Bart Cop, Agent 009 in

Octasmirky
(the end of Bartcop?)

OPENING CREDITS: 

Shania Twain, clad in a silver miniskirt and boots, sings the theme song while
silhouettes of nude women swim in a glass of Chinaco Anejo.  The silhouette of a man in a tuxedo
holding a Glock appears and begins to shoot at…certain parts of the women’s anatomy…

M’s Office

Bart Cop, secret agent 009 approached M’s door at the DNC, Special Forces Division Headquarters with confidence.
After successfully flirting with M’s buxom secretary, he knew that he was still as devilishly handsome and charming as ever.  And so, he was in fine spirits when he opened the door to M’s office to see M and another man engaged in conversation
about the latest threat to national security.

“Oh, Cop, you’re here.  This is Dr. Johnson.  We were just discussing that outbreak of Smirking Stupidity in Texas yesterday.  You’ve heard of it?”  M inquired.

“Indeed, as well as the outbreaks in other parts of the country.  Have you determined a cause?”  Bart asked.

“We’ve been able to determine the one thing that all of the victims of Smirking Stupidity have in common:  they have
all ingested Jose Cuervo within the past week.  And, we were able to obtain a bottle of the Jose Cuervo in question
and determine that it has been tampered with.  Do you recognize this formula?”  Dr. Johnson handed Bart a paper
with a complex chemical formula on it.

Bart recognized it immediately.  “Koresh! That’s crystal fascistamphetamine! Small amounts are known to cause a
complete and total loss of common sense and compassion in humans.  And you’ve isolated it in bottles of Jose Cuervo?”

M looked at Bart seriously.  “Cop, understand the implications here:  Someone is doctoring bottles of Jose Cuervo
with crystal fascistamphetamine and distributing them to the general population causing outbreaks of Smirking Stupidity.
We need you to investigate.”

“Certainly.  Where do I start?”

“We believe this man is involved.”  M handed Bart a photograph.  “That’s…”

“George W…OCTASMIRKY!!!”  Bart recognized the scoundrel immediately.

“We need you to investigate his level of involvement in the Jose Cuervo tampering.  He’s currently in…”

“Uh, no thanks, chief.  I don’t want to go anywhere near that Smirking Idiot.”

“…Las Vegas.”

“Actually, I believe I am up to the challenge.”
Bart could not resist the sheer joy that Las Vegas always provided him.

“Good, see Q for your transportation.  Remember to use the money from the ADM account.  And, Bart.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

Q’s Lab

Bart entered Q’s lab and shook his head in wonder.  Q never failed to amaze and amuse him with his remarkable devices.
On more than one occasion, they had saved his life.  Bart watched the demonstration in progress of the latest of Q’s inventions.  He noticed a mannequin dressed in a typical Republican Fascist uniform.  An odd contraption some 50 yards
from the mannequin began to whirr and click.  Then, with a loud FA-ZOOM, a projectile exploded into the mannequin’s face, leaving the face covered with…banana cream?

“Q, a pie-throwing device?”  Bart asked the aging genius with a grin.

“Now, 009, I will not stand for your constant mocking of my research.
That happens to be a powerful weapon in the fight against Fascism.”

“A pie-throwing device?”

“Of course, Bart.”  Q answered in impatience.  “The reason Fascists are able to grab and maintain power over the
uneducated is because they portray themselves as serious, competant individuals.  If they can be made to look
ridiculous in front of the people, they will lose much of their power.”

Bart was impressed with the explanation despite himself.
“Uh, Q, M sent me.  He says you have transportation…?”

“ Oh, yes, right this way.”  Q led him across the lab to where he beheld a certain bright, red, totally hot sports car…

Bart wiped the drool off his chin.  “That’s my transportation?”

“Yes, but remember, this is a finely tuned piece of instrumentation.  It is not your personal plaything.”

Bart opened the driver’s side door and got in.  “Vrooom, VROOOOOM!!!”  he exclaimed joyously.
He noticed a bright red button on the dash.

“Cop, don’t touch that…!” Q tried to warn Bart too late.
Bart pushed the button, releasing an oil slick all over Q’s shoes.

“Really, 009, your childish, impulsive antics will be the death of both of us!
Whatever you do, don’t touch the black button with the swastika!”

