“I count thirty-four in the street and one right here,” Agent Gallstone sighs back.
In the other sidecar, something snaps in Agent Lickspittle’s head, and he shouts into his cuff microphone, “Enough! I’m no longer waiting on orders we already received. We aren’t waiting for someone else to decide how to deal with this. We’ll report our progress and blog it down if we have to. But damn it, they said pick up the Humscalade and take it to Las Vegas and await orders, and that’s what I plan on doing!”
As he finishes, he looks up to Agent M who is checking out his reflection in his thirteen-inch survival knife, and slaps the big man’s leg. Agent M’s head snaps to his left, and he twists the large blade so it is mere inches from Agent Lickspittle’s throat. Agent Lickspittle sees Agent M’s earpiece swinging from his ear, and he realizes the big man has heard nothing he said over his own humming.
“Easy, Meat,” Agent Lickspittle tells him, “save it for the enemy.”
“Everyone is mine enemy,” Agent M growls, and he tickles the back of the blade on Lickspittle’s throat.
“Well, I’m your friend. And Fred is your friend,” Agent Lickspittle nods toward Agent Gallstone, who has taken full advantage of his fellow agents’ distracted state and commenced rubbing out a quick one. Agent M doesn’t follow Lickspittle’s nod, so Lickspittle continues. “We are sick of waiting, Meat, let’s go get that Humscalade!”
“Da,” Agent M grins. “Rules is only made for being brokened!”
Agent M sparks his Zippo lighter to life and lights a massive cigar, then jumps in the air and kicks the bike’s ignition on the way down. His large frame rattles the motorcycle and forces it to swerve as it squeals toward the warehouse. Every zombie in the street turns to face the spy-cycle. They moan and drool at the sight of living flesh, and they stagger toward the approaching machine.
“We are GO,” Agent Gallstone reports to his cuff.
His lover fires the chain-guns mounted on the side of the cars, spitting hot lead at the loitering dead. The heavy bullets tear through rotting flesh, pulverizing the walking corpses to goo before they hit the pavement. Agent M reaches into his heavy leather jacket and pulls out a stick of dynamite that looks like it was made in the 1940s. He takes both hands off the handlebars to light the long dusty fuse on the stick, and throws it into the crowd of zombies. As it explodes, he chews on his cigar and observes, “No better crowd control than dynamite!”
Between the heavy gunfire and the use of old-school explosives, a workable path has been cleared through the dead. Brackish yellow goo and dismembered body parts form a sticky creek of gore through which the remaining zombies stumble. The spy cycle swerves to hit every shambler as it careens towards the warehouse, leaving no one standing in its wake.
A big white van speeds around the far corner, pursued by winged goat-faced demons. All three agents turn to see the driver and passenger screaming in terror at their hellborn assailants. A demon grips the roof of the van and slams a gnarled fist through the driver’s-side window. It claws at the driver’s hairy face; tearing away fuzz and flesh with its talons. The van swerves and tips onto its side, sliding straight at the spy-cycle and the three secret agents.
Agent M reaches down and grabs Agent Gallstone under one arm and Agent Lickspittle under the other. He dives away from the motorcycle, slamming his fellow agents into the closed door of the warehouse a split second before the van crashes into the spy-cycle in a squeal of metal and sparks. The demons tear at the van’s panels as it slows to a stop, peeling up the side of the van like a giant can of sardines. The terrified passenger screams in a guttural foreign tongue. The demons growl back, accusing the man of inappropriate sexual congress with their full goat brethren as they tear his limbs from his body.
“We are at target, Control,” an out-of-breath Agent Gallstone reports. “Making entrance and securing Humscalade, Control.”
“Well done, agents,” Gary purrs. “Think maybe once the Humscalade is secure, one of you can drive this shitty van for a while and I can ride in the Humscalade?”
Agent Lickspittle looks at Agent Gallstone and shakes his head slowly back and forth.
Agent Gallstone slumps his shoulders and asks Agent Lickspittle, “Really? What can it hurt?”
Agent Lickspittle only shakes his head in response.
“No, Control,” Agent Gallstone pouts, “only the special secret agents can drive the Humscalade and pack nukes.”
“That’s fucked-up, Freddy,” Gary snaps. “Just report back when you’ve secured the fucking thing.”
Agent Lickspittle pulls a locksmith kit from his pocket and leans over to work on the lock to the warehouse door. Agent M beats him to it, kicking in the door with one smooth, forceful motion. The three agents dive into the warehouse and surround the shiny black Humscalade. After a quick look around the big room, the agents deem it secure and empty save for the vehicle and a steel briefcase next to it.
“Building secure, Control,” Agent Gallstone reports.
“Whatever,” Control replies.
“Humscalade secured, Control,” Agent Gallstone says a little more firmly.
“Whatever,” Control responds with no less apathy.
Agent Lickspittle opens the door of the Humscalade and grabs a handwritten note off the driver’s seat.
Dear Secret Agents,
This is the Humscalade, the most advanced and comfortable weapon ever known to mankind. Satan has risen in the desert outside of Las Vegas, and the Humscalade could be the only way to stop the Dark Lord. Remember your training and handle this mission with extreme care. Body counts, civilian or otherwise, are completely irrelevant in this mission. Kill them all and let God sort them out!
Beware, there is a rumored nuclear weapon in the area that may be under terrorist control. If so, steal the nuke back and use it if needed.
“I have our next orders, agents. Let’s go,” Lickspittle says to Agents M and Gallstone. He turns his attention to the briefcase and notices another note taped to it.
Dear Kamal,
Here is the thermonuclear weapon as we agreed upon. Please remember our deal. Only nuke poor families and counties. No big places. 911 was way too showy. We don’t want another cluster fuck like that, now do we?
“Son of a bitch,” Lickspittle growls before picking up the nuke case and putting it in the back seat next to Agent M.
“Control, we are ready for the next step of the mission,” Agent Gallstone tells his cuff as he buckles his seat belt. “Destination Las Vegas.”
After a moment of silence, he asks, “Control, do you copy?”
“Yeah,” Gary says in a faraway voice, “but there is some kind of box out here. It has lips and stars painted on it. A poster for a newspaper called The Daily Cunt on one side. It’s humming at me. I’m going to investigate.”
“No! Stay put, Control, await backup,” Agent Gallstone yells into his sleeve.
“Oh, calm down, Fred,” Gary says, and they hear his door creak open. “It wants to suck my dick. I don’t know how I know, but I know it does. It is calling my prick. I’m gonna do it!”
Agent Gallstone hears Gary’s zipper and then obscene sucking sounds followed immediately by deep gravelly Gary moans.
“Control, you better not have you your dick in some strange box!”
“Oh, I do, Freddy, and it sucks so good,” Gary moans over the radio. “I don’t need you anymore, Fred, you or the fucking Humscalade!”