Eric M Chicago » short story

The Chronicles of Agent M: Part IV, The End of a Beginning and the Beginning of the End

ericmchicago — Sat, 15 Sep 2007 20:29:30 +0000

They stood on the catwalk, trapping each other in a stare that overflowed with relief, exhaustion, and suspicion. M’s eyes narrowed to a slit as he slowly backed away from Jr., keeping his hand near the handle of his trusty grappling gun.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m here to get you out of here. I have a safehouse 2 miles away; if we leave now, we can make it before Mr. G arrives.” Jr. replied warily. “Don’t ask questions, we don’t have time. Just come.”
“Justifié did it. She killed Antonio, didn’t she?”
“Don’t worry about L’Amour; she’s in business for herself. Come on, we can talk about this later.”
“But… Miss Lanning… she veiled me just before…”
“M, COME ON! This is our only chance!”
They stood locked in each other’s eyes, each one trying to read the thoughts of the other. So much was at stake for both men: if M went with Jr., he might be delivered straight into the hands of Mr. G. Or, it could mean safety and a chance to save the world from interbreeding of the alien species. The silence consumed both men, with so much to be said… yet they had both said everything already. This was M’s decision, and as his Kenneth Cole wristwatch almost imperceptibly ticked away at their remaining time, M’s thoughts ticked just as mercilessly towards a decision that could mean everything.

“No. I’m sorry Jr. This is where we go our separate ways.”

Jr.’s expression changed instantly from expectation to disappointment, to disbelief, to panic; he surely didn’t expect this. Suddenly, the door behind Jr. burst open and as Mr. G strode through the doorway Agent M’s hands closed on the handle of his grappling gun. G, without hesitation and without a doubt, walked directly to Agent Jr. and forcibly grabbed his arms.
“Do it, M.” Jr. said pleadingly in a soft whisper, “It’s the only thing left.”
Mr. G yanked Jr. backwards toward the doorway with a fleeting, secure glance at M. Agent Jr. looked at M for the last time before being pulled through the door and pleaded one last time:
“Kill me.”

Agent M clenched his jaw to keep his vision from blurring from tears, and knew that a quick death would be more merciful for his old partner. He took a quick breath and without thinking drew his grappling gun and pointed it straight at Jr.’s heart.
Without a word, he pulled the trigger.

The grapple shot out of the gun and impacted squarely on the center of Jr.’s chest. He was soundlessly knocked back by the force, teetering in G’s grip which had slackened from the shock, and his eyes remained on M until the moment they closed. Mr. G unexpectedly let out a merciless laugh; a cold, dead sound that echoed the loving murder. As Agent M prepared to abandon his gun and make his escape, Agent Jr.’s eyes suddenly popped back open as he stood fully upright, an odd glaze covering his eyes. M looked down at the wretched wound in Jr.’s chest with the grapple still in it, and noticed an odd green substance where the blood should have been. Mr. G’s laughter rang throughout the rafters:
“You fool! All this time you’ve been trusting an android! Did you really think that he was human? Or ever on your side?!!”
The anger boiled within Agent M and he stood there, trembling with tears. In a rage he pulled the trigger again, retracting the grapple with a taught, wet sucking sound that followed. The grapple reached the barrel of the gun and as M looked down, horrified, he saw the human heart that had been pierced by the grapple still stuck to it with cables and androidal tissue hanging off. He reached down and pulled the heart from the gun and held it in his hand as he looked back at Agent Jr., who still stood there with an empty look in his eyes. The android turned wordlessly and followed Mr. G through the doorway and out of M’s life forever.
Agent M, breathless, full of anger and tears, looked down at what he was holding:

The heart had begun to bleed. A human heart within an android.
Still full of real blood, still fully intact, and still beating.

***

“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?!” A voice positively boomed from across the catwalk. Agent M looked up and to his surprise saw five people standing and posing rather a bit self-consciously in the doorway: Frenchie dressed in a tan waistcoat wearing enormous black sunglasses, Miss Lanning wearing a black shiny pleather catsuit and smiling within a halo of amber-colored light that only God knows where it was coming from, and three strangers: One was dressed in a tuxedo, holding a magnifying glass that could have come straight out of a bad mystery novel and smoking, yes, a pipe. One was dressed in a red, white, and blue spandex bodysuit with a bright yellow cape and not just smiling, but SMILING with a head of sandy blond hair that could quite possibly withstand another Hurricane Katrina. The third was a short, stout old man grinning perilously and wearing a black leather patch over his right eye with a monicle over it.

