Work and Workings of a Nerd

“What do we do now?” asked Jeffries, looking back up at Biggs . Jeffries had been Biggs’ handler for a wide variety of missions over the past years and constantly found himself asking that question.
Biggs paused for a moment, then kneeled over to begin searching the unconscious body. He rifled through the man’s pockets, which lacked all ID and his jacket, looking for more hidden pocket. Unsatisfied, he looked at the man’s face for a moment, then pushed back a lock of hair, revealing a listening device. Quickly, he crunched the tiny bug and tossed it in the trash.
“Well, we can now assume that whoever sent this man has been listening in, which puts us in a world of jeopardy. They’re probably coming right now in force, now that subterfuge has failed them, and we’re stuck in a tower. Any ideas?” he finished, taking a glance over at Jeffries for the first time.
“You’re the agent; what am I supposed to know?” he responded, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“True. What we need is another way out. We can’t rely on American security, for we all know how good that is…” he scrunched his face up for a moment, then began cleaning up the mens’ room, tossing the body into a stall and closing the door. “Our best hope is disguise. Jeffries, please wait here a moment while I go acquire us some souvenirs.”
Jeffries stood in the mens’ room patiently, contemplating their current situation. He had seen Biggs get them out of tougher situations, but that didn’t stop him from worrying. In a moment, Biggs was back with two t-shirts. He began removing his blazer, shirt, pants, and socks, gesturing for Jeffries to do the same. Slipping on the t-shirt, he looked back in the mirror while Jeffries struggled with the last of his attire.
“I hope the ‘shoeless and boxers’ look is still ‘in’ in the US. Let’s go.”
“Wait, what do I do with my wallet and everything?” asked Jeffries before they could leave.
“Why in the world would you carry that around? Please tell me you never carry around real identification on you. Not after all these years,” he said with a sigh, turning around to look at the slightly embarressed man. “Well, no harm. Take you wallet and throw it under one of the toilets and pray for the honesty of the next man who sees it.

(yes, short, meaningless, but a good way to get back into it. Hopefully, I’ll be writing more soon)

Chris sat there, stirring his coffee, waiting.
Four stirs counterclockwise, two the other way, with a small sip, and repeat.
Generally a patient man, he became worried. His contact had assured him that he would be on time, and in this business, the unexpected invariably meant trouble. He looked out the window, down onto Seattle. A pleasant, though not particularly noteworthy view, for the Space Needle wasn’t quite as well situated as he had hoped.
“Ah, Mr…” came the voice behind him. He turned around into the friendly smile of a British man, about his height, of insignificant appearance.
“Biggs. My name is Biggs. And you are…” he returned, grasping the other man’s hand in a warm embrace.
“Laurie. A pleasure to meet you. Is that a… Canadian accent, I hear?”
“Very perceptive of you, Mr. Laurie,” he responded casually. “I have your shipment secured down in a warehouse down on by the port. I hope you’re government will have better luck reasoning the contents of it,” he continued, hopefully. He began a slow stroll around the Needle, with Laurie soon following.
“Yes, we have very good people for the job. I-”
Cutting him off, Chris quickly mentioned, “Ah, well, now the pleasantries are out of the way, I’ll be more than glad to discuss specifics, after I take a quick detour to the boys’ room. I’ll be right back,” he assured, with a smile.
Laurie nodded, and Chris quickly sped over to the washroom. Swinging open the door, he casually walked into a stall.
Working hastily, he removed his shoes and pants, carefully positioning them, then locking the door. With incredible flexibility, he sneaked underneath the wall into the adjacent stall, closing the door and standing on the seat.
He waited for a moment, when the washroom door swung open with footsteps gradually coming closer.
He waited further as the footsteps came even closer, then stopping.
Suddenly, he swung the stall door out, which subsequently richocheted off a body. He jumped out onto the offbalance Englishmen, who quickly gained his wits and focused upon his opponent, billyclub in hand.
A quick fake with the left, and Chris tossed the contents of his coffee cup into Laurie’s face, letting the scalding liquid burn through.
A solid kick to a critical point and a punch to the face, and it was over.
Another man rushed into the washroom, a man in a suit, with a look of concern on his face.
“What happened?” he puffed out, exasperated.
“Apparently there’s more danger to coffee than just it being ‘hot’,” Chris responded, pointing toward the spill and the bruise.
“But… how did you know?” the man slowly said as he turned to face his partner.
“The callouses on his hand. For a ‘British agent’, his callouses felt more like those of a knife fighter, not a gun slinger.”