“Why, what does that do?”

“It’s a torture device.  Push that, and the person sitting in the passenger seat will become glued to the seat
while Rush’s show plays loudly nonstop until the person begs to be put to death.”

“That should take about 10 minutes.  Well, off I go on my serious mission!”

“Do try to stay out of trouble, Bart.”

“Funny, M said the same thing.  It’s Bart Cop in Las Vegas.  What kind of trouble could there be?”

Bart started the car and “Vrooomed” out of the lab.

“Bart Cop, be careful!”  Q warned, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of squealing tires.

Las Vegas

Bart Cop sauntered into the Taqueria Canonita.  He had checked into the Venetian an hour earlier and cleaned up.
He was confident, ready for action.  This was Las Vegas, his town.  He was ready to defeat the forces of evil.
As he strode to the bar, the heads of the female patrons turned, eyes glued to every move he made.
They appreciated the way that his well-muscled body filled out his immaculate tuxedo.

He gazed into the face of the scantily-clad bartender.
Her expression showed that she was willing to serve him…in whatever capacity he desired.

“Chinaco Anejo…shaken, not stirred.”

He downed the drink, and began to scan the crowd for his nemesis, Octasmirky.
He was able to learn from some willing informants that Octasmirky was playing in a blackjack tournament nearby.
It would take a lot of money to join that game where the pots were measured in tens of thousands of dollars.
Fortunately, he had his ADM stash.

It took all of the ‘ol Bart Cop charm (and a little of ADM’s bounty) to convince the hulking bodyguards that he
should be admitted to the game.  Once inside the room, he was able to see the blackjack table…and Octasmirky
sitting with a pile of winnings and a gorgeous brunette by his side.

“Koresh!  That’s a Page Two Girl for sure.”

Bart sat down at the table just as the last of Octasmirky’s opponents was forced to quit for lack of funds.

“I hope I’m not too late to join.”  Bart smiled.

“Stranger, I don’t know who ya’ll is, but I’ma gonna take all yer money today.”
His whole face was one big smirk.

Bart poured all of his chips into the middle of the table.  “Let’s just settle this all at once, shall we?”

The Smirking One pushed all of his chips into the middle of the table.  “Stranger, I like yer style.”

The dealer dealt Octasmirky a face card, and Bart then got the same.  Octasmirky received his second card,
and peeled up a corner to read the value.  Bart received his second card, but did not look at it.

Triumphantly, the Smirker flipped his hole card to reveal a 10. “Ha!  I got a 19…” the brunette whispered into
the Smirk’s ear “…a 20!  I’s gonna kick yer butt.  Major league…hey, ain’tcha gonna look at yer card?”

The wheels turned as  Bart’s IQ-of-64, Catholic-educated mind calculated the odds.
Cooly, he said, “Nope.  But I will take another card.”  He confidently said to the dealer.
The dealer provided him with a 7.  Bart confidently held Octasmirky’s gaze.

The Smirky one was fidgeting.  “A-a-are you gonna look at that card?!?”

Bart hesitated, enjoying the drama as well as his opponent’s discomfort.
“Nope.  I’ll take another one, however.”  The dealer gave Bart his card, a 2.
Bart hesitated.

“Look at yer card!  Look at yer card!”  the Smirk whined.
He was jumping up and down in his seat like he had to pee.

Ever so slowly, Bart flipped his hole card, but never looked at it.  A 2.

“Ha!  23!  You busted!  You…” another whisper from the brunette “…what…no…YOU CHEATED!!!”
Octasmirky threw his cards at Bart and stormed away from the table.
“You’ll pay for this!  I’m supposed ta win!  I always win!  You’ll see!  You’ll git yers!  You just wait!”
And the Smirk stormed out of the room.

The brunette rounded the table to stand before Bart.  “I’d like to meet the man that could do that.”

Bart held out his hand. “Cop.  Bart Cop.”

The brunette took Bart’s hand in  hers.  “I’m I. L. Givyahead.”

Bart smiled “Of course you are.”

Givyahead said “I’m afraid my friend was my transportation.  Would you give a lady a ride home?”

“Absolutely.”

Bart cashed out and they left the scene.

Givyahead’s House

Bart drove the lady to her fabulous mansion of a home.

