I told them over the loudspeaker: "Hay, ladies, I gotta put up with your Gwen Stefani and Madonna and Celine Dion and all that gay chick crap. Today we're listening to Enslaved, okay? Anyone wanna make a problem they can feel free to go powder their noses and do it poste-haste. Don't let the door hit your on the way out."
I made a fist and shook it at them. That day in particular I was feeling an odd mix of randiness and general anger. They would feel the brunt until 10 a.m. when I could have my fist drink, being a principled man and not given to pointless addictions.
"Does anyone have a problem with that?"
As usual, they shut up and went back to quietly admiring me. The sweet sounds of Black Metal filled the office and I tuned out their nattering questions, getting down to my important work at hand.Just then my phone rang. It was Secret Agent Joey Silvergoldstein. He was Jewish. He wore his curly red hair extra Jewish with the long sideburns and the funny hat. Instead of a Secret Agent, everyone took him for a Jew. A Secret Jew. It was his cover of course, he being a WASP through and through, the product of a Middle Western Presbyterian minister and the daughter of a retired Army Colonel.
"Listen up, Von Platzenbergur (my Jew code-name, as I was under cover myself), you got an assignment and I want you on it ASAP. Pull up those boots, feller!"
"Speak to me, bro!"
"Yer goin undercover as a giant Isopod. We hear those rug-ridin' A-rabs has got themselves an A-bomb. Chose that one over the H-bomb cause it reminds them of being A-rabs, I guess. You're the only one who can successfully carry out a mission on this gravity and we want you in the field this afternoon."
"Those greasy bastards! Let me at 'em boss. I know the score with those guys. I can smell the cheap oil they pull up from the ground from here."
"Well, you go undercover as an Isopod and infiltrate their underwater lair. Foul non-kosher beast like that should give them the horrors. You'd have enough time to knock out their operations and get us our bomb back as the rightful owners of Maximum Power we Americans are and have always been."
"What about these chicks here at the office, boss? Who's gonna tell 'em what to do if I'm out gallivanting about saving the planet again? Some of these gashes are so dimwitted they can barely find their way home each night."
"I'll send Doug the Hacker over. He can rewire their computers and keep them talking all day. He knows about FASHION. As a Maker and Reality Hacker Doug can show them the truth AND the light. Should keep then occupied, `d imagine."
"Good plan, boss."
"I know, son. Now, get to work. I want some A-rab scalps on my desk by the cocktail hour."
"Oh, and boss."
"Good call with the Isopod. Body armor and a clever disguise. Only a Centipede God from the pre-history of the human race would have been a better choice. You obviously went for functionality over glam."
"That's why they made me boss. Now, go get 'em, tiger."
I slammed down the phone to trick the bimbos into thinking I was angry at a caller.
"Dirty Jew Commie," I yelled, expertly hiding the fact that it was Joey.
Through the windows they all jumped and went back to talking about food. One of them started to cry.
I kept my spy stuff in the desk. I never locked it because people were too afraid to dick around with my crap. I was liable to kill a man for even fingering my prized Javelina which I kept lying on the desk to remind people that I killed stuff. So, I pulled out the Isopod suit, which had just been sent to the desk through pneumatic tube system that Joey had set up for me when I joined the organization. I slipped on the Isopod suit and told Those Who Have The Vaginas to look the other way and forget everything or they'd all line up for a company slap again.
One of the new ones, Rebecca, spoke up, though. "Sir, how are we supposed to forget something we just saw? Isn't that somewhat antithetical?"
I shot her dead right there.
"Save the bog words for your pimp, lady."
Then I left and walked down to my car. I guess it looked a little weird to see a giant Isopod walking to his Corolla in the hot sun, but I didn't care. I was a Secret Agent. People are so damned stupid they wouldn't make the connection. Probably think I was going to a costume party or some thing of that nature. Maybe even something sexual involving blood. You never know what people think about in their TV-addled minds.
So, I drove to Mexico real fast. It was far away because I worked out of the office in Tonawanda, New York, but I just did 200 over the whole way, so I got there pretty fast.
I listened to Dark Funeral in the car and thought about sex and guns and drank sometimes from my bottle of scotch since I was on a mission now and that meant all bets were off. It was like being in heaven for Metal Dudes. I had my kick-ass Isopod suit on, my Metal blast-beating the highway and I was drinking scotch through a long straw.
