Mission Two: Cruel Intentions

“Honey, Sylar wants us to date a celebrity, but don’t worry,” I said over the phone, “we get to dump them afterwards and break their heart.”

“Hold on, Mr. Muggles wants to talk to you. He misses you!”

“Sandra, I don’t have time. I just need to…”

Bark! Bark! Grrrr….BARK!

“Sandra!”

Bark!

“Sandra! Pick up the phone!”

Grrrr…bark, bark!

“Sandra!”

“Did you hear that, hon? He said, ‘Come home safe.”

Frustrated, I said, “Look, I just need to make sure you’re okay with me dating a celebrity.”

“Oh, Lyle’s here. He wants to say hello!” . . . “Uh, hey Dad.”

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Lyle,” the unfamiliar girlish voice replied. “So, I was thinking…when you get back, we should go see The Lion King.”

I hung up. My time was wasting. Besides, I knew Sandra would be fine with this challenge. If not, that’s what Haitians are for.

A celebrity…who could I woo? I took my Nissan Armada to the local Starbucks to ponder and strategize, the best part of any mission, aside from the part where I get to shoot people.

With my mocha cafe decaf grande cappuccino duble-stuft latte in hand, I strolled down the sidewalk. Who do I woo? Who….woo….who? “Woo who?” I thought aloud. “Woo who?”

“Yes?” She turned. Her smile was as white as the Pope’s underoos and twice as mystical.

“Holy Vampire-Slayer!” I shouted. “You’re Buffy!”

“Well, Sarah Michelle Gellar, but yes, I am Buffy.”

“Wow…do you realize your initials are also the initials for Sub Machine Gun? You must love shooting people!”

“I do! It’s a thrill. Though, Freddie disapproves. ‘They have lives, families,’ he says. Such a wimp. I tell him this is why his career has gone nowhere. You can’t be a teen idol forever, ya know? Eventually, you have to shoot someone and grow up.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Say, can I buy you lunch?”

“Normally, I don’t go out with strangers I meet on the street, but those glasses are so sexy. I just can’t resist!”

We jumped in my Nissan Armada.

“So, where should we go?” I asked.

“You pick. After all, you’re paying.”

“How about McDonald’s?” I asked.

“No!” She shrieked. “I hate McDonald’s.”

Jokingly, I asked her, “Did the clown rape your grandmother or something?”

“Yes*,” she replied, “when I was four-years old.” She sat stoically, staring ahead.

“I broke the awkward silence, “Burger King it is, then.”

As we scarfed down double Whoppers, I turned the conversation to her husband.

“So, Freddie Prince, Jr.,” I began, “I didn’t realize he was still alive.”

“I know! I tell him he needs to do something about his career. He ignores it! Still waiting around for high school roles. ‘You’re nearly fifty!’ I tell him. But he doesn’t listen. Not like you.” She smiled flirtatiously at me. “For a mysterious man in horn-rimmed glasses, you’re a pretty good listener.”

“You wanna get out of here?” I asked.

“Sure!” She jumped up happily.

I had a surprise in store for the young actress. While in the bathroom at Burger King, I found The King and Larry Craig. The congressman, who apparently must be a medical doctor too, was sucking a bullet out of The King after he had been shot by his ex-girlfriend. I told them my plan. The King was enthusiastic about it. Craig needed more coercion, so I told him it would help put an end to gay marriage.

That’s why the two were waiting for us at McDonald’s.

Sarah tensed up. “McDonald’s!” she screamed with a shudder.

“It’s okay. We’re going to teach them a lesson, that not all grandmothers want to be raped by burger-peddling clowns**!” I jumped out of the vehicle, gun in hand. “King,” I called to the seeming pervert, “you and Craig use the back entrance!”

“Sure thing!” the congressman replied, and the two were off.

I grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her out of the Armada. “Here,” I said, placing blocks of C4 in her arms. “I think you know what to do with this.”

She smiled and we ran to the entrance. I kicked open the door, or would have, rather, but the sign said PULL. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I limped inside while Sarah held the door.

Immediately, I fired two rounds into the cashier. “Place the C4,” I commanded. More gunfire was heard coming from the kitchen. The King and Queen were doing their job.

Things were going smoothly until the Assistant Manager called in the cavalry. Grimace stepped out from behind the fryer. An army of Fry Guys marched out of the play tunnels. They had us surrounded.

“You packin’?” I asked Sarah.

“Always.” was her reply. She pulled a sub machine gun from under her skirt. I dove for cover while shooting at the Fry Guys. As I reloaded, Sarah had me covered with constant fire. I stepped out; three left.

Bang! I rolled under tables, then jumped onto the counter. Bang! Bang!

Grimace was running for the door. “Not so fast,” Sarah said. She shot up his feet and the giant purple whatever-he-is fell to the floor.

Sarah was about to finish him when I called out, “Wait!” I walked over to the bleeding mascot. “What are you anyway? Some kind of potato?”

“Go to Hell!” was his response.

I aimed my gun at him. “After you,” I said and pulled the trigger.

“Craig didn’t make it,” The King delivered the disappointing news as he approached. “The Fry Guys had their way with him.”

I said, “He will be missed.”

“Charges set,” Sarah slapped me on the shoulder. “Time for us to blow this joint.”

Caught up in the moment, I laid a passionate kiss on Sarah.

“I love you, honey bunny,” she said and we ran outside.

As the C4 went off, I yelled, “Up your McAss!”

Sarah giggled as we ran back to my vehicle. “Oh, this was the most fun I’ve ever had!”

From the backseat The Haitian used his mind-smacking to knock her unconscious. She awoke moments later in a Primatech containment cell, locked to a medical examination table.

“Wh-where am I? What’s going on?” she was dazed, her vision still blurry, as she regained her consciousness.

“Hey, there, Pumpkin,” I said, touching her hand.

“You? You did this?”

“We’d just love to learn more about these slayer powers you have.”

“But…what about our date? We had a great time. I fell in love with you through all the murdering, the explosion, the trans fats!”

“Yeah, about that…I think we should see other people. Well, me anyway. You won’t see anyone, not for a long time.” As I closed the cell door, I could swear I saw a pale Japanese boy clawing his way out of her hair.

*Apparently, Ronald McDonald didn’t rape Sarah’s grandmother, but the company did sue her. I guess at the age of four, grandmother-rape and lawsuits are tough to distinguish.
**According to the US Census Bureau, 13% of grandmothers want to be raped by burger-peddling clowns, while 34% prefer Mayor McCheese.