The Not-So-True Story of a Semi-Committed Bad Guy

The Not-So-True Story of a Semi-Committed Bad Guy: Chapter One (Again)

A bead of sweat dripped off of Joe's head as he stared down at the waterfall that flowed powerfully into the deep gorge.

"Great," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure that'll help."

All it took was a single blink of his enhanced eye and he could zoom in on the grainy figure falling far below. More bizarre than the notion that he had just jumped off of a dam was the fact that he was wearing a nice suit.

"Kids think they're James Bond or something," muttered Joe as he watched a large parachute inflate. It had no doubt been concealed under the suit, because of course special agents couldn't risk having a bulky obstruction sitting on their back while they try to complete a mission.

He pulled his miniature rocket launcher out of his pocket and made sure that it was loaded. It only had one rocket, but that's all it needed. As long as you were only trying to take down one person - otherwise things might get messy. Joe had been forced to knock people out with its butt before due to a surprise, and it really wasn't helpful.

But of course, this time it would work quite nicely. Joe waited until the parachute-clad agent had slowed down a bit, then locked on.

"Target aquired," stated the launcher in a monosyllabic voice, and Joe pulled the trigger.

He watched as the small missile, trailing flame, flew quickly down the gorge. Wincing as it nearly hit a rock jutting out from the spray of water, Joe slowly magnified on it as it got closer and closer to its target.

"Finally," he said, turning away. He didn't wince at the sound of explosion behind him as he began down the narrow path back home.

"Being a bad guy rocks."

***

Joe idly flicked some dried blood off his hand as he casually strolled down the street. No doubt a few neighbours were looking strangely at him from their broken-down single story homes.

Good'ol good-guy stereotypes. Stereotype number one? Agents are the only people who actually have lives. Stereotype number two? Agents always - as in, always, like, always - dress better than normal people.

Then again, around here "normal" meant tattered, dirty, and almost completely useless.

"Hey Joe!" exclaimed a man. He smiled up from where he was painstakingly working on his miniature garden. "How's agent work going, man?"

Joe gave him an expression that was somewhere between exasperation and genuine confusion. "I told you, Harold, I'm not an agent."

Harold smirked, rolling his eyes. "Sure, sure. As if your clothing doesn't give it away. Don't worry, man, I'll keep your secret for you." He shrugged and turned away, Joe gagging at the large hole in the back of the man's shirt. Then again, given the look of the rest of the shirt, perhaps the hole was a good thing.

Sighing, Joe continued on, as two other neighbours shouted similar things to him. I'll have to remember to stop wearing semi-nice looking clothing outside.

There was really little for him to do these days. What with the economy of Bondenburg dying out - and by saying dying out, it's pretty clear that it was committing a very tragic suicide - most employers of people like him were moving away. The once-powerful agent society, after a few big-names had left, nearly collapsed on itself. It seemed that agents didn't really make their money doing just paperwork, after all.

Of course, that made it easier for Joe to make a living.

With a half-hearted smile on his face, Joe strolled down his short driveway. His house had the same appearance as all the other ones on the block (All the other ones in Bondenburg as a whole, actually, except for a few) but only he and a select few others had ever seen the semi high-tech inside.