The Chief of CONTROL looked like a man who’d been arm-wrestling Armageddon and losing on points when Jonny and Boris stepped into his office. His shoulders sagged, his eyes were bloodshot, and the cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter without him noticing.
“The Reds finally did it,” he said, voice flat as a toe tag. “They’ve perfected the Super Atomic Bomb. One week from today it drops on Van Nuys. That’s curtains. Final show. End of the world as we know it.”
Jonny frowned and glanced down at Boris. The pug adjusted his fedora and blinked, unimpressed. “What’s the holdup?” Jonny said. “Put us on the airfield. We’ll wreck the bomb before it wrecks us.”
The Chief stared at them like they’d just suggested stopping a hurricane with a cocktail umbrella. “Nothing,” he said, jabbing the air with a trembling finger, “NOTHING is more destructive than that bomb. It’ll scrub humanity off the map for hundreds of miles. There is no stopping it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jonny said calmly.
Boris smiled. A slow, knowing grin—the kind that usually meant someone, somewhere, was about to regret their life choices.
“Parachute us in,” Jonny went on, “with a duffel bag full of McDonald’s new McCrispy sandwiches. Boris eats them all.”
The Chief opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“When that toxic pseudo-meat hits his pug colon,” Jonny continued, “it’ll brew up a stink so powerful it’ll de-atomize anything within range. Steel, concrete, Commie science—gone. Those red-hot eggheads planned for everything except one thing.”
He nodded toward Boris.
“A pug’s large intestine.”
The room went quiet. Somewhere, a clock ticked like it was counting down to doomsday.
Finally, the Chief sighed, defeated. He picked up the red phone—the one reserved for bad ideas and worse necessities—and dialed Washington.
“Get me transport,” he said. “And order a crate of McCrispys.”
Happy National Poop Day!
