73, Old

“I’ve heard old timers say that having sex is like playing pool with a rope.”  Special agent Bradley McVandalay didn’t remove his eyes from the screen of his phone.  “What’s the point, you know?”

“My grandma used to date this guy who would get drunk and say old person sex was like pushing a marshmallow into a piggy bank.”  Agent Death wondered about squishy soft marshmallows as she took a sip of her bottled ice cold mocha drink.  She didn’t even try to hide the smile that gloriously crept across her face.  She loved American candy coffee.

“Marshmallow into a piggy bank, you say?” McVandalay nodded at something that was occurring on his phone screen.  “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Playing pool with a rope is funnier,” Death admitted.  To the core of her, she was a white girl who loved sugary coffee drinks.  “Old people are fucking awesome.”

“Only if they don’t give a fuck,” McVandalay added.  “The cranky ones drive me god damned nuts.  Entitled fucks.”

“Oh, be patient, Bradley.  At least they made it.  I just assume we’ll all be long dead before we ever reach our eighties, you know?”

Bradley McVandalay listened like a hunting hawk to every word she said, but he never looked up from his phone.  “The average life span for people who have our job is in their late fifties, you know.  Statistically speaking, that isn’t very old.”

“Christ have mercy, there’s no flippin’ way our team can last that long with how much we fuckin drink.”  She took a sip of her sweet, cold beverage.  “If it aint booze, it’s this poison sugar stuff.”  She leisurely shared her gaze between a few different computer screens with camera footage on them, then randomly she’d look at the bottle that her beverage had been packaged in.  “I love this shit.  It’s not really even coffee.”

It was unnerving that McVandalay never looked away from his phone, but his chatting tone was pleasant and engaging.  “Well even if it’s just a sugar filled preservatives bomb that causes cancer, it’s at least flavored like coffee, so that’s gotta count for something.”

Special agent Death normally didn’t give two fucks that McVandalay was glued to his phone.  If any Chicago sports franchise had any kind of game, it was impossible to get him to look away from the play by play chat rooms on his screen.  Death asked, “Do you ever think that you have a problem with your phone being an addiction?”

With his trademark smooth sarcasm, McVandalay said, “It’s not as bad as my meth addiction.”

Death rolled her eyes, but not at the dumb joke.  “No one’s ever accused me of doing the drugs that make you skinny, Bradley,” she said as she put her hands on her gut.

Without acknowledging Death’s funny ass comment, McVandalay simply said, “I could give two shits about my phone.  It’s the fucking game I wanna know about that matters.”  He finally looked up from his screen and looked his friend into her deep, green eyes.  “I’m not addicted to my phone.  I’m addicted to the god damned Cubs,” McVandalay admitted openly.  “And the Bears.”  He then added, “and the Bulls.  And to a much lesser extent, The Blackhawks.”

“Well I see you with your face in the phone a lot, and I don’t see you laughing or smiling much,” Death said whole heartedly.

“I’m a fucking Cubs fan.  What is there to be laughing or smiling about?”  McVandalay grinned at his own self deprecating brilliance but Death in return ignored his funny ass comment since he ignored her fat joke earlier.  He continued undeterred.  “Look, Death, I’m not one of these idiots who lives on my phone.  I understand that the companies have pushed hard to make their user interface unique and friendly so people who normally didn’t consider themselves to be the type to own gadgets all eventually succumbed to the mind controlling device that it truly is.”

“I’m glad to be hearing that you’re aware of cell phone addiction,” Death said humbly.

In that moment, McVandalay looked down at his screen and got visibly frustrated as he yelled, “Fuck!  We gave up a two run homer in the fifth!”

“Keep it down, retard!” Death snapped at him.  “We’re only safe here if we don’t draw attention to ourselves!”  She looked around at the computer screens in front of her and there was no action on either one, then looked through the van windows to see if anyone was possibly staring at their van.  All seemed well.  “Idiot.”

