As Bjorn's body lay in the back of the van, the taller mailman looked at the slip that Bjorn had signed and shook his head at how sloppy the penmanship was. "Good thing no one checks these," he thought to himself and he slipped it into his pocket.

"So what happened to Frankie," asked the shorter mailman.

"Oh I don't know, he's such a booze bag ... he probably doesn't remember even fucking doing it."

They both got into the front of the postal truck and drove off. The shorter man was slightly disappointed that he never got to use the garrote wire that he had smartly woven into his handlebar mustache. It takes forever to get an authentic garrote/mustache look and for some reason it only comes in handlebar mode. It was designed in the 1800s before hipsters ruined the handlebar look. He could have gotten a custom made up-to-date moustache, but then he'd have to pay out of pocket instead of using his Postal Credit Card. That wasn't happening.

The homeless man saw the entire scene and was so shocked that he decided to turn his life around. He went back to opera school and became an incredibly famous opera singer. That's a story for another day though.

Bjorn drifted in and out of consciousness as he rolled around on the cold metal floor in the rear of the postal truck. A normal person would have been out cold for at least a few hours after getting the injection. However, because of his training, Bjorn's body was able to process the drug a lot faster.

After an hour or so the truck backed up to a loading dock. Bjorn could hear the two guys opening the back door. They both grabbed Bjorn's body and pulled him out, dragging his bare feet across a cement floor. Eventually they entered through a set of swinging industrial doors and into a large busy room in the Central Mail Processing Plant in Boston. Many of the workers here are completely clueless to the real motive behind this complex. It doesn't just serve as a place where mail is processed and sorted; it also doubles as a secret base for The Service.

"Oh hey guys," said the female security guard as she sat behind her desk watching as the two mailmen walked by holding up an unconscious Bjorn.

"Hey Beth, how'd the Celtics do?" asked the taller guy.

"They sucked tonight," she said, "who is your buddy?"

The taller man laughed and hit Bjorn on the chest, "It's Charlie, he has third shift tonight. We had to go pick him up at Lucky's."

Beth seemed to accept that explanation well enough. It seemed reasonable, though it didn't explain why he had a cloth sack over his head.

After riding the elevator down to the basement, the men got out and carried Bjorn's body into the 'men's room'. One of them flushed the third toilet three times in quick succession and then pulled Bjorn into a broom closet. The tall mailman flicked the light switch three times, causing the broom closet wall to open up revealing an elevator on the other side.

"This guy weights a ton," said the shorter guy.

"No he doesn't. He's a shrimp! You're a fag."

"Yes I'm gay, I'm a big homo and I love gay sex."

"Ha ha, I knew it! Finally," said the taller guy.

They rode the elevator down and stepped off into another fairly boring looking room. Large, drab, concrete, the sub-basement.

"Go grab that pumpkin" said the taller guy gesturing to the hamper. While unlike a pumpkin in that its 'large, plastic and has wheels' it is also quite like a pumpkin in that its 'orange'. Hence where it got it's named. The two guys picked up Bjorn and tossed him into the hamper with a dull thud.

"My back is killing me," said the shorter guy, "I shouldn't have worked today."

"It's your day off?"

"Ya, I couldn't turn down 'time and a half'. But I really hurt myself last week and I can't even bend over."

"Well there goes your weekend," laughed the taller guy.

"Always with the gay jokes," the short mailman said, laughing it off. "Okay Pete, I'm outta here. You can take it from here right?" Pete nodded. "Anyway, I'm going to Lucky's for a drink later if you're around," said short man.

Pete said goodbye and proceeded to push Bjorn down the hall. He stopped at a large non-descript steel door and hit the intercom.

"Hey, Pete here. I got that guy."

"Hi Pete, be there in a moment," squawked the intercom "going to Lucky's after this?"

"Oh ya, maybe. I'll see you there."