“Give me that, M.” Frenchie said, “I’ll take care of it. Now let’s get out of here -
we’re starting a new Agency.”

to be continued…

The Chronicles of Agent M: Part II, Connections Are Made

ericmchicago — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 18:32:36 +0000

His plane arrived on time at 2:35 p.m. on Wednesday. The circles under his eyes played distant chords with his ever-increasing crow’s feet, aggravating his eardrums and feeding his malnourished headache so that it had the strength of a gong half-submerged in a pool of gelatin. His watch told him that the flight had lasted 22 hours, 27 minutes. His calendar told him that this last mission had lasted 3 months. The directives had been carried out to diamond-cut precision and to be back in the states now gave him more relief than he realized it would. This mission had exhausted him.
Exiting the plane, Agent M saw immediately who had been dispatched as his transport. The nondescript champagne-colored Pontiac was Frenchie’s undercover reconnaisance car, and alerted him immediately to an emergency-level situation. His response was quick, entering the car as it sped off and she handed him a 2-inch-thick packet stamped with “CONFIDENTIAL: M” before applying a Moroccan-Red shade of lipstick. This was his second tip-off to the extremity of the situation: her poisoned lipstick, an immunity to which she had developed in a nuclear reactor accident at the age of 7-and-a-half, was her standard self-defense equipment – applied as a contingency to the possibility of danger. He immediately opened the packet and devoured the contents that would set in motion the nightmarish events of the next week.
2 hours later, as they pulled into a deserted trainyard and M exited the car, he understood fully what had taken place in the 3 months he was away: Agent Jr. was missing.
And so was the alien baby.
Agent M walked across the gravel-yard to the coral-shade stretch limousine fitted in solid gold hubcaps and a continuous external mist of Estee-Lauder’s Intuition. He knew this limousine; it belonged to Miss Lanning – his prized sub-agent who knew him only as Godfather Martin. She was kept under the constant notion that M was one of the forerunners of the city’s mafia circuit. In this way the Agency could manufacture a discreet, reliable way to dispose of dangerous or incriminating persons. Miss Lanning had powerful connections, and to keep her on as an agent who had no idea she is anything of the sort was the keenly ingeneous way that the Agency worked.
Once inside the luxurious transport, M settled himself on the plush red-cedar-and-black-leather couch just across from Miss Lanning, deriving her personal space from her usual love seat of the same material. The limousine was interiorally fitted with almond-caramel shaded indirect lighting; the kind you would find in a lavish brothel, or wanna-be upper eschelon hotel not too near a red-light district. As usual, a thin veil of smoke separated Miss Lanning from the outside world. She sat in profile to M, as she always mysteriously did, and fed the veil with her Marlboro Ultra-Lights. Veronica’s Veil, M had thought on various occasions, keeping us all at bay from the true mystery.
The limousine sped down the highway, providing a comfortable rumble to mute the uncomfortable silence between the two agents. As a rule Miss Lanning never spoke unless spoken to, especially in the presence of the Godfather, and Agent M had explicit instructions to never engage her in impertinent conversation. This often made things difficult. However, this particular occasion afforded a rare opportunity for Miss Lanning. She spent a sharp look on M and tilted her head back, almost too slightly to be noticed in the almond light.
“Junior is not missing, you should know.” She said with a veiled exhalation, “He is with Mr. G., and they have possession of the alien baby.”
The revelation of this outrageous breach of command mingled with it’s contents left M in a temporary state of immobility as the blood drained from his face.
“The baby’s name is Cornelious, by the way. I believe you missed that part of the ceremony with your highly ineffective discretion involving the grappling gun that completely destroyed 3 panels of finely seasoned Cherry Oak. One should never disgrace fine wood in such a brutal manner. And you knocked over 23 people on your way out if you hadn’t noticed. Do be careful in the future – people will think you’re aloof.”
The utter shock of this statement rendered Agent M incapable of even simple conversation for at least 5 days.
“You… …the… …um, well yes, the wood… but… well … Jr. …?” He managed to spit out. Fortunately she understood the question.
“Oh, yes. Well, the lovely boy you sent me – Cameron – he worked in that testing facility that Junior works at. Frenchie asked me to get information from him about Junior for you. Absolute doll, that one. After some mild… persuasion… I was able to get the proper information from him.”
At this, Miss Lanning waved away a small husk of the veil and looked M directly and distinctly in the heart of his eyes. My God, Agent M ceded, the color…
He felt a blood flow change occur within his body, and soon the river had descended upon his man-loins. He felt unreasonably hot, and his nipples began to blossom as the fruit of his manhood grew ripe and full of the proper seed. The world began to spin slowly in a rich velvet maroon glow and as he descended he saw light… glorious light…
Instantly the real world came back into focus and he sat there, shocked stiff as if he had just been in a serious car collision, panting and wishing he had a glass of cold ice water. The blood flow immediately reversed and his cheeks flushed with the rush of life returning to him. Only weeks later would he look back and realize that he had forgotten to ask how she knew about Agent Jr.
“Yes.. I am aware of your persuasion… …tactics…. …don’t need…. …I….” M was able to sputter out before the limousine came to a screeching halt and he was immediately ushered out of the cabin by a drab looking valet. He could hear Miss Lanning’s faint amused chuckle as he steadied himself on the concrete.
Oh I hate it when she does that, he thought as he groggily allowed himself to be led up the stairs into the slab marble building and on into his hotel suite, where he found his itinerary, a laptop, a dossier detailing Jr., and an oddly folded note that seemed to be half-smashed under the phone lying on the sidetable. Curious, as Frenchie never communicated in written form during operations. She had clearly set the room as she always does, so why a note? he thought, Something’s not right…
He immediately snatched the note off the table and read the hastily-scribbled notation on the outside flap – “M” – before unfolding the paper, noticing that is was written on stationary from another hotel – M recognized the embossed logo that read “H C”, and making out the scrawl on the inside:

