| THIRTY IS A DANGEROUS AGENT, CYNTHIA |
| Every time we say goodbye we die a little. And every time we say goodbye we wonder why a little. And there's a lark somewhere, we think, we can't quite remember. There's a lark here as well, but more in the frolic/spree sense than the winged kind. To celebrate (you mean 'honour' - Ed) PLANET MORON's demise, we've brought our mysterious Agents out of retirement for a fourth and final exploit. The Strangeways, Here We Come of adventures, if you like. So celebrate ('honour' - Ed) with us as we reveal just why... THIRTY IS A DANGEROUS AGENT, CYNTHIA! |
| (SCENE: EXTERIOR OF A COMPUTER COMPONENT FACTORY, CURIOUSLY STILL OPEN DESPITE AN ONSCREEN CLOCK IDENTIFYING THE TIME AS 3:02am. THE CLOCK DISAPPEARS TO BE REPLACED BY A LOCATION CAPTION: COMPUTEX ENTERPRISES. THE CAPTION DISAPPEARS TO BE REPLACED BY ANOTHER: 'I HAVEN'T BEEN PAID THIS QUARTER, MY BOSSES ARE CU-' BEFORE DISAPPEARING WORRYINGLY RAPIDLY. AGENT 45 LUNGES INTO VIEW.) AGENT 45: Phew, you can't beat a good lunge, eh... (CAMERA PANS ROUND TO REVEAL EXACTLY WHO AGENT 45 IS TALKING TO. A NEW FACE IS STANDING THERE, ATTACHED TO A NEW BODY.) AGENT 45: ...Agent... THIRTY! (A SHORT, DRAMATIC MUSICAL EFFECT PLAYS, THE LAST NOTE EMBARRASSINGLY AND SLIGHTLY UNPROFESSIONALLY CONTINUES OVER THE NEXT THREE LINES OF DIALOGUE.) AGENT 30: Heh, yeah, I guess so. I enjoy a good lunge, or pass, or thrust sometimes, what with me being a new female secret agent, attractive, approximately 28 years of age and replacement of Agent 34 who was brutally killed on that solo mission all those years- (PAUSE. SHE NOTICES AGENT 45 CRYING, NOT WITH LAUGHTER.) AGENT 30: ...ago. Oh, yes, I should be more sensitive, really, she was your wife, I only met her once briefly before she left for the final time. Ever. Sorry. AGENT 45: No, it's okay, really... it was just... these damn contact lenses... (AGENT 45 RUBS HIS EYES THEN PUTS DOWN THE ONIONS HE WAS PEELING.) AGENT 45: It, it... doesn't matter, really. We've got a job to do. (AGENT 45 REACHES FOR HIS NECK, PAUSES, THEN SHEEPISHLY PULLS A TIE OUT OF HIS POCKET AND PUTS IT ON. HE TIGHTENS IT UP PROFESSIONALLY. HE STRIDES PURPOSEFULLY TOWARDS THE FACTORY'S BACK DOOR, AGENT 30 FOLLOWING, SEDUCTIVELY FLICKING HER LONG, BEAUTIFUL, GOLDEN BLACK HAIR OVER HER SHOULDER. AGENT 45 STOPS AT THE DOOR AND TESTS THE HANDLE. WHEN HE'S SURE IT'S ALKALINE, HE ATTEMPTS TO OPEN THE DOOR. BUT ALAS, IT IS LOCKED. HE SCANS THE BUILDING'S BACK WALL.) AGENT 45: We need some kind of entrance, a way-in, an opening... an inlet? Bah! (HE ANGRILY THROWS HIS THESAURUS ON THE GROUND. PUZZLINGLY, IT BOUNCES UP AND OVER THE FACTORY ROOF. AGENT 45 SCOWLS.) AGENT 45: Did you bring the faintest idea? AGENT 30: I'm sorry, I haven't got the faintest idea. AGENT 45: Tsk, rookie agent. Agent 34 wouldn't have... have... (HE STARTS TO BLUB, RUBBING HIS EYES WITH A HANDKERCHIEF WHICH HE ABSENT-MINDEDLY USED TO DUST SOME CHILI PEPPERS EARLIER.) AGENT 45: AAAARRGGGHHH! My eyes! It's really unpleasant! AGENT 30: Come here, let me help you... (AGENT 30 HUDDLES NEXT TO AGENT 45, OSTENSIBLY TO HELP HIM AND HIS UNPLEASANT EYES, BUT THERE SEEMS TO BE A SUBTEXT AS AGENT 30'S LIPS DRIFT UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE TO HIS. THEY STARE AT EACH OTHER, LONGINGLY. AGENT 45 RUINS THE MOMENT WITH A SINGLE HICCUP.) AGENT 45: NO! We've got a job to do! Look for some kind of access, like a small open window over a crate. Specifically look for that. AGENT 30: What about this open loading bay? AGENT 45: Tch. Tradesman's entrance, but it'll have to do. CONTINUED ON PAGE 2 |