Agent Bradley Abraham Hellpuncher grasped his sunglasses, pulling them off to reveal a single tear, the flag of his country reflecting on its surface as it cleaved across his steel face.
“I thought your tear ducts were destroyed when you covered that grenade with your mouth, agent?”
Agent Calypso Grind slid up beside him, the sun reflecting off the black leather of her standard issue Female FBI Agent bikini. She leaned down to adjust her sixteen inch see-through platform heels, finding it hard to balance in the presidential graveyard while still showing ample cleavage at all perceivable angles.
“You look good in your formal uniform, Grind. It’s much more conservative than that crap you wear in your off time.”
She looked up at him, her mouth half-open while she played with the straps of her thong. “At least I’m not a robot who’s…”
Hellpuncher wiped away the tear with his grenade-launcher arm, his hand having been torn off by Russian Nazis working for the Taliban. Agent Grind walked slowly away, wrapping one hand around a pole-shaped grave and spinning around it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
He lowered his weapon arm to the ground, casting his eyes back to the casket, and the reason they’d come here, the symbol of their failure and shame. “I know you didn’t.”
Grind bent over, running her tongue up the pole as she stood. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
He didn’t look her way, instead checking the gas gauge on his double-bladed chain saw sword. He knew he was just trying to keep his eyes off the casket, though, and he forced himself to look up. Even with his steel heart, he felt a sob come over him.
There lay the president, dead for his failure. His landslide election and steady rise in popularity had come to an abrupt halt, only to end here, on top of his little casket.
“You know, he was the first actual rodent to become president.”
Grind sprayed oil all over herself. “I remember. That was back when I was still green, and you had most of your body parts.”
Hellpuncher chuckled. “Too true. Still got the only one that counts. Flechette rounds couldn’t even damage that baby.”
Grind walked toward him on all fours, her hair in her face before she swept it back with a turn of her head. “I still couldn’t believe it when I saw you shoot up that paedophile anti-American video game company. The one with all of the cocaine and smuggled Chinese babies in the basement. I’d never seen anyone fire a gun with the bone that jutted out from their torn-off arm and their teeth before that.”
“I’ve made love and fired a shotgun using the same body part at the same time before, Agent Grind. That was nothing.”
She pressed her back up against him, wiggling her hips. “You think my parents are proud of me? Even after we failed the president?”
“You’re a top-notch FBI Agent, Grind. No one passed the Bump And Grind course with perfect marks before you, or managed to beat the trainer in lubed wrestling. I know they’re proud.”
She elbowed him in the chest plate, tapping against the live artillery shell still lodged there. “Thanks. That actually means a lot.”
Hellpuncher smiled down at her, but his eyes scanned the pallbearers standing around the casket. Three male agents were there, firing machine guns in slow motion while screaming and wearing torn shirts. There were also three other female ones, topless and rubbing themselves against the casket. But something wasn’t right…
“Anything wrong with this picture?”
“Other than the president being on top of the casket?”
He gestured with his head, trying not to give them away. She looked over while still gyrating, seeing that one of the female agents was a bearded man wearing a shirt with a woman’s shape drawn on it. A timer clicked away on his wristwatch. She winked up at him, running her tongue across her lips.
Agent Hellpuncher fired his weapon while revving his saws. “It’s time we went to Code Black.”