I HAVE THE BABY. WILL CONTACT SOON. DO NOT TALK. DO AS TOLD, YOU WILL FND ME IN 3 DAYS. MUST LK AUTHNTC OR AL S CMPRMISD. H KNWS. TME S SHRT. IN DNGER DNOT TRST MSLNNG. AJR – SW1503

As Agent M began to comprehend, the laptop flipped on with a loud beep. Frenchie appeared on the screen via wireless transmission, looking flustered and out of her normal state.
“M, we have a situation. We need you to report to Agency Headquarters right away. Miss Lanning’s limousine has turned around midroute to pick you up. Be downstairs in 5 minutes.”
“Oh, and M…” she added,

“Dispose of the note on your way out.”

to be continued…

Eric M

The Chronicles of Agent M

ericmchicago — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 18:15:01 +0000

The Ball had been arranged beautifully. The room spun in gilded Victorian floral carvings in the cherry blood Oak walls. The extravagently treated wood gained such a rich color in the light of the 12-foot-diameter gold plated chandeliers that it almost looked black. All seven of the chandeliers were on rotators, set to complete a full revolution once every hour to keep the room in motion without alerting the guests as to how the room managed to seem alive. The banquet tables had been laid out in pure white silk with Waterford Crystal champagne flutes adorning each authentic 19th century silver china set, and a crystal waterglass embedded with flakes of diamond. Past the banquet area and the adjoining Ballroom Floor, a string quartet played from one of the private boxes to the left of the stage and a rain curtain fell dramatically from one end of the gigantic proscenium to the other, spanning a distance of at least 100 feet. The air was saturated with extravagence. Boss KG had spared no expense in this evening’s celebrations, and her choice to hollow out a mid-19th century opera house had been a fitting one.
This was an evening of recognition. The world’s first non-earthly fetus had been developed and grown at KG Labs, gestated from sixteen separate cells found on a meteorite in Denali National Park, in the lower central region of Alaska. Tonight the scientists responsible – as well as the surrogate mother – were to receive honorable mention from KG Labs for securing the Nobel Peace Prize in the field of Bioengineering. The name of the alien baby was to be revealed at precisely 6:30 p.m., followed by the first public viewing on the stage at 6:37 p.m. to last until 6:42 p.m. These times had been carefully arranged by Boss KG, and there was no doubt that it would happen precisely as planned…
Agent M entered from beneath the first private box to the right of the stage at precisely 5:58 p.m. As planned, he entered in complete congruence to the rest of the crowd. Two couples had also been placed at the south side of the door to further assist his entrance. At precisely 6:00 p.m. Agent Jr. entered from beneath the first private box to the left of the stage, also hidden by two perfectly placed couples enjoying their evening. The two agents made their way quietly to the rendezvous table in the northwest corner of the banquet area and seated themselves at the remaining two seats at the table, which just happened to be a table of men of exactly the same height, weight, and all wearing the same $2,000 Brooks Brothers suit tailored to the tastes of the agents. M and Jr. were now effectively unrecognizable at a table of 12 men sitting amongst a veritable sea of guests. Frenchie did good work – M and Jr. had to give her that.
The orders were simple: inject the alien baby with the microchip. The execution was a bit more complicated: The baby would be revealed onstage beneath 247 stage lights and in front of more than 1,200 guests, none of whom would actually be on the stage with the baby – there would be only the scientists and the surrogate mother.
