Agent Smith Studies: Alcohol

NOTE! For those of you about to Flame this, saying the idea/concept was ripped from Troll's "Agent Smith Studies," series, I advise you all to please have a look at my review of his stories. There I ask to do the same thing as well, as I had had a similar idea for quite some time. He e-mailed me back telling me to "Go for it!" and that "Free minds breed free thoughts."

       So, just in case, all original ideas and concepts this series spins-out from go to Troll. I am just a humble fan writing a FanFic about a FanFic, alright? Now read the damn Fic already! Sheesh…

Agent Smith Studies: Alcohol.

                                              Set the day after "Drugs" (see Troll's 2nd chapter!)

It was the morning following the exceptional experience of the narcotics, and the trio of Agent's were lying around the apartment, and feeling all the better for the broadening of their horizons.

    Simultaneously, they arose from wherever their delusional state had cared to take it leave of them. Brushing themselves down respectfully, they straightened their shades and turned to one-another.

    Agent Brown was the first to speak up. "That was most definitely…educational," he said, brushing some orange peel out of his otherwise sleek brown hair. He couldn't exactly remember why, but the night before he had had the most insane reasons for destroying every single fruit of the aforesaid variety within the vicinity of the apartment. Looking back at it now, he realised such actions were ludicrous, and were below that of Agent standards.

    "Indeed," his partner, Agent Jones conceded. "One certain aspect of taking these drugs still fascinates me, though… those hallucinations. Did no one else see a particularly humorous-looking pink elephant?"

    "Negative," Agent Smith answered curtly. After all, he had been to preoccupied in his discussion with Mr. Spoon, a being whose knowledge surely surpassed that of any other such implement, and who knew the answers to Life, the Universe and Everything. "But tell me," he added as an after-thought. "Do either of you see the significance in the number forty-two?"

   "It is the only whole number to be higher than forty-one, whilst at the same time lower than the number forty-three," Agent Jones offered, to show that his straight thinking was slowly returning.

    "Besides the obvious," Smith replied.

    At this, both Agents shook their heads.

    "Hmm," for a brief moment, Smith connected himself to the matrix, searching it's databanks for any signs of the elusive number. After a while of fruitless discoveries, he pulled out. "No," he sighed, "me neither."

   "But come!" Agent Brown tutted impatiently. "Let's not dwell on the unpredictable nature of these…drugs. We have learned a great deal, have we not?" He looked from Jones to Smith, hoping for an answer. When none presented itself, he continued. "I for one, have learnt of many military strategies partaken by oranges."

   "Gentlemen!" Smith snapped, straightening his tie. "Let us not forget that what we experienced last night were none other than hallucinations. Illusions we believed to be real, when truly they were fake all along." He remembered the spoon saying the same about the world in which they presently presided in, but he wished never to divulge that information. "Are you both fully recovered from last night's… fiasco?" He asked suddenly, changing the subject.

    "I am relatively sane and calm, if that is what you mean, Agent Smith," Jones replied crisply. "Why do you ask?"

    "I ask, gentlemen, because we are about to set out upon another of my studies." Smith replied, simply.

    Agent Brown turned sharply to face Smith. "What do you mean 'another?' Have we not already done enough insight into the pitiful ways in which the human race turn to for pleasure?" He didn't actually want to stop, he thought afterwards, slightly uneasy. He was just worried if they would ever over-step the border – put a toe out of line, so to speak. He most definitely did not want to become an exile, or face deletion.

    Agent Smith laughed dryly at his partner. "Enough?" He asked, leering at the other two Agents. "When is anything  ever enough these days? The cat-exercise was a waste of valuable time, so we shall over-look that from hence forth. This experiment has proved useful," he added, turning determinedly to the door. "And I have an idea where we can do similar research…"


    Smith turned his head slightly, smirking at the Agent who had uttered the question. "Why, if I told you that, Agent Brown," he said slyly, "you wouldn't drive us there, now would you…? No, instead, do come, and you will know when we get there."

   As the other two followed Agent Smith out the door, Jones gave Brown a concerned side-wards glance. Was Smith becoming too attached – too addicted to human life?


The sign read:

The King's Head.

    In tall, neon letters above a small, plaza-like building with a 'Beer Garden,' beside it.

    "It is a public drinking house." Agent Jones stated flatly.

   Agent Smith clapped slowly, basking in the stench of alcohol. "Well put, Jones! Yes, it is a Pub, a place where humans come to get drunk – or 'p***ed as a newt', as some would say – and have a good time." He gestured towards the door. "Let enter…"

    "It is locked," Brown announced after trying the door-handle once or twice. "Because it is before Opening Hours…we shall have to retire and come back at a later date-"

    "That will not be necessary," Smith answered grimly. Balling his hand up into a fist, Smith pulled back and punched a hole through the pane of glass. Reaching his arm through,  he un-did the few bolts and broke the rest of the locks. Withdrawing his arm, he gestured to the door once again. "Agent Brown, if you'd be so kind…"

    Agent Brown tried the handle. This time,  the door swung open effortlessly.

