85, Resolutions

“I just don’t want this next year to be more of the same old bullshit and heartache, ya know?”  A small but loud explosion erupted next to a Mexican biker thug who’d been shooting a machine gun at special agent Bradley McVandalay.  The thug’s body went lifeless as it flew sideways several feet.  McVandalay took cover behind a car while reloading his small rocket launcher and caught his breath as he continued, “What better day to change other than New Years Day, don’t you agree?”

“January was named after the old Roman god Janus, the god of beginnings.”  Special agent Death poked her head up from behind the small compact car to get a look at how many bikers were still shooting at them, then quickly ducked down as bullets glanced off of the hood of the vehicle.   She raised the volume of her voice and continued her history lesson as the sounds of metal on metal created a loud ruckus.  “The first day of January was chosen by iron age church fuck faces who were celebrating the Jewish custom of the circumcision of Jesus, seven days after Christmas.” 

Screaming tourists and Mexican citizens alike were frantic and scrambling to escape the shootout.  Four biker thugs had been roughing up bartenders and employees in seedy cantinas, trying to get information about Team Whiskey and their whereabouts.  They did not know that their adversaries were American military.  They only knew that the “gringos from el norte” were disrupting a narcotics and gambling crime network run by their boss, El Padre.  Currently with two of their fellow thugs dead, the other two bad guys frantically were shooting at the Americans.  The scared thugs now realized that they were fucking with well trained killers.

McVandalay looked at his small rocket launcher and admired its elegance.  It was the size of a large rolling pin.  “So you’re telling me New Years Day is all because of a Roman god named Janus, and Jesus’…” he paused, then said the word he was reluctant to say, “…penis?” 

“Nailed it.”

Seeing the opportunity for a sacrilegious joke, McVandalay asked, “Is that a crucifixion pun?”

“Not intentionally,” Death admitted.  She pulled out a grenade from her pitch black combat jacket and added, “the whole new year also symbolized that the days start getting longer which signals the coming of spring in the Northern Hemisphere.  Think about it, it’s literally a new beginning.  Janus and Jesus’ chopped off foreskin is why we have January first.”

McVandalay paused and commented, “simply stunning.”

Bullets popped the car they were hiding behind and filled it full of holes, but the agents had zero fear.  Death shrugged as she spoke loudly over the noise, “There are still Christian cultures today that celebrate the feast of the circumcision, no joke.”

This was brand new information to McVandalay and he couldn’t help but laugh over the loud sounds of bullets hitting metal.  “For real?”  He pretended to be a hard core believer.  “Baby Jesus had cock surgery.  We should cook a roast!”

Without flinching, Death added, “They say that it was the first time that Jesus shed his blood for humanity.”

“I’ve never heard that shit ever.”  McVandalay cocked his head sideways to try and hear what their attackers were doing during a brief pause in the gunfire.  “Are people just fucking superstitious as fuck?  Or is that shit in the bible?”

“Beats me, I’ve never read the fuckin thing,” Death admitted.  “But there are believers who still take the feast of the circumcision seriously.”

“Because Jesus got his fuckin foreskin cut off?” McVanadalay cried out as the gunfire resumed, baffled by the thought as he completely ignored the bullets that were shattering the windows of the car they hid behind.  “Unreal,” he said while shaking his head.

A few seconds of intense shooting followed.  During a small lull, in one motion Death pulled the pin from her grenade and popped up, tossed the explosive at their shooters, ducked back down and laughed, “Yup, so I think you should resolve to shove your New Years resolution up your ass.”

The two biker thugs resumed shooting a multitude of bullets at the agents.  As the unforgiving hot lead sliced without mercy through the air over their heads, an introspective McVandalay calmly gave his friend credit for her humor.  “Resolve my resolution.  That’s a bit redundant, don’t you think?”

“It’s what I do,” Death smiled.  A moment later, the grenade detonated, killing one of the shooters and leaving the other shooter stunned.

The two agents ran towards the explosion and took cover behind a large truck.  McVandalay got introspective as he waxed philosophical.  “Don’t you ever dream of doing something more with your life, Death?”

Death pulled the pin out of another grenade and tossed it towards the last shooter.  “Bradley, I hate to break it to you, but we’re sociopaths who kill sociopaths.  Drinking and killing is how I cope.  Sports is how you cope.  Don’t fight what you are, dude.  Oh, and this one might be louder than the last one.”

True to her warning, the grenade exploded with a much louder boom.  As the last shooter was sent lifelessly flying backwards, new gunfire from a different direction came in on the agents.  By instinct, neither agent needed to tell each other what to do.  They separated and ran around to the rear of the large truck.  As the windshields shattered from the hateful lead intended to end their lives, McVandalay continued his brain dump.  “I know that we’re just meat sacks comprised of self aware electrons who are trapped by gravity to a huge rock that is flying through space around a huge nuclear furnace.”