The handoff went as planned. Agent M reached across the table for a pat of butter and accidentally knocked over a crystal champagne flute with his right elbow. The champagne flute just happened to be the one prepositioned at a right angle to Agent Jr.’s lapel, now doused in $500-a-bottle champagne. Agent M made the requisite apology and offered his handkerchief, which was bundled in a way that would conceal the syringe containing the anesthetic and the microchip. After a few insignificant wipes Agent Jr. placed the bundled handkerchief in his left inner pocket. Handoff complete. The second phase of the plan could begin.
The only thing was, Agent Jr. hadn’t excused himself for the washroom in order to clean his lapel. Something was wrong here. Jr. hadn’t missed a beat in 3 months. Agent M looked up in time to catch Jr.’s eyes for split second before they flicked nonchalantly past M’s right shoulder and back again. Then Jr. excused himself for the washroom. Agent M understood everything. The plan had been compromised. He was in direct line of sight and Jr. had been spotted already. Perhaps M hadn’t been identified yet. There was still a chance. But he needed to know who it was. He flicked his butterknife quickly to his right so that it flew past his decoy and onto the floor. That was the signal.
In a swift beat Agent M spun to his right out of his chair, in perfect timing with the decoy spinning out of his chair to try and catch the knife, and at the same time a woman tripping slightly on her dress and her escort helping her to steady herself managed to provide extra cover. It was enough. As M continued swiftly walking towards the northeast corner of the banquet area he realized who he had seen during the split-second glance he was able to steal.
It was Mr. G.
The billionaire computer genius was M’s clue that the plan had been compromised. Mr. G was a well known figure in this room. He was the elusive Fat Cat that had funded the Laramie-Will Project – the test labs in Arkansas in which two scientists, Benjamin Laramie and Will Porter, had discovered the precise method of atomic fission needed to combine the sixteen cells found on the meteorite in order to produce a functioning embryo. Agent Jr.’s cover was as an employee for Mr. G’s subsidized testing facility while simultaneously working as a Covert Op for Mr. G’s own private Agency, which had no operations in play tonight.
Mr. G had never had an interest in KG Labs before. His primary interest was in the alien baby, but after tonight’s unveiling the baby was to be transferred to his private testing facility in Chicago. He had RSVP’d Not Attending for tonight’s celebration, which was in the main a celebratory function for KG Labs and really quite less about the actual baby. Agent M knew instantly that Mr. G’s presence could mean only one thing:
He knew that Jr. was a double agent.
The mission had been compromised and had to be aborted. Agent M turned back to see that Agent Jr. had intercepted Mr. G at the Grand Staircase. This was M’s only chance. Escape was the only directive now. Agent M pulled out his Polar Grappling Unit and aimed it at the exit door located under the 1st private box at the northwest corner of the Ballroom Floor. As the crowd milled back and forth, he waited for his one clear shot. One last glance at Jr. assured M that he had diffused the situation and Mr. G was now walking back towards the rear exit with Jr. The clear shot came – a perfect gap opened up between Agent M and his rendezvous exit door. He pulled the trigger and the small grappling hook darted silently across the ballroom floor and latched securely into the oak paneling. He turned to assess Mr. G’s position and as Mr. G turned around, sensing something amiss, Agent M pulled the trigger a second time and was instantly catapulted across the floor and through his exit door.
There was only one thing for M to do now, and that was to go on to Prague as planned. He would check in with Jr. when he returned. There were so many questions now that the mission had fallen apart. One question became more apparant to Agent M, however, as he recalled suddenly the small detail that had not seemed important at the time:

Agent Jr. had offered Mr. G his handkerchief.

