Bookshelf Battle

Moscow, Russian Federation
President Anatoly Popov may have been in his late fifties, but he projected an outward persona of phony youth. His head was shaved bald, but prominent on his face was a Van Dyke beard that had been died a black so deep and rich that it seemed out of place in such close proximity to the crow’s feet around his eyes. His frame was lean and muscular. His suit? The best his ill-gotten gains could buy.
In his private box that overlooked the Moscow Opera House, the president sat next to his mistress, a raven-haired beauty twenty-five years his junior. Together, they watched as an obese woman in a Viking helmet took to the stage and broke out into song. Her voice was elegant, like that of a songbird trapped in human form.
“Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You just got the 1980s action TV show last week. Jan Michael Vincent is…”
RING!
The proverbial fat lady stopped. She coughed to clear her throat, then started again. “Ahem. Jan Michael Vincent is…”
RING!
No, no one would have ever dared to mention to the president that his date for the evening was most definitely not Mrs. Popovich, nor would they ever rebuke the most powerful man in the nation for allowing his cell phone to disrupt such a rousing rendition of Mother Russia.
While most people would have felt embarrassed while fumbling for their phone’s off button, Popov simply raised his pointer finger, which brought the entire production to a halt. The fat lady, her supporting cast, and even the audience went dead silent as the president answered his phone.
“Privet.”
“Mr. President,” came Carmichael’s voice on the other end of the line. “We have mission success.”
“Wonderful,” the president said. “Official story?”
“Gas leak.”
Popov laughed.
“Not entirely false, Mr. President,” Carmichael said. “The traitor leaked much gas on his way out.”
“Ha,” Popov said. “Very well. Bring Ivan to Gadooba.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry?”
“I did not stutter,” Popov said.
“But Mr. President,” Carmichael said. “Ivan is so big already.”
“He must get bigger,” Popov said.
“Sir,” Carmichael said. “It’s just that…”
“I do not give orders twice,” Popov said.
“Understood.”
Popov hanged up his phone. He waved his hand, a sign for the show to go on.
The fat lady picked up where she left off. “Jan Michael Vincent is the best! Anyone who disagrees is a freak!”

Chapter 13
Carmichael stood over Kuznetsof’s shoulder and peered at the mass of banking records that were laid out across the coffee table.
“Here,” the defector said as he circled a dollar amount in red pen – $101,034.38. “You can see this same exact figure in American dollars is wired on a series of dates, supposedly stock dividends from vast holdings in K and D Corporation, but if you look closely, you’ll notice that on every one of these dates, one of President Popov’s critics died under mysterious circumstances.”
“That’s uncanny,” Carmichael said. “And what does the K and D Corporation do?”
“Other than launder the cash of Popov and his oligarch friends, absolutely nothing,” Kuznetsof replied. “Moving on, if we turn to…”
Once again, Kuznetsof farted. This time, the fart lasted several seconds. When it was over, the interviewee clutched his stomach. “Mr. Carmichael, I…something is wrong. Perhaps…”
Carmichael strolled to the mini bar. He poked around inside until he pulled out a nip sized bottle. He poured it into a plastic cup, then returned to his subject. “Something amiss, Mr. Kuznetsof?”
Kuznetsof’s face turned white and clammy. His hair grew thick with sweat. “I am sorry. I am not well. Perhaps we can reschedule?”
“Oh, pish posh,” Carmichael said, leaning into his British accent. “You’ve already spent so much time selling out the man who made you, why give up now over a little flatulence?”
Pbbht! The farts raged on as Kuznetsof keeled over, falling off the couch and onto the floor.
Carmichael laughed. He sipped the remainder of his drink, then tossed the empty cup at Kuznetsof’s head. Eerily, the reporter swapped his British accent for a Russian one. “Chertovski mudak! I knew you were a lousy excuse for a Russian citizen when you accepted Scottish swill when perfectly good vodka was available!”
Kuznetsof flipped over on his back. He panicked and began to hyperventilate. “What is this? What have you done?”
Carmichael reached into his pocket and pulled out an over the counter bottle that could have been purchased at any pharmacy. “Mighty Lax. For that deep-down bowel relief.”
Kuznetsof shouted loudly, as if he were trying to rattle the heavens. “Damn you, Popov! Is there no place on earth where your tentacles can’t grasp?!”
“It would seem not, comrade,” Carmichael said. “I can tell you I have cashed many of those $101,034.38 checks you spoke of, but this time, it will be so much sweeter.”
Kuznetsof let out a series of machine gun style toots. “And why is that?”
“Because, my new friend,” Carmichael said. “You are a hypocrite.”
The defector snickered. “That’s rich….coming from the likes of you.”
Carmichael clicked his tongue in the negative. “Tsk, tsk, you don’t think so?”
Kuznetsof coughed…and coughed…and coughed….then released a wet fart that soiled his underwear. “I know I am not.”
“Tell me, Dmitri,” Carmichael said. “What rank did you hold in the Russian Army when you served in the 1980s in Afghanistan?”
Kuznetsof let out a squeaker. “Pah…pah…private.”
“And after then General Popov took notice of you?” Carmichael asked.
“Ca…ca…Captain.”
A powerful stench filled the room. Carmichael waved the scent away from his nose. “And when Popov became the Minister of Defense?”
“Oh,” Kuznetsof said as he held his stomach. “That smell. It is making me even more sick.”
Carmichael leaned over the defector. “Don’t change the subject!”
“I was…oh…oh God….BLEAH!”
Without warning, Kuznetsof projectile vomited directly into his torturer’s face. Carmichael stepped back, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed away at the sticky green goo. “You disgust me.”
