Astro-Nuts

by Logan Hunder

  “They’re all too refined and proper anyway.” Rupert dismissed. “This Banks is a barmy sort. Unable to be reasoned with or duped into parlaying about, clearly. Probably understands nothing beyond punching and shooting, the oaf. Formal and mannerly engagements clearly will not do.”

  “But sir! We are the League of Extraordinarily British Gentlemen. Formality and snobbery are the only tools at our disposal.”

  “Not necessarily true, dear Percival! Sure, most of us are distinguished lads who can pull off ascots and always know which fork to use, but every now and then one will come across one of those hardened, rabble-rousing British men who drink and swear and beat the occasional woman. That’s who we need right now!”

  “But do we have one among us?”

  Rupert stroked his bottom lip.

  “What about that fellow fresh from the academy? Slagslapper or something? I was reading his progress reports; seems fit to me!”

  “Er, I’m not sure Slagslapper can be considered for candidacy, sir.”

  “Why not?! He’s British, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Can he sneer?”

  “Oh, most impressively.”

  “How does he take his tea?”

  “Why, hot, sir. Like lava.”

  “And how are his teeth?”

  “Pearly white and nearly as straight as your wife.”

  “Excellent.” The corners of Rupert’s mouth curved upward, slightly lifting his hanging chin. “That is one old stereotype I’m happy to be doing away with. How about his disposition? You oversaw his public etiquette exam, didn’t you?”

  “I did preside over it, as I always do, yes.”

  “How much does he tip his servers?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Ah yes, of course. What did he order during the dinner portion then?”

  “Guinness, mostly. He did graze a bit at the deep-fried-ani-mal-organs-stuffed-with-other-animal-organs buffet, though.”

  “Oh, my. Did he become inebriated and belligerent?”

  “Well yes, a bit. After I tested how he reacts to pressure by hitting him with the classic loose-lid-on-the-salt-shaker prank he became agitated and began yelling obscenities at the waitresses and old people.”

  “Did this lead to acts of vandalism?”

  “Surprisingly not, actually. He paid his tab, folded his coat over his arm, and walked out of the restaurant in a very dignified manner. It wasn’t until he was out of the building that he asked me to hold his jacket while he took it in turn to begin assaulting other departing patrons.”

  “See, Todgerworth!? He sounds like exactly what this mission needs. Get him briefed. I want him en route tonight!” Percy grimaced and rocked his head from side to side. “Err . . . I’m afraid that Mister Slagslapper is ill-equipped to undertake this mission, sir.”

  “Why do you keep insisting that? What skill does he lack?”

  “Uh, breathing, partially. He’s dead.”

  “He’s dead?! What do you mean, ‘He’s dead?’”

  “Erm, I’m not sure how to make it any clearer, sir? He’s deceased. Departed. Expired. Bereft of life . . . ?”

  “I am aware of the definition of the word.”

  “. . . Exanimated. Bit the dust. As far as our best physicians have been able to tell, he has been permanently and irrevocably incapacitated . . .”

  “TODGERWORTH.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “How could that have happened?!”

  “Terribly tragic.” Percy muttered as he scrolled through the files of his tablet. He finally settled on one and ran a finger down it. “He was bludgeoned to death with a black pudding, I’m afraid. It seems one of the antagonized patrons was adept in the art of Ecky Thump. There was a policeman on the scene, but unfortunately he was unable to apprehend the man on account of dying himself in a fit of laughter.”

  “ . . . I have no words.” Rupert said after a brief pause. “ . . . Except those.”

  “It was a PR nightmare, I assure you,” Percy agreed. “Particularly after the murder weapon disappeared into the digestive tract of a local transient.”

  “Dear Percy, I am terribly late for a meeting I just made up. Do you think we can expedite this a little bit?”

  “Certainly, sir. . . . So what should we do?”

  Rupert began to pace. His Roomba dutifully followed behind his polished shoes as he trod upon his office rug in a slow march. By the time he had completed his lap, so too had he completed his consideration.