Wiping the sweat off my forehead with my hankerchief, I swiftly patted down my now crumpled suit, walking away from the scene. I hate getting in all these fights.
You would too if you had multiple deathmarks from various underground crime syndicates across several galaxies. Tonight was supposed to be dinner and a party at the Planetary Governor’s mansion. It ended up as four scuffles and a tear in time-space that ripped out an entire city.
I knew I should go back to HQ on Quartanis IV and check the weekly schedule for duties, though I guessed an emergency transmission would tell me what would be happening next. One that proclaimed its arrival with a beep in my pocket.
Walking swiftly toward the nearest hovercar, I pulled my receiver out of pocket flipping up the viewscreen, activating hover mode in front of me.
“Agent TK-421, I assume you know what has happened to New New York over there,” spoke a old man, of whom I address as P. And yes, there are always puns when he takes a washroom break.
“I’m already on it, though I’d like some directions to my best resource,” I responded, while activating my EM transmitter implant, opening and turning on the car.
“Well, that’s a little trickier. No known suspects have even been a lightyear within the Hermes system, and frankly, our psychic division is drawing a blank. As far as we know, the leading expert on tears was in NNY when it happened. However, you might want to visit his daughter on the next planet over. They have a family residence there, should be easy enough to find. You might be able to find some leads in his research. see what you can dig up. We’ll still be working over here.”
“Gotcha, I’ll get to the bottom of this. 421 out,” I finished, deactivating the receiver and pocketing it. Looking down, however, I also noticed a blinking light coming from the driver door. Tugging at it, I realized what it was.
I knew I should have packed my bomb defusal kit.

When some thug points a gun at you, you really don’t have a whole lot of choices. Fortunately, reflexes don’t require you to make a choice.
The Genovian lifted his left arm from his holster and heft it up with one arm, extending his arm fully at me as he pulled the trigger.
Just a bit quicker, I hopped over the table, hoping it to be sturdy enough to deflect a DeathRae 4000. Barely clearing the glass top, I heard the sizzle of a released charge, a charge deadly enough to bring down a Harlexian Elephant. Following the burning path with my eyes through the titanium alloy wall, I realized I needed a new plan. Unfortunately, this plan would have to do without a gun; good tip for you: always check your catridge before you need it.
“Surrender, fool!” he yelled out. “You have no chance against this!” tapping his nail against the casing of his DeathRae. Good model, shame to be wasted on such a low-life.
“Alright, you got me. I’ve taken quite a few gambles in my life, but this one doesn’t quite have the same odds as the others,” I responded, raising my hands and popping up to face him. I was right; the odds were much better this time.
I walked slowly towards him, hands still up, though it did nothing to ease him.
“Stay back,” he said, shuffling back, “if you know what’s good for you.” See how easy it is to gain the upper hand?
In a flash, I had him disarmed and back against the wall, a nifty trick from Phar. He recovered quickly enough, raising his fists, ready for a fight. I’ll admit, I’m no brawler, but I can handle myself. He faked left, right, left, right, and over and over, though it didn’t matter. I knew which was coming.
I threw my right hand up for the early block, then allowing my knee to teach him a cheaper alternative to a vasectomy. The fight wasn’t quite fair, I’ll admit, but I don’t fight fair. Besides, he should have aimed his gun with both hands.

You know how there’s always that story of the final mission?
That came too early.
My cry for help came too late; apparently someone was a little trigger happy.
The last thing I heard was, “Looks like we have another case of ‘swiss cheese’.”
But then again, if I’m dead, how am I recollecting this story?
Beats me. Ask the author.

(Author’s Note: I wasn’t too sure where this was going in the first place, but I soon realized it was nowhere. In ‘ne case, I’ll have a fresh adventure with a new lead soon.)