Kuznetsof expelled a sigh of relief. “Likewise.”
Once Carmichael cleaned his face, he began again. “It isn’t just your puke that disgusts me, it’s what you are doing.”
“What I am doing?” Kuznetsof asked.
“You benefitted from Popov’s rise to power just as much as the next man in his inner circle,” Carmichael said. “Each time Popov moved up, he brought you with him and you reaped the rewards. The money, the power, the women you never told your wife about…”
“Fuck you, pig!” Kuznetsof said. “May your mother be fucked to death by a syphilitic goat with priapism!”
“Charming,” Carmichael said. “The bottom line, Dmitri, is you were compensated handsomely for your role in our supreme leader’s reign and now…what? You’ve just become a sad, old man looking to buy his way into heaven with a confession that our enemies will use to club our country to death with.”
“If there’s even a country left when Popov is done with it,” Kuznetsof said as he evacuated his bowels. “Excuse me.”
“Get up,” Carmichael said.
“I’m fine right here,” Kuznetsof replied.
“You’re obviously not,” Carmichael said.
“I need to rest,” Kuznetsof said. “Who trained you? Your English is impeccable. You had me convinced you were a fancy London fop.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Carmichael said. “Go to the bathroom, Dmitiri.”
Kuznetsof shook his head. “No.”
“Get on the toilet,” Carmichael said.
“Never!” Kuznetsof said. “I will never shit in that toilet!”
“You are a proud man, Dmitri,” Carmichael said. “You don’t want to shit all over this nice hotel rug.”
“I don’t care,” Kuznetsof said. “I will shit all over this rug and I will enjoy every moment of it!”
“No, you won’t,” Carmichael said. “You don’t want the cleaning ladies laughing at the old man who made his doodies all over the place. You’re too proud for that. Come along now. It’s time to meet Ivan.”
The defector closed his eyes. “No. I don’t want to meet Ivan! Please, don’t make me. Please, I beg of you.”
When Kuznetsof finally opened his eyes, he found himself staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic Makarov pistol. Carmichael cocked the hammer. “To the toilet. Now!”
Kuznetsof nodded. He rose to his feet and trudged to the bathroom. Carmichael followed, revolted by the brown trail that trickled out of his captive’s pants leg.
The bathroom was clean. Immaculate. Enormous. It had a glass shower that could easily fit two people, a jacuzzi and an ivory white toilet with a pearl handle.
“Sit,” Carmichael said.
“Da,” Kuznetsof replied. He dropped his pants and did as he was told.
A few seconds passed until the defector’s gas echoed throughout the bowl.
Carmichael used his free hand to pinch his nostrils shut. “Any last requests?”
“Yes,” Kuznetsof said. “Sing with me.”
“Oh,” Carmichael said. “No…I don’t know.”
“We are both Russians,” Kuznetsof said. “We both disagree when it comes to how best to protect Mother Russia, but there’s no doubt that we both love her.”
Carmichael looked down. “I’d rather…”
Kuznetsof reached out, took his captor’s hand and squeezed it. “Please. Be my comrade in this moment.”
Carmichael grinned. “Very well.”
A moment passed. The duo began to sing. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! Where you start chain smoking at the age of five! Where you should shut up and just be glad that you’re alive! Where fat, middle-aged American losers wants to make your daughters their mail-order wives!”
The duo’s voices grew louder and livelier. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! All capitalist pigs should rot in hell and die! Over their graves their whorish mothers will cry! And if you stop by Chernobyl, your asshole will grow an eye!”
The men laughed and cried and sang several more verses of Mother Russia until the pipe underneath the toilet rumbled.
“Dosvedanya,” Kuznetsof said. “Perhaps in another life we could have been friends.”
“Perhaps in this life, for a very brief moment, we were?” Carmichael asked.
The pipe rumbled again.
“No,” Kuznetsof said. “I hate you for doing this to me. I pray that all of your children will be so ugly that it will be impossible to distinguish their faces from the rotten, distended anus of a pack mule.”
Carmichael nodded. “I understand. Goodbye, Dmitri.”
“Goodbye,” Kuznetsof said. “Whoever you are.”
The fake Brit exited the bathroom. There, on the bowl, Kuznetsof proceeded to hum the tune to Mother Russia until… “RAAARG!”
The toilet exploded into thousands of tiny little shards. The defector’s body was consumed, grounded, mashed, and liquefied by hundreds of sharp teeth.
Out in the sitting room, Carmichael calmly collected the documents and loaded them into the briefcase. When he was finished, he snapped to attention and waited until the massive head of a 17-foot great white shark pounded through the wall. The creature then slid into the room on a blast of toilet water before it came to a full stop at Carmichael’s feet.
Carmichael tossed the briefcase into the shark’s mouth. The shark, in turn, swallowed the evidence of countless international misdeeds with a single gulp.
“Good boy,” Carmichael said as he patted the shark’s head.
The Russian agent pulled out his cellphone, dialed a number, then held the mobile device up to his ear. “Dragunovich? Da. It is done. Ivan is ready for pick up.”

Bang, bang, bang! Down one level in room 604, Dragunovich wrestled a rusty lug nut off of a pipe attached to the toilet in his suite’s bathroom. It should be noted that the burly man did so only after he cut a section out of the wall that exposed the pipe entirely.
“Bah!” Dragunovich said. He lifted his bulk off the floor. His once white dress shirt had become rancid with grime. “Where is device?”
Inside the sitting room, Vasiliev was decked out in a fluffy white robe, his hair slicked back after having taken a long, hot shower. He strummed a guitar. “Oh yeah, baby! I am funky American rock and star! Ladies, shake your tatushkas while I boogie down!”