Because I had so many hands since Isopods have like a hundred hands or something like that, I was able to do all kinds of things while still driving. Some of them were even kinda sexy, which was fun. You ever beat off whilst driving? Nothing make your eyes squint more than that sort of action.
When I got to Mexico there was this guy at the border who was checking people to see if they were legal to come into Mexico. I was like, `Yeah right, you should be begging us to come in, dude. Your backwater country is a useless toilet of humanity compared to Tonawanda.'
So, I pulled up to the border crossing and I rolled down my window and the guy was totally freaked out because I'm a giant Isopod. He squeal like he never seen such a sight, make him sick to see it.
"What's up, slick?" I asked through the small hole that I cut out of the suit for my mouth.
He said some Mexican crap like taco, taco, guacamole, burrito or something. So, I smacked his face in with my Isopod claws.
"Talk English you wetback asshole!" I screamed at him. He really started to freak out and I bet he even pissed hisself a little. Maybe budded a little rosette in the shorts, strictly from fear. His face went all red and he gave off an awful smell like garlic, sweat and rotten fruit.
"Okay, buddy calm down. I'm not stealing your oranges or anything. Just let me through and I won't have to eat your face with my Isopod claws. I'm on official American business. Now, show me the whores!" I joked with him.
"Okay senior," he said but he was crying so I didn't even hear him. He pointed a shaking hand at Mexico. I'd had enough. I smashed his face in again and then just started driving.
What a crappy country Mexico is. Everyone's goddam Mexican, for starters. And, there are hardly any McDonald's to eat at. I ate a burrito from some little hole in the wall place and they freaked out cause I'm a giant Isopod, so they gave it to me for free. I raped a few of the females, which a term I use out of respect for the slits between their legs, not an indication that I knew they were for sure, and then off I went on my mission. One has to stay focused during trying times.
I figured I should phone Joey and let him know what was happening, so I used my totally rad cellphone made of titanium and gold and I called him.
He spoke first: "Joey, here."
"Talk to me Joe-dawg. It's Isopod."
"Where are you, son?"
"Mexico, dude. It sucks here. I hate Mexico."
"Well, go get those terrorist bastards, you freak."
"I'm on it, brother. You want a burrito from Mexico?"
"Platz, you know the answer to that."
"Cool. I'll put in the glove box until I get there. It should stay warm because this bass-ackwards country is hot as Hell in Summer."
I got him a burrito.
I was near the ocean, now. The rug-riders would soon pay. Everything in Mexico smelled like low-tide, an awful fishy smell and I was getting bored of this mission fast. I sipped some more scotch and tried to stay focused.
When I got to the harbour where my totally secret Iso-Sub was hidden under some bags of taco mix, I knew that this mission would be totally dangerous.
Damn, Mooslim rug-riders, I thought. Why do they got to go an mess around with a totally rad American lifestyle like the one I got? I just love metal, boobs and McDonalds. Why do they gotta mess with that? I should fly an Aircraft Carrier into their Dome of the Rock and see how they react. Probably roll over and curl up like a dog when you shoot him in the hind legs just for kicks. God, I hated the carpet-jockeys for their intolerant lifestyle. It would take a long time and a massively hot, naked A-rab chick to change my mind. I'm a Patriotic American and that sort of offensiveness doesn't fade from my mind easily.
So, I jumped in the sub and put on the Children of Bodom CD I usually left in there. Bodom is my diving, attacking music. Whenever I gotta attack some terrorist bastards under water in my Isopod suit, I plug in the Bodom and rock out avec moi kok out. It brings back sweet memories of laser fights and some wikkid fights I had dog-fighting terrorists in the Philippines. I recall one time when I shot a giant bird from the sky over the purple horizons of Venus and that was a good day. I got so drunk I nearly fell into a lake of nitric acid.
I dove deeper and deeper into the water because in Mexico the water is really deep. I could see some real Isopods when I got to the bottom, but I was having a hard time finding the A-rab base, so I had to turn down the Bodom and call Joey. That Pseudo-Hebe was real good with directions. He knew the fastest route to any bank in Tonawanda.
"Whatcha talkin at me for, boy?"
