The one thing I don't miss

I can deal with being thrown out of low-flying airplanes with my hands shackled.

I can kill someone five times before they hit the ground.

I know how to ask "Where is the ammunition store?" in thirteen different languages.

I can even feign interest when McGee goes on about his cows and their evening toilets.

But the one thing I could never do was come up with a decent pun.

And as a highly respected rescuer it was a constant source of embarrassment for me. After every mission, as we were heading back, someone always made a lame joke, preferably a pun. It was how we'd unwind. And as I was often leading these missions, I was looked upon to provide said pun. I'm ashamed to admit I reused several. Sometimes I hid in the bathroom when pun time started. Once I even feigned a seizure.

My worst one had to be the one about the nuclear winter... I'd rather not get into it.

Finding the Enemy

When I was recruited for my One Final Mission, it was for a rescue mission in Venezuela. The country where the rescuee was being held captive was the only information I was given. Now, you know Venezuela is not a small country. At 916445 square kilometers and a population density of 27 persons per square kilometer, it's just over twice the size of the Yukon.

So how did I locate the enemy? I had them come to me.

It's well known in the secret agent world that if you parachute down anywhere, you will be attacked by a hoard of the enemy immediately after landing. The trick is to leave one minion conscious so that you can question him or her about the whereabouts of the rescuee. Be sure to deal with them appropriately once they've cooperated.

When chartering a small plane to jump out of is too much hassle, I like to use a powered parachute.

And although not necessary, bringing a weapon along can prove useful when defending yourself against a barrage of baddies. The important thing is to not become overly dependent upon them.

Norman Kampfmittel is Retiring!

Norman, the proprietor of "Manitoba's Finest Implements of Death" is finally retiring. He bought himself a boat and is sailing around the world with his wife of 40 years.

I'm happy for him, but will sure miss the store. He had great quality product. Sure, his stuff was more expensive than the big box stores, but it was worth it. This stuff was built to last.

I only once had a problem with merchandise I purchased at Manitoba's Finest. A morning star. I liked to keep the medieval weapon by the door to scare away the Girl Guides, and found it was less than ideal when I accidentally maced myself in the head. Norm felt horrible when he found out. There had been a strike at "Honourable Death Weaponry", and he had to find another supplier. And "On Your Shield" turned out to be sub par. He ended up with a back room full of useless whip chains, but he replaced my morning star for free.

And what selection! I could walk in and pick up anything I needed, a steel fan in my signature colour (dusty rose), shogee, yawara, tonfas, whatever. And he always had blade oil in stock.

He also did a lot of custom stuff. Some of the blades he decorated were absolutely breathtaking. Mr. Kampfmittel was an artist.

Well, Norman, I wish you and Edith all the best. Your future looks rosy!

How to Prepare for a Standard Mission

Three items a secret agent specializing in rescue operations never leaves home without.

1. A grappling hook.
They're light weight and small enough to conceal in your Chanel flap bag. Plus, they have a multitude of uses. The hook is great for grabbing your attacker's weapon or just giving him a beating he'd write home about. And once he's out, you can use the rope part to tie him up. All with one handy little tool! Not to mention they make climbing walls a snap.

2. A good blade.
When you're on a mission, you need to move around without being discovered. You should avoid carrying unnecessary equipment as it can easily become a liability when you're trying to hide. Believe me when I tell you, hiding in a water barrel becomes much more difficult when you're carting around nunchaku, throwing axes and a cordless screwdriver. That's the importance of multi-use tools. A sturdy dagger can be used for picking locks, eliminating sentries, and preparing your lunch. You don't need anything fancy, just keep it clean to prevent rusting.

3. Bus fare.
This one's just common sense.

Not Everyone Loves a Cyborg

The hiring of cyborgs by STEP had been controversial at the best of times. And Ed McGee never hid his mistrust of cybernetic organisms, whose hiring signaled the end of Operation Cow Spies. Believing in the superiority of his cattle, he continued to fund the program out of his own pocket, and took every opportunity to humiliate the cyborgs. He would often go out of his way to try to trip them as they walked down the hallways.