The wannabe star’s partner’s shouts carried out of the bathroom. “Viktor! Bring me device!”
Vasiliev ignored Dragunovich’s command, opting instead to hop up on a table. He tickled the strings of his guitar furiously. “And now, a song I wrote all by myself! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas! Show me…your tatushkas! Your big fake American tatushkas!”
Oddly enough, the Russian had picked up some skills in his day. He shredded that axe and licked the end of his instrument as he performed for no one. “We’re going to bring…death to the West! But not before I see those big silicone breasts…so show me…your…tatushkas! Ow! Yes, baby! Dyn-o-mite!”
The show ended ever so abruptly when a roll of toilet paper collided with Vasiliev’s head. The rocker turned around to find a furious Dragunovich staring him down.
“Sergei!” Vasiliev said. “I am taking requests!”
“You will be requesting my foot out of your ass if you don’t make with the device,” Dragunovich said.
Vasiliev sighed. “Very well. And now, it is time for spoiled American rock star to trash hotel room with guitar in a rude and childish manner!”
The rocker jumped down to the floor. He raised the guitar high over his head and wacked it down on the table, over and over until the guitar cracked open.
Dragunovich was mortified. He rushed over just in time to catch the device he had been looking for. It was a long cannister, close in shape to a cardboard wrapping paper tube, except that it was black and made out of metal. The ends were closed off by caps and an attached strap made it easy to carry.
“This is more precious than your life!” Dragunovich said as he shook the tube.
Vasiliev smiled as he tossed the broken husk of what used to be a guitar away. “Come, comrade, let us make our motherland proud!”
Dragunovich nodded. The pair entered the bathroom.
“Wowee zowee, Sergei,” Vasiliev said as he took the tube from his partner and set it down ever so gently on the tile floor. He whistled as he surveyed the damage done to the wall. “You have really fucked this place up. I don’t think we are getting our deposit back.”
“Shut up, imbecile,” Dragunovich said as he attached the wrench to the lug nut. “Be useful, for once in your life.”
Vasiliev joined his partner and grabbed the wrench. Together, they counted to three, then turned, turned, turned until…voila! The nut was off and a spout was exposed. They dropped the wrench.
Dragunovich wiped the sweat from his brow. “Prime the specimen.”
Vasiliev picked up the tube. He flipped a switch and a small, touchscreen panel opened. He punched in a few digits, which caused a whoosh sound.
“Specimen is primed,” Vasiliev said.
Dragunovich removed one cap from the tube, then connected the device to the open spout. He hovered his finger over a blinking red button on the panel that read, “EXECUTE.”
“Hold on, comrade,” Vasiliev said.
“This is no time for cold feet, Viktor,” Dragunovich said.
“No one is having cold feet,” Vasiliev said. “It’s just that…don’t you think this solemn occasion must be memorialized with our most patriotic song?”
Dragunovich nodded. He put his arm around his partner and he began to sing. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You are so cold you freeze off my nuts! All the women have hairy butts! And the entire world wants to make you its putz!”
A tear rolled down Vasiliev’s cheek as he joined in. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! You just got the 1980s action TV show Airwolf last week! Jan Michael Vincent is the best! Anyone who disagrees is a freak!”
The pair brought it home in unison. “Mother Russia! Mother Russia! The land where we sacrifice for the greater good! Don’t worry, you’re not missing much! Toilet paper isn’t even that good…”

Chapter 11
An hour later, Kuznetsof was joined in his room by Roland Carmichael, a dashing, young, handsome reporter for The London Sentinel.
“My word,” Carmichael said in a British accent as he reviewed a document that had been marked with a bold, red CLASSIFIED stamp. “I must say, Mr. Kuznetsof, when you contacted me, I feared perhaps you were simply a disgruntled employee, a man with a grudge who wanted to vent about how he’d been mistreated but you certainly are the real deal…and you’ve brought the goods.”
“I would not waste your time,” Kuznetsof said as he sipped a brandy. “I have spent many years in the service of my country. Past presidents have come and gone. Some good. Some bad, but none have been as bad as Popov.”
Carmichael looked up from the document. “Our publication has never shied away from writing stern editorials against President Popov’s draconian policies but here, you’ve provided concrete, undeniable evidence that he personally ordered the extrajudicial murders of countless critics and dissidents.”
Kuznetsof moved his hand around and around, watching the brown liquid in his glass swirl about. “Much lip service is paid to the so-called freedoms of the new Russia but in truth, there is very little difference from the Soviet Union of old.”
The reporter pulled out a notepad. “You will, of course, personally corroborate these documents?”
“Yes,” Kuznetsof said. “I was in the room on many occasions when the president ordered these illegal executions.”
Carmichael straightened his tie. “I’ll be honest, sir, the end result of this story will be a Pulitzer for me, but I am quite concerned for you. When this all goes public, your life will be…”
“Forfeit,” Kuznetsof said. “I know.”
“I just want to make sure you understand,” Carmichael said. “I have no association with the British government. I can’t offer you any protections nor can I guarantee your safety.”
“I understand,” Kuznetsof replied. “I have wanted to come forward for many years but I feared for my family. My son has been studying in the United States for quite some time and when my wife passed last year, I realized there was nothing holding me back from performing a higher duty – not the one I owe to my homeland but the one I owe to all of humanity.”
Carmichael wrote that statement down. “That’s very noble.”
Kuznetsof polished off his brandy and stood. “Pardon me,” he said as he headed for the room’s mini-bar. “I need a refill on my liquid courage.”
Carmichael pulled out a silver flask out of an inner pocket in his suit coat. “Will you do me the honor? As it just so happens, we journalists also find ourselves in need of a wee nip of liquid courage from time to time.”
