It was a blazingly hot yet breezy day in Slapstick, O-High-Oh as our hero, codename Agent Dylan, ran down a high street in a poorly arranged disguise comprised of a tilted moustache and long overcoat. Our slightly overweight friend, the Agent, was throwing every ounce of strength he possessed into his speedy advance to avoid the pull of gravity which lured his towering mass towards toppling. Even so, he couldn’t stop for a moment as this was his first solo mission and he planned on pulling it off without hitch.

Agent Dylan slowed his pace as he approached the high end hotel where his target was staying. Just as he had been trained, he quickly approached the guard at the front doors and prepared to disarm him. Slapping on a pair of pink sunglasses he walked up to the doors. The burly guard grunted in disgust and pretended not to see the big man in pink sunglasses standing in front of him.

“Hey there! I’ve got a tazer joke for you!” exclaimed Dylan a little too loud for comfort.

With embarrassment for the pink sunglass adorned man in front of him, the guard gruffly replied, “Sure, whatever. Get a move on.”

“Knock, Knock!”

“Fine then, I’ll humour you…If you’ll leave right after. Who’s there…”

Before the guard even had time to finish the intended response, Dylan had whipped out an oversized pocket taser from the 90’s and gave the guard a good zap in the face. Screaming like a girl with a mix of shock, and horror the guard didn’t even bother to fight back. Instead, he ran off down the street yelling something in half Italian about how he hated the “stupid Americans who just couldn’t keep their tasers to themselves”.

With apparent smugness, Dylan strolled through the revolving doors into a brightly lit lobby with adorned marble flooring. He hurried across the large room as fast as possible without drawing attention to himself and boarded the elevator. As the elevator music began, Dylan flashed back to the day he had joined the FISH, Federal Intelligence Spy Hangout. Looking at himself in the elevator mirror, Dylan pulled up his belt buckle up tight as he felt a sense of pride in his career achievements. He had rescued a little girl from a hostage situation involving a man with an air gun and taken bullets in the foot one night when a drunk had accidentally fired his sidearm. He quickly became a legend with the local police department. FISH, who told him they had their eye on him for a long time, secretly requested he come work for them. He received a new codename, “Dylan”, a new identity, and passed the “training for disabled agent’s” exam. Now it was his time to prove he could do better.

His target, a FISH highly wanted international stuffed animal thief, had acquired the hotel penthouse. No doubt he paid for his room with the money he made from fake limited edition stuffed bunny sales, thought Dylan, proud of his own skill in deduction. The elevator bell chimed and the sleek brushed metal elevator doors slid smoothly open. Dylan slid his tranquilizer pistol from it’s holster and loaded a dart. Walking up to the penthouse door he rammed his full body weight against it, forcing it to break open at the hinges. He coughed loudly as he levelled his gun through the cloud of woodchips and dust, he realized he was looking straight at a group of men sitting around a table of stuffed animals. With horror it dawned on him, this wasn’t any old guys night out, these were the leading creators of all limited edition stuffed animals! Fluffy Joe and his legendary fur jacket, Bill Stuffmor and his son, and many more of the leading stuffed animal creators sat with Dylan’s target, the evil international stuffed animal thief.

If FISH had know about this meeting they wouldn’t have sent him, Dylan thought. Something big is going down. Pulling himself back together he focused back on the table.

“What are you doing here?” he commanded them to give an answer in an obviously fake English accent. None of the men, shocked by the sight of a pink glasses-wearing guy with a tranc gun showing up in their lair, dared answer until Fluffy Joe squeaked,

“I surrender! I only wanted to make more fluffy things!”

“Great help you are,” mumbled Dylan.

Suddenly there was an explosion of shattering glass as black-ops commandos swarmed in through every side of the penthouse. Swarming around the table, the commandos shouted commands like “Get on the ground!” and “Drop the stuffed animal!” Through the confusion Agent One, the big boss, strutted up to Dylan and flipped up his dark shades.

“Unfortunately we only received intelligence about the illegal deal going down here today after you left on your mission, Dylan.” Agent One informed him in a thick British accent. “For all your hard work and trouble, I now promote you…too…whatever the rank above whatever you are now. You are dismissed!” Agent One coughed uncomfortably, turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd of massive black-ops.

Once again, Agent Dylan felt he had saved the day; he was the hero. Once again, he was oh so wrong.