Pete left the hamper filled with Bjorn's semi-conscious body and walked back to the elevator. The large steel doors opened up and two well armed guards pulled Bjorn out of the hamper. They kicked it back down the hallway, instead of placing it in its proper location clearly disregarding all OSHA regulations. That was the kind of badasses these guys were. They then took Bjorn to a room, placed him in a wooden chair and took the cloth bag off of his head. One of the guards grabbed a bucket of cold water and threw it into Bjorn's face, waking him up.

"Hey man! What the hell?" said Bjorn in a fairly shocked manner.

"Mr. Trilogeé? Correct? I hope we got the right guy this time," said one of the guards. "See that door? In about one minute a four star Post Master General named Muhdeer is going to walk through and talk to you. I'd listen to what he has to say."

Bjorn, while slightly confused, got the gist of the situation and nodded his head accordingly. The two guards walked out. "Oh, and don't mention his eye patch," said the guard as he closed the door behind him. "Some fucking weird ass bug laid an egg in his eye. Happened when he was in the Amazon and now he has some larvae swimming around in it. It's pretty nasty. If you say something about it, he'll show it to you ... you don't want to see it," and with that the door slammed shut.

Bjorn tried wiping his face, but his hands where still cuffed and he found it rather difficult, so he decided to just let it drip dry. Looking around the room, Bjorn noticed that it was decorated with all the flourish and baroque grandeur of a grey police interrogation room. The door to his left slowly opened and in walked a very large barrel-chested man with a blue eye patch. Upon the eye patch was a USPS eagle logo. He was also wearing Jodhpur pants and a blue button up shirt ... that also had a USPS logo. The hulking man removed his pith helmet and placed it on the desk. His hair was so perfect you could place it at the International Bureau of Weight and Measures and use it to ensure the international uniformity of buzz cuts. Walking over to his desk, he took out a bottle of bourbon and placed two shot glasses next to each other and poured. When he spoke his voice was loud and booming like a jet engine but with a pronounced southern twang.

"Aye say, Aye say boy would you care for some libation, that's a drink," he said as he handed Bjorn a shot glass of bourbon.

Bjorn shook his head no. General Muhdeer smiled to himself and drank down both shot glasses, screwed the cap back on and slipped it into his desk. He knew that if Bjorn was still in his kill-mode then he would have gladly taken the drink. When one is in their 'mission fugue state', their senses are so maxed out that they will typically imbibe in drink just to feel normal. Even the most ardent teetotaler will take a drink to bring themselves down a notch. The same reason that a lifelong vegan like Bjorn will eat meat, his body craves protein when his programming kicks in.

"Alright son, you can call me Frank Lee," said the General leaning towards Bjorn.

"Look, I think it's time for me to start looking for another job," said Bjorn. "I can just probably pay off my student loans myself."

"A little late for that, boy" laughed the General. "Here's the deal. One of the top agents from England, well he went a little non compos mentis. I say he's loco son! He has killed some important people and is also out to destroy other series five agents."

"What's a series five agent?"

"You're a series five agent."

"Fuck" said Bjorn, who was quickly rethinking his career choice. Maybe it wasn't too late for law school, or becoming Matt Damon's stunt double.

The General walked around the room and scratched the area around his eye patch. Bjorn tried not to stare. The General said to Bjorn with his back turned, "Aye say, Aye say, you're all kinds of fucked right now. As fucked as fucked can be."

"So, what exactly does a series five mean?" asked Bjorn, a tad bit nervous of the answer.

"Well here is the thing, when you started working for us, instead of actually giving you any real training, we just stuck you into a vat of bio goo for a few days."

"Ya I vaguely recall that," said Bjorn.

"We basically put a copy of another agents mind into your brain. So now you know everything that he knows. When we need you to do a mission we just trigger those memories, turning you into an unstoppable murdering machine."

The vat of goo was a large sensory deprivation tank filled with liquefied Bio-Mimetic Matmos. The copy of the original donor is downloaded and then placed into the goo, which over the course of a few days is absorbed through the skin and muscles of the recipient.

"So I have another person's memories in my head? Let me guess, this agent is the same one who is killing everybody?"