Kuznetsoff smiled and sat back down on the plush, white sofa. He held out his glass while the young man reached across the coffee table and poured.
“Scotch straight from Glasgow,” Carmichael said as he returned the flask to his pocket. “It doesn’t get any better than that.”
The defector sniffed the aroma of the liquid in his glass, then sipped. He swirled the liquor around in his mouth for a bit, enjoying the taste before finally swallowing. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Now then,” Carmichael said as he flipped through the pages of another classified document. “Was the military ever involved?”
Kuznetsof fumbled through his briefcase and pulled out a document. He flipped through the pages before he set it down on the coffee table and pointed. “General Meknikov’s signature. He is, what you might call, the president’s bag man. He was involved in many of the assassinations, although Popov was very clever.”
“How so?” Carmichael asked.
Kuznetsof burped. He made a fist and lightly pounded his chest. “Pardon me. Popov does not trust any of his top men and accordingly, makes use of many hit squads that operate independently of one another. Many are not even in the employ of the government but rather, are compensated through a complex system involving shell corporations and payments exchanged through drop offs and middlemen.”
“It sounds like the president covered his tracks well,” Carmichael surmised as he poured through a ream of banking records. “Perhaps too well?”
“To a casual observer, it looks like…” Kuznetsof grimaced. He clenched his teeth and grunted but it was of little use. A loud, baritone fart escaped his cheeks. “Oh my…”
Carmichael’s eyes widened in surprise. Seconds later, the smell of rotten sulfur wafted up his nose. He lifted his tie and used it to cover his nostrils.
“Bozhe moi!” Kuznetsof said. “I apologize, comrade. I am so sorry. I don’t know what…perhaps my nerves are shot. The past few days have been grueling and…”
The reporter waved off his interviewee’s lamentations. “It’s quite alright, good chap. Happens to the best of us. Please, continue.”

Chapter 10
London, United Kingdom
Dmitri Kuznetsof was far past the point of no return. It had been three days since he’d walked away from his desk at the Kremlin, where he had long served as a personal assistant to Russian President Anatoly Popov. Chained to his hand was a black leather briefcase filled with confidential documents he had been trusted to file – trust that, as it turns out, had been misplaced.
Beads of sweat formed on the defector’s brow as he waited for a clerk at the front desk of the luxurious Swankforth International to process his reservation.
“Here you are, sir,” the clerk said as he handed over a plastic key card. “Room 704. Will you need any help with your luggage?”
Kuznetsof clutched the handle of his briefcase tightly. “No, I’ve got it,” he said, his accent indicating his nationality. “Thank you.”
The traitor moved swiftly through the lobby, found the elevator, and made his way to the seventh floor. Several minutes passed. The clerk processed a number of incoming guests until he found himself staring up at the grim faces of two bulky, brooding men wearing neatly pressed suits and dark sunglasses. One man carried a guitar case. The other carried a large suitcase.
“Yes,” the clerk said as he reviewed each man’s identification. “Misters Dragunovich and Vasiliev. Thank you for choosing the Swankforth International. We know you had your choice of hotels and…”
Dragunovich cut through the sales pitch. “Room 604 please.”
“I’m sorry?” the clerk asked.
Vasiliev coughed into his hand. He avoided eye contact with the clerk as he spoke in a voice that had been destroyed by years of smoking. “We are, how you say, uh…funny poofter men who are acting like ladies, yes?”
The clerk’s face turned red. “I don’t follow.”
Dragunovich leaned over the counter. His voice was equally rough, not from smoking but from various difficult life experiences too numerous too mention. “I apologize. My friend’s English…is not so good. We are homosexual dandies and many years ago we shared a passionate night of lovemaking in your room 604.”
“I see,” the clerk replied.
“We found that room to be very romantic,” Dragunovich said. “For us, it has much sentimental value. On that evening we spent together, we rubbed our bodies down with scented lotions and then we each took many turns inserting our penushkas into our butushkas.”
The clerk tapped away on his keyboard. “Right…let me just check on the status of that room.”
“We wore leather costumes and beat each other with riding crops,” Dragunovich said. “And then when we finally expelled all of our bodily juices, we collapsed on the bed in a spent, manly heap and fed each other expensive chocolates with liquid centers until the sun rose.”
“Uh huh,” the clerk said as he looked at his monitor.
Vasiliev piped up once more. “It was taking of breath.”
Dragunovich corrected his counterpart. “Breathtaking.”
“Exactly,” Vasiliev said. “What he said.”
The clerk handed Dragunovich a plastic key card. “You’re in luck. That room is available. Will there be anything else?”
“Nyet,” Dragunovich said.

Smegma felt as though a thousand-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he sat in the back of the helicopter across from his trusty handler. Both wore earphones with attached microphones to communicate over the sound of the whirring blades.
“Kendra, darling, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Smegma said. “You have no idea how you just nipped me from the jaws of death in the nick of time.”
“What?” Kendra asked. “Were you about to be tortured?”
“Worse.”
“Drawn and quartered?”
“Worse.”
“Stretched on the rack?”
“Worse,” Smegma said. “I was staring down the barrel of…yeesh. Matrimony.”
The spy shuddered at the thought. “Can you believe it? Attached for life to a beautiful, big breasted woman thirteen years my junior in some suburban hellhole, driving miniature vans to soccer practice and eating potato skins at one of those chain restaurants with all the bullshit on the walls?”
Kendra finally released her pent-up laughter. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Most single men your age would kill for that,” Kendra said.
