Thwack!

William Andrew Philip Bodie, CI5 agent and last year's winner of the James Bond Tail 'Em and Nail 'Em Award, looked wary (he'd given up innocent as a lost cause) as he walked down the halls of ill repute.

Thwack!

The Dapper Dud slowed his dashing pace.

Thwack!

"Yes!"

The sounds seemed to be coming from his sunshine's room.

"Hey, sailor, how about a little fin?"

Thwack!

As the intrepid Bodie treped nearer, he realized that the sounds weren't coming from the undercover, and generally overexposed, Ray Doyle's room, but the one next to it.

He paused to ponder if he should peek a peep prior to--

"All right, I think that's enough alliteration," Bodie said, glaring.

Sorry.

He looked through the keyhole.

Thwack!

Lying on the bed was a middle-aged man wearing nothing but a tutu and a Cross-Your-Heart bra. His hands were tied to the headboard with licorice whips. The man standing over him was slapping him in the face with flounders.

Thwack!

Bodie turned away from the door, muttering, "Mmmm, must be from Glasgow," and then opened the door to his sunshine's room.

"Don't you ever knock, sunshine?"

Standing in the middle of the red satin-draped room was Raymond Jeremy Doyle trying to get out of his bustier. The CI5 agent, sharp-shooter, teddy bear owner and all around sexy bugger had been undercover here in this cathouse known as "Plain Moving" for about a week now. The two handsome and macho secret agents were trying to break up a ring of cold-hearted bastards who had set their sights on destroying all the great musicals about Scotland.

"Nice legs, golli," Bodie answered cockily, entering the room.

"What exactly is a golli, anyway, sunshine?" Doyle said stoically.

"A golliwog," Bodie stoically said.

Doyle looked confused. Since this was his normal expression, it took Bodie a while to realize his sunshine didn't understand.

"It means you're adorable," he lied smoothly. He doubted that Doyle would physically harm him if he found out the truth, the odds being equal to Murphy becoming a handyman for a woman running a boarding house in Northern England, but Bodie decided to play it safe.

They suddenly fell into a passionate clutch. Having just admitted to each other in the last story their sudden and highly improbable feelings to each other, they hadn't had much time to purge their raging hormones. They now took the opportunity presented and started humping together against the wall.

"Kin you two do tha' later?"

The two horny (yet still butch) secret agents broke away from each other at the sound of a very familiar Scottish burr.

"Sir!" Bodie came to immediate attention. Considering his recent encounter with his sunshine, in more ways than one.

Cowley glanced at his agent's straining (bulging, pulsing, growing, larger than average, "Martha, c'mere and take a lookit this!") crotch with more interest than Bodie really felt comfortable with. "No need to salute, boys. Report, Doyle!"

Doyle proudly handed over his card.

"All A's, very good," he said with farm animalish approval. "Now, on with business. Didya git tha' bunch a' Brigadoon burners?"

Doyle slouched against the wall, ogling his partner's buns, and said eloquently, "Nope."

"Ach, man!" Cowley said, bringing up some of that phlegm that had been bothering him for years. "Oh, well, it's probably doing you a world of good being here, Doyle. Why, I remember my own time spent working in that cathouse in Spain...." Coming back to himself, the Scot quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, back to the case."

Bodie stepped forward. "Actually, sir, I'd like to hear about that cathouse...."

"That's enough, Bodie."

"Yes, sir."

Suddenly, the door banged open with a loud explosion and a figure flew through the air. "Message, sir," the blur said, handing a piece of paper to the Cow before crashing through the window on the other side of the room.

"Ah, good man, Matheson," Cowley said.

The next instant, a second blur flew over their heads after Matheson.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to shut the door, King?" Cowley shouted after him. He quickly read the paper in his hand, which for some reason looked slightly scorched. "On your bikes, lads," he burred.

Doyle whisked out and promptly returned with the Big Wheel he'd been tinkering with.

"Nice job," Cowley burred again. He'd had that problem ever since going to that Tumbleweed Festival.

Doyle slouched proudly.

"Now, we've got a new lead on these dastardly villains. Bodie, you've been there before, so--"

"No, sir, not--!"

"Bodie, I'd never send you back to the Holiday Inn," Cowley said soothingly. "At least, not that one." The incredibly handsome agent still bore the scars from his time spent in deepest Michigan.

"Whew, sir," Bodie replied militarily.

"No, I thought you might like to get back to nature."

Horror began to dawn on Bodie's face. This was unusual because it didn't usually show up until late evening.

"Oh, no, sir."

"Yes, Bodie."

"No, no, no, no."

"Yes, yes, yes, yes."

"What, what, what, what?" Doyle asked, having previously been forgotten by the author.

"Your next assignment," Cowley said, pausing for effect, "is at a horse farm."

"No!!" Bodie screamed, running swiftly (yet stoically) from the room.

"Sunshine, as long as you have to ride one and don't have to be one, I don't see the problem," Doyle said, smirking at his partner's lack of composure, showing off his bad dental work and following him out of the room.

Cowley beamed proudly after them. As long as his lads were on the job, freedom in the western world and Scottish musicals were safe.

-- THE END --

Originally published in Chalk and Cheese 10, Whatever You Do, Don't Press! (Agent with Style), May 1992