They make you come into a plastic cup. And then they take it away from you, telling you it’ll go into making babies. But you don’t really know what they do. I know. I have special come. My come can see.
As a special agent (very special agent, ifyaknowwhamean), my testicles have been injected with nanobots, which transmit video and audio data back to our agency van outside the sperm bank.
I dutifully came into the cup, thinking about the smoking receptionist right outside (who needs magazines when you’ve just seen her, yeah? wink-wink) and ran back to the van where Agents Y and Agent Z were waiting for the show.
As we had suspected, this centre was part of a dark magic cartel. We watched as they poured out my come in the shape of a pentagram, and lit candles around it. Then the receptionist and the nurses got naked (whoa, baby, and I mean that), and started their chanting.
Then we had the really fun bit. Just as the demon appeared, Agent Z said the word that deployed the protective spell. My come … shorted, for lack of a better word, and the demon and his minions fried in a blaze of holy fire.
I lit up a cigarette and turned to Agent Z. “Was that good for you?” I asked.