Smegma looked out the open bay of the chopper and spotted Bonanza sitting in the second chopper. Both birds were flying in close formation. When she noticed Smegma looking at her, she waved giddily. He waved back, not as enthusiastically.
“Yes, well,” Smegma said. “They can have it.”
“Big Dirk Smegma,” Kendra said. “So brave, he once defeated a band of Yakuza assassins with his bare hands. So cowardly, he can’t so no to a marriage proposal.”
Smegma leaned back in his seat. “I did a horrible thing.”
“What?” Kendra asked.
“I fucked the feminism right out of a feminist,” Smegma said. “You should have heard her. Blathering on and on about mansplaining and informed consent and equality of the sexes and then fifteen bangs later she’s ready to quit her job to raise my children.”
“Only fifteen?” Kendra asked. “You’re slowing down in your old age.”
“Forty-one is not old,” Smegma said. Suddenly, he lifted his head up. “Wait, is it?”
“You’re not waiting in line for the four o’clock buffet yet,” Kendra said. “But you’re not getting any younger. Don’t think that dye job is fooling anyone.”
Smegma pointed to his scalp. “This is all Smegma.”
“Right,” Kendra said as she waved at Bonanza. “Dirk, I hate to feed the beast that is your ego, but to your credit, you’re one of the most well-preserved forty-somethings I know.”
“Thank you,” Smegma said.
“But Father Time comes knocking on all of our doors sooner or later and well…”
“What?” Smegma asked.
“You’re not going to be able to schtup super-hot villain’s molls into giving you world saving information forever.”
“Blasphemy!” Smegma said. “Take it back!”
“I won’t,” Kendra said. “You know we’ve always given it to each other straight. We don’t sugarcoat anything. We tell it like it is and I’m telling you, in five years, the women in the posh clubs where you pick up the villain’s molls aren’t going to look at you like you’re some young, happening stud out on the prowl.”
“They’re not?” Smegma asked.
“No,” Smegma said. “At best, they’re going to assume you’re someone’s dad, there to give them a ride.”
Smegma fell back. “Oh, fuck me!”
Kendra reached over and patted her asset’s hand. “There, there. It’ll be ok.”
“Where did the time go, Special K?”
“I don’t know,” Kendra replied. “I know I haven’t logged as many years as you have, but sometimes when I think about it, it feels like just yesterday I said goodbye to my father and went off to…”
The spy interrupted his handler, oblivious to her attempt to personally share, and carried on with his own personal laments. “You’re wrong. I’ll figure out a way to schtup villain’s molls forever. I’ll do more sit-ups. More push-ups. I’ll take vitamins and supplements. I’ll exercise more. I’ll…I’ll…”
Kendra finished that sentence. “…still get old as fuck. Please, as your friend, I’m telling you to take Cooter’s offer or barring that, find someone to grow old with because your schtup a different a different villain’s moll every day lifestyle is not sustainable.”
“You really don’t think so?” Smegma inquired.
“If you’re still schtupping villain’s molls in 2025, I’ll eat my hat,” Kendra said.
A quiet moment passed. “What number did you give her?”
“Oh,” Smegma said. “Antonio’s Pizza in Alexandria, Virginia.”
“You’re horrible,” Kendra said.
“I know,” Smegma replied. “I order from them sometimes when I’m stateside, forced to spend some time at Langley, listening to all the bureaucratic nonsense. They make a fine plate of ravioli, let me tell you.”
“You couldn’t have just given her your number and then told her it’s over on the Truman?” Kendra asked.
“She’s not going to the Truman,” Smegma answered.
Kendra sat up. “What?”
“I gave Abernathy 300 bucks and asked him to drop her off in Miami,” Smegma said. “He agreed. Said he’d give her a spiel about a change of plans, something about the Truman being on lockdown, top secret personnel only, blah, blah, blah.”
“There’s something wrong with you, Dirk Smegma.”
“I know.”
“But do you?” Kendra inquired. “Do you see this sick pattern? How you’re only able to open yourself up to women who are facing down certain death at the hands of their villainous paramours and now, the one time you meet a woman who isn’t about to be horrendously murdered, you’re so gutless that you can’t either give a relationship a shot or, for God sake’s, just be a man and tell her you’re not interested?”
Smegma sat back in his seat and closed his eyes again. “When you put it like that…”
“I do.”
Smegma sighed. “2025, huh?”
“If that.”
“Shit.”
The spy sulked for a while until the pop top of a soda can stirred him. He looked up to see Kendra sipping down half a can of generic cola she’d taken out of a cooler. She took out a bottle of rum, poured a bit into the can, then handed it over.
“Here,” Kendra said. “You’ll feel better after your medicine.”
Smegma smiled. “You know me so well, darling.”
“Go on,” Kendra said. “Get yourself drunk. Then sober up and accept that woman’s proposal.”
“Pbbhht,” Smegma said. “She didn’t propose. There wasn’t any proposal at all. She just assumed it was happening but really, women proposing to men. If I’m ever going to get married, it will be when I’m damn well good and ready and you can bet your ass that I will be the one doing the proposing.”
Smegma sipped his drink. “Ahh. That’s better.”
“I already tried to help you with your romance problem,” Kendra said. “I don’t have to strength to help you with your alcohol problem too.”
“Really?” Smegma said as he held up the can. “You just enabled me.”
“One drink,” Kendra said. “Because I thought you had died.”
“And yet,” Smegma said. “So hopeful were you that you’d arrive and see my smiling face that you brought the fixings of my drink of choice. If I didn’t know any better.”
“Stop,” Kendra said. “You know better.”
Smegma said. “I do. Hell, in a perfect, alternate world, perhaps I’d propose to you.”
Kendra made a face as though she were sucking on a lemon. “I wouldn’t accept.”
