Shamus Flanagan sat in the back room of Shamus Flanagan’s Mexican Munchies. It was dimly lit and only furnished with two wooden chairs. Shamus was in one of them, his head buried in his hands. He hadn’t spoken for a while, but he finally glanced up at the man in the other chair.
Across from him sat Sanchez, who had flown in from Mexico the previous morning on a private jet – property of the National Brotherhood of Altruism. Sanchez’s usually stoic face was now eloquent with worry, as Josiah Malum’s latest move had delivered a devastating blow to the NBA.
“This is perhaps the most devastating blow we’ve suffered all week,” said Sanchez glumly. “And we have suffered many devastating blows this week. Four, I believe.”
“Aye, ‘tis something I wouldn’t fancy repeating, that’s for sure,” replied Shamus, nodding.
“How can we recover?” asked Sanchez, only half expecting Shamus to be able to answer. “Can we recover?”
“’Twill be mighty difficult, make no mistake,” said Shamus. “Executin’ every member of the organization except the two of us certainly makes our jobs a mite harder. But I’m not too worried.”
“Why is that?” questioned Sanchez, curious.
“Why’s that? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten, Sanchez! Why, we have John! If he can’t find the Red Herring, nobody can,” explained Shamus.
“And Bill,” added Sanchez.
“Who?” asked Shamus.
“Bill. You know, that dumb guy who’s always with John?”
“Oh, right, him. Well he’s a mighty big idiot, but I’m sure John has his reasons for bringin’ him along. It’s all in his hands now, laddie. The only thing we can do is wait,” said Shamus.
The two sat there wordless for a while, contemplating whatever it was that the leaders of the NBA liked to contemplate.
“Want to catch a movie or something?”
The men left the restaurant, slightly more cheerful; but little did they know, that they were being watched. By ninjas.
Josiah Malum received a call from their leader, informing him that Sanchez and Shamus had left the building together. He gave the order for his assassins to move into the now vacant restaurant, and move in they did.
Three figures dressed all in black entered stealthily (although no stealth was required), each of them carrying a powerful bomb. Although one would have been more than sufficient to demolish the building, Josiah had both a thing for explosions and more government funding than he knew what to do with…so, three there were!
They placed the bombs at various strategic points, ensuring that the next man to enter the restaurant would trigger them the moment he stepped inside. Their task accomplished, the ninjas left, satisfied, already making plans for dinner.
“Oh crap, I forgot my wallet,” one said, opening the door.
The explosion could be heard miles away. It was seen from outer space. The building was completely obliterated, along with all three of the would-be assailants.
Josiah Malum, watching from a nearby (but not too nearby) helicopter, briefly wondered why all of his subordinates were so comically inept before he gave the pilot orders to fly away.
Lighting a cigarette, Josiah sighed, “Well, at least I have Mischa in Antarctica. He’s screwed me over so many times before that he’s bound to come through! Then, with the Red Herring in my possession and that infernal mailman out of the way, my evil plan will be able to move forward.”
Slightly more cheerful, he lit another cigarette, inhaling the taste of sweet, sweet victory.