"I can't find the A-rabs, brutha. You sure they ain't in some other place like maybe A-rab land or something? I don't see any bear-breasted women or mermaids or anything. God, maybe it's just Mexico. This goddam cheap-ass country will skimp on anything won't they? Even naked mermaids."
"You're right next to them, dood. Get it together!! Put down the Barely Legal and look around a little. Do I need to come down there myself and hold your dick for you while you piss?"
"Oh, wait, there it is. I just saw it. It looks like a giant burrito."
"Well, you are in Mexico."
The underwater lair was gigantic, making my sub look like a tiny speck in an ocean of terroristic purposes. I'm not sure how I missed it. It loomed large on the horizon, which at the end of the day is a mish-mash of cross-purposes.
"Oh, sorry man, there it is. Yeah, I found it."
"Get yourself together man, and then go kick some mooly ass!! And I want metrics, dammit. Make sure record your stats while you're down there."
"Hey, sarge, I gotta ask you something."
"What is it, Plasky?"
"Well, I don't know how to say this, but I'm worried about the Bimbos back at HQ. Tonight is cheap wing night at Hooters and I usually take them out for some R 'n R and then I let a few of them use me in a discreet sexual manner back at my place after, but I ain't there. Have you checked up on them?"
"Don't worry, kid, they are in good hands with the Hacker. He single-handedly restringed Abbath's guitar when Immortal played Wacken in 2003 and the strings all broke simultaneously during an extra-heavy version of Unsilent Storms in the North Abyss. He is one of the most talented Makers in the Northern Seaboard. He's got them knitting food and Super Mario Brother's characters as we speak. They all claim to feel like they are on a vacation of some sort, but one only for women."
"Seriously? The man's a god. I gotta go out to Hooters with the Hacker when I get back. We'd really stir up the crowds, we would."
"Damn straight. Now go nail me some terrorists, kid. Tonawanda, what?! what?!"
Suddenly a strange squawky noise came over the radio in a violent burst of evil-sounding gibberish: "Allachallah!!! I claim this sub in the name of Allah!!"
"Chief is that you? Chief?"
Nothing. Only the staticky sound of silence and the knowledge that the Mooslims had spotted my sub. I turned up the Bodom and prepared for battle. They were about to be needled 24-7. With American Justice and hot lead.
Jetting towards the giant underwater lair of the Terrorists I began to sweat a bit. I sweat really easily and by noon, I usually smell like a 1970's locker room. I kept reminding myself to stay vigilant in these Post-9/11 times, but I was still giddy with the excitement of wasting some pond scum, too. My fingers were all wet on the trigger.
Suddenly, out of the top of their home-base (which by the way, looked exactly like the Dome of the Rock if the dome of the rock were a burrito, but under water) came a small crew of insurgents, ready to blow away my culture and lifestyle. They were each equipped with one (1) carpet and one (1) turban-shaped breathing apparatus. They were sitting cross-legged, arms crossed at their chests and flying towards me through the water at an incredible speed for what obviously were some very badly designed vehicles when the question of movability and time were of the essence. What can you do, though, right? Crazy-ass foreign cultures always getting this stuff wrong.
I turned on a talk radio show to comfort me in the Uncertain Financial Times.
`...you see, Jonny, what I'm saying here is that if YO want to come to MY country and then try and make ME accept YOUR lifestyle, well, you've got another thing coming. I say hang them all at the border the way God intended us to and let's keep our way of life preserved and unchanged like a marble statue of David with a hard-on like the America we grew up with!
`I hear you. This is Pete calling from Spokane. What do you think, Pete?'
The carpet-riders locked in on me and began shooting with various weapons of mass destruction: globs of hummus, children, women from 1930's style pictures, camels, DVD's stolen from Chinese malls, monkeys and fear.
I dodged them all like a seasoned expert due to many hours of playing MS Flight Simulator as a child, but accidentally smashed my Iso-sub into the Dome of the Rock Burrito Hideout when I tried to do that kick-ass move from Top Gun and fly up to one of the Terrorists and look at him while I'm upsidedown and give him the finger just to freak him out. I did it, but it looked pretty lame when I crashed into their hideout.