Death simply vocalized, “uh huh,” as McVandalay fell into some sort of existential reverie.

“So I know that there’s no real significance to our existences regarding any particular terrestrial date, cosmically speaking…”  He paused as an unusually large amount of bullets filled the truck, but as the firing stopped, he picked up right where he left off.  “…except maybe the actual solstice days, I guess.”  He came back to himself and continued his point, “but I just feel like New Years Day is a good time to maybe stop caring about sports, you know?  I’m thinking I’ll go cold turkey for the whole month of January.”

Agent Death stealthily snuck around the bullet filled vehicle without a sound and ran towards the new group of thugs who were doing the shooting.  She effortlessly did a flying somersault to avoid incoming fire as she tucked and rolled behind a nice Mercedes Benz to take cover.  She pulled two semi automatic pistols from her hip holsters and laid waste to the four new bad guys who were shooting at her in the span of one second.  Ducking back down instinctively, she called back out to her friend who was now twenty feet away.  “Dry January!?” she yelled.  “You?!  During all the college bowls?”

“I hate the corrupt NCAA system, Death, you know that!”  McVandalay replied calmly as he took stock of their situation.  The street was deserted of night going patrons and the quiet didn’t feel right.

“Yet you watch every fucking bowl game and bitch about something, whether it’s the refereeing, or the over paid coaches, whatever!”

“Am I that bad?” McVandalay asked.  He set down his rocket launcher and gingerly pulled out his Israeli made Desert Eagle hand cannon from a chest holster to check the clip.  Satisfied, he returned the gun to its holster.

Death looked around and felt the coast was clear to stand up.  As she peered into the distance trying to see if any other thugs were on their way, she contemplated his question.  “You know how much your complaining bullshit annoys me,” she said plainly, not trying to talk in an accusatory tone.

In the same acknowledgment that he was listening, McVandalay grunted, “Uh huh.”

Being genuine, Death finished her thought.  “But the truth is, I love you like my brother, even when I don’t like you, and I know you love your stupid fucking sports.  If you didn’t have them as a coping mechanism for life, I know for a fact that you’ll go crazy, and that will make me not want to be around you, like, ever.”

The two agents had leisurely walked to each other and without saying anything about where they were going, they both stuck to the sidewalk and stayed close to the parked vehicles as they headed up the street.  McVandalay held his rocket launcher at the ready.  He was clearly in a philosophical mood as he responded, “Yeah, but sports are driving me crazy and I’m tired of putting so much emotional energy into them.”

Acting as a deeply caring therapist, Death said, “Why do you feel that way, fuck face?”

“Nice,” McVandalay acknowledged her snarky jab as he pondered, then answered honestly.  “I think it’s because I know I have no control over the outcome of the competition.  Like, with our job, we are the competitors and we’re in charge of our own destiny.  But when I watch my teams battle it out, I know that it’s fucking pointless to be emotionally attached to the outcome because shit happens, you know?”

“Yeah, but that’s why sports are awesome too,” Death said.  “Anyone can make magic at any time.”

“Or piss a game down their leg at any time,” McVandalay said defeatedly.

“Exactly, which is why it’s so exciting to follow.  There’s way unhealthier things in life to give up rather than sports, you know.”

“I know it’ll be hardest when baseball season starts again,” McVandalay said.

The agents had walked a block and their senses were telling them that there were more biker thugs nearby.  They kept close to the vehicles but never once talked about their current situation.  “You and fucking baseball!  Yeah, I think your love of guys using a stick to hit a ball might be a bit unhealthy, Bradley.”

“Unhealthy, yeah, but it’s my love for the Cubs that absolutely fuckin’ ruins me,” McVandalay admitted.

Knowing how much her friend loved to bitch and moan about his favorite team, Death got feisty.  “Well then you might as well swear off sex and become a nun, dipshit!  Cuz that’s the level of deprivation you’ll feel without that outlet to bitch and moan about!”

By instinct, both agents paused their conversation and ducked behind two parked cars as a new batch of bullets commenced flying.  More windshields shattered as the peaceful Mexican riviera boardwalk reverberated with the sound of lead smashing into metal.

Special agent McVandalay stretched out flat on the ground and belly crawled to get a vantage point to counter attack.  McVandalay twisted his body and pulled the rocket launcher up at the perfect angle to fire.  As he pushed the launch button on the weapon, the small explosive ejected at high velocity.  Before it had reached its target, he’d rolled back to cover and put his hands over his ears while protecting his eyes.  A loud boom rocked the whole area and the shooting stopped. 

Special agent Death loaded fresh clips of bullets into her pistols as she approvingly said, “Fucking nice one, dude.”

