Samubri: Origins

by Howie

After pontificating the relative merits of Tubgirl as the most substantial piece of artwork of the past 500 years, I nudge Samubri awake from his drunken stupor.

It’s ok if you want to think this is Tubgirl,
but *ho boy*, it’s not.

"What in the who now?" he says.

"Not important," I answer. I take the cigar from my mouth and ash onto his drug-riddled head. "The thing is, Sammy, do you have the fucking article or not?"

"Jambalaya!” he says, jumping to his feet and drawing a long, serrated knife from his combat boot. "Who are you?"

"Still not the point, son," I say. "The papers. I need the papers. Where are they?"

He turns the knife on himself, pointing it at his own throat. "Who am I?" he screams and chases himself from the room with the knife.

I sit down and think about it. I take a roofie and then forget about thinking about it. It's hours (days?) later when I come to my senses, laying naked on my desk surrounded by candles. Looks like I had some fun, but it might have been horrid. I can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad sign that my genitals are dyed like Easter eggs.

My dick said “piss piss”.

I climb down from the desk just as Samubri crashes through my doors, the knife clenched between his teeth and a gripful of crumpled papers in his hands.

"I've got them," he says. He throws them down. A trail of paper follows in his wake. "Call your dogs off, you sick fuck. I wrote the fucking article."

"Dogs? Shit. Sounds like me. Were they starving?"

He has no idea what I am talking about. Oh yeah, he’s high as fuck. I decide to join him.

"Who's the person behind the desk outside your office?" Sammy says, taking a long drag off a blunty.

"New secretary," I say.

"What happened to the old one?"

"Turns out it was just a blow-up doll with a wig."

His face turns as purple as my left nut as he holds in his smoke. "Yeah, I know. What happened to her?" he croaks as he exhales.

"I popped it, and the damn computers were making fun of me," I say. Ok, I think I’m high now too.

"Why not hire someone or something that’s a step closer to a real life woman? You know, if you're gonna get a secretary, you might as well get one with tits. I mean, just look at that guy," quips Samubri with a shudder.

"Jesus, man. That's why I need you around here. I never thought of that. Tits!" I push the intercom message on my phone. "Hey, secretary. In here. Now."

"Yes sir. Afk. BRB," comes the reply.

And in walks the secretary: a lumbering beast of a man, partially covered in green fur around his neck area and bald on top of his pointy head. His cheeks are swollen like a squirrel's and probably just as filled with nuts. In his left hand, he carries a dwarf’s skull (I think). "Yeah?" he asks.

"Cosmo, you're fired."

"Meh," he says, turning to leave. He pauses and looks back. "What for?"

"No tits," I say.

He grabs his ample bosom, “What’d ya call these? Ah, fuck it," he shrugs. He lumbers out.

It’s ok if you want to think this is Cosmo,
but *ho boy*, it’s not.

I look at the pages Samubri has left scattered on the floor. "What's all this now?"

"The mission is complete."

"The article," I ask. "It's done?" My eyes glaze over as a stare into space.

"Are you ok, boss?" Samubri asks. "You’re not having a flashback, are you?"

"It's over," I say. "It's finally over."

* * *

YEARS EARLIER...

I'd lost six other agents on this mission. I needed a pro. I needed somebody with unquestionably lethal abilities and a questionable grip on morality. I needed the best at what he did, and what he was about to do wasn't pretty.

I turned in a few favors with some of the highest ranking professionals I knew. Hookers always know the best journalists and murderers. Hell, they knew me, didn't they? And I posted an ad on a secret message board that specializes in illegal activities. It's run by an agent who goes by the handle "Craig".

It didn't take long for one name to come back to me from both sources. Samubri. The hookers liked him, trusted him. Whores don't trust anyone - an easy way to get killed when you're tied up and being flogged by six angry cocks is to not have an escape plan. Prostitutes know better than to trust.

Unless the payoff comes with a complimentary
over/under, you’re no source of mine.

An anonymous fax boiled out of the machine. Forgot I had one of those. It was a resume that read like it was crafted by a consummate professional or drunken madman. It had all the things I needed.

I was going to call him into my office for a face-to-face. Strangely enough, he walked through the door before I had finished dialing his number. He'd done his homework.

He wore a pink kimono with the image of a big, purple dragon crawling up the side of a stiff, thick rock that penetrated the sky. His head was wrapped with a single black bandage that covered his forehead and one eye. He carried a katana on his back, a wakasashi on his waist, and what looked to be a Desert Eagle .45 in a shoulder holster over his clothing.

Was that a ‘Hello Kitty’ tattoo on his forearm?

