 Agent Adrian Andrews struggled against his bonds. The bonds were metal, of course, and also powered by a sturdy system of fuck-off hydraulics. But what sort of agent would he be if he didn't put up a fight? Below agent Andrews swam a vat of genetically engineered Muzak sharks, silent death cloaked by a grocery store ambiance. With a push of a button, Cowboy George could drop him to a messy, commercially bland death. But no, that wasn't his way. Wasn't any of his foes' ways. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. Get into his mind and hope he doesn't find the crack in the carapace. And surprise, surprise, he always does. That was assuming luck held up. Cowboy George was an odd fellow. Blue, jaunty, a chinchilla in a trench coat and cowboy hat. Not coated as gay or bisexual like the other rogues Andrews had faced in his successful novel and film franchise. But hey, times were changing. Prone to smile or sneer or whatever word fit the shape of his chinchilla mouth. They aren't all perfect. In fact, no, snap out of it. Andrews exhaled and held his breath, pushing back the padding gas for a few precious seconds. He had to think this had to work. Well, Mr. Andrews, you're tougher than you look. Cowboy George took a step forward, illuminated by the dim but cinematic lighting of his cowboy lair. You survived my Hanchman, my sexy and inconveniently none too loyal assassins and even my obligatory donation to the Minnesota Freedom Fund and other such charities. You're pathetic, spat Andrews. That donation was really easy to make because it was for a good cause. And I was financially capable of doing so as a special agent of the SCP Foundation with a modest salary. Of course, of course, that's what they all say. And they're right, you know. Cowboy George chuckled a high-pitched titter that undermined Andrews' previous observation regarding gay coding. But, ah, though you could donate to a good cause, you couldn't donate the sum of your strength to get past my most devious of traps. Remember? Andrews grit his teeth. They'd warned him of the unspecified off-page framing device trapped back in briefing. But who could have thought he'd be its next victim? Oh, of course you do, silly me. A grin. Cowboy George evidently found this funny. Now, shall we talk? Fuck you. I'll never tell you how to get accepted to the Parawatch Wiki. Cowboy George held his grin for a few seconds before lightly tapping the button on his remote, bringing Andrews down 10 centimeters, 190 above the shark tank. You're an obstinate one, Andrews. Tell me, have you heard of Cowboy Hephaestus? You remind me so much of him. Think, think. Must be a swell guy, Cowboy. Friend of yours? Keep him talking. Oh, no. Not quite. Cowboy George began pacing, and Andrews racked his mind for answers. We were not quite on good terms. Back when I met him, I was quite a different man, rudderless, desperate, not quite so independent. I was working for a man. You may know him as Cowboy Galileo. Awful, but surprisingly rich man. But I'm getting off track. Cowboy Hephaestus was a lot like you. Cocky, self-sure of his protagonist's status. Distant to meet his end at the fins of an aquatic musical menace. Another press of the button, and another seven centimeters down. It's all Cowboys with you folk. Andrews' fingers felt around the cuff. Crack. Crack. Where's the crack? It's a Wild West, Mr. Andrews. Not like home. What's a guy like you's home life? Can't be too good if it puts me where I am. And Cowboy George barely noticed as Andrews felt for the lock pick on his cuff link. I was not always the charm and chinchilla you see before you. I was clumsy, desperate for a best friend. Oh, of course, still as anthropomorphic as always. But the spark wasn't there. And that's when I met him, Saul Sislak. He was only seven years old when we first met, mind you. But there was something there, potential. A spark is something bigger than the sum of its parts. Saul had dreams. But moreover, he had the potential to achieve said dreams. I was packed for simple. He animated my adventures, frame by perfect frame, attentive to every minute detail of my existence. In turn, I bring him fame, fortune, universal acclaim, and I mean universal, dear Mr. Andrews. From the dimmest star at the edge of the universe to the second dimmest one at the other edge, from the dead expanse of the Bellaverse to the bustling cityscapes of third law and death sand and the lamp light beyond the very edge of the universe. I vowed to etch his name on the very fabric of reality. And you know what? It worked. Saul became a world famous animator almost instantly, achieving untold fortune and fame through his talents. The world was his oyster, packed to burst in with the pearls of his labor. When he died, old and rich and happy, that man was a household name wherever the concept of household could manifest. I made sure of it, not even. Cowboy George didn't get a chance to finish his sentence as Andrews broke free from his bonds, lunging forward and catching the railing by the tips of his fingers. From the sound of it, Cowboy George had stumbled back in surprise, moments. Agent Andrews had moments to pull himself up before Cowboy George came back to make him pay if he could just pull up. Two clacks, boots on metal. Cowboy George was standing. You know, Mr. Andrews. Several more clacks. It isn't nice to interrupt. Hard leather fell upon his fingers mid-pull, and Andrew screamed, I never pegged you for the type to feel pain, Mr. Andrews. Another stomp. The foundation spent how much time stamping the humanity out of your kind? Another stomp. Well, goodbye, as they say. One final stomp. Agent Andrews' last words were a scream.