CWMC Heaquarters, Ardrossan, Ab: Faced with another financial fiasco, the President has pulled the plug on Operation Blow-Molded Plastic Shit in the Yard after a brave, but possibly over- ambitious attempt to blend in with "normal" society in order to perform important market research on behalf of the Company has reached a state of crisis.
Agents were dispatched to quiet commuter neighbourhoods to live among the suburbanites, learn their ways, and try to understand their customs and rituals. After they were accepted by the locals, Agents would gradually try to teach their new friends about the path to salvation through the purchase of some kind of old piece of shit and the subsequent lavishing of much attention and cash upon it. Converts would of course be gently steered in the direction of HQ, where, for a trifling tithe, all of their recently fashioned fantasies could be realized. Rusty Lancias and dented Polaras would come from miles around; seeking salvation at the Mecca of Mud, the Vinyl-Top-Vatican... the CWMC Body Works Division.
|2111 & 2112 stop by HQ for G&Ts...|
As things turned out, the Agents had a little trouble blending in; as much a function of an appalling lack of prior research as any other single event. It seems that suburbia has a subtle subtext to it; the idea seems to be to not have a cool car but rather to borrow a shitload of "money" and buy one of the sorry things on offer anywhere credit is pimped in 84-month sentences.
|Full Presidential Approval? Does the Pope shit in the woods?|
Meanwhile, Agents 2111 and 2112 were faring little better in their attempt to blend in, hidden carefully in the quiet residential section of another small commuter town several miles East of HQ. Someone apparently forgot to inform the enthusiastic young Agents that parking 17 dead cars on your previously pristine lawn was a recipe for resentment amongst the locals, most of whom did not share the Agents' enthusiasm for gigantic, rusty C-bodies and insane VW-powered trike contraptions. Pitchfork-waving grannies are regularly seen encamped outside the front door, and stealthy exits have become the norm. Agent 2111 has even resorted to weekly colour-changes on many of his Agency Cruisers, but to no avail, as no one else in town is driving a 1967 Plymouth Fury I station wagon of any description.
|Wagons are cool, Furies are cool...Fury wagons? Oh yeah.|
"The situation is worse than we thought," said a lightly anesthetized President today in an interview from HQ, where attempts to hide the ever-growing pile of motorized litter by letting the grass grow really tall are meeting with similarly ambiguous reviews.
"...but, unlike that Fury wagon, we have lots of options."