“Sorry, Death,” McVandalay muttered.  “Being a Cubs fan is like being a guy who was born with no dick, but your parents are swingers and their friends all wanna suck you off in your teens.”

Death’s jaw dropped and asked, “What in the fuck does that even mean?”

“You know what, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore,” McVandalay admitted.  “I’m putting my phone away now, friend.  Fuck,”  McVandalay said as he turned off the phone, then pocketed it.

It must’ve taken a tremendous amount of will power to do that, but Death wasn’t gonna give McVandalay the satisfaction.  “Feels good to be a grown up, doesn’t it fucker?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, now.”  McVandalay reached into his hip holster and pulled out his desert eagle.  Other people called it a big ass hand gun.  He called it Bertha.  Instinctively, he popped out the clip and examined the copper jacketed lead trapped inside of the the magazine’s tight spring grip.  “I’ll never grow up, not if I can help it, at least.”  Satisfied, he slapped the clip back into the handle of the hand gun, then gave it a light kiss.

“I didn’t know you brought Bertha?!  Why in the fuck did you bring her?” Death said as she pointed at his gun.

“What?” McVandalay said with some confusion as he nodded towards his hand held high powered lead launcher.  “Why wouldn’t I bring her?  We’re in Mexico, Death, just in case you forgot!”

“Yeah, but that old thing?!”

“In this case, you calling my hand gun old isn’t an insult, you know.  Plus, fuck you, it’s not my fault that you didn’t bring your Beretta,” McVandalay said with a sweet smile.  “You can run or hide if the fight makes it this way, darlin.  I intend to shoot my way out of anything that needs to be shot up.”

“God dammit, dude, that fucking gun is loud as fuck and it’s like killing a fly with a fucking nuke.”  Death wasn’t being a bitch, but her curiosity was through the roof.  “Besides, I thought you were gonna use all of these new weapons you keep talking about that you saw in that Belarus conference?  Fuck your gay gun.  I wanna see a couple of those fuckers in action!”

McVandalay grunted.  “Gay gun.  Good one.”

“Just making sure you’re listening, you hard headed fuck.”

“Who knows how this will work out, Death.  All I know is if push comes to shove, Bertha shoves like a mother fucker.”

Special agent Death had heard some weird shit in her life, but this one took the cake.  “Bertha shoves like a mother fucker.  Yeah,” she trailed off, then turned to look off into the distance.  “She’s a god damned bull in a China shop.”

“Which we may god damned need in case the Russians send way more thugs than we anticipate and they happen to find us in our hiding place, which is in a parked van on an open god damned road with no natural cover.”  Death ignored the sentence, so McVandalay pleaded, “I’m not gonna trust these little Ironman weapons, Death.  Fuck Belarus, fuck eastern European weapons, and fuck these Russian cocks who were trying to fuck with our Mexican neighbors.  It’s been a long, hot summer and I’m ready to be done with this god damned country, thank you.”

“Ironman weapons.  They really kind of are, aren’t they?”

McVandalay was pissy.  “And Bertha out performs them all, every time!”

“Well aren’t you a ball of sunshine,” Death said with thick sarcasm.

“Me and my old gun are telling you to suck one, lady.”  McVandalay wasn’t mad, nor did he give two fucks about anyone’s opinions of his hand gun, but he had to admit to himself that it got under his skin when Death said his hand gun was old.  “Suck it clean.”

“I always do, Bradley, and when I’m done the boys tell me they’re not interested in a second date,” Death said matter of factly.  It took every bit of her will power to hold back from laughing at her own dumb joke.

Right before McVandalay could make a comment about Death maybe needing to wait longer in a relationship to be going down on fellas, both of their wrist watch communicators rang.  It was their informant friend, Marco Rodriguez.  Death was in a good mood as she answered, “Marco, good to hear from you.  I’ve got Bradley right next to me and he just connected to his own watch.”

“What’s up, brother,” McVandalay said to his own wrist watch.