Imagine being on a summer vacation in the Bahamas, the warm rays of sunshine engulfing you in its blinding glory, listening to the gentle sloshing of the tides against the beach, that has the smoothest sand in all the Caribbean, endless miles of clear water all around you, alone on your own private island.
This mission was nothing like that.
After bumping my head against the low air duct ceiling for the 5th time, I let out a silent curse, wondering why Jake always insisted on doing things the hard way.
“Dammit, Jake, they don’t have a front door for nothing!” I vehemently spat at him, intent on digging in the most guilt with every word.
“I’m sorry Dixon, but it simply isn’t in our best interests to make our presence known. Now we quiet, or we might be caught,” he whispered fiercly back at me.
I cursed again, for there were now oil stains in my best blazer that would never come out. Such is the life of a private investigator.
We continued in the air duct, taking several lefts when I felt right was right, and often taking rights I thought were wrong. After endless passages and several more bruises, Jake turned and smiled, apparently successful at finding our way to our destination. He quickly popped the grate out while we silently dropped into the dark room. I stood and waited, hoping that Jake knew where the light switch was.
“You know, why is it that the room you always need to get to always has an easy back door in it? It’s just ridiculous how easy things are; it’s almost as if they wanted us to just stroll right in,” I commented, a growing sense of pride at our apparent competence in making such a difficult assignment easy.
“Yes, it would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” responded a distinctly unfamiliar voice, to which I soon attributed to an unfamiliar face as the lights overwhelmed the darkness. “Now, you’ve met your end. Men, kill them,” the man ordered, and I look around to see several thugs who seemed very eager to let their index finger speak for them.
“I think we should fight,” Jake muttered to me.
“If by fight, you mean pull out a random device that has been alluded to by our mastermind toy maker earlier in the story and escape in a spectular manner, I agree,” I retorted.
“By fight, I meant something more like praying to every god you know that their weapon providers accidently filled their ammo boxes with blanks. Either that, or their aim sucks and they shoot each other instead.”
“I think we’ll just go classic,” I finished. I heard percussive clicks come from each gun as our doom moved into the barrel. I anxiously waited for the last moment, feeling the exact second before their trigger appendages tensed, and yelled, “Wait!”

Waking up in a strange room with menacing men holding weapons no longer scared me. Or even surprised me. I’d been through this hundreds of times, and my survival is a testament to some ridiculous fortune.
Perturbed that my hat and coat had been removed, I also noticed my gun gone, along with my keys, wallet, and rubber duck. I tried to move, but found all limbs tied to the chair, and the chair seemed quite stable.
“Stop moving, or the boss says we can make a hit,” one of the men behind him said.
“Make a hit, you say? Hehe, well, my good friend Ricky has made a couple hits too, like “Fly me to the Random Space Junk” and “Come Soar with Me”, hehe,” I replied nervously. Humor always loosened up tense situations. It also loosened up restraint.
“Think you’re so funny, eh?” Darn Canadian hitmen(W00T!!). “Well, why don’t you tell your joke to Mr. Louisville Slugger?” His arm cocked back when a door I couldn’t see creaked open. His arm relaxed as another voice, much smoother, came across to me.
“Mr. Dills, I’m surprised to see you back again so early,” the man said as he closed the door behind him. “Does it not seem like just yesterday that you made a similar visit, under similar circumstances?”
“Perhaps,” I responded neutrally. Advice: don’t let anything on in an interrogation room.
“Ah, well I’m sure you know best. Of course, I actually know why you’re here this time,” he hinted.
“Oh, do you? Mind letting me in on that, I think I’ve forgotten.” I always chuckle in my mind after lines like that.
“Yes, I believe it was because of something like this,” he finished, pulling out his gun and cocking it.
Some people pray at moments like this. I just use my psychic powers to deflect the bullets.
Not really.
“See you in Hell, Mr. Rawlins,” I responded cheerfully, knowing all the little offenses would’ve stacked up against me.
“To be sure,” he responded, swinging his gun around and popping each of the thugs in the forehead.
…
…
Yeah. Because that one happens a lot.

