"Steady now, Ensign, that speeding car isn't necessarily going to try to ram the wooden gate," the Security Chief said blandly, "No, it's likely going to turn wildly... yes... and drive clear through the--" the bright orange 77' Chevelle plowed through the wooden security station, losing only a fraction of its impressive velocity, and leaving the remains of a very shaken-up security crew the task of extracting itself from the wreckage, "...security post," finished the Security Chief, before losing consciousness for what would be the last time.
Ensign Ensign, the unfortunately named henchman, had been the luckiest of those manning the security post and had only suffered a mild concussion and some of the worst splinters he'd ever experienced.
After pulling his fallen leader and as many bodies as was possible from the demolished guard house, ensign Ensign began fuming, to no one in particular, with righteous indignation:
"Look, it just doesn't make any sense, is what I'm saying! These damned secret agents and government operatives always bust through and kill half of us. No care for the working man! They just drive over any bloke in the wrong uniform and don't even consider the perils of being a professional henchman. I've got a family, the Security Chief had a family, it's just bad luck that we happen to be in this business. And look! We're in the middle of the bloody desert! Our gate only blocks the dirt road and there's no fence; the cheeky bastards could have just driven around us!"
It was at this point that the equally-unfortunately named henchman, private Private, spoke up:
"Not to be distracting, uhm, Ensign, but, isn't "ensign" a Nautical rank?"
Ensign Ensign turned to regard private Private with a cold fury.
"Yes, private Private, it is. I was on an evil oil derrick before I was transferred here, and--"
"What's so evil about an oil platform?" private Private interrupted.
"An evil oil derrick, private," the ensign corrected, "There's a terminology for these things. Now, we were--"
"oh yeah, I heard about one of them once. Derricks, that is. Caught fire out in the Pacific, near all the crew died in the blaze."
Ensign Ensign desperately yearned to redirect the conversation.
"Fascinating. As I was saying--"
"Did you ever die in a blaze? When you were on the derrick?" Private Private was not to be deterred.
"No, you idiot!" Ensign shouted in exasperation, "How else could I be standing here listening to the mindless drivel you call speech?"
"I figured you could be a hologram," private Private suggested.
"A holo-what?"
"You know, an image made of light what can look just like a person or a bulldog. Or a pot of petunias. Made with lasers and such."
"Do I look like a load of bloody petunias, Private?!?"
"Not especially, sir."
"You're bloody well right I don't!" Upon this point, ensign Ensign was adamant. He was not to be mistaken for a plant again. All of the survivors had gathered by now, having fished out the dead and wounded from the carnage, to watch as ensign Ensign composed himself and finally managed to conclude his story:
"I was stationed on an evil oil derrick in the Mediterranean, henching, as we are now, when suddenly, there's an enormous plane flying overhead. We try to shoot it down and as it flies overhead, the back opens up and what comes flying out? A BLEEDING CAR! A BRIGHT-ORANGE SODDING AUTOMOBILE! It crushes the blazes out of everyone on deck, drives around for the better part of half an hour, smashing everything, then zooms off to land on a surfacing submarine. I only survived because I jumped off the deck and was eaten by a whale and later rescued by a Japanese whaling fleet."
"Right impressive, that is," commented an awestruck henchman.
"But that's not even the point! The point is--" Whatever ensign Ensign's point might have been, it was by all accounts far less pointy than the altogether pointier remnants of a barbed-wire fence attached to the bumper of the 77' Orange Chevelle that was rapidly approaching. The throaty growl of the Chevelle's big block 8-cylinder engine overpowered ensign Ensign's tirade as the speeding vehicle swerved to overpower the bodies of the remaining henchmen still gathered around the ravaged checkpoint. In the last few moments of his life, watching as death approached in the guise of an orange muscle car, ensign Ensign contemplated the idea of reincarnation and decided that he was in favor of being reborn as something else. So long as it wasn't a pot of petunias.
"Look, it just doesn't make any sense, is what I'm saying! These damned secret agents and government operatives always bust through and kill half of us. No care for the working man! They just drive over any bloke in the wrong uniform and don't even consider the perils of being a professional henchman. I've got a family, the Security Chief had a family, it's just bad luck that we happen to be in this business. And look! We're in the middle of the bloody desert! Our gate only blocks the dirt road and there's no fence; the cheeky bastards could have just driven around us!"
It was at this point that the equally-unfortunately named henchman, private Private, spoke up:
"Not to be distracting, uhm, Ensign, but, isn't "ensign" a Nautical rank?"
Ensign Ensign turned to regard private Private with a cold fury.
"Yes, private Private, it is. I was on an evil oil derrick before I was transferred here, and--"
"What's so evil about an oil platform?" private Private interrupted.
"An evil oil derrick, private," the ensign corrected, "There's a terminology for these things. Now, we were--"
"oh yeah, I heard about one of them once. Derricks, that is. Caught fire out in the Pacific, near all the crew died in the blaze."
Ensign Ensign desperately yearned to redirect the conversation.
"Fascinating. As I was saying--"
"Did you ever die in a blaze? When you were on the derrick?" Private Private was not to be deterred.
"No, you idiot!" Ensign shouted in exasperation, "How else could I be standing here listening to the mindless drivel you call speech?"
"I figured you could be a hologram," private Private suggested.
"A holo-what?"
"You know, an image made of light what can look just like a person or a bulldog. Or a pot of petunias. Made with lasers and such."
"Do I look like a load of bloody petunias, Private?!?"
"Not especially, sir."
"You're bloody well right I don't!" Upon this point, ensign Ensign was adamant. He was not to be mistaken for a plant again. All of the survivors had gathered by now, having fished out the dead and wounded from the carnage, to watch as ensign Ensign composed himself and finally managed to conclude his story:
"I was stationed on an evil oil derrick in the Mediterranean, henching, as we are now, when suddenly, there's an enormous plane flying overhead. We try to shoot it down and as it flies overhead, the back opens up and what comes flying out? A BLEEDING CAR! A BRIGHT-ORANGE SODDING AUTOMOBILE! It crushes the blazes out of everyone on deck, drives around for the better part of half an hour, smashing everything, then zooms off to land on a surfacing submarine. I only survived because I jumped off the deck and was eaten by a whale and later rescued by a Japanese whaling fleet."
"Right impressive, that is," commented an awestruck henchman.
"But that's not even the point! The point is--" Whatever ensign Ensign's point might have been, it was by all accounts far less pointy than the altogether pointier remnants of a barbed-wire fence attached to the bumper of the 77' Orange Chevelle that was rapidly approaching. The throaty growl of the Chevelle's big block 8-cylinder engine overpowered ensign Ensign's tirade as the speeding vehicle swerved to overpower the bodies of the remaining henchmen still gathered around the ravaged checkpoint. In the last few moments of his life, watching as death approached in the guise of an orange muscle car, ensign Ensign contemplated the idea of reincarnation and decided that he was in favor of being reborn as something else. So long as it wasn't a pot of petunias.
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