Lack Of Honour
While narrowly escaping with his life twice in one day, Mongrel learns that someone close to him didn’t; his mother. After a brief visit with Almighty Frank, his ridiculously wealthy friend, he returns home to find that Biscuits is responsible for the tragic incident. But his life once again is in danger with Shamus Bond, a hospital-sent mercenary, out for his blood.
Excerpts:
“Yes, trust me,” Mongrel yelled. He then pointed at the tree down the street. “Now you see that tree? I want you to aim for it. You have to hit that tree with the van.”
“…Really?” Dent asked, unsure of Mongrel’s coaching. “Is that how you’re supposed to drive? You didn’t do anything like that when you were driving.”
“You were unconscious when I was driving,” Mongrel said, “so you don’t know what I was doing.”
Dent knew, somewhere in the back of his fragile little mind, that there was something wrong with this logic, but he had to admit to himself that Mongrel had a point. Most of the stuff he’d seen on TV involved people running into things with their cars: people, buildings, even other cars, so hitting a tree didn’t seem so unusual. Dent also had hundreds of dollars worth of medication circulating through his veins, so he was in no condition to make a judgment call.
***
Mongrel absorbed this knowledge, but all he really understood was that someone else was trying to kill him. “Okay…okay, so why are you trying to kill me?”
Bond brushed a spec of dust off his suit, which was so extremely clean it was disgusting. “Well you did steal an ambulance didn’t you? The hospital isn’t exactly going to stand for that you know.”
“That’s it?” Mongrel asked. “They’re trying to kill me just for stealing an ambulance? Are they that serious? How do they know I’m not going to bring it back? And besides, that was only, like, half an hour ago. Do they have you on speed-dial or something?”
“You’re quick,” Almighty Frank said, just to illustrate that he was still in this conversation.
“Thank you,” Bond said, turning to address Almighty Frank. He then snapped quickly back to Mongrel and raised his gun. “Yes my dear boy, I’m afraid they are that serious. Now stand still please.”
Mongrel thought fast, recalling an episode of the Simpsons when Bart stopped Sideshow Bob from killing him on that houseboat by distracting and delaying him until the police showed up. “Hold on a minute, I still don’t get this anti-agent thing. How can you be evil and be a secret agent? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well don’t worry too much. I promise you won’t lose any sleep over it.” He aimed.
“Gee, you certainly are focused on your job, huh?”
“Yes, quite. Now shut up.” He pulled back the hammer.
“There really isn’t any honour in being an evil agent, you know. How do you live with yourself?”
“All right, don’t shut up then, just open wide.” He pulled the trigger.
***
“W-what are you doing with that gun?” Mongrel stuttered, getting nervous. He’d seen enough guns for one day.
“Well, seein’s how I always ends up dead no matter what I do, I ain’t gonna give you the satisfaction of killin’ me, y’hear? I’s gonna kill meself before you can do anythin’ ‘bout it.”
Mongrel jumped to his feet and almost ran over to him. “Oh come on Captain Pete, there’s gotta be something else you can do. Or something else I can do, maybe?”
Captain Pete thought this over, and then pointed the gun at Mongrel. “Well, I s’pose you could die ‘stead o’ me for a change? What’d you say t’that?”
Mongrel just looked at the gun, which, if you like to personify things, was looking at him. Honestly, if one more gun, just one more, pointed at him today he was going to snap. “Actually, you know what? Never mind. Go ahead and kill yourself. You’re much better off, really. That, more than anything, would teach me a lesson.”
“Really?” Captain Pete asked, unsure of what to make of this.
“Oh yeah, definitely! Seeing you kill yourself right in front of my eyes…man, I don’t think I’d ever get over it. Seriously, I’d go mad, I really would.”
Captain Pete shrugged and pointed the gun back at his own head. “Suits yourself. Take this, boy!” He then pulled the trigger, blasting a hole through his skull right behind the eyes, leaving a blood stain on the wall that vaguely resembled a smiley face, but only to those who were really sick in the head. His body then slumped to the floor, and the gun skidded a few feet away under the desk.
The Chris Effect 
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