by Matt Stewart-Cohn

 

            “Hey John.”

            “No Steve.”

            “I have a question. What do you know about the CIA?”

            “Not much,” answers John, looking at his fellow janitor perplexed. “The Central Intelligence Agency, right?”

            “Yeah, I know that. But aren’t they supposed to work for the US government?” questions Steve in a serious manner.

            “Yeah, of course. Where are all of these questions coming from?” asks John, grabbing an unopened Twix bar from a box on the shelf and offering a stick to Steve. “Want one?”

            “Yes I do,” says Steve and grabs the offering with cat like reflexes. “Look, John, I have to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anybody, Ok?”

            “You’re gay, huh? I thought you liked eating bananas a little too much. I mean a banana hear and there is one thing, but the way you go through them it’s almost like you enjoy the actual…”

            “No John, I’m not gay. Remember the wife and the thirteen kids? Back to the point. Last night, after the Oprah show…”

            “Oooh. I love Oprah!” squeals John with a giggle and a hop-skip.

            “Anyway,” sighs Steve giving John an exasperated look while leaning against his mop. “Last night my home phone starts to ring. Thinking, who could this be I answered it.

            “Hello?”

            “Is this Steve Fluffy-Bunny III?”

            “Speaking”

            “Pleasure speaking with you, sir. This is Bobberthon from the CIA, and we were wondering if you are up to a job.”

            “What jo…”

            “Excellent! Glad to have you onboard. This is a top secret, protocol Triple QD4, code lavender mission. Clear? Clear! We need you to assassinate the vice president within the next two weeks by any means necessary. Is that understood, Steve?”

            “Guuuhh…”

            “Excellent! Glad things make sense to you. Down at the station, people always said you were the smartest. Oh, One other thing. If you fail to complete this mission your house will self-destruct. Any last questions?”

            “Sel…Sel…Self destruct? Di…Di…Dick Cheney?”

            Whoa! Self-destruct Dick Cheney? They always said you were the right man for the job down at the station. Wonderful time speaking with you, Steve, but I have to boogie. Have a spectacular evening.” *click*

            “I never knew that you were a professional assassin, Steve,” says John, nervously grabbing a king sized Snickers and taking cover behind it.

            “Stop that,” replies Steve, while snatching the Snickers from John and putting it safely away, in his pocket. “You know I’m not a professional assassin. I’ve been working here the last thirty years of my life. When would I have had time to go out and have a night on the town, drink a few lattes, and kill me a couple politicians while I’m at it?”

            “Well, if you’re not a professional assassin, then what do you plan on doing about this sticky situation you seem to be in?” inquires John.

            “I don’t have a clue.”

            “Well, do you own a gun?”

            “Only the newest, high powered, chrome-plated sniper rifle that was just put on the market specifically for the Marines.”

            “Really?”

            “No not really,” sighs Steve. “Maybe I could get close enough to the VP and hit him over the head with a baseball bat or something.”

            “Watch out Steve. Dick Cheney has a history of shooting people.”

            “CLEAN UP ON ISLE SEVEN. WE HAVE A SERIOUS SPILLAGE IN THE PROCESS. WE NEED BACK-UP. TROOPS, ROLL OUT!” booms the voice over the loud speaker.

            “Fucking dick,” says Steve.

            “Who, the VP?” asks John

            “Him too. Well sergeant, roll out,” replies Steve, and him and John, mop by mop, make their way over to isle number seven.

            “Maybe you can mop Dick to death,” suggests John, while cleaning up the two-liter Pineapple Fanta that was the source of the Horrible Spillage Of Isle Seven. “Seduce him with a banana, bring him back to your room, and mop him into a coma!”

            “Not sure that would work John, but keep thinking,” says Steve, melancholy chewing Snicker’s.

            “How about using an ice pick?” asks John.

            “Too messy. No stomach for it,” replies Steve.

            “Two-by-four?”

            “Nope.”

            “Poisonous snakes?”

            “How would I do that?”

            “With a little creativity and a giant sling shot. Easy.”

            Steve sighs.

            “Hmm…how about a blow dart?” says John, with a twisted look of concentration on his face.

            “No poison.”

            “Stampeding rhinos?”

            “Sure.”

            “Sword fight?”

            “Maybe.”

            “Crucifiction?”

            “Dick is no Jesus.”

            “Eaten by a crocodile in his sleep?”

            “Give me a croc.”

            “Sorry I don’t have one handy. That’s my uncle Randy. How about trip mines in his shoes?”

            “I would rather not use any of my arsenal of mines.”

            “Fair enough. Rolling a boulder down a hill?”

            “I would rather not use any of my arsenal of boulders.”

            “True, true. Maybe you could have a sign that says ‘pizza-$3. Free for people named Dick. Enter this dark tent for more information’ and then capture a pack of hungry, flesh eating beavers to finish the job.”

            “Only if you capture the hungry, flesh eating beavers.”

            “Sorry, can’t. That’s my cousin Tommy. How about you take a duck billed platapoose and place it…”

            “ENOUGH!” bellows Steve, who hears a faint ‘oh my’ behind him and turns around to face a little boy sucking on a lollipop.

            “What are you looking at?” Steve growls at the kid, who immediately drops his sucker and faints.

            “CLEAN UP IN ISLE SEVEN. WE HAVE SOME SORT OF CRITTER BLOCKING THE LANE. MAY NEED BACK UP. TROOPS, ROLL-OUT!”

            “Fucking dick,” says Steve.

            “Fucking Dick,” replies John.