sarcasm. "I'll get Kathy Griffin or Bob Costas to sit in for me the next couple of nights. Let's get this over with."

Larry stepped aside and motioned for Don and Stephen to walk ahead of him. He hesitated before following them out.

"Why do I have such a bad feeling about this?" Larry muttered under his breath.

"Problem?" Stephen called from down the hallway.

"No, no problem," Larry called back as he left the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

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