Agency 13 #2 - Agent Deathmonger Copyright 1999, 2004, 2012, 2023 Denny Hill 2 All rights reserved and so forth. *** Picture a man in your standard-issue government business suit, sporting a red flat top and smooth shades, peeking around the corner. He's looking at several folks in matching uniforms: a white Spandex ™ suit with red capes, boots, tabards, and gloves, all wielding a sort of golden mace. The man in the suit's got a gun pulled and it looks like he's about to jump out shooting, and he seems to be in a really, really bad mood. (That should do for a 'cover', shouldn't it?) *** Notice: for those of you that are faint of heart, the following tale is not at all G-rated. It may include foul language, excessive violence, sexual innuendo, and other things that would get this story burned, were it in a printed form, by the more fanatical elements of every religion on earth. In other words, if these things offend you, you may want to stop reading now. (That should do for a 'disclaimer', shouldn't it?) *** It was time to leave. He'd spent a total of three weeks with these ignorant fools, these so-called Knights of the Moral Majority. At first he thought that they were merely yet another in a long string of fanatic religions groups. After all, they went through all the motions, attending protests against things they thought to be obscene, decadent, immoral, against God, or otherwise in their way. That was before they asked him and three others to attack the Frankologists. His 'rite of passage', they said. This mission would prove his loyalty and his faith in the Knights. Of course, the fact that he'd already done a thorough check into those direct action atheists last months would make gaining the trust of the Knights child's play. He could do some damage to them, while not actually doing anything to seriously cripple their operations any. And, at the same time, it'd look really impressive to his 'fellow' Knights. So, after being with the Moral Majority's supposed champions for three days, they flew out of their compound in northern Oklahoma, bound for New York City. Once they arrived, a contact was waiting for them who took them to a local Knights safe house, dispersing gear and costumes to the host of 'pious' folk. It was a costume designed to inspire awe into those looking at Knights on a mission, but it just looked like another funny Spandex ™ suit to Michael. It was a white stretch fabric suit, with a red cloak and tabard, as well as red boots and gloves. Over the left breast, the costume had a stylized cross, tilted at a forty-five degree angle inward from the bottom. He put the suit on, but he really felt silly. Spandex ™ just wasn't his thing. The Knights' contact then gave him his cudgel. It was really a mace, a sort of bronzed steel club with sharp points sticking out of it, which came out at an angle so that one could hit a body with the blunt side if they so chose. Michael took the proffered weapon, though he still had his twin semi-automatic pistols handy. One never knew when bad things were about to happen to him, and Michael would rather depend on them instead of a silly mace / club / whatever it was supposed to be. Waiting until nightfall, the gaggle of Knights that accompanied Michael took a rather unremarkable sedan, one with tinted windows, to the Scientific College of Frankology. The place was in the process of being rebuilt, since it had been burned down recently by rabid cultists working for the evil Egyptian god Set. Of course, Michael knew this, which was why he subtly pressured the Knights into acting right away; that way, he would cause even less damage. Getting out of the nondescript sedan, the four Knights smashed their way into the newly replaced door, and started bludgeoning the security guard inside unconscious. He gave as good as he got, though, and one of the Knights, a wiry little fellow who'd just found God again, was KO'd in the process. Once the guard was beaten, Michael stopped the other two Knights from kicking him while he was down, and moved them on into the center of the College. It was a rather nice building, really, a three story affair nestled between two others like it on a small street a few blocks away from Central Park. However, the buildings around here didn't have a mainframe computer in the basement, or extensive files on various religious organizations worldwide (unless you counted that building two doors down owned by the Scienceologists, who bought it to keep tabs on Frankowitz and his College). But anyway. Knowing that Alan Frankowitz, the founder of this odd little group, had several backups of the files he had in this building, Michael directed the two flunkies with him to destroy all of those present in the building, which were situated in the basement with the mainframe. Running down the stairs, they found that the mainframe itself had been removed (probably because of the fire), but several of the file cabinets were still here, and still full of information. It never occurred to the others to take any of that material back with them, and Michael was happy about that; he wasn't here to steal anything. Of course, he a few files pertaining to the Knights of the Moral Majority in front of a nearby security