  “With no agents to spare and no up-and-comers to exploit, it appears we only have one demographic to draw from.” He observed, returning his hands to the small of his back. “We’re going to have to re-engage a retiree. Do we have any that meet the required specifications and have not gone senile or incontinent yet?”

  “Two, sir. One is a decorated veteran of the League and often expresses eagerness to return and serve Queen and country. The other was forced out one mission shy of his pension and still holds the record for longest list of charges we’ve ever had to have pardoned.”

  “Well then, that first one sounds like the clear choice. Get him briefed.”

  “Excellent decision, sir.” Percy looked towards someone or something off camera. “Mabel, darling, would you get me Sir Bedford Furthington Fielding Livingston Chesterhill on the coms, please?”

  “Oh my god,” Rupert blurted. “Is that his bloody name?

  Never mind, go with the second one. The amount of times I’m going to have to type that if he becomes a prominent part of this mission would be unacceptable.”

  “Belay that, love.” Percy looked back. “What’s that, sir?”

  “Go with the other one, I said.”

  “Do . . . Do I have to?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well I mean, no, not really. He just . . . makes me uncomfortable, sir.”

  “I see. Well then, I am terribly regretful to inform you that you are not only to brief Sir . . . ?”

  “Sir Head, sir.”

  “ . . . Sir Head, you are not only to brief him, but I am afraid you are also going to have to accompany him on this.” Percy’s eyes widened.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The success of this mission is critical, Todgerworth!” Rupert insisted. “It is absolutely imperative that we retrieve this nonspecific object of dubious function! I would go instead of you, however, I am limited by the fact that I don’t want to.”

  “I suppose that is a limitation I can sympathize with.”

  “Stiff upper lip, now, Todgerworth. Charter whichever vessel you fancy, but I expect you to be blasting off before the day is out. Do try to bring it back in one piece, though. And yourself as well, should you have time.”

  THE SCREEN WENT BLACK, leaving Percy staring at his own reflection. Turns out he did have something in his teeth that whole time. Today was not his day.

  He reclined in his chair and turned to face the mural of Queen Elizabeth II taking up his entire south wall. Her beautiful-yet-ghoulish face never failed to remind him that all men in his line of work must make sacrifices for the greater good. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t silently lament his situation. This was going to be a bothersome endeavour. It didn’t bode well that his preselected partner promised to cause him more grief than his preselected opponent. Although he had never met either, the tales of one stood out more than tales of the other.

  As far as he was aware, this Banks character would just kill you if you got in his way. A bit narrow minded and knee-jerk, perhaps, but respectably clinical. Sir Head, on the other hand, was anything but. His methodology baffled every psychologist they ever exposed him to. There had never been a general consensus regarding his mental acuity. Frankly, the only reason he had lasted as long as he did was because, idiosyncratic as he was, he did get results.

  “Are you still here, Mabel?” He polled the room as he sipped at his tea.

  “Still here,�
�� her short voice buzzed over the speakers.

  “Do we have a contact number for Sir Head on file? I have been tasked with coaxing him into reenlistment.”

  “I heard. He really snookered you, eh? I hope you ain’t gonna make me talk to him. I like this job, but I don’t need it that bad.”

  “No, no, it’s fine, just put me through and I’ll chat him up.”

  “Your funeral, guv. It’s ringing.”

  Percy got out of his chair and smoothed the front of his suit. With only seconds to spare before showtime he dashed over to the camera and angled it to face him with his beloved mural in the background. Dear Lizzy probably wouldn’t have a similar effect on his charge, but it sure made him look and feel more dignified, and there was nothing more important to a proper Britishman than presentation.

  The screen popped on as the call was answered. Percy puffed out his chest and slid a hand into his waistcoat. Nearly the entire frame of his screen was taken up by the face of a wide-eyed older man with a razor-sharp widow’s peak glaring at him. His pupils were shrunken to pinheads and his nose was pressed flat against the camera lens. Feverish breaths fogged up the bottom half of the screen almost enough to hide the fact he was naked.