I had totally wrecked the Iso-sub, which is a bummer because it had a great Bose stereo system in it. But, this is where my Isopod suit came in handy. Up to that point, I didn't really need to wear it, but I did anyway cause it looks cool. But, now, suddenly thrust into the ball-shrinking cold of the Mexican Ocean, I needed the suit badly. It was the only thing keeping me from being crushed by the mighty pressure of the deep. My brother isopods of the deep sent me hug-rays of encouragement, which helped me survive.
Pretending to be dead, I floated to the bottom of the ocean floor and the stupid terrorists totally didn't catch me or even see me. They flew down, checked out my destroyed sub that they didn't even have the guts to completely destroy with acid like I would have and then they flew back up to the top of the Dome of the Rock Burrito Hideout.
I knew I had them now. All I had to do was get inside, so I chilled out for a bit, turned on some Amon Amarth through the suits internal CD system and chilled with my brother isopods at the bottom of the ocean. We did a few unmentionable things that are fairly common and accepted in the isopod community, but your reporter is a little shy to repeat these things here and shall summarily skip over this section of the story, even though it did last for four hours of teeth-grinding ecstasy.
Soon, the terrorists would pay. I had not just been vigilant. I had been very, very vigilant. It was time to bring hell with me, now that my sexual batteries had been recharged and I was in top form.
I found the way inside the Dome of the Rock Burrito Hideout by knocking on the door.
Morons. They opened the door and a whole ton of water totally flew through the door and they got all wet. All I had to tell them was that I was delivering a shipment of nuclear war-heads from Mecca for them. But, the most rad part was when all the water was splashing everywhere, I was able to sneak in and hide in a ventilation shaft. Plus, because the dorks opened the door when I knocked, seven of them died right there.
I was already racking up a few free plays, if you know what I mean.
Now, I had to find the head Terrorist. I wasn't sure where to look and I couldn't call Joey because they were probably tapping my phone. I had to improvise.
I figured it was a bad idea to keep smoking my cigar and I even turned down the Amon Amarth. This was serious business. No screwing around, right? I had one last sip of scotch and then put my glass down, knowing I'd never get the thing back.
I started crawling along the vent shafts, looking for the leader. It was hard and I had to drop a claw down from the ceiling and kill a few terrorists just to relieve my stress. I didn't do anything sexy or whatever, but I needed to let some steam off before fighting this guy or I'd probably lose or whatever. At the end of a level you always have to be ready to fight the boss.
Suddenly, I found the shaft that led to the leader's room. I don't know why they labeled the vent shaft, but I was grateful. `Leader's Apartments This Way' it said. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Or the other end, too, for that matter.
So, I crawled along until I could see the leader just below me. I slowly pulled open the shaft and prepared to drop right on him and finish him off in a flurry of blood and gore. I was really looking forward to that. I could taste his spicy blood in my mouth already.
But, first, I surveyed the situation. I'm a professional, you know.
He was just chillin', watching Pimp My Ride and obviously thinking about how he could pimp his camel or whatever. Maybe get another bump installed. These terrorist overlords and their lives of decadence never cease to disgust me.
Now was the moment of truth. I dropped down on him, claws flashing left and right, tearing, biting and hugging the little freak. Except, there was a problem.
He wasn't real!
This was a dummy. Suddenly the lights dimmed, the TV shut off and the doors slammed shut like a giant safe being closed.
"So, Von Plaskowitz, we finally have you. Your silly bug suit does not fool everyone, you know. Ve are not amused, ve are ecstatic."
I'm not sure why this mooly had a German accent, but I didn't care about that. I couldn't see him, so that worried me more. I also noticed that a tube had begun to come out of the side of the wall and really nasty smelling sewage-like liquid was poring out of it.
"Hey, grease-ball, what's with the fart gas?" I shouted.
"You vill die slowly, Von Plaskowitz, by suffocation in the sewage of many sea-sick Brothers of the Revolution. We have been collecting it for just such an occasion. You tricky, Western ideals did not fool us this time. This is not like that time at the strip club in Denver! You don't have any strippers with cyanide gas pills up their lady parts to trap us with this time."
"Yeah, that was a rad crack-down on you freaks."
"Good-bye, Von Plazkowitz. We will not meet again. HAHAHAHA!!"
And suddenly it was pitch black and beginning to get very funky in the Isopod suit.