“Thanks, Death,” McVandalay said with appreciation.  He was still in a contemplative mood.  “Human life is all about war.”

As he said those words, yet another new round of gunfire erupted over their heads.  This time the shooters had very powerful automatic rifles and the bullets ripped through the vehicles with tremendous force.  Both agents were flat on the ground as metal and glass flew everywhere.

Without acknowledging their current predicament, Death had to be a contrarian.  She spoke loudly over the gunfire as the bullets clanged into the vehicles and street around them.  “I don’t know, Bradley, I feel that war is just a small subset of what human life is about.”  Bullets shattered the stone walkway of the riviera only feet from her head, but the loud booms and small bits of flying stone shards didn’t bother her in the slightest.  “That’s a bit of an over exaggeration to say life is all about war, don’t you think?”

While curled in the fetal position, McVandalay reloaded his small rocket launcher.  “Something dies everyday so that you can live, whether it be a turkey or a head of lettuce.  We are always at war, whether indirectly or directly.  Everyday, all the time, we are engaged in a battle to survive.”

Right before the firing stopped, agent Death rolled out from her place of cover.  As if she could mentally count the amount of bullets in her enemies rifle clips, she knew the shooters would be empty by the exact time she was in position to fire back.  Sure as the sunrise, their firing stopped as she popped up to her knees and began pulling the triggers on her matching hand guns.  Her semi auto pistols launched death projectiles which found their targets and two of the four new shooters were terminated by her perfect accuracy.  In one motion, she rolled back to her position of cover as the air went still from gunfire.

“That’s some deep shit, Bradley,” Death muttered.

McVandalay replied leisurely, completely ignoring all the death and carnage that had occurred in the past several minutes on the Mexican riviera boardwalk.  “That’s why I love sports.  It’s war, but no one dies in the end.”

“Unless you live in South America and your soccer team loses,” Death joked.  “Then you start a riot.”

“Fuck that sport and its cry baby athlete culture,” McVandalay said.

“See,” Death said as if she were making some grand insight to the human psychology of her teammate and friend, “this is why you shouldn’t give up following sports for your New Years resolution.  I mean, you clearly know which ones entertain you, and despite the stress they bring you, it really isn’t that big of a deal.”  For the first time all evening, she acknowledged their situation by pointing at all the bullet holes and damage that was around them, showing that their reality was much more impactful to their survival than their conversation was.

“I guess you make a fair point,” McVandalay conceded as he too finally admitted to the reality of their situation.  

“Glad you agree,” Death said simply as she reloaded her pistols carefully with new clips of fresh bullets.  It was still eerily quiet and she knew there were two more shooters who were trying to formulate a plan of attack, but the calm was nice to have this discussion.  “Besides, I know you’ll lose your mind if you don’t watch the college bowl games and you’ll just annoy the fuck out of me because you’ll want to talk about your feelings and stupid shit like that.”

“Fuck you,” McVandalay said, even though he knew she was right.

A Spanish voice called out in English to the agents, “You gringos will die with no honor!”

Death and McVandalay were confused as they looked at each other with crinkled brows.  To be a bitch, Death called back from behind the shot up vehicle, “Fuck you, asshole!  We don’t give a fuck about honor.  We’re just here cuz we’re sociopaths who kill other sociopaths.” 

McVandalay muttered, “that’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.  What gives, Death?” 

With a huge shit eating grin, Death replied, “My New Years resolution is to embrace my inner truth.”

“Bitch,” McVandalay laughed.

As if they both understood that the biker thugs were stalling for time, they nodded at each other in silent agreement of what their next move was.  In the flash of one moment, both agents rolled out from hiding simultaneously.  A small rocket flew from McVandalay’s rocket launcher.  The projectile hit the stone wall that the two shooters were hiding behind and blew it to pieces.  As the thugs were sent flying out into the open, Death unloaded her pistols and terminated the bad guys.  Both agents took a second to absorb that the threat was neutralized, then stood up casually.

“God damn, you shoot well,” McVandalay said to his friend.  “I love it when you kill bad guys.”

“And I love it when you bitch about sports.  Just please tell me you’re not gonna follow through with your stupid fucking idiotic resolution,” Death pleaded.

“When you talk sweet like that, it just pounds some sense into me, Death,” McVandalay joked.  Both agents had a sixth sense that the coast was clear.  McVandalay looked at his friend and said, “I wonder how Murdock and Blacktide are doing.”

In the distance, a female American secret agent ditched her idiot male secret agent coworker because he’d discovered an incredibly beautiful Latina woman drinking alone in a cantina and decided he’d hit on her while ignoring that there were thug bikers all along the riviera who were hunting to kill the gringos from el norte.