Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson Read Free Book Online

in a Boy Scout uniform—yellow scarf, sash with merit badges, short shorts, knee-high socks—administering the three-finger salute. Beneath the image were four words: My Name Is Prague . Prague regarded Rabelais acidly. Rabelais laughed. “Just kidding. Let’s have it back, then. We need it for a belated Halloween party they’re throwing this evening in Slaughterhouse-Nine.” The mechanical arm reached across the desk and snatched away the T-shirt. Prague made a face. Rabelais said, “When you introduced me to your codename, I was less than pleased, admittedly. Less than pleased, mind you. But the codename has grown on me in the last few hours, so much that presently I don’t think a more awe-inspiring codename has ever bore its shining meathead in the history of MAP affairs. I’m not sure if you were joking or being serious when you conceived of it. Whatever the case, you know the rules—spies can pick their own codenames. Doesn’t make much sense to me. Then again, neither does my wife’s cooking. Neither does day and night, for that matter. Any questions? Concerns? You’re the Anvil-in-Chief now. Don’t let us down.”
    Prague did his best to keep his cool and breathe evenly. A difficult task. The MAP had fucked him over more than once. They’d fuck him over again. Not to mention his boss’s eccentricities and terrific longwindedness. But being in the cut was all he knew. And it was all he ever wanted to do.
    He had been to Prague before, once, as a child. His parents were Kafka fetishists and took him there to visit the author’s house-cum-museum/bookstore/café. He remembered the address: No. 22 Golden Lane. He remembered what color the house had been painted on the outside: tropical sky blue. He remembered the smell on the inside of the house: a rank crossbreed of overcooked sauerkraut and dusty, weathered hardbacks. He remembered the figure in the corner of the main room: a genetic reincarnation of a moribund 44-year-old Kafka, petrified, naked but for a bowler hat, his skin injected with a clearcoat plasma that allowed tourists to view the horror of his tubercular innards. And he remembered flying into the city itself, a heaving and dynamic clot of towers and cathedrals and basilicas, their pointed rooftops defined by great swords that pierced an emphatic, hissing blanket of overlying fog and mist…
    As for being Anvil-in-Chief, Prague could care less. Like all titles, this one was as empty as an overturned fedora. He said, “What sort of funding can I expect for this gig?” He knew the answer to the question before he asked it. But he asked it.
    “Funding?” Rabelais cackled. He stopped cackling, then resumed with greater intensity. “That’s funny, Vinnie!” He choked on his tongue. In a deadpan voice, he said, “But of course funding is your concern. As always, you may or may not be reimbursed, compensated and promoted depending on the degree of the mission’s success or failure.”
    “Blah fucking blah.”
    “Indeed. Excuse me.”
    This time a nine foot sasquatch and a Dolph Lundgren clone squared off. The Lundgren had on Masters of the Universe regalia and boasted an anabolic physique and Sword of Power. The sasquatch immediately slapped the sword from its grip, however, and they engaged full-throttle in hand-to-hand combat. The Lundgren went straight for the balls. The sasquatch balked but the blow didn’t faze it and it retaliated with a clumsy judo throw— hiza garuma , Prague calculated—that swept its opponent off its feet and flipped it a full 360 degrees. The Lundgren landed on its feet. Both fighters cocked their heads in disbelief. The Lundgren kicked the sasquatch in the knee. Cdre Rabelais narrowed his eyes and groaned at the sound of the knee shattering like a light bulb. As the sasquatch doubled over, it caught the Lundgren’s head and twisted it, cracking the neck and hacking off its aquiline nose with a claw. The Lundgren continued to fight with its head facing the