Michael strutted into the sleazy strip bar and wrinkled up his nose. The smell of "Summer's Eve" (Note: After all, Michael had gathered a vast assortment of valuable intel during his many "missions") and "Prince Matchabelli Windsong Cologne" permeated the air. As he strutted past the packed tables, every head turned at the sight of that ass you could bounce a quarter off of and the big lethal weapon in the front of his tight, black, shiny, leather pants.

"Oh, my God," he heard a plump, topless stripper with gallons of silicone in her chest and a rat's nest, fire-engine red hairdo gasp, "Is he packing an AK-47 in his thigh harness?"

The bouncer ran over to Michael, took one look at his crotch and said, "Give up the AK-47, mister. Weapons aren't allowed in here."

Michael patted the huge lump on his thigh with pride. "That's not a gun, asshole, I'm happy to see you."

"Yeah, right," the bouncer said, reaching for that lethal weapon, and "I'm Dolly Parton." As he felt up Michael's thigh he suddenly turned bright crimson. "Oops, sorry, dude, I've never seen one that big before."

"That's nothing,", Michael said gloatingly, "you should see it when I'm watching whipped cream wrestling on the Playboy Channel."

The tall red headed stripper ran over to Michael, stuck out her wobbling chest, and groped Michael's love gun, "Don't touch the leather, you fat cow."

"Sorry," she said, accidentally slapping him hard upside the nostrils with those big udders, "Would you like a free lap dance on the house?" Michael was almost passing out and gasping hard for air, "I'm on a strict diet, 'ho. I never eat pork."

"Oh, damn, I sure would like to shoot off that gigantic stun gun," she said as she walked away dejectedly.

As Michael made his way through the crowd a man wearing short cut-off jeans and a midriff bearing tube top prissed over to him and touched his thigh, "What you packing there, big boy?" Michael looked down at his stun gun and thought dang, that thing looks like a bad case of prostrate cancer at times.

Michael slapped the man's limp wrist and said, "Don't touch the leather, Peter Pan", Michael yelled.

"Sorry, my name's Jimmy Dean. Michael had had enough of these leather fetish nuts. He gave Peter Pan a swift karate chop to the neck and watched the wimpy little elf fall groaning to the floor like he had just had his ass kicked by the expert. Michael glared down at the man sternly, "I don't eat Jimmy Dean sausages, either."

************

He looked around the smoky bar and finally found Nikita in the far corner, self-consciously gyrating for a bunch of dirty old men in Stetson hats. "Damn, this is hard," she said to herself, "this g-string keeps riding up my butt and restricting my movements. These girls sure deserve their tips."

Michael looked at Nikita's breasts and wondered why she didn't get those "double F" cup implants he recommended.

He told her she would be able to pick up more spare change, for escape money, during her missions and that she would gain much needed job experience. That way she would be able to work at an upscale massage parlor, strip club, or escort agency after her next escape instead of that greasy spoon hamburger joint he found her in. He even put the names of a few strip club owners and porno snuff film makers (for job leads) in a safe deposit box in Switzerland, so she could use them the next time Ops wanted to cancel her and she needed to make a quick getaway (somehow he just knew this issue would keep coming up again). He had gathered this valuable job opportunity intel during the course of his many "missions." He knew that with her limited job skills and lack of brains that she would have to rely on her own ass, literally, to survive next time.

"Ah, well," he shrugged and said to himself, "more than a mouthful is a waste."

Nikita was shaking her skinny hiney and doing her feeble best to entertain the group of rowdy Texans. She started to unhook her bra and Michael said, "Oh, no, Nikita, if you want to hold their attention, don't take your top off." Nikita heard him through the mike hidden in her g-string and clumsily hooked the bra back again.

Her mission was to get a videotape from the leader's coat pocket. The contents of the videotape was deemed a top secret, but Michael knew that it contained Maddy's final porno film.

Ops had managed to retrieve the others from his many contacts. The real reason Ops wanted the tape was not for international security reasons, but for his own library. He told Michael that woman was just too damn good to share.

Ops often told Michael how he discovered Maddy "performing" on-screen in the darkened PussyElla Theater. From the moment he first saw her perform her S&M tricks, he knew he could turn her into Mistress Madeline, Torturess Extraodinaire.