    Upon entering, the three Agents went to the back of the Pub, and sat around I table, out of the way of the public eye. Each Agent taking a beer menu, they scanned the beverages on offer.

    "Hmm," Agent Smith hummed softly. "I think I will try a pint of StrongBow. Jones?"

    "The Foster's appeals to me," Jones answered quickly. "Though I can't figure out how this Red Bull can give humans wings…Is it some kind of mutation enhancer?"

    "It is a slogan, Agent Jones." Smith snapped impatiently. "And Agent Brown…?"

    "Pardon…? Oh, I'll just have a packet of peanuts and an orange juice, if you don't mind."

    The other two Agents glared at him. "As a matter of fact," Agent Smith retorted, "I do mind…Agent Brown, need I remind you we are not here to enjoy ourselves, but to study different aspects of human-life…Now, what do you want to drink?" His voice had taken on a warning tone, telling the Agent not to continue with his folly.

   Submitting under the name of science, Brown sighed. "I guess I have no choice but to try a Stella Artrois-"

    "No," Agent Smith agreed, "you don't have a choice…now, go and get the drinks."


    "You were the only one to not wanting to take part in this experimentation originally, therefore it's 'your round,' as the saying goes…" Smith murmured, shooing the protesting Agent towards the counter.


It was an hour and a half later, and the King's Arms held three very drunk Agents indeed. Not only was their table piled high with empty bottles and glasses, but so were dome of the tables nearby.

    Agent Smith and Agent Jones were slouched against each-other, arms over shoulders. They were in the mood to laugh at anything and everything. "'Ere we go – 'ere we go – 'ere we goooo!" They sang heartily, not actually knowing, or in fact caring where they were going, as long as it involved 'more booze'.

    "'Ere – 'ere…" Agent Jones sniffed, pushing himself off of Smith weakly. "What's 'appened to ole' Browny-boy, ey?"

    There was a thump, a crash and tinkle of breaking glass, and a half-miserable, half-drunken raged bellow of: "Argh, bloody *ick!* hell!" From behind the bar.

    "He-he, that just d-did!" Smith replied, laughing merrily in the direction of the fallen Agent. "He-he! Say, don't tell anyone, will ya? But Brown's been getting all the rounds! He-he-he! Wah-hey!"

    "I  *hic* 'ing heard that!" A slurred voice grumbled menacingly from below. "I thought sssomething *hoc* fissshy was going on! Well, next time, you can buy 'em, you hear?!"

    "My-my!" Jones giggled furiously. "It would seem tha' one o' the – hahaha! – side-effects of too much booze is random anger! Imagine tha'!"

    "I j-just did, hah-hah!" Smith bellowed hysterically. "C-come on, I think we've l-learned enuff, don't you? Heh-heh…now, who's goin' to d-drive us back to the h'arparment?"

    Jones seemed to sober slightly from the shock of that prospect. "I-I never thought 'bout tha'…I know! Ey, Browny-boy…?"

    "Ssstop *hic* bloody callin' that!" Came the angered slur.

    "Sorry, ole' mate," Agent Jones apologised. "But could you give us lot a lift 'ome?"

    "O'course I *ick* 'ing well can! Wass goin' ta anyway *HIC* opps, 'scuse me…!"

    There was a retching sound, followed closely by a long lasting noise of something best left un-described splattering onto the concrete floor of the Pub, followed in turn by a roar of : "Aw…I feel bloody awful after that – I need a drink!" From Agent 'Bloody' Brown.

    "No, don't!" Smith demanded, knocking over glasses as he rose to stop the new-found beer monster that had been discovered residing inside Agent Brown's programming. "No," he added, slowly concentrating so as to be able to string a sentence together. "Just drive us home."

    "What about the *hic* drink drivin' crap?" Brown asked uneasily.

    "B***ocks to that, I say!" Agent Jones roared, tottering out from underneath the fallen pile of bottles and glasses. "If we can dodge bullets, then I say cars should be sh*t easy! They're bigger and easier to see, aren't they? Besides, you not half as drunk as Smithy-baby and me! We'll get home alright, no worries…"


As the two shock-sobered Agents pulled the semi-conscious Brown from the slowly blazing wreckage that was once their car, they made off into the woodlands, so as to avoid capture by the police already turning up. As they ran, one of Brown's arms slung over each of their shoulders, Agent Smith distinctively heard Agent Brown grumble away…

    "That was my favourite car, that was, that was my baby… 'We can dodge bullets!' nah-nah-nee-nah-nah! 'We'll get home alright, no worries…!' Oh, yeah? No worries my arsssssss……"