“No?”
“Not for all the money in Vinny Stugotz’s off-shore bank accounts.”
“Oh well,” Smegma said as he took a sip. “Your loss, darling.”
Smegma turned and directed his eyes to the second helicopter, just in time to see Captain Abernathy hand Bonanza a satellite phone.
“Oh shit,” Smegma said.
“What?” Kendra asked until she saw Bonanza pull out the slip of paper and punch in the numbers. “Oh no.”
Bonanza held the phone up to her ear and waited…and waited…and waited. Finally, she looked back at Smegma, seething with rage.
“Wait for it,” Smegma said.
Kendra began a countdown. “3…2…1…”
Bonanza yelled loud enough to be heard over the whirring blades. “GOD DAMN YOU, DIRK SMEGMA!”

Chapter 8
A full day and night passed. A shirtless, well-tanned Smegma held his cell phone into the air. “Blast! I can’t get a single bar!”
The agent tucked the device into his pocket. “Ah, what does it matter? It barely has any battery life left in it anyway.”
Attorney Bonanza walked out of the jungle with a coconut in each hand. She’d lost her formal look, opting to cut her business pants off at the knees. She’d lost her blazer entirely and had gone for a bare midriff look, having tied the ends of her white shirt into a knot. She’d placed a white flower in her hair.
“There you are, my love,” Bonanza said as she held up the coconuts. “Look, I found these!”
“Gold star, darling,” Smegma said.
Bonanza dropped the coconuts and hugged the spy, wrapping her arms around the hunk tightly as she rested her head against his muscular chest. “Oh, Dirk, I hope we never get rescued.”
Smegma allowed the hug to go on for twenty seconds before he pulled away. “Yes, well, that makes one of us, darling. Some of us have a world to save.”
Bonanza wasn’t quite able to put her finger on it. Something about being marooned on a deserted island with one of the sexiest men alive caused her hormones to work overtime.
“I suppose you’re right, dearest,” Bonanza said. “We’ll have to leave this tropical paradise behind and return to civilization one day.”
“Uh huh.”
Smegma picked up the coconuts and added them to an array that had been used to spell out the word, “HELP” in huge letters across the beach.
Smegma sat down in the sand and stared mindlessly at the crashing waves. Bonanza joined him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Make love to me, Dirk.”
“Ugh,” Smegma said. “I already have, darling. Fourteen times already. Save some Dirk juice for tomorrow, will you?”
“Dirk, I’ve been thinking…”
“What a deplorable habit.”
“I don’t want to rush things,” Bonanza said. “But I don’t want to wait forever, either. Do you think a year will be sufficient to plan the wedding?”
Smegma offered no answer.
“Dirk!”
“Huh?”
“Do you think a year will be long enough to plan…”
“Sure, darling. A year is fine. Plenty of time.”
Bonanza giggled. “Ooo! I can’t believe it. By this time next year, I’ll be Mrs. Cooter Smegma!”
Suddenly, the spy snapped back into reality. “Mrs. Who?”
“Oh, I know,” Bonanza said. “It goes against all my feminist values but really, what am I going to do? Put ‘Attorney Cooter Bonanza-Smegma’ on all of my business cards? I think not.”
The lady laid back on the beach. Smegma joined her. Bonanza’s face was one of pure joy. Meanwhile, Smegma watched as a seagull dropped a clam from the sky in the hopes that its inner meat would be released upon crashing into a rock below.
In that moment, Smegma wished he was that clam.
“Darling. Let’s not rush into things. If you want to take two years…”
“Oh no,” Bonanza said. “By then, I’ll be thirty and…”
“Ugh. You’re almost thirty?”
Bonanza perked up. “I know it’s crazy, right? Time sure does fly. Wait, did you just say, ‘ugh?’”
Smegma rubbed his chest. “Yes. Sorry. I think I have a bit of indigestion from all that crab meat I ate this morning.”
“Oh,” Bonanza said. “Anyway, if we tie the knot next year, then you could put a bun in me by thirty and then that will shut my mother up and oh, the look on my sister’s face when she sees you. She thinks she’s so special because she landed a doctor but when…”
Smegma reached out and took Bonanza’s hand. “Darling…”
“Yes?”
“I think the sun is getting to you,” Smegma said. “You’re abandoning all of your isms.”
“My isms?”
“Indeed,” Smegma said. “Your feminism. Your liberalism. Your PC-ism.”
“True,” Bonanza said. “I mean, truthfully, no woman actually NEEDS a man per se, but still, I’m so glad I found you that…”
“Yes,” Smegma said. “But as Madame Olga informed us, future you will not be pleased with any of this.”
Bonanza lifted up Smegma’s arm and cuddled herself up to the beefcake. “Oh, screw that old bitch. We’ve got forty whole years before we have to deal with her.”
“Right,” Smegma said. “But that time will go by before you know it and…”
“Oh Dirk,” Bonanza said. “Just think. Soon we’ll be married, living in a house in the suburbs. We’ll have three children and we’ll all pose in matching sweaters for our annual Christmas cards. Won’t that be wonderful.”
Smegma threw his head back and winced. “Smashing.”
“I could put my career on hold…”
Smegma perked up. “Oh no, darling! Not that! Anything but that! I’m sorry, Cooter, but I’m putting my foot down on this one. I refuse to allow you to give up your promising career as a CIA attorney just to marry me.”
“Relax,” Bonanza said. “I’ll only take a few years off to raise the children. Then I’ll go into private practice. And you…”
“Yes!” Smegma said. “Me! Why, I’ll be gallavanting all over the world, taking down criminal enterprises. I’d be a horrid life partner, darling. Absolutely horrid. Surely, you’d be better off finding someone else, someone more with more time on his hands. Someone more…deserving.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bonanza said. “You can just quit the CIA.”