"You hiring?" he said. He walked up to my desk, leaned over it a bit. The scent of Christmas and pine trees wafted off him, distracting me immediately to flashbacks of my youth and of a time...

I shook away the distraction. He was good. Maybe too good. I could see in his pupils my very own striking personage, and I was showing how impressed I was by the limp, unlit cigar that I sucked at like a baby with a binki.

The son of a whore smiled at me. His teeth were perfect.

FYI: The Crest Whitestrip System also makes
your genitals a pearly white. Trust me.

"Have a seat," I said.

He didn't even look for a place to sit. Instead, he stood up straight. His eyes rolled back into his head. He fell backward.

I jumped from my seat to see him hit the polished cement floor. Stiff as a board, he laid there. Perfect calmness. True Zen. The only chair in my office is behind my desk exactly for this test - to see what a person would do when asked to have a seat. This rock-solid son of a whore hadn't just passed the test, he had destroyed it.

Unwilling to give him the upper hand, I sat back in my chair and waited. An hour passed. I tried to think. He started to fake tiny baby snores. I was charmed, but still too cautious to show my appreciation.

Twelve hours later he stirred. He kip-upped to his feet, drew his katana and pointed it at my face.

"No, thank you." His blade didn't waver in the slightest. "I prefer to stand."

I pulled out his resume from my desk drawer. "Impressive, Mister? It doesn't have a last name listed here."

"Neither do I," he said. He slashed his sword to the side, cleanly slicing my lavalamp in half. It slid apart with infinitesimal slowness. He wiped his blade clean with his kimono and then slid it into its sheath.

Motherfucker drank the shit too. Hardcore.

"It says here that you've slain twelve men," I said.

He didn't answer. His eyes were rolling up in his head again.

"Trained in the ancient art of swordfighting as well as an expert marksman," I read aloud. “Says here you can also breathe through your ears.”

Thud. He hit the ground again. The motherfucker was good.

An hour later he jumped back up.

I continued as if nothing had happened, trying to play his game. He had already put me on the defensive, and that had never happened to me. He was already hired. The rest was just formality.

"It says here that they based the movie "Yojimbo" on you. And also the character of James Bond. It also says you're fluent in Powerpoint. An impressive list of talents. What would you say is your strongest suit, Mr. Ubri?"

"Call me Sam," he said. "Or Samubri. No, Sam is fine. Or, no, Samubri. Yeah, Samubri."

"And your strong suit?"

"Drug abuse. Petty larceny. Escaping into the night. Excel." His list finished, his eyes started to roll back into his head.

"Wait, wait. I need to know something!"

His eyes rolled back down and focused on my face. He looked surprised to see me.

"This job, and in particular this mission, will require a dedication that might border on criminal behavior. You'll have to be undercover- possibly for years. You'll have to do things that might make a lesser man weep for forgiveness from an uncaring God and slit his wrists in a bathtub filled with whiskey. You'll have to be high at least half the time. You'll need to stop bathing. You'll have to kill. Can you be that high? Can you be that man? Can you be an internet writer?"

"Let me tell you something, every second of every day that you see me, I’ll be high. I'm fucking high right now, but I ain’t even high yet," he answered. He fell again to the floor.

"You're hired," I said.

* * *

"Chief?" Samubri snaps his fingers in front of my face.

I blink. I think I wet my pants. My dick is hard, too. I have no idea where I am.

"Shit. You're back," Samubri says. "Thought we lost you that time."

"We lost who in the what now?" I say.

Samubri smiles and pats me on the back. "There you go. You're back." He leads me toward the door. "Have a good sleep. Have some drugs. Have an article on my desk in the morning."

"Yes, sir," I say, taking somebody's hat off a hat-rack and putting it on. "You're the boss."

"Yeah, it’s cool, but I’m not in love with it.”

"And don't you fucking forget it," Samubri says, pushing me out of the office and slamming the door shut behind me.

Cosmo is still sitting at the reception desk. He has on strange goggles and a headset. His face is pressed closely to his laptop, on which strange dead creatures are fighting dwarfs.

"Didn't I fire you?"

"I need your wifi. Mind if I hang out here?"

"No," I say. "But I'm not paying you!"

"You were gonna pay me?"

"No." I say. "No, I wasn't."

"Figures."

"Lock up when you leave." I tilt my hat down roguishly.

He looks up. "Leave?" He gives me a creepy smile and then says, "Shit. DOTS incoming. Hold on. HOT me. I've got aggro."

His mind was lost to some other world. I shut out the lights and left him to that world. After all, I had an article to do!