“Come in for a drink?”  Givyahead offered.

“How can I resist?”

Bart escorted her into her home.  She led him to a very well stocked bar.
Going behind the bar, she produced a bottle.  “Chinaco Anejo ’89”  She offered.

“I prefer the ’87 myself.  It has a finer bouquet and is much easier on the palette.”

“Chinaco Anejo ’87, coming up.” Givyahead reported with a nod.

Bart took the glass she offered, and downed God’s Nectar.
He had only a few moments of gazing at Givyahead’s face before everything went black…

The End?

Bart awoke with a screaming headache.
He looked up and when his eyes cleared, he saw the dull, smirking face of Octasmirky.
He intended to reach out and slug someone, then realized with a start that he couldn’t move.
He was bound spread-eagle by his wrists and ankles to a hard, flat table.

“Heh, heh, I tol’ ya, I tol’ ya.  Now yer gonna git it.”
The Smirk jumped up and down and clapped his hands like a chimpanzee.

“You smirking idiot, I’m gonna wring your neck.”  Bart growled.

“I don’t think so” said a voice from behind Bart’s field of vision.
That voice was so darned familiar…

Then the sound of heavy footsteps, causing the building to shake, brought the new speaker into view.
It was Rush.

“THUNDERBLUBBER!!!  YOU’RE behind all this?!?”  Bart was incredulous.
It looked like Rush had gained back any weight he’d lost plus another 50 pounds.
“There’s a guy who could stand to lose about 300 pounds of ugly fat” he thought.

“Of course!  You don’t think this smirking moron had two brain cells to put together toward such a brilliant plan.
He is just a puppet.  I am the one pulling the strings.  I am the one with talent on loan from God.
I am the one with the Machiavelli award.  I am the one from Excellence in Baloney.”

Smirky was hurt at the reference.  “What da ya mean, “moron”?  Nobody likes me!!!”

“Now, Octasmirky, run along and play and let the adult handle this,”  Thunderblubber bellowed.

“Oh, I never git ta have any fun!”  The Smirk stormed out of the room.

“You are contaminating Jose Cuervo with crystal fascistamphetamine?  Why?”  Bart asked.

“Why I should think that would be obvious.  The good citizens of this nation will drink the tainted Jose Cuervo
and become willing smirking idiots, ready to follow my every instruction, ready to believe anything I tell them.
Jose Cuervo is just the beginning. I chose that because obviously stupid people are already drinking Jose Cuervo.
It shouldn’t take as much crystal fascistamphetamine to make these people my pawns.   Soon, every product that
I hawk on my radio show will contain crystal fascistamphetamine in one form or another.  Everyone in the entire
nation will be smirking idiots, ready to do as I command!!!  Ha ha ha ha ha!!!  And people will think I’m funny, too.
And sexy.  And really pleasant to be around.  ”

“Lying Nazi Pig, I’ll stop you.”  Bart struggled against his bonds.
If he could just get his hand to his shoulder holster, he could get to The Baby…

Thunderblubber waddled over to a nearby table and held up The Baby.
“Glock, isn’t it?  Standard Democratic Special Forces issue.”

Bart swore under his breath.  The fatman clapped his hands and two monkeymen hybrids galumphed to his side.
“Get the laser.”  Thunderblubber ordered.  The monkeymen pushed a large mounted laser over
Bart’s table so that it was pointing at the space between Bart’s legs.

“Koresh, I don’t like where this is going.”  Bart thought.

“Scamper off, my children.”  Thunderblubber ordered.  The monkeymen scampered off.
Thunderblubber turned on the laser, and Bart watched in horror as the beam sliced clean through the table.
His horror intensified as he saw the beam begin to slowly inch closer to his exposed crotch.

“You expect me to talk?”  Bart asked.

“No, Mr. Cop, I expect you to die!”

Thunderblubber began to waddle out of the room.
“So long, Bart Cop.  Your wit and humor will trouble me no longer!”

Thunderblubber waddled out of the room.
The laser inched closer to the Bartcrotch.

Is this the end of Bartcop?
Will Rush the Thunderblubber turn every citizen into a smirking moronic slave?
Is Bartcop about to be somewhat less well-endowed?
Will people stop drinking Jose Cuervo for their own good?

Only time will tell…