“Quit?”
“Sure,” Bonanza said. “Honestly Dirk, how will you have any time for me and the children while you’re out saving the world?”
“I…I have no idea.”
“Don’t worry,” Bonanza said. “I’m sure you could find work as a mattress store manager or as an insurance salesman or…”
“Yes,” Smegma said with a defeated expression on his face. “That sounds lovely.”
“Doesn’t it?” Bonanza asked as she squeezed Smegma tight. “And don’t you dare so much as think about schtupping one of those villain’s molls ever again.”
Smegma felt his soul crack in half. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Oh Dirk,” Bonanza said. “I want to go shopping for window shade treatments the second we hit the mainland.”
Smegma looked up into the sky and whispered under his breath. “Save me.”
Bonanza prattled on. “Oh, we’ll need so many things for our new home. Doilies, tea cozies, a nice, fluffy duvet. Do you think we’ll do a lot of entertaining? Yes! We could invite the neighbors over for weekly game nights. Ooo! I’ll need a serving tray, one where you can assemble the crackers around a little dish that holds the dip. I wish I had a paper and pen. I could write this all down.
Smegma whispered to the sky again. “Please. Save me.”
“I’ll have to trade my coupe in for a mini-van. You’ll need to get a mini-van too. I know that sounds silly, but if we’re going to have multiple kids, then we’ll have to take turns driving them to little league games and ballet practice and we’ll probably be expected to participate in carpools, which means we’ll both need cars that can fit a lot of kids, so…”
Whir, whir, whir.
Smegma felt a breeze shoot down over his face. He looked up to see the rotating blades of two incoming helicopters. He snapped to his feet. “Look!”
Bonanza jumped up. Her bosoms jiggled as she bounced up and down. “Hooray! We’re saved!”
The spy waved his arms to and fro. “Down here!”
Seconds later, the choppers were on the ground. Out from the first helicopter stepped Kendra in the flesh. Her skin was flawless, the color of creamy caramel. Her hair was long and curly. Her eyes were hidden away behind a pair of red tortoise shell specs. She wasn’t too tall or too short, but somewhere in the middle. She wore a tank top and jeans over a body that looked like it was used to regular exercise.
Once she cleared the buzzing blades, she walked towards her asset. “Agent Smegma.
“Agent McKenna,” Smegma replied.
Bonanza rushed over and grasped the stud-muffin. “Dirk! Are they here to rescue us?”
Kendra stifled a laugh, having immediately figured out that Smegma had bitten off more than he could chew with Attorney Bonanza.
“Oh, right,” Smegma said. “Kendra, this is Miss…”
Bonanza extended her hand and corrected Smegma. “Mrs. The future Mrs. Cooter Smegma, or possibly Cooter Bonanza-Smegma. We haven’t worked out all the details.”
It was all Kendra could do to keep a straight face as she shook Bonanza’s hand. “Mrs.? When’s the wedding?”
“Oh, you know,” Smegma said. “We’re keeping it loose, probably some day far, far in the…”
“June 2020,” Bonanza said. “Will you come? Dirk was up all-night last night talking about you, how he just knew you’d save us.”
Kendra looked at Smegma. “Is that so? Well, it might have been easier if he’d stop throwing away the tracking devices I keep giving him.”
“You know me,” Smegma said. “I don’t like to have tabs kept on me.”
Bonanza kissed Smegma on the cheek. “Well, you’ll just have to get used to it because I’m not letting you out of my sight, my sweet, sexy man.”
Kendra’s eyes widened. “Right. Luckily, we were able to determine the approximate location of where your plane went down. I’m glad to see you’re both alive. I must say, I feared the worst.”
“No worries,” Bonanza said. “We’re alive and ready to spend the rest of our lives together.”
Smegma emitted a half-hearted, barely audible, “Hooray.”
“We need to go,” Kendra said. “These birds are on loan from the Navy, attached to the U.S.S. Truman so we can’t keep them forever.”
Smegma nodded. “Lead the way.”
As Kendra and Bonanza walked toward the first chopper, Smegma made his way to the second. He found the pilot, chatted him up, exchanged a handshake, then returned to the ladies.
“Cooter, darling, so sorry to ask you this, but would you mind riding with Captain Abernathy over there?”
Bonanza looked hurt. “Why?”
“Oh, you know,” Smegma said. “Time is of the essence and Kendra needs to debrief me.”
“But we don’t have any secrets,” Bonanza said. “Do we?”
“We don’t,” Smegma said. “But the CIA does and well, I’d share them with you but then I’d be committing treason so go on now, off you go.”
Bonanza stood her ground. “But I want to ride with you.”
“Darling,” Smegma said. “Please. This is a matter of national security. Besides, how far is it to the Truman? Twenty, thirty minutes, tops?”
Kendra nodded. “If that.”
“You’ll be fine,” Smegma said.
“Give me your number.”
“What?”
“We might get separated,” Bonanza said. “I want your number.”
“We will not get separated,” Smegma said. “And besides, it’s not even charged.”
“On the off chance we get separated,” Bonanza said. “I want your number so I can call you when you charge your phone, Dirk. Why is this so hard?”
“It’s not,” Dirk said. “Kendra, do you…”
Kendra pulled a small notepad and a pen from her pocket. Dirk accepted both, scribbled a number down, tore off the sheet and handed it to the blonde. “Happy?”
“Yes,” Bonanza said as she kissed Smegma. “See you soon.”

Twenty minutes passed before Smegma knocked on the restroom door. “Darling?”