Eric M

p.s. – to be continued

The Chronicles of Ms. Lanning

ericmchicago — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 15:48:13 +0000

She sat at the far end of the bar, bathed in caramel light and the wispy thoughts of Marlboro Ultra-Lights while she sipped tediously on her raspberry long island iced-tea. She flicked the ashen phallus of her cigarette into the ashtray with an indiscriminate flick of her thumb; she never ashed on the floor. That kind of thing was left to the girls of the brothel, and that was years ago. And anyway, those girls never amounted to anything more than what they fucked. She gave a soft glance sideways down the bar and spotted him: the husky cowboy with the ashen brown hair holding that one streak of cost-effective peroxide stripped hair falling aimlessly down over his right eye. She could see the seams of his Target sale-priced football t-shirt straining against his pectorals as he swaggered near. The small fruit of his nipples showed through the footballs on either side of the word “Bears.” Just as her eyes returned upwards to receive him, he spoke in a lost voice: “Ms. Lanning.”
She noticed a bead of sweat falling from his brow, accentuating his cheekbones and coming to rest for a moment on his testosterone chin before falling onto his shirt.
“Cameron… I’ve heard of you. Godfather Martin speaks very well of you.” She said in an exhale of hot air. His eyes blossomed at her recognition, igniting the fire below.
“Ms. Lanning, you look parched. I think you need some more water.” He returned, his eyes taking in the full measure of her exquisite stature. She waved him on with a dismissive gesture and reached for her overpriced pack of cigarettes. “I usually never smoke two in a row.”
The cowboy released his empathetic smile, slightly ashamed that she had been allowed to see a momentary weakness at this crucial moment. She was everything. She was glorious. He turned, perfectly aware of her calculating gaze and walked towards the ice water station. He could feel the stroke of Ms. Lanning’s eyes on his posterior as he reached for the cold steel handle of the pitcher. His fire blazed with her permission. But she could not be allowed to see such a weakness. His Weakness. It could cost him everything.
As he lifted the arctic grail to fill her empty glass he suddenly saw a shadow pass just beyond the doorway, perhaps nothing more than a customer come to unknowingly enjoy a beverage in the presence of his Fire Queen, but then again perhaps not. Surely she hadn’t made that call yet.
His hands began to tremble at the thought. She had made the call before. She could do it again. More than a few of the other boys had been made a sacrifice to her insatiable appetite, but she had said he was different. He was unique. He was her power.
As his hands trembled more fiercely, the sturdy spout of his hard, cold pitcher collided with the immovable lip of her glass, spilling a handful of perfect ice water onto the terracotta flagstone floor. He turned with a start to see if she had noticed. Ms Lanning. His hivemaster.
She was there, caressing the air with her ultra-light smoky breath and gazing into him, through his heart as though she had finally found true love, only to be left at the side of the road while love sped off in a BMW. With a slow exhale of ammonia-perfumed luxury she let her lids close in a final farewell.
No, Cameron thought, this can’t be it. She wouldn’t dare.
Ms. Lanning raised her left hand off her half-empty nostalgic soda glass and waved away the swirling white veil that always protected him from her eyes. She looked at him in question.
Cameron inhaled the sweetest air he had ever beheld. My God, he thought, her eyes. The color. They are real. She blinked. She snapped her fingers.
Not a patron. He realized. Not a patron.
Immediately the three men on the other side of the door entered in tight black pleather spankies and light green berets, almost ochre. “No!” Cried Cameron, shamelessly. “No! It was an accident! Ms. Lanning!” He looked to her despairingly. “I love you!”
She nodded her head, letting the veil of cigarette smoke close once again before her, cutting him off from her true beauty for one last time. The henchmen grabbed Cameron and dragged him across the bar to the hidden doorway, just beyond the beverage gun. He disappeared into the secret gaping hole before he had time to scream.
Ms. Lanning crushed the remains of her cigarette into the ashtray and the bartender immediately removed it. “Another one, Ms. Lanning?” he said with conviction.
She rose from her steel and leather throne and walked slowly towards the hidden door that had consumed Cameron. Her Cameron. She placed one hand on the doorframe and looked over her right shoulder, distinctly, as if she’d heard something pleasant and small. She contemplated for a moment, then looked at the bartender knowingly.
“One more, Joe. And make it dirty.”
“Yes, Ms. Lanning. I’ll have it ready.” he returned, with the confidence of one that would never receive the Call. She tilted her head back, almost too slightly to be noticed in the almond light.
“Oh, and Joe, not too strong this time. You know I never have two in a row.”
She gave him a smile, turned her head toward the unknowable cavern just beyond the doorway, and stepped into it.
“Oh, Ms. Lanning.” Joe said to himself in a hoarse, reverent whisper, “You are class.”

The End.

I dedicate this to Ryan Lanning. He is and will forever be the only true Chick With a Dick. Love ya Ms. Lanning!

Eric Thomas Martin