Contest: Tell me a story – “Nick Furry, Agent of Y.I.F.F.”
Occasionally, I’ll post whatever the hell burbles up from my subconscious and ask you to tell me a story based on the title.
Here’s your title:
“NICK FURRY: AGENT OF Y.I.F.F.”
Tell you what. Whoever comes up with the best, funniest or most amusing story can pick a book from my Big Ass Prize Stack, which I’ll reveal this week.
Any takers? Leave your entry in the comments below. I’ll check back in a few days.
Tonight, substituting for Jimmy Stuart will be GW Bush. Please enjoy this showing of “Harvey.”
Steve Buchheit
July 7, 2009 at 2:44 pm
Today the President reintroduced the nation to Dick Cheney whose body, having been exhausted and unable to be replenished, no matter how many Gelflings are sacrificed, is discarded in favor of a softer, fluffier body that had higher polling numbers.
Steve Buchheit
July 7, 2009 at 3:19 pm
They finally tracked me down in a motel twenty miles out of Reno.
I woke as they kicked in the door, squinted against the harsh light, trying to make them out. Someone hauled me off the bed and threw me in the shower.
Took an hour to sober up; nearly that long for a team of agents to clean up the bottles strewn on the floor like an oil slick. I was sitting at the table, drinking my third coffee. Evans walked in and took off his sunglasses, shot me that smile every Y.I.F.F. agent seems to have, the one that says everything’s going to be fine when he’s already pulling the knife from your back.
“Something needs to be done.” Straight out like that.
“So get Obermann to do it.”
“Obermann’s dead.”
I looked at the coffee grounds swirling around in the bottom of my cup.
“We need you,” Evans said.
“I told you last time. I’m out.”
Evans sighed and tossed a manilla folder across the table. I crossed my arms, waiting for the hook.
“Seen your father lately?”
Wrong move. “He’s dead. Shot him myself.”
“Sure of that?”
No way to tell if he was bluffing.
Evans tapped the folder. I opened it, snorted.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“You know well as I do there’s no active agent can get close, do as clean a job as you could.” Might be the only true thing Evans had said so far.
“And this is from Top Floor?”
“All the way. And it has to be this week.” Evans lifted his briefcase to the table and snapped it open, showed me. Despite myself I wanted to touch the assortment of glass and steel and edges inside.
“What about my… disadvantage. It’s not like I can do covert work any more, not since-” Wonderland, I thought but did not say and Evans smiled again.
“That’s why Top Floor want you. Midday tomorrow, the target’s going to be doing a meet and greet at Disneyland.”
I reached out, ran a paw along a beautiful titanium blade. Fact is, I did want in again. I could feel it from the tips of my ears to my fluffy feet.
Evans knew. He reached out across the table.
“Welcome back, agent Furry.”
Grant Stone
July 8, 2009 at 4:50 am