Well, luck is fickle, but I just seem to always grab it at the right time.
“Well, that’s one bridge that I’ve crossed while burning,” Jake Rawlins muttered. “How you doing, Dixon?”
“Oh, you know, not so bad, just the usual, murder attempts, torture, etc. Hey, you mind undoing these bindings?” I casually requested of him.
“Oh, ya, sure,” he responded, putting his gun back in his holster, sweeping a couple blond locks back, then working on the rope behind me.
Within a minute, he had undone all of it, and we immediately began to plan.
“So, when you got me in here, did you have a plan for getting me out?”(‘neone catch the quote? Comment the source) I asked, rubbing my wrists, then checking to see what equipment they had stripped from me.
“Well, I know the guards on this hallway are knocked out from some ‘special’ whiskey I gave them, though past that, I don’t think there are any major obstacles. What are you doing down here, anyways?” he inquired. So he was bluffing before…
“A Mrs. Betty Belle came to my door, looking for some cover when she was killed in my office. Went down to Pops, and he pointed me in this direction,” I explained.
A ghastly look came over Rawlins when I turned to look, and his eyes widened. Apparently something was wrong.
“Did, did, did, you… say Betty Belle?” he repeated, blinking hard as though to rid it of his mind.
“Uh, yeah, didjya know her?”
Color seemed to return to his face as he eased slightly, wiping his sweat with a hankerchief.
“We need to break into Captain’s office. Now.” He held his voice carefully, making sure to enunciate every word precisely.
“Why is that?” I asked him, wondering why it was so neccesary to take such a big risk.
“Because there’s no way she could be dead in your office if she’s locked in the Captain’s.”

He quietly opened the door to the “Bunny Cradle”, attempting to make as little disturbance as possible. The smoke filed his nasal cavity, blessing him with the smell of cigarettes instead of the B.O. of many unshowered men. Pool balls knocked together, mugs were clunked around, and music played above all other sounds. Wondering what he would find here, Dixon sauntered over to the bar, taking a seat isolated from the others.
“What can I get for ya?” the bartender called over his shoulder while cleaning out one of the mugs.
“Prune juice. Warm, not chilled,” he responded smuggly.
The bartender stopped for a moment, then turned toward him, embers burning in his eyes. “How dare you bring your sorry butt in here and order something like that! You come to an honorable estab-”
CRACK, cried the baseball bat as it collided with the back of an unsuspecting man’s head, ensuing into another bar fight.
The bartender paused again. “Okay, whatever, need to get rid of it ‘neways,” he finished, moving into the stockroom to grab the unopened crate.
“Mr. Dills, I’m surprised to see you back here again,” called out a familiar voice from behind him.
Dixon turned as Mr. Knuckles greeted him as well.

“Ah, Mr. Jones,” Dixon replied curtly as the men around him moved closer, bats in hand. “I would greatly prefer it if you removed the mask,” he continued, gesturing to the tall man’s face.
“Ah, yes, about that,” he returned, slowly pulling it off. “So when are you planning on joining the community baseball team? I’ve been waiting for a reply for awhile.”
“I’m on a case right now, so I’ll have to give you a rain-check. Sorry about it.”
They slowly began walking down the street, chatting about news and such. Fortunately, a team of baseball players with bats in hand was enough to keep the thieves and muggers away.
“Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed this,” Dixon said later, “I really need to figure this case out. I’ll call you when I have time.”
The tall man nodded, and Dixon took the nearest cab to head down to the docks.

The docks were a savage place for only the toughest of men, bravest of all, and darkest of skin(sorry). For as dangerous as the streets of Webster were, no law enforcement officer dared go near the docks. A hive of corruption and danger, the docks held almost every major crime organization in town. Along with the only “Sears”.
The sun had not set, but the roads seemed dark regardless. The smell of the ocean, the cries of the seagulls, and the taste of garbage around gave the greatest warning any could need to stay away, but Dixon was unafraid.
He had his membership card in his pocket.
“Yo, whachu trying to pull?” said a random gang member as Dixon walked up.
“I’ve got my card in my pocket,” he quickly responded, pulling it out and showing him.
The man inspected it carefully in his grimy hands. “Looks alright to me. But you better watch yourself,” he hinted, lowering his voice. “The Blue Clams are looking to start trouble. I’d stay in Vaseline Razer town, if I were you.”
“Do you know where I can find the nearest Bar on 5th street? I’m actually kind of thirsty,” he asked offhandedly.
“Bunny Cradle. Can’t miss it,” he responded. Dixon gave him a quick nod and headed in that direction, not noticing those in his shadow.