camera, so Frankowitz would know who was behind all of this. And, of course, he left a scrap of his ridiculous cape on the edge of a broken file cabinet, as if it'd been torn off. Once they'd gotten there, they kicked the place around some, smashed the new furniture up, and generally made a mess before picking up their fallen compatriot and fleeing the scene. Michael was particularly proud of the small fire he'd started on the first floor, to make it look as if they were trying to cover their tracks. As far as the others were concerned, that was just why he did it. Of course, Michael knew that the Frankologists had set up a rather impressive fire extinguishing system within the building; after being firebombed and burnt to the ground as many times as this building has, they knew better than to leave such things to chance. The fire would be out within a minute or two, and his pals looked at him with a small sense of awe. He'd even managed to gain a small ally in the form of that weasely little fellow. That was because, once the four Knights got back to Oklahoma, he told the man who sent them on this mission, one Jacob Cross (as if that was his real name), nothing about how the little kid had failed in that mission - and had ensured that the others did the same. With all the media hype it generated, the job had made Michael a veritable golden boy for the Knights, and because of this 'success', he was made a fully active operative in the group. This allowed Michael free access to the complex for two weeks, with the only exception being the private offices of the Knights' local leaders. And Michael didn't even bother to stop there, sneaking in with stolen keys to take photos of every pertinent document (and several that didn't seem to be, just in case), while nobody was paying any attention to him. These so-called pious Knights of the Moral Majority were simply using the cover of their intense Christian beliefs as a cover, a cover for an insidious attempt to subtly take over several segments of the United States government. Oh sure, some of them actually believed in what they were doing, and some were truly faithful individuals. And these folks were the people that held this ruse together, allowing the Knights' leaders to infiltrate the bureaucracy. And best of all, he had proof! So, waiting until nightfall, Michael grabbed his guns and shades, and left his dorm-like room in the Knights' compound for the last time. He had a small bag for his suit and his shaving instruments, and slowly walked towards the door; he hated the fact that he needed so many blasted razors, but when a body had hair that grew as fast as his fiery locks did, well, he had to shave and clip his hair daily. Of course, that sometimes came in handy when going undercover. After all, he could grow a beard in three days, or manufacture a pony-tail in a week. At any rate, he was inching his way to the front door, when somebody shouted out his name. "Craig!" not his real name, of course, but that's how the Knights knew him. "Where you going, Craig? It's after eleven... we're all supposed to be in bed!" Michael looked around for a second, and then replied "Um, just going out for some fresh air... be right back, eh?" The two Knights walked warily towards him, the leader amongst them looking rather suspicious. "You know there's a nine o'clock curfew, Craig... now why don't you just go to bed. We'll even take you back there, and won't tell Jacob you broke the rules, okay?" Michael just smiled, saying "Okay... you're right. Let's go." When he got to the vocal one, he smiled again, jacking him in the jaw with that ridiculous mace. This set the other one off running, and knowing his time was limited, Michael hit the stairwell and made for the nearest exit. By then, however, an alarm claxon was going off, and folks were assembling in front of the exit, most of which were armed with bronzed maces. Knowing where this was headed, Michael pulled out his guns. This was the part, he was guessing, that Mike 013 was telling him about when he recruited him into this silly Agency 13 thing. He could remember it clear as day, as he sat down in that outdoors café in Washington DC, mere days after he'd quit working for the FBI. He'd discovered that some Senator was up to no good and, trying to expose the man, and had 'somehow' gotten himself blamed for interfering with 'national security'. He knew better, though, and instead of working for a government that had betrayed him, Michael quit. Leaving ten years behind as the infamous Agent Deathmonger, the man who always got his man. Or woman. Michael didn't discriminate, and would readily go undercover to bust just about anybody that decided to break the law in a serious way - man, woman, or whatever. Right after he'd quit, he got the call from Mike Jensen, who was looking for several 'righteous' operatives for a firm that would look into shady doings on the part of America's various 'secret societies'. Intrigued, Michael followed Mike 013 to his new facility, in the process of being built way out in western Nebraska, a few miles outside this small town called Rock, on the border with Wyoming. That was when Mike 013 told him what the true purpose of this investigative