  “You ever call this number again—!!” He barked. “I’ll kill ya! KILL YA!!”

  The screen went black as he hung up. The lone denizen of the room sat in silence for a moment.

  “Mabel,” he finally spoke. “Would you be so kind as to take a letter for me?”

  “I already started. So far I got: ‘Dear insubordinate tosser. Ooooh yeah, bet you think you’re so tough, don’t ya? Bet you think you’re pretty untouchable. Well guess again, grandpa! I will touch the hell outta you! So get your ass in line or I’m gonna stick my foot up it! What’s that? You got a problem with my demands? Well I had a feeling you’d say that! How ’bout you come meet up with me to discuss your problem then? Three o’clock at the flagpole. Bring Band-Aids.’ Signed, Sir Percival Todgerworth, of course. All you gotta do now is attach a big close-up pic of your knob and it’ll be ready to go, I think!”

  “I, what? No, Mabel. I was going to offer to reinstate his pension or something. Never mind; I’ll take care of the mail. Just . . . book us one of the ships in the hangar and take some time off. I think you need it.”

  “If you say so, boss. I think the HMS Three Milk One Honey just got cleared to fly again. Though if I remember correctly, you tend to be more partial to the HMS One Cream One Stevia.”

  “Neither for this endeavour.” Percy asserted, sipping his own literal one cream and one Stevia. “This is an important mission with high stakes and needs to be over with as quickly as possible. Get us the HMS Black.”

  7.

  WE NOW RETURN TO OUR

  REGULARLY SCHEDULED

  PROGRAMMING.

  IKE THE COX OF the walk he stalked around, apparently feeling as though the situation warranted a bit of extra pageantry. Neither Kim nor her handler seemed to have any appreciation. However the man with the gun was usually given the right to set the pace of things, slow or spasmodic as it may be.

  “So looks like what we got here is a good old-fashioned Mexican standoff.” Cox observed with a grin and nod in what everyone else could only assume was his attempt at a southern accent.

  “You’re the only one with a weapon.” Mister Nobody replied, still as deadpan as ever. “If anything, this is a stick-up.”

  The captain’s grin briefly faded and he glanced around the room with a dopey look, as if he actually needed to verify the assertion.

  “Oh yeah.” He said. “Well, in that case . . .”

  He bowed his head and squinted at the old man. The side of his mouth curled upward to expose some teeth. He wiggled his gun arm a little bit to convey that he was aiming it really hard now.

  “Reach for the sky, dirtbag.” He growled in as low of a register as he could muster.

  More annoyed than fearful, the interloper complied nonetheless by releasing his grip on the first mate and letting his hands float towards the ceiling.

  “Higher!” Cox barked. “Higher, I say!”

  The old man rolled his eyes and raised the imaginary roof a couple inches further.

  “Yes . . . Yes . . . Now dance!”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “This is nice!” The captain changed gears. “I can see why people used to worship these things. I feel powerful! And kinda sexy. Do I look sexy right now, Kim?”

  “You’re very handsome, babe,” she grumbled as she crawled sideways away from the old man. “Can you just shoot him now, please?”

  “Yeah . . . Yeah!” His voice turned to a growl again as he got caught up in the situation. Then his gusto abruptly faded. “Wait, what? No! That’s a terrible idea. I don’t wanna shoot him.”

  “Then give me the Glock thing and I’ll do it!”

  “What?! I don’t want you to shoot him either!”

  “Well if you’re not gonna shoot him, then what are you gonna do with him??”

  “I . . . I don’t know! I didn’t think I’d get this far.” Cox looked back at Mister Nobody. “What would you do if you were me?”

  The old guy shrugged.

  “I’d shoot me.”

  “What?! Why would you tell me that?”

  “’Cause I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me.”

  “Well . . . I bet you’d be really surprised if I did then!”

  “I would be.”

  Cox opened and closed his mouth several times, shaking his head and looking around for some inspiration.

  “Well what would you do if you were me and, uh, your gun didn’t work?”

  Mister Nobody blinked at him.

