Secret Agent Dad

by Johnny McNulty

           A lot of the kids in my class say that their dads are the coolest, and hey, who am I to say that being a dentist or “boss of the petting zoo” isn’t cool. If they enjoy it, then more power to them, you know what I’m saying? Everyone has to make his own path, and not worry about what all the hyenas are chattering about. But things were a little different when Charlie from down the street claimed his dad was a “secret agent.” I blacked out, but when the fog of rage cleared from my eyes I saw that I had shoved his upper torso through the hole in the back of Samantha Birdie’s chair, breaking his collarbone as his body compressed to fit. Turned out later that his dad was a tax receipt agent for the IRS, which I feel real bad about. Then again the teacher DID always warn Charlie that if he kept mumbling like that no one would understand him, so it just goes to show you.
           See, I don’t normally do these sorts of things, but I get really sensitive about “secret agents” because my dad is one. His name is XXXXXXXXXX. My name is James XXXXXXX. I’m named after my great- XXXXXXXX. I don’t beat up kids who say their dad is a secret agent because my dad is cooler than theirs. I beat them up because I know they’re liars. If their dads really were secret agents, they would know what a terrible fate it is to be their offspring. I have two brothers, two sisters, and forty-two half brothers and sisters. This is because of all the “Bond Girls” or “Daddy’s Biddies” he’s encountered on his missions. My mom, Bona Von Behinde, was an Alpine ski bunny trained in the way of Buddhist massage and tantric meditation. Now she’s in witness protection, working as a baggage claim handler, smokes two soft packs of Camels a day and she makes me give her massages because “no other man will touch her.” I guess I can’t begrudge him everything, I mean after all he’s usually running for his life or infiltrating stuff, so it can be tough to pick up a pack of Durex from the local CVS, or Pharmacia, or comintern health depot. But Christ, when you’re constantly staying in 5 star hotels and snapping people’s necks, is it that hard to stop by the gift shop for some gum and some rubbers before the maid finds the body?
           My school counselor once told me that when entering puberty is a confusing time for most boys. Yeah, maybe. Come back to me when the feds deny your existence. The last time I went to the doctor’s office they took down my information and half an hour later a small electromagnetic pulse went off and erased all their hard drives, as well as almost downing a small Cessna flying overhead. We’re not all non-existent though. One of the girls dad met, Aunt Fuckme Jones, was selected as his official wife, and her kids John, Mark, and Slutface are his real children. That must be nice, to be real. At family gatherings they all act like there’s no difference and that we’re all equal, which basically means they keep talking to you like nothing’s happening while some storm trooper in sunglasses comes around to replace the tracking device embedded behind my ear. Thanks for the effort Slutface, but I don’t really want to hear about how the rain ruined your sailing trip when a G-Man’s screwdriver is getting to third with my cochlea.
           Anyway, I’m just saying, next time you get upset because your dad won’t get you World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade so you can get to Level 70 instead of topping out at Level 60, think about getting Christmas cards that say “Novgorod is terrific! Wish you were here 031-023!” (He’s 031; I’m dash twenty-three.) In the end, I do it for my mom, my brothers Sam and Brutus, and for little Fellatia and Rimjob. They took me out of school after the Charlie incident; apparently I attracted too much attention. I’m pretty sure my new school is underground; it sure was hot and dry outside when I was blindfolded in the car on the way here. I made a lot of new friends here, especially Gorbl from the Andromeda System. I like him because he can move things with his mind but his weak musculature keeps him in a wheelchair. I asked him why he couldn’t move himself, and he said it was like trying to jump in midair. I pointed out that Mario can do it and he threatened to implode my skull. School’s fun when we’re not in class, but the headmaster won’t shut up about “creating the ultimate weapon for the coming apocalypse.” Oh well, I have to go; I have Philosophy and Heavy Artillery in a few minutes. If you see my mom tell her I XXXXXXXX.

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