firm, Agency 13, was all about. He laughed, he didn't believe it, and he was about to leave when three other Mike Jensens (and one Michelle - a very attractive Michelle) backed his story up. He thought about it for about three seconds, and signed up with the Agency. This would allow him to do the work that really needed to be done, though there was a serious level of risk involved. For one thing, there was no FBI to back him up. Secondly, some of the folks he'd be looking into would be downright hostile. This didn't bother Michael either, as he'd dealt with his fair share of people intent on killing him. Of course, snapping back to the present, he hardly believed that they'd be a bunch of idiots in Spandex ™ costumes bludgeoning him to death with silly little maces. After all, he didn't have to deal with any of this business while he was looking into those Frankologists, his first job for the Agency. He remembered looking into their FBI file as a curiosity, but didn't think that he'd ever do anything revolving around them. Or these obnoxious Knights of the Moral Majority, either. However, that was the situation, and he meant to resolve it, and get out of there in one piece. Hopping around the corner, he fired several shots from each of his pistols, an act that surprised the vast majority of those Knights assembled at the doorway; nobody knew he had those things, and even if they did, his firing them at them did a remarkable job at making them get out of the way. Two of these thugs didn't budge, however, and he was forced to hurt them. The first took a swing at him with his mace, and when he ducked, Michael shot him in the ankle. This dropped him into a screaming, bleeding puddle of flesh on the floor. The second was a little more wary, and, picking up his fellow's mace, he threw it at Michael to distract him while he charged. He even managed to knock the guns out of the former FBI agent's hands. However, Michael was government trained, for better or worse, and can defend himself without a weapon - even if his opponent has one. So, when said opponent took another swing at him, Michael popped the goon with a right hook, laying him flat out on the floor, amidst a pile of his own teeth. Laughing, Michael grabbed a mace and a gun, and ran out the front door, making his way into the Oklahoma fields before anybody could catch up to him. That was the idea, at least. About ten minutes into the nothing of the Oklahoma night, Michael heard the buzz of a motor, one belonging to a dirt bike, in fact. Looking behind him, he saw the bike tearing straight for him, and the man riding on it was armed with some sort of machine gun; he couldn't tell which kind in the dark. As the bike crested the hill Michael was climbing, it started shooting at Michael, and he identified it by its sound as an AK-47. Diving into the gaggle of corn stalks surrounding the tiny trail he was on, Michael managed to avoid getting hit by shot after shot made in his direction, shots which didn't have too much hope of connecting in the first place; firing an automatic weapon on a moving dirt bike racing along a bumpy trail isn't an exact science. As such, Michael was able to pull the stunt that he did; using that mace, he downed the dirt bike by shoving it in the thing's wheel spokes. When the rider tumbled to a halt, Michael jumped upon him, and pummeled him several times, trying to put him out before he could find his gun and fire again. He found out two things, though: the bike rider was Jacob Cross, and he had a really hard head. Before he could deal with this, Cross hit him in turn several times, bloodying Michael's face and giving him (well, tomorrow, at least) one heck of a fat lip. Able to take punishment, though, Michael reared up and kneed Cross in the groin, essentially taking the fight out of him. "You won't get away, Craig - we'll hunt you down!" He said this through a world of pain, and you could hear the strain in his voice. "No, I don't think so, Cross," Michael said, "you won't be hunting down anything for a good long while." With that, Michael kicked the corrupt 'religious' man into submission and unconsciousness. "Ha! Nobody - but nobody - screws with Agent Deathmonger! Ha ha haa!" With that, Michael left Cross to bleed in the night, trying to simmer down since his usually stoic self was temporarily lost to the sheer thrill of life-threatening battle. He actually whistled, something he never does, as he walked back to civilization. Oh, he would've just taken that bike, but he busted it up in the crash. Besides, he wanted to sneak into the nearest town, so he could change out of his ridiculous outfit. *** Next time, Mike 013 and Agent Deathmonger make their way to the quaint town of Pleasantview, New Jersey, in search of a peculiar killer. Tooling about town, they eventually find their way to the Ariel-Shijitzu building, where they discover that the fiend they're looking for is a third shift vampire, who's using the night staff as lunch. Can these two stalwart heroes stop the evil Accountant, or will he have them as a late snack? (That should do for a 'preview', shouldn't it?) *** Agency 13 #2 - Agent Deathmonger Copyright 1999, 2004, 2012, 2023 Denny Hill 2 All rights reserved and so forth.