MaxwellDB It's me. I am the product.

Roderick Stockingforth, Worst Federal Agent Ever

Jenny Blandford sinks into her office chair, pulls herself up to her desk, and logs into her email account. Lunch Theft Issues from Gary in HR. Delete—she goes out for lunch, anyway. Lose 10 Pounds in 10 Minutes! from shrinkyobutt.net. She’s already on the 20 pounds in 20 days plan. Delete. Fwd: Cute Kitten Meows –Best Video Everr!! from her sister. Well, that’s got to be good. She opens it and watches the video. She smiles—the kitten is cute, and it’s even meowing. Superlative: the video delivers and its title is accurate. “Haha so cute! Thanks!” she replies to her sister. She rolls back and forth in her chair a little. This will be an alright third day on the job, she thinks.

Outside of Jenny’s black, boxy office building sits a black, boxy sedan. Its windows are heavily tinted. In its driver’s seat sits a man in a dark suit with a square jaw and a full moustache. In the passenger seat rests a leather-bound copy of 26 U.S.C, also known as the Internal Revenue Code of these United States of America. The driver pulls a cell phone from his pocket and places a call.

Jenny plucks the ringing phone from its cradle. “Bixby, Baxter and Frutt Legal Services, this is Jenny, how can I help you?” she squeaks.

“Why, yes, I have a legal issue,” says a muffled male voice.

“Well, that’s just what we’re here for! Can you tell me just a little more so that I can transfer you to the department that might best serve your needs?” Jenny knows that she’s something of a human switchboard, but she’s okay with that. She’s efficient.

“Surely, Jenny. Let me be brief: does your firm deal with tax issues? Felony tax issues?” He has a hint of mania in his voice; the man honestly scares her a bit, but she continues. She’s a professional, after all.

“Of course we do! Our tax law department is currently away on a trust-building retreat, but if you’ll just leave me your contact information, I can have someone get back to you on…” she pauses, checking the office calendar “Tuesday morning!”

“That’s good. My name is Rod Stockingforth. My phone number is 617-316-2850, and could you wait one moment?” After precisely one moment of silence, she starts to hear heavy breathing on the phone. What sounds like an elevator dings in the background.

“Mr. Stockingforth? Hello?” She drums her fingers on her desktop.

The breathing stops. “Oh, yes, where was I? You have my name, my number, and LOOK AT YOUR ELEVATOR NOW, JENNY!”

Jenny snaps her attention to the elevator door at the front of the office. Even before the doors finish opening, a man in a charcoal pin-stripe suit leaps out, tucks himself into a somersault, and then springs to his feet. He bellows wordlessly as he does so. Heads from all over the law firm pop out; they are legion but in incredulity they are one.

“Freeze, everyone! Hands up, now! Internal Revenue Service!” he shouts, drawing his handgun from a brown leather shoulder holster. He tries to aim at the entire office in front of him at once, his motion comparable to a precision-engineered half-circle lawn sprinkler that is also a little crazy.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” yells a doughy man in a green sweater. Jenny winces as the agent snaps his focus to her coworker’s vulnerable soft parts.

“You’re all under arrest!” shrieks Stockingforth. The man tilts his head and starts to speak as the agent springs at him, repeating “Stop resisting!” with a religious fervor. The assault is brief and vicious; in seconds the now hand-cuffed doughy man has been kneaded in the groin perhaps a dozen times.

Jenny, noticing that Stockingforth is distracted-- kneeling beside his new prisoner and whispering “Resist, do it, do it now, fatty,” to him over and over again, more specifically-- grabs her phone and sinks behind her desk. She dials 911.

“911. What is your emergency?” answers a calming voice.

“God, thank you,” whispers Jenny, “I’m at the Nelson Building on Temple Street. Fifth floor. There’s a lunatic in here, he’s got a gun. Help!”

“Is anyone hur—.” The phone is snatched from her hand. Stockingforth finishes the call.

“Everything is under control, here. I’m a federal agent. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” He sets the phone to speaker mode. “I’m Roderick Stockingforth, Special Agent of the Internal Revenue Service!” The office collectively gasps, and breaks into polite applause. The doughy man, tears flowing from his eyes, uses his last breath to utter, “We thank you, sir, for your vigor,” before he passes out from pain and internal hemorrhaging.

Sousa’s “Liberty Bell” march begins to play from Jenny’s speakerphone. Her coworkers file out from their offices and cubicles, hands on their heads. They kneel with their backs to the agent. Jenny follows suit. Gary from HR is to her right. He nudges her, a nervous smile on his face, and says, “Third day, right? Don't worry-- he's really pretty neat!"

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This work, unless otherwise expressly stated, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.