“Amigos!  Que pasa?”  Rodriguez was as white as the freshly fallen snow with beautiful long, curly brown hair that hung just past his shoulders.  He looked like a Hawaiin surfer but his skinny typical Mexican mustache showed that he was a proud Mexican citizen who loved his latino heritage more than his European DNA.  “My guy on the inside tells me that El Padre isn’t at the mansion, amigos.  I just got the text and had to call you both.”

“Dammit,” Death said instinctively.

“Well so much for having the Russians clean up El Padre for us.  Hmmm…” McVandalay said as he contemplated what to do next.  “As of now, it doesn’t appear that anything is even happening at the mansion.”

Rodriguez was clearly in a good mood on the other line and even though they couldn’t see his face, they could tell he was smiling.  “Oh, they’re partying, amigo.  My contact on the inside says there’s more drugs than a Brazilian futbol training center.  Oh!”  Rodriguez laughed at his own soccer joke, making light of the new steroids scandal that was rocking the FIFA world from Brazil.  

“We’re Americans, Marco.  Fuck soccer,” Death said dryly.

With his genuine thick ass Mexican accent, he said, “Hey, amiga, don’t ignore the greatest sport on Earth.  I’ll buy you a Mexican beer sometime and show you a good time, eh, you know whaddyi-mean?”  His accent was endearing and funny as fuck to the agents.

After a short bout of immature humor giggling, McVandaly got to business.  “Rodriguez, you said there are drugs in that mansion?”  He hoped for the best but feared the worst.

Rodriguez got excited.  “¡Sí!” His voice grew in pitch but he spoke just louder than a whisper.  “These are all the high level colonels for El Padre.  He got them that cabin full of hookers and drugs.  It’s how he keep de colonels happy, jew know?”  

That sweet little Mexican accent of Rodriguez’s English swept McVandalay off of his feet.  He was falling in love with Mexico again as this conversation continued.  “Marco,” McVandalay got serious, “if the Russians actually send a hit squad, or even two or three, these guys are pros, and they will be breaking in on people doing drugs and banging women of the night.  They’ll be caught with their pants down.  Literally.”  His dumb joke only made him laugh and despite the lack of audience feedback he decided that he’d print it anyways in his future auto-biography he maybe someday would write about himself.  

The thought of Russians breaking in and running through El Padre’s colonels brought too much carnage to his Mexican loving heart.  “Amigo,” Rodriguez said imploringly, “I’m’a here cuz I wan’t less of this shit here, man.  We gotta get some of these bad Russian guys or things don’t change, no?”

McVandalay and Death shared the vision of how much he loved his native Mexico.  Rodriguez was a passionate speaker, and admittedly, they didn’t know him well enough to completely trust him.  Death said softly, “You also know that we love killing bad guys…”

Even though he was interrupting her, Rodriguez’s smooth Mexican accent was working it’s charm into the American’s hearts.  “So I figure we both have some common goals, ya?”

“We both want the Russians dead and we want El Padre dead, but this doesn’t get any Russians dead and El Padre is still alive at the end of this too.  If the Russians make a move tonight, they don’t kill El Padre and none of them will get killed.  We lose.”  McVandalay said very matter of factly.

Rodriguez’s voice sounded like an ancient Mexican angel speaking excellent English with a crazy, sexy, sacred Latino masculine accent, “Heh, no amigos of mine ever gonna lose, cuz a you got de Rodriguez, ¡Sí!”  After a brief pause he asked, “No?”

It was endearing how every question basically ended with a, “Yes?” or a “No?” in the Spanish mind.  On or off.  One or zero.  Death had never had only one thought in her head with two decisions or answers, ever.  In her million mile a minute brain, even the idea of a binary brain operating system was so simple that her overthinking mind had destroyed, then forgotten just as fast, the whole struggle.

