In the back of a military cargo plane, Dirk’s handler, an attractive woman by the name of Kendra McKenna, studied the plane’s coordinates on a tablet computer. She wore a pair of red glasses and a black leather jacket.
“Dirk,” the woman said into a microphone clipped to her lapel. “We’re going to be over the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank in five minutes. The goons we bribed only have a ten minute window before they have to bury the tank again, so stop screwing around and get to work.”
Hearing no answer, the woman shook her head. “Pilot?”
“Yes, Miss McKenna?” came the pilot’s voice through the woman’s earpiece.
“Be prepared to dump cargo on my mark,” the woman replied.
“Affirmative,” the pilot said.
Kendra walked to the center of the cargo hold where she found a giant metal container. Stenciled on the side were the words, “SKIPPY JR.”
“You ok in there, Skippy Jr.?” Kendra asked as she knocked on the container.
A few silent moments passed before the container’s inhabitant responded. “Raarga.”
“Good boy,” Kendra said. “Prepare for deployment. Upon landing, standby in the Imperial Honcho’s septic tank and await further orders.”
“Raarga,” came the voice of Skippy Jr. from inside the container.
“I know,” Kendra said. “But you know how Dirk gets around exotic poon.”
“Raarga, raarga,” Skippy Jr. said.
“Bros before hoes?” Kendra asked. “Sigh. You men are all alike.”
Kendra slapped the container. “Good luck, Skippy Jr.”
Kendra strapped herself into a chair attached to the plane. “What do you mean you don’t need luck?”
“Oh, you’ve got skills, huh?”
“Well, good luck just the same, buddy.”
Kendra spoke into her microphone. “Open cargo bay doors.”
“Affirmative,” the pilot replied.
A red light blinked and a buzzer blared. The plane’s cargo bay doors opened up and the metal container moved down a conveyor built until finally, it fell out of the plane.
“Skippy Jr.,” Kendra said into her microphone. “You got your ears on?”