He was rarely successful though. It’s next to impossible to catch such deadly cyborgs off guard, even the sensitive ones, but that never stopped Ed from trying. He’d occasionally get a slap in the mouth for his efforts, but most of them managed to ignore him.

Irene Georgios, however, wasn’t one of them. A Greek cyborg specializing in orchards and vineyards, she finally decided enough was enough. She was walking towards the break room carrying a bottle of recently acquired Naoussa Grande Reserve ’88, when McGee, who’d been hiding beside the vending machine, stuck his leg out. Without so much as a sidelong glance, Irene hit Ed with the wine bottle, opening a wound above his right eyebrow that required more that a dozen stitches.

It was an ugly affair. It cost them both their positions, as well as those of 23 other agents, cyborg, human and avian.

Nestor: The Italian Cyborg

Yes, you read correctly. Nestor is an Italian cyborg; the deadliest of all cyborgs.

And, as you're probably aware, cyborgs in general are known for their somewhat impetuous behaviour. They are, however, capable of feelings, emotions and affective experiences. I collaborated with cyborgs and androids so often because I was willing to make the effort to relate to them. Except for the gynoids. I refused to work with those tramps.

Nestor was unusually impulsive and rash, even for a cyborg, thinking little of the consequences of his actions. Like the time we were conducting an investigation of the burger industry in a small Prairie town. One evening, after a day of heavy recon, Nestor and I met back at our base of operations, the local library, and began sorting through the trash I’d recovered from the nearby greasy spoon. It was laborious work weeding through the discarded napkins and forgotten orthodontic retainers, but all we needed was one solid piece of evidence of the druggings or the money laundering to take down the man known as “Justice of the Grease”.

We had just started to make a dent in the pile, when a child walked by where we were huddled, and opened a door. The stiff breeze that blew in caused our hard work to scatter all over. Nestor was furious, and in his rage, backhanded the child. Realizing his mistake, he took off, leaving me alone to explain to the child and his parents what had happened. Our cover compromised, I pulled a plug on the mission.

Ode to the Sanctimonious Sally

I was cleaning out the basement yesterday, and I came across a scrapbook I had made dedicated to my hovercraft. Flipping through that book brought back a lot of wonderful images and memories. I'd like to share one.

I was recklessly zipping across the majestic Manitoban plain. The wind squeezing through the gaps in my teeth and down my throat. Occasionally my stomach would force the air back up as a sickening belch that tasted of ketchup chips, lime margaritas, and the thousands of mosquitoes I had swallowed along the way. Just such a belch was knocked out of me as I careened over two sleeping cats that were sent rolling over through the grass a few dozen times before they could even look bewildered. The belch brought with it a small pool of wretched liquid that made me gag, swallow, and burp again.

"You stink, lady," said Nestor Nutchise, the Italian cyborg sitting in the passenger seat of the hovercraft, as he watched a family of wild guinea pigs flee from the large ominous machine as it barreled towards them, bringing them ever closer to their deaths.

“Sorry... that was a nasty one!" I exclaimed, as I reached around back for my Big Gulp to wash out the taste. And a brief moment of distraction was all that Jorge, the well-fed steer belonging to Farmer McGee needed. He'd been waiting a long time to exact his revenge on us for the embarrassment that was the Balless Bulls Ball, and here, at last, it was. With the dexterity rarely seen in a ruminant his size, he leaped out from behind the rock where he was hiding, and pierced the bottom of my hovercraft.

The Sanctimonious Sally started spinning out of control. With my full attention now at the wheel I tried to pull the craft away from Pointy Plants Plains, but to no avail. “We’re all going to die!” screamed Nestor, and promptly fainted. The lives of the modern dance troupe were in my hands. Thinking quickly, I picked up Nestor and ordered everyone to grab one of the several life-sized Don Henley cutouts that were to decorate the old town hall where we were performing that night, and use it as a makeshift sled to slide to safety.

Pip and Carob, the amazing conjoined cannabalistic contortionists, realized that there were two less Don Henley cutouts than there were passengers, and resigned themselves to go down with the Sally. As the rest of us jettisoned from the craft and slid softly to a halt in small piles of feces, the twins performed one last interpretive dance that they liked to call "squirrels in pearls" before the Sanctimonious Sally went up in a ball of flames.