sweasel.com

Agent 11 looked at her reflection in the mirror, and smiled warmly at the reflection of herself she saw there. “ Oh Girl, you’ve still got it, eh “ she thought to herself, as she pulled a feather from her hair. Her mind drifted fondly back in time to a vision of the light of the huge and orange harvest moon shining softly in at an angle through the coop doorway. Through the silky veil of her happy memory, she could see Covington standing there at the door of the coop, naked, proud – exalted – looking breathlessly at her lying in the hay.

Her outfit, she thought, had been perfect; a feathered camisole; the tiniest miniskirt of the finest soft white down; tall yellow boots. A small feathered hat. All hand crafted by the tiny innocent hands of Thai virgins who had not had the faintest idea of what tremendous seductive power they were generating as they glued Rhode Island Red chicken feathers onto silk. Covington’s lust had been uncontrollable. In fact in his frothing desire, he had tried to choke her. ”Must, must, choke the chicken he’d muttered. Now.

In truth, it was to have been her job that night to choke him. Those had been her instructions from Lord Drakinor – she remembered proudly that he had selected her from all his agents for the task of eliminating the cursed Covenington – the agent who again and again had foiled Drakinor’s plans. Controller I should not have told her the background that had led to her orders to assassinate him, but, well, it had been an otherwise boring day, and sometimes, well, girls just have to talk.

Agent 9 had been sent to spy on Lady Weasel, and had been lured by the clever Covenington into the fateful trap that led to his ugly death. Controller I had told her all – how Agent 9 had infiltrated the secure compound in careful disguise. How he’d planned to sneak into the house, but had been discovered too soon by Covenington as he’d crawled slowly and painfully through rose bushes of the West Garden.

Covenington had tricked Agent 9 – who apparently only knew of Covenington as a legend; had never seen his face- by befriending him. Controller I had played back the tapes for her, rough and scratchy, from Agent 9’s open mike. “Hello there, mate” had said a voice she now knew belonged to the diabolical Covenington. Want to see a bit of the pink pretty , eh wot? I have just the place for you. See that tree? I keep a pair of binocock’s up there, and you can see right into Lady Weasel’s bath – I was just up there and it’s rubber ducky time, mate – nudge, nudge, wink, wink, eh? Drop a pound and eleven nineteen’s of a half-pence in me pocket here, and I’ll tell you how to climb that tree, and Bob’s your uncle, eh, wot. That’s the smart lad, you are”

And thus Agent 9 had fallen into the trap and had been subsequently killed by Lord Badgerbugger’s shotgun . Drakinor swore revenge when he heard of Agent 9’s failure and death. ” Damneded Covenington has meddled in my plans for the last time!” he’d raged to Controller I, kicking the cat. ”Controller I – Bring me that girl with an ass like a Chicken’s butt he’d said; Controller I had told her that proudly, later.

She’d planned to scratch his eyes out. Yet, when she’d seen him silhouetted against the doorway, with covered by nothing but rum spilled from the bottle in his hand, she hadn’t been able to carry out her orders. “Cockadoodle, big boy! ” She’d found herself saying against her will. It had been love at first sight. Covenington, in all aspects, reminded her of her twin brother whom she hadn’t seen since they’d sent him to the asylum, and she’d had to take her job with” Secret Agents Are Us ” to earn her way in a hard world. They even had similar winkies, she’d thought, looking tenderly at his eyebrows.
(Editors – note to reader: SHAME ON YOU! Shame for thinking like that!)
What women could kill a man who had her brother’s eyebrows?

She had given him the LSD, but in the end, she’d let him escape, urging him to “Run, run like there’s a weasel nipping your tail-feathers! Run ! “ Whether, he’d understood or not, drunk as he already had been, and now drugged on the 19 tabs of “Picture-Window-Pane” brown acid she’d slipped into his drink, she could not say. She only knew that she loved him and could not kill him. She’d make her excuses, back at the office, and show them the scratches on her bottom, where Covenington had bitten her. She’d claim a fierce fight in which she too had been outwitted by that famous wily agent of legend. Perhaps it would work. It not, she’d have to go back to her job as a night bar maid at the Rooster’s Delight. So be it. The price for love must be paid, no matter how high.

When she’d last seen him, Covenington was prancing naked through a field along the roadway, shouting at a Nature Photographer, ” So you want a pic of a bird, mate? Well’s here’s the bird for you, wanker!”. She knew then that Covenington would soon be safely in the hands of the police where no assassin could harm him. His only danger in a British Prison would come from eating the spotted dick served there; a danger that she herself had just survived nicely, she thought wryly. ”Not actually a very big danger, at all, really. She saw herself smiling broadly in the mirror. It was time to go and make her report to Controller I. She closed her purse, straightened her feathered hat, and walked bravely, if painfully, towards the door, and her fate.

I think the biggest danger you’d face in the HM Prison system these days is being recruited by al Quaeda.

One word, Gibby:

Proctologists.

Proctologists eh? Call me old-fashioned, but I think having some burly, tatooed prison officer ram his fist up my…uh, well you get the idea, would make me even more likely to join a medieval deathcult hell-bent on the annihilation of Western civilisation.