  “Are you telling me your gun doesn’t work?”

  “No, it works! I mean, I haven’t actually used it or anything, but old stuff like this always works.”

  Hands still held high, the old man took a step towards the captain. Cox nearly stumbled backward when he did, but retained just enough presence of mind to know to hold his ground. The intruder gazed unblinkingly upon him. Cox’s gun hand began to tremble. He couldn’t avoid betraying how unnerving that old wrinkled brow was when it was furling in his direction.

  The old man took another step. The captain could feel the sweat coalescing on his brow. Threatening to murder in defence of his crew was a much easier feat than following through with it. Desperate as he was to find an alternative, his increasingly blurred mind made it steadily more difficult to break the fixation on the only apparent option, especially as the stress of the situation began to mount. Mister Nobody continued to push his luck. He was nearly halfway between the couple. Kim looked to her husband, eyes pleading, urging him to cross his own self-imposed line. Still unable to commit, Cox instead just put his other hand on the Glock, silently begging the old man to stop.

  But the old man did not. He kept his arms raised but took another ginger step, like a man approaching a dangerous animal. Donald crawled away backwards until he was flush against the wall. Less than ten feet separated the two would-be captains. Sweat now matted Cox’s hair to his head. Nobody’s usually stoic face now bore the etchings of a malicious smile. Cox’s arms slowly began to buckle under the weight of the gun and the situation. Nobody’s pace evolved from occasional steps to a slow walk. Willy walked through the doorway, gesturing back the way he came with his thumb.

  “Oh hey, guys. Turns out the door wasn’t even locked.”

  Cox yelped. Reacting to being startled the same way one handles being tazed, every muscle in his body simultaneously contracted. His knees buckled, his elbows clenched, his trigger finger pulled, and, as far as anyone in the room could tell, the gun in his hand exploded like a bargain bin e-cigarette.

  Had the captain bothered to read the manual for this thing upon purchase, he may have noticed the disclaimer warning users that ancient weaponry did not emit the same pew pew that modern laser-oriented technology graced the eardrums with. However, even if he had read
the manual it wouldn’t have mentioned that, when used in a pressurized metal chamber around unsuspecting onlookers, it would have roughly the same effect as firing a cannon during the world chess championships. The still-reverberating bang knocked everyone on their ass who wasn’t already and the Glock left a red mark on Cox’s forehead where the recoil struck. There were likely some utterances of surprise, but they were all lost in the roiling tinnitus static occupying everyone’s ears.

  “Was it supposed to do that?!” Was the first coherent sentence that Cox heard once the humming in his ears died down. He wasn’t sure who said it, but it wasn’t Mister Nobody. The hijacker was the first to recover from the shock; he was probably half-deaf already. With an unexpected nimbleness, he popped to his hands and knees, then quickly to his feet, and dashed across the room. He hopped with ease over Kim’s outstretched leg trying to trip him, then transitioned his landing directly into a swift kick to the Glock, putting it far out of anyone’s reach. Despite her frustration and fury, the girlie had to say he was pretty spry for an old guy.

  Willy was the last man standing between bad dude and doorway. Lips pursed with determination, he got to his feet and spread his legs wide, planting his feet firmly to become the living wall he had probably been many times in his life. The size differential between the two theoretically stacked the odds heavily in the big man’s favour, but for further fortification he even clamped a meaty paw onto either side of the door frame. All of these factors would have presented quite insurmountable odds had the old man tried to charge through him like a running back. However, this wasn’t football, so there was no flag on the play when Mister Nobody simply stopped short and dropped the spread-eagled blocker with a sharp kick to the love spuds.

  The wild whack to Willy’s willy had left him down. He had fallen and he couldn’t get up. He had failed so completely and utterly at his role as the only person who could have prevented Mister Nobody’s escape that he didn’t even slow the man down. But none of that mattered, because at least he tried his best.

  Kim was next to her feet. Despite her rabid chihuahua-like eagerness towards going to lay down the law, she spared a moment to take a knee by Tim and help him to his feet.