Ops had to pose as a porno director and hold an open casting call just to track her down, but she didn't hesitate to show him her endless gratitude. Ops often told Michael that was his finest mission. He had greatly enjoyed taking Maddy through his "audition" process. He still had that old casting couch in his office.

Michael always teared up at that story. He often dreamed of the day when he would get rid of Pops Ops and have the power to "audition" his own Section girls. He knew that after he gave them an up close and personal sniff of his leather that they would never, ever want to escape Section again. Hell, it worked on that dumb blonde Nikita, he thought with smug pride. Damn, that big redwoody of his was Ops most secret weapon, and Ops knew it.

************

Michael couldn't help but laugh as he watched Nikita try to be sexy. He was going to have to ask Maddy to give her some more seduction training.

"Damn, you're prettier than a four-legged heifer in heat," the drunk old coot said as he grabbed Nikita's leg.

Well, there's no accounting for taste, Michael thought. He saw Nikita reach out to punch the man's nose.

"Focus, Nikita, focus. Remember the mission," he hissed into the microphone hidden in his sheer, see-through undershirt that displayed his pecs to full advantage, he thought.

He heard Nikita garble something undecipherable, "Nikita, what happened? Is the situation under control?"

He heard Nikita whisper, "Damn, my microphone fell through my bra again."

"I told you to stuff some Kleenex in there," Michael said impatiently. I'm gonna have to save her stupid butt again, he thought to himself. She thought she knew everything, and she never listened to him. He would never understand the workings of her bleached blonde pea brain. Women, he thought, why can't they just give me some good head and then shut the hell up.

The snuff slobbering Texan grabbed Nikita and pulled her off the table onto his lap. "Perform fer me," he said.

"Hey, mister", I only perform for Michael when I'm on a secret mission." What the f@#k, Michael thought, that dingy blonde just screwed up his mission again.

"Are you from Section?" the man growled as he jumped up and threw Nikita across the table. "I told Ops I ain't giving up that there damn tape. He thinks jest 'cause I financed his private porno films that he kin play with the material. Mistress Maddy was my Dominatrix furst."

Michael clearly saw that he was going to have to contain the situation and teach that ignorant peroxide blonde a lesson at the same time. He reached under his trench coat and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun.

"Okay, nobody move, and you, Beaver Breath, hand over the tape."

The old billygoat panicked and tried to run into the restroom, screaming out "You're not gitting this here tape of my Mistress Maddy, I'll flush it down the toilet first." As he said this, he remembered with fondness all those times when Mistress Maddy made him "lick the bowl." Hot damn, that little gal sure could think of a lot of fun things to do...

Michael ran after the man and tackled him to the floor. He flipped him over and pointed his gun at the man's groin, "OK, Porky, hand over the smut or I'll your rooster into a hen."

"Okey-dokey," the target said submissively, "In Texas a man just ain't no turkey without his giblets."

Michael turned to the bimbo and said, "Nikita, give me your g-string."

"What if I don't have anything on underneath?" she said with a smile, as she stripped off those panties faster than jumping jack-flash and handed them to Michael.

"That'll be fine too," Michael said without glancing at her as he took the g-string and hog-tied the man's arms and legs with it. "Good thing you wore spandex," he said without blinking.

Michael took the tape from the target's coat pocket and yelled at Nikita, "Hey, you, dumb slut, meet me in my office, now."

Nikita stepped into the restroom and Michael came in behind her. He slapped her hard across the face. "Oww, what was that for?" she yelped.

"That's for wearing your brains in your butt," he said, "And besides, you know you like it rough like that."

"Ooh, Michael," she swooned.

"And here, grab this," Michael said as he proudly put her hand on his rapidly growing stun gun.

"Oooh, Michael, it's so big!," she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"You've seen it before, you dumb slut."

"But it was dark on that boat," she replied goofily.

"OK, I'm gonna say this just one last time, Nikita, PAY ATTENTION!"

"Oooh, Michael, I just love it when you talk dirty."

"Okay, you dumb bimbo, say it once again like I taught you, this time with feeling."

"Oooh, Michael, you're just so..hellbent in black leather," Nikita giggled.

He planted a Big Wet One on her. "Bow down to your leather man, Baby," Michael said, beaming with pride.

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