The Poop

[ihtgb]

Part I: The Night Before

It was a night like any other. Percy Jackhammer was coming home from work as an undercover detective who was secretly tracking Russian spies that had infiltrated the White House when, on his walk home, he decided to do something he had never done before. He decided to stop by the local diner, Crusty McGill’s, and grab something to eat.

“What’ll it be?” said the waitress, a beautiful specimen of some 25 years. “Our specials include…”

Percy wasn’t listening. He was too busy looking over the incredible woman who would soon be taking his order. He couldn’t get over her incredible legs, or her incredible eyes, or her incredible body.

“Incredible,” he uttered.

“What was that?” said the waitress.

“Oh, nothing.” Percy responded. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

A pause.

“No,” she responded. “I don’t think so.”

“Well I see you now! Hands up, mole!”

And with that, Percy Jackhammer pulled out his concealed firearm, an 18th century musket, from underneath his business suit.

The waitress, Kolova Kaletnakova, was really a Chechnyan spy, working for the Paletna Ovkalov terrorist organization. He thought he recognized her when he first walked into the restaurant, but he knew for sure it was her by her thick Russian accent and excess body hair.

“You got me, you sly American pig.” She responded. “But perhaps, I’ve got you!”

She whipped out a Thompson submachine gun from under her blouse and pointed it straight at Jackhammer.

“Get down on the ground,” she ordered. She turned to the rest of the packed restaurant and yelled, “Everyone down!”

“Kaletnakova, I’ve been chasing you for years. And to think, you’ve been here all along!” He said as he entered the prone position.

“That is where you are wrong, swine! I’ve been all over this worthless city! I am like a jackrabbit—always running, never caught! It is I who does the catching! Now prepare to die!”

Just as she was about the pull the trigger and end Jackhammer’s life, in through the door burst none other than Frederick Donkmueller, Jackhammer’s crafty Irish sidekick, holding a machine pistol. “Not so fast, Kolova!”

“Ah! Foiled! I’m outnumbered and must surrender!” She announced. “Or will I? Get them, Ivan!”

Running from the kitchen came Ivan Dorvsky, the fry cook who was secretly a spy as well. “You die now!” He yelled, running out with his Kalashnikov.

“But it is not we who die, but you, Ivan!” yelled Jackhammer. “Get him, Bragan!”

Out came Trevor Bragan, a CIA operative also working to root out Russian spies, from the boiler room, brandishing a Browning Automatic Rifle. “It ends now!” He screamed. He opened fire, killing everyone in the diner except for himself, Jackhammer and Donkmueller.

After the firing ended, Bragan calmly walked over to Jackhammer and helped him up.

“Donk, get over here,” Jackhammer said.

“Eye, what do ye think we be do with all these situation?” Frederick said in his heavy Irish accent.

“We’ll worry about it later,” Jackhammer said, “but for now, I’m starved. Go to the kitchen and whip up something to eat—I spy some prime ribs…that are to die for!”

And so Donkmueller did. And so they ate.

PART II COMING SOON!!1