“Go away!” Bonanza cried between sobs and sniffles. “And stop calling me ‘darling!’”
“Right,” Smegma replied. “I suppose we should keep it professional, Attorney Bonanza.”
“That would be best, Agent Smegma. What we did was a one-time thing and should never happen again.”
“As you wish. And for what it’s worth, I apologize to your future self for whatever negative feelings she may vis a vis our recent act of en flagrante delicto.”
Bonanza laughed. “Don’t you patronize me with your patriarchical bullshit.”
“Pardon?”
“As a strong, independent woman, I made a choice to have sex with you out of my own free will and I shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed for it.”
“I never said you should feel that way,” Smegma said.
“You, however…”
Smegma rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go.”
“…should feel very ashamed in the future when I decide of my own volition that you acted shamefully and it will be my prerogative to tell the world about what you did.”
“As in the act that you currently approved of but will later disapprove of?” Smegma asked.
“Precisely.”
“Attorney Bonanza,” Smegma said. “In forty years, I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall asleep during my retirement home’s bingo game, assuming I haven’t already been killed by one of the numerous international criminals who have set their sights on me.”
“You’ll be alive,” Bonanza said. “Madame Olga is never wrong.”
“Bah,” Smegma said. “An old gypsy woman’s opinion and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee.”
“Racist.”
“What?”
“’Gypsy’ is an offensive term,” Bonanza explained. “The politically correct term is, ‘Psychically Empowered Countryside Wanderers of Romani Descent.”
Smegma closed his eyes and slapped his forehead. “Jesus H. Fuck.”
“Now isn’t the time to pushed your outdated Christian dogma on me, Agent Smegma.”
“What? That wasn’t even what I was trying to…”
“As an attorney for the human resources department of the Central Intelligence Agency, it’s my job to make sure that all field operatives are as woke as humanly possible and frankly, Agent Smegma, on a historical scale, your wokeness level falls somewhere between a T-Rex and a brontosaurus.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a dinosaur,” Bonanza said. “You should have gone extinct, long ago. Millennials are taking over the workface and soon enough, they’ll replace you.”
Smegma laughed. “Yeah, right. I’d love to see one of those neck-bearded, man bun wearing soy boys beta cucks fuck a villain’s moll until she starts screaming out intel of vital importance to national security.”
“Agent Smegma! That’s…”
“They’d probably just invite her to join a drum circle, make her a chai latte, then apologize to her for having a dick and invite her to chop it off with a rusty…”
“Go!”
Smegma nodded. “Very well.”
The agent took a few steps away from the bathroom door, then stopped. “Attorney Bonanza?”
“Ugh! What now?”
“All I have been trying to say is that the idea of you being stuck in that bathroom all the way to Langley saddens me and it is completely unnecessary.”
“You say that now,” Bonanza said. “But future me says otherwise.”
“We’ll figure out how to make her happy later,” Smegma said. “Until then, I hope you’ll feel free to return your seat. I assure you, I shall put all my charms on low power mode and no more unprofessional acts of an unsavory nature will take place. You have my word.”
Bonanza was quiet for a moment. She spoke up once more. “That’s uncharacteristically gentlemanly of you. Give me a minute. I’ll be right out after I….ACCCCKKKK!”

With a glass of rum and generic cola in hand, Smegma snoozed high in the sky aboard a private G6 jet, as the view of the ocean below went unnoticed. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he instinctively stirred when he heard the clicking of a pair of high heels walking down the aisle. The agent opened his eyes and turned around just in time to see a gorgeous blonde in a black pantsuit return to her seat in the back of the plane with a martini in hand.
Smegma wasted no time dialing Kendra.
“Hello?”
“Kendra, darling,” Smegma said in a hushed whisper. “It would seem I have picked up a stowaway.”
“Ahh, she’s not simply hopping a free ride, I’m afraid,” Kendra said. “The company thought…well, that you could use some…company.”
“Drat,” Smegma said. “And I so hoped she was here to pay a social call. Headshrinker?””
“No, Dirk,” Kendra said. “There isn’t enough psychoanalysis in the world to reduce your ego to a proper size.”
Smegma pulled a piece of ice out of his glass and cracked it between his teeth. “Bean counter? Here to kvetch about how many cars I’ve wrecked in the field?”
“You only totaled three this time,” Kendra said. “For you, that’s cause for celebration.”
“Don’t leave me in suspense,” Smegma said.
“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” Kendra said. “I’d hate to ruin the surprise. In the meantime, I have to check on Skippy Jr.’s transportation back to the states.”
Dirk rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of…”
“What?”
“Giving it a name,” Smegma said.
“It’s a living being,” Kendra said.
“It’s a handbag with feet,” Smegma said. “Sooner or later it will meet its maker and you’ll be sorry you got so attached.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I never got too attached to you, Agent Smegma.”
Smegma let out a mischievous grin. “Touche, darling. Touche.”
Click, clack. Click, clack. The blonde sauntered on over to Smegma’s side of the plane and took a seat facing the agent. This gave Smegma a closer look at the lady’s long hair, red lips, and ample cleavage.
“Dirk,” Kendra said. “Try not to…”
Smegma interrupted his handler. “Kendra, darling, I hate to be rude but two very important matters have just come to my attention and I simply must deal with them presently. Ta ta.”
“Might I have a moment of your time?” the woman asked.
“Darling,” Smegma replied. “You may have all the moments of my time. I wasn’t doing anything useful with them anyway.”
The woman retained an icy visage as she held out her hand. “Cooter Bonanza.”
“I bet you are,” Smegma said.
“Pardon?”
Smegma kissed the hand. “Enchante.”