“Can you believe we got invited to such a snazzy event,” my friend said, tugging a bit at his collar.
We were at the steps of a fictional place called Mordecai Manner. A large ensemble of people who had contributed to helping law enforcement, advanced in the field of medicine, and looked out for the overall well-being of others had made up the majority of the invitation list.
“I know. I just hope they have finger foods. I’m starving,” I said.
We perused the ball for an hour or so, I got my food, and drinks were served just before the mayor’s speech on ‘Doing Good for the Community’. We were interrupted from listening when a gentleman in black sunglasses made his way over to us.
“Agents,” he said. “Why aren’t you in the maintenance vent, making sure the mayor is safe.”
“The guy looks pretty safe to me,” my friend said with slurring words. “He looks to have a few extra layers of armor, too,” he continued, patting his stomach. I could tell he had had one too many screwdrivers.
“Listen, men, we need you to get there, double time. Take these earpieces. We’ll keep in touch. Now, get ahold of yourselves and get to it,” he hissed.
My friend looked back at him as we crossed the room, eyes slightly crossed, “He seems nice.”
Meanwhile . . .
Stuck in traffic about forty minutes away were two junior agents, Simon and Garfunkel.
Simon looked over at a restless Garfunkel and said, “I’m sure it’ll be quiet tonight; there’s no need in worrying. The mayor is surrounded by guards and everyone will be on the lookout.”
“I know,” agent Garfunkel said. “I just knew we shoulda gotten there sooner is all. Plus, what wise guy thought of such moronic code names as Simon and Garfunkel?”
“I don’t know,” agent Simon said. “Let’s just enjoy the night and make the most of it.”
He flicked the radio on and through static they could hear “. . . Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again. . .”
“That’s ironic, not moronic,” said agent Simon.
Back at the party. . .
“Where the hell are we going,” I asked my friend. He was clearly directionless after all the alcohol, but he kept creeping onward through the maze of vent shafts.
“Fear not young fellow,” he said in an English accent. “I know the way to victory, jog on, ol’ chap.” He was sniggering to himself, amused at what he had said.
The mayor’s speech was halfway over when someone spoke into one of our earpieces.
“. . . Quick, we’ve identified the shooter. . .” a voice said, breaking through the static.
“Shove off, man,” I said to my friend, burying my shoulder into him. “Take this seriously.”
“You take this seriousness,” he said, trying to sound outspoken and shoving back at me.
We were shuffling around so hard that the vent shaft gave a creek, then the metal brackets began to whine. We both stopped.
“What was that,” I asked.
“That’s no good,” my friend said in a casual slur.
The mayor’s speech was almost over when a very disgruntled-looking man appeared from behind the velvet stage curtains, a gun drawn and ready to fire.
Just before his finger caressed the trigger, a section of the vent shaft came swooping down like a pendulum and clipped the gunman, thrusting him sideways and sending him sailing through the air, exiting stage right.
My friend and I stood up and brushed ourselves off, surprised at our now whereabouts. Although silent at first, the crowd began cheering loudly.
We waved and smiled. My friend saluted the crowd, but as the gunman stood back up, aiming his gun at the newest podium dwellers, my friend noticed and gave a yip.
“I’m too young to die man,” he said, crouching behind the podium.
Just then, agents Simon and Garfunkel tackled him, and back to the ground he went.
After all the chaos and confusion, we were enjoying a drink at the bar with the two agents we had been mistaken for. By this point the excitement had sobered up my friend a bit.
“So,” I said, deducing, “like the band?”
“That’s awesome,” my friend said.
He elbowed me in the rib, “We need code names, man.”
“I can see it now,” I said, “Agents Stupid is as and Agent Stupid does.”
We all gave a hearty laugh.