Murphy's Law

[Captain Courier, Part II]

[Editor's Note: Last week, we (well, okay, I) left our hero speeding down I-95 being chased by knife wielding (oops, wrong column) enemy agents while delivering a TOP SECRET message to Spies Backward-R Spies, down in South Miami.]

But first things first. I hit the button marked “Stealth Activation.”

Beep. Beep. The computer (a neat 35MHz 386 with 16MB of RAM, 1MB of ROM and MS-DOS compatible) displayed the message:


That was trouble. The computer was (and that was the operative word there—was) controlling the CourierCar. I grabbed the wheel and slammed on the brakes. The Enemy car (which was following too close behind me and should really have been (at the speeds we both were going) about ten car lengths behind me (well, at least the “Two Second Rule”)) swerved to the left, causing several other cars to ram into the concrete barrier and sped off in front of me.

I sped off after him. Now, the hunter becomes the hunted. The chaser becomes the chasee. The tailer becomes the tailee. And all that. Anyway, I reached over and hit the button marked “M-600.” Out of the hood of the CourierCar snapped the M-600, an impressive piece. Capable of outshooting Rambo (and even has a larger vocabulary to boot!) against all forms of American enemies, be they foreign or domestic.

Now, since the computer was down, I did not have the Automatic Targeting Sequencer. But at this range, it really didn't matter.

“Eat Teflon coated hollow point 60mm high ballistic ammo, Mr. Enemy Agent,” I said, pulling the trigger on the steering wheel.


Not only does it cremate Enemy agents in a barrage of 600 rounds of teflon coated hollow point 60mm high ballistic ammo per second, it's also great for clearing out traffic jams and people who park illegally in Handicapped Parking Spots. Unfortunately, it requires so many teflon coated hollow point [yea yea, we get the idea—Editor], that I can only carry a one second supply of the stuff at any one time.

“My mixed breed pedigree is always having puppies,” I said to Al over the payphone. Translation: I managed to destroy two Enemy agents, but in doing so, got myself hopelessly lost in Little Havanna.

“So, you're in Little Havanna?” said Al. Translation: So, you're in Little Havanna?

“Call me Ishmael.” Translation: Yes, I'm at the corner of SE 1453 St and NW 8873 Ave.

“It's behind you, schmuck.” Translation: It's behind you, Captain Courier.

I strode up to the receptionist desk.

“I have a TOP SECRET message for you,” I said, capitalizing TOP SECRET in my words and giving the receptionist the sealed envelope.

“Thank you. Did you have any trouble in getting here?” said the receptionist.

“Nothing I, as Captain Courier, couldn't handle.” I said, walking out the door.

“Al,” I said into the payphone, “The cow is a vampire.” Translation: Job finished and am waiting for orders.

“Good. Now go to Pyromanic Timers Inc. to pick up a package …”


The job, as jobs go, was horrible, having to drive back and forth along I-95, which during that time was being widened in Broward County so it was always a harrowing experience. Then too, were the packages I had to deliver to non-existent addresses (mostly they ended up being trailers on construction lots where that address would eventually be valid given a few years.

Thankfully, I never did end up in Little Havana or Little Haiti.