"Bingo, son" said the General. "Named Abe Adguy, he's a fucking nonstop hurricane of pure fucking killing. He was the best agent of B.U.N's, that's the British Underground Networks son. You never heard of them? Sounds pretty queer if you ask me, but the acronym is from a few 100 years ago, before buns meant ass. Still pretty gay if you ask me."

"So that bazooka guy wasn't you guys?"

"Looky here son, we simply don't go around shooting rockets into someone's house," said the General, "It's simply not good for business you see."

"So I'm guessing it's too late to tender my resignation?"

"Abe knows the names of all the series five agents, you won't make it a day if you leave."

"And they say that there are no more lifetime jobs in America," remarked Bjorn.

The General gave a slight smile that was almost imperceptible. He went and sat down behind the desk, opened the draw and took out a folder. General Frank Lee handed the folder to Bjorn.

"Look none of us are happy about this. Abe has something planned and he will do whatever it takes to prevent us from interfering. He's already killed the richest man on Earth and we have some good information telling us that he is on his way to kill the senior Senator from Minnesota."

Bjorn took the folder and tried flipping through it with his cuffed hands. It had a few black and white photos of who he assumed was Abe. He didn't' seem all that dangerous. Looked like a typical well manicured metrosexual. But, the fact that the Service used his brain patterns to create some of their agents says a lot. The information in the folder wasn't all that clear but from what Bjorn could quickly gather it seemed to suggest that Abe was a very dangerous psychopath.

"This doesn't look like I have much choice," said Bjorn. "You want me to go protect that Senator and kill Abe?"

"That is the long and short of it son. My secretary will see you out and get you ready for your trip to D.C."

"I kind of have a real issue with killing people. I'm really not that stone cold killer that you programmed."

"Son, this comes from all the way up top, the Toppity Top."

"The President?"

"Higher."

"The Pope."

"Not that high."

"The Pope of Werewolves?" asked Bjorn.

"Werewolves don't have a Pope, son, their society is mainly based around anarcho-syndicalism without any real leader," retorted Muhdeer.

"Wait, werewolves are real?"

"Okay okay, you're not gonna get this. It's the Invisible President. She wants this mission done. Save the Senator or not but you gotta kill Abe. After that you can get out. Debt paid off in full."

Bjorn furrowed his brow. "Wait. The Invisible President is a female?"

"Yes siree, the Invisible President is always a female. It was created by Edith Wilson in the 1920s when her husband Woodrow couldn't do much of anything. The purpose was to always have a female unelected president established with the goal of protecting American Culture. Edith Wilson was the first president followed by Gracie Allen who reigned for a decade or so. After that, I don't even have the clearance to know who served. But I do know that she is in charge and she has put this at a top priority ... pizzeria number-o uno, number one!"

"I just have a bit of a problem with killing. It was easier when I had no control over my actions," Bjorn remarked with a sense of unease.

General Muhdeer was getting angry, he was used to people listening to his orders or at the very least being mind-controlled drones. "I have a lot of problems too. I had a problem with being sent to the Maplewhiteland in the fucking Amazon. I had a fucking problem with being tied to a chair and getting my balls shocked by a group of furry anarchist. I had a real problem with one of the local moths when it decided to lay its egg in my fucking eye!"

And with that he leaned over and flipped his eye patch to reveal a twitching moth larvae swimming around in the milky remains of his right eye. Bjorn almost puked. "Okay I'll do it! Just put that damn eye patch back on."

"I say, I'm mighty glad to hear that, son. This here mission is pretty straight forward, all you got to do is kill Abe Adguy before he kills you. That's what we call in the business, a good motivating factor. For this job, we are working for the Invisible President, so she will be pleased as punch once you off that limey queer. You got all that, son? I can slow it down for you if ya didn't get it all. Now, I say, here is the bad news. Your brain is still on activation mode because you never bought 'The Catcher in The Rye'. We don't know who activated it this time, but it can only last so long. Activating your brain for a mission releases the copy of Abe's mind that resides in your head. Usually its kept locked away deep in that there subconscious bits. Right now it's free and floating around up there. Let it run around in your brain long enough and it eventually will be permanently absorbed into your own mind and be lost forever. This will severely degrade your abilities. Ever hear how some lady will get fat sucked out of her stomach than injected into her ass? So she'll have a big ol' butt?? Eventually the fat just reabsorbed into her body!"

