Walking Dead Funny

If you know me, you know how much I love The Walking Dead.  I could spend time justifying why I love it so much or I could create funny pictures about it. Guess what I'm choosing to do...

 

 

 

For Nick: The Adventures of Lucky Haskins, Chapter 2

Read Chapter 1 here

 

Chapter 2

 

He picked up the box and the envelope and moved it into his bedroom. It was a downside to his job. He hated the thought that so many well-trained operatives had access to his house.  Of course, it was a necessary evil so the technology could be updated and he could receive his assignments.

He lived in a beautiful house that garnered the envy of all the neighbors in the Old West End—one that had the Parade of Homes calling every year begging him to show it off—but it was bit much for a single guy and his dog. There had always been curiosity about the property. There always seemed to be a remodel of some sort occurring. Unmarked, black SUVs often were seen pulling in late at night to make a delivery. The home had been in the hands of the agency since the 1920’s but as far as anyone knew, no one in the neighborhood had ever been invited inside.

Now Lucky, its current resident, had lived there for the past 6 years. He had thought he had hit the career lottery when he had first moved into the house. Only two weeks before he had been walking across the Stanford campus to his Statistics class when the man in the suit called his name from the black SUV.

“Lucky Haskins, I’d like to speak with you,” he’d said in an authoritative tone.

Lucky, afraid he had been caught by campus officials for a prank he’d played on the Dean of his college, reluctantly turned to face the man.

“How do you know who I am?” He asked, hoping to gain some idea of who this person might be.

“I know a lot about you, Lucky. I know you have 8 minutes until your Statistics class. I know the name of your third grade teacher. I know that you are allergic to scented fabric softener.” The man looked ahead, further down the street and sighed, clearly bored by these details. “And I know about the little prank you pulled. The one you uploaded to YouTube. The one you thought was Anonymous.”

“So, what? Am I in trouble? Am I expelled?” Lucky asked nervously, suddenly very anxious for his future.

“Well,” the man held up a manila envelope, shaking it like Lucky was a cat to be teased. “In this envelope is all the information regarding who pulled that prank. I can tell you that the President of the University held a meeting this morning in which he declared that the perpetrator of this prank will swiftly be expelled if he is ever discovered. Now I need you to get in the car with me. I have a proposition for you.”

After looking around to see if anyone was watching, Lucky hurried to the car. The driver immediatlely jumped out and opened the door for him.

“Uh, thanks, I guess,” Lucky forfeited, as he climbed onto the seat. The driver shut the door behind him. Lucky noticed a large assault weapon attached to the ceiling of the car. The man’s pant leg had bunched up just enough to notice the handgun attached to his calf. “So I take it you are not associated with the University?”

“No,” the man said with a smirk. “I’m more of Yale man myself.”

The man just stared at Lucky from behind his sunglasses. The uncomfortable silence made Lucky more than just a little nervous.  He thought about reaching for the door handle, but instead he gripped his messenger bag more firmly on his lap. His mind fervently envisioned every item he had in the bag, in hopes of finding a weapon. Coming up empty, his thoughts then settled on the cellphone in his back pocket.

“I’m going to be late for class. Maybe we can catch up later,” Lucky offered, anxious to get out of the car.

“Well, Mr. Haskins, you won’t be going to your class,” the man casually responded. As Lucky shifted nervously in his seat, the man’s loud laughter broke the tension, although for Lucky it only added to it. He took his sunglasses off, inspected them before folding them and placing them in his breast pocket.

“They said you were courageous, but I see a scared little boy next to me.  My name is Anson. Lawrence Anson. I work for a top secret government agency called PTI. It stands for Peace Time Initiative.  We use highly advanced analyses to determine how to better our country and provide more peaceful, more meaningful lives for all Americans. Once a conclusion is made about the course of action, a special agent is sent to ensure that the course of action is set into motion. We would like you, Mr. Haskins, to be one of those agents.”

“Wait, why me?” Lucky asked. He had a hundred questions, but this seemed as good as any with which to start.

“Because you have a unique set of skills required for this job, as evidenced by your life up to this point and that stunt you pulled,” Anson chuckled.  

Lucky smiled, glad that someone appreciated how he successfully convinced the Dean of Humanities and Sciences at Stanford University that the world was being attacked by aliens. Simply by making several phone calls to him, impersonating different countries’ leaders, he convinced him to draft an army of students and arrange them by ethnicity, height and attractiveness. Lucky had no idea that it was so successful until he received the email from the Dean asking all students to meet at Stanford Stadium to “serve their country.” At that point in time the anonymous recording of the phone calls, edited together in pure hilarity, made its way to YouTube.

“We need you in our agency. You will have to relocate. You will be put up in a nice house and given a nice car. Your base starting salary will be $238,900,” Anson noticed Lucky eyebrows perk up at the sound of the salary. “You also get bonuses for every job you do.”

“Sounds interesting. What if I say no?”

“Then this envelope makes its way to the President’s desk within the hour and you attend your last class as a Stanford University student.” Anson’s smile had faded.

“You said, ‘special agents are sent to ensure that a course of action is taken.’ What do you mean by ‘sent’?” Lucky asked, knowing that essentially everything would be acceptable given his circumstances.

Anson cocked his head to the side and gave Lucky a penetrating stare, letting him know that he was about to learn too much information to back out now.

“Time travel.”

 

The sound of the 5 minute warning alarm snapped Lucky back to reality. With Brutus by his side, he opened the box. Sitting on top of a pile of neatly folded clothes was a top hat and a billfold. He reached over to pet his loyal dog and facetiously said, “this is going to be fun.”

He hadn’t yet fastened all the buttons when the countdown started. He hastily grabbed the envelope with his instructions and jogged to the mock closet.

“Bye, buddy. See you soon,” he called out over the noise and patted Brutus on his side. He shut the door and latched it behind him.

Placing the hat on his head and fastening the last of the buttons, he pushed the hangers and clothes aside and pressed his back up against the titanium wall. The whirring of the spindle grew louder and louder. Lucky closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to start.