Death was a crazy bitch, but tonight her senses were turned up a notch.  “The struggle is real, man,” she said as if she’d been crying, but something in her A.D.D. brain made her laugh, so even though her statement and her laughter were at the same time, her brain had made them a million miles apart.  To McVandalay and Rodriguez, it sounded like Death was getting tired or losing her grip on reality.

Rodriguez had a sincere voice as he said through their wrist watch speakers, “So how we gonna keep de Russians from killing up doze drugged up colonel’s from El Padre, yo?”  He couldn’t quite remember McVandalay’s name but he was too ashamed to ask.  “What’choo say, gringo?” 

Even though McVandalay was so tan that he could be misconstrued as native and Rodriguez was the whitest man in Mexico, his authentic Mexican heritage gave him social license to use the word gringo.  Besides, they hadn’t spoken in months, and Bradley McVandalay had hardly spent any time inside.  His bronzed body had become a monument to the sculpting powers of the unrelenting Mexican summer sun.  “I think we call O’Connor and ask him what’s going on over on his end.  He’s got an eye on the apartments where the Russians have been staying on their very extended stay, especially since the assassination of El General.  Very suspicious extended stay, to say the least.  Doc might be able to help.”

Rodriguez’s voice went silent.  He didn’t know what to expect, whether he’d get his way or not.  “Yes, call the borracho dude.  I like heem.  No?”  Rodriguez’s laugh clearly overpowered the audio compressors on his own phone as his laugh became distorted from being overdriven.  Rodriguez smiled at the memory of meeting O’Connor for only one time but remembering how powerfully he smelled of sloppy booze.  “See what Doc amigo say, no?”

“You bet, Rodriguez.  We’ll be in touch!  Over and out.”  Agent Death terminated the call and looked at McVandalay.  “You callin’ Doc or am I?”

“You do it,” McVandalay said.  “I gotta piss, and the fucker never picks up when I call him anyways.  It’s why I call him twice, every time.  Fuck him.”  He grinned, got up and headed off to a restroom to piss.

One minute later, Death had a call connected to O’Connor on her phone.  “Doc, some shit just came up.”

Even though she was only connected via audio to O’Connor who was miles and miles away, Death could somehow smell the faint whiff of whiskey from her phone where O’Connor’s voice replied, “Lemme guess, El Padre isn’t at the mansion so everyone who remains at the mansion is partying their asses off.  Yes?”

Agent Death wondered if O’Connor was a mind reader.  “Yeah.”

O’Connor continued, “And now you need me to either distract these Russian oil men by either incapacitating them or even possibly killing off a batch of them.  Right?”

Death pretended to be cute for humor’s sake.  “Well, yes, please, assuming you don’t have anything else you’re possibly doing with your time.”  Before O’Connor could protest, which Death deep down knew he wouldn’t, she added, “I’m buying you a bottle of good whiskey.”

This statement caught O’Connor in his tracks.  “Don’t tease a man like that, darlin.”

“I don’t tease, fucker,” Death said dryly, “and as for your idea earlier, I never thought about distracting the Russians altogether so they wouldn’t even make it to the mansion.  That’s fucking brilliant.”

O’Connor didn’t need her approval, but having it made him grin.  His voice through her wrist watch spoke with authority.  “I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you with my life, asshole,” Death said.  She did.  In that moment, she did her best to let go of any expectations of how the night would go.

“Cool.  Cuz I have fart bombs that I’ve set up every fifty yards or so away, and they have a huge radius, but if they’re perfectly spread out they’ll have a ripple effect that’ll last for hours.”  O’Connor giggled.  “I’m not lying.  The Russians are surrounded by fart bombs.”

“You are fucking shitting me,” Death said.  “I wonder what those Russian fuck faces are thinking about right now.”

In the distance, three tables of angry Russian men did shot after shot of vodka and sang songs of lament and pain from a year gone by on a day that there was no official thing planned to do but they drunkenly decided with proud Russian bravado that they would attack El Padre’s mansion after receiving an anonymous tip of it’s well protected location.