"I guess, I always that was a bit weird," responded Bjorn nervously.

"You calling my wife weird, you bastard?"

The door opened and the General's secretary strolled in. He was a thin older gentleman with pepper hair and the will to serve. He greeted Bjorn and asked him to follow along. The flight plans had already been finalized. They left the room, walked down the grey hallway and through several security check points.

"Mr.Trilogeé, how much do you weigh?" asked the secretary.

"About 165," answered Bjorn, still a little shocked by having seen that gross eyeball.

The secretary had a very large PDA in his hand and was furiously typing away. It was hardly top of the line technology but Bjorn didn't want to bring that up. It looked about fifteen years out of date. As they walked through another security check point Bjorn saw a large glass tube with, what appeared to be, a large pulsating chewed up piece of bubble gum in it. The tube had a sign attached to it. It read 'Please ship back to Smithsonian'.

"What's that thing?" asked Bjorn interrupting the secretary's line of questioning.

"Oh it's a psychic phone. We built it by cloning a telepathic sensitive's pineal gland and growing it in a vat of Herakleophorbia IIV. It allows you to make a phone call back in time. We built two of them, the other one we have out on loan. Frankly it's useless as you can't change history because outcomes are predetermined no matter what. Plus you can only call people who have had their minds trained. We sometimes use it to activate our drone agents."

Bjorn poked his head closer to the floating meat blob.

"You see," continued the Secretary, "the pineal gland is the most primitive part of the human brain. According to our top scientists this gland was the driving force behind human telepathy before language even existed. They say that everyone used to be psychic but as we started using language more and more the gland just fell into disuse, except for a select few, at least that's what the scientist figure ... tt sounds like a bunch of new age clap trap to me."

"That is amazing."

"It really is. But sadly, we will soon be shipping it back to our main base. It has recently come to our attention that someone here has been using it for their fantasy football team," the Secretary said that last bit loud enough for the security guard to clearly hear it.

"Cool, can I use it?" asked Bjorn.

"Ya go ahead, we are tossing it anyway."

Bjorn went over and picked up the phone attachment but couldn't figure out how to actually dial.

"It has a cord?" asked Bjorn.

"Oh you're psychic phone is cordless? Didn't realize you were so up to date," said the Secretary sarcastically. "Just concentrate on 'who and when' you want to place the call and the person in the past will get it."

Bjorn closed his eyes and started to concentrate as hard as he could, the liquid in the vat started to bubble. He could feel his mind going backwards through time and he could clearly make out a figure. It was himself a few hours ago. His past self started to form more clearly, and Bjorn noticed himself sitting in the lotus position ... in his former apartment ... in his Walking Blueberries shirt and boxer shorts. Accessing the recesses of his brain, he started to 'talk' to himself, saying "Hello ... yea it's me, you from the future ... Just hurry up and get out of the apartment ... no you don't have time to change just jump out the window!"

It was a short conversation but Bjorn was exhausted. Making a psychic phone call takes a lot out of you.

"Here want a donut," asked the secretary handing Bjorn a box. Bjorn gladly took one and stuffed it down his throat. He was starving.

"Okay one last question, ever do Peyote?"

"Huh? No," said a slightly dazed Bjorn.

"Probably didn't need to eat that entire donut then. Oh well time for your trip," said the Secretary with a slight smile across his pointy face.

Bjorn fell backwards and passed out, drugged again. Twice in one day is a record even for him.

The secretary motioned for the security guards to come over and lift Bjorn off of the floor. They hauled him over to a large cardboard box filled with packing peanuts and tossed him in. They then taped the box shut. The secretary tapped on his PDA and printed out the correct postage for a man weighting 165 lbs. He then slapped the address onto the box: Destination Washington DC, next day priority shipping. A man with a two-wheeler came in and picked up the large parcel, rolled it out onto the loading dock and dumped it into the outgoing mail truck.