If Jamez Blak were to describe himself to you he’d probably say something like, “My name is Jamez Blak. I work for a government agency with the initials “TOR”. I don’t know what it stands for, sorry, I just know the acronym. We specialize in–” And then he’d probably find some sort of distraction so he wouldn’t have to try and guess what TOR specialized in.

If he were to write an autobiography, you would probably find out that he lived a fairly normal childhood: only child, loving mother and father, and a fairly sized house, neither large nor small. You would then come to find out that, one life changing day, an explosion shook the slab of sidewalk he was standing next to. There in the clearing residue was standing a man. He spontaneously grabbed a sword and shoved it into Jamez’s stomach.

By some unequivocal freak of nature, Jamez survived this little encounter with the “Ninjas of Nicaragua,” as one man described them. This man continued on to tell the bewildered Jamez that he wanted to hire him as an agent for an ultra-secret government agency. To make a long story short, Jamez accepted Lentesko’s offer and became a TOR agent. His job was, basically, to save the world by blowing up and shooting the right things and people, and keeping the wrong things and people from being blown up and shot. It was, in his mind, a pretty exciting job.

Finally, Jamez would have told you of his first mission against the “Iguanas From Ireland,” a case that, oddly enough, had nothing to do with iguanas, or, as a matter of fact, Ireland. He might have explained what Lentesko had explained to him, that the founders of TOR had been in love with all amazingly awesome alliterations and had, in turn, begun to name all of their cases using them. While on that same train of thought, he may have detailed how annoying the alliterations became after a few months and how he had managed to convince them to stop and the large amount of happiness that had followed.

At this moment, Jamez was anything but happy. He was in the back of a jet black car, riding through the hot desert, fuming in his head about his mission against these darn monks. Suddenly, the driver stopped the car and stepped out into the blazing sun. Jamez followed suit.

“The monks’ settlement is that way,” the cloaked driver told Jamez, pointing straight ahead.

“Why can’t you drive me the rest of the way?” Jamez asked, frowning.

“They’ll recognize the TOR car,” the driver explained simply.

“Well, thank you for taking me this far. It is greatly appreciated.”

The driver bowed his head slightly and retreated back into the car, driving back toward civilization.

“Well,” Jamez murmured to himself as his pulled his hood tighter around his head to protect himself from the scorching heat and gritty sand (that gets everywhere, incidentally), “There goes my only means of escape.”

After walking for what could have been hours, Jamez finally spotted a small clump of huts and the like bunched around what he could only call a mirage. There was a large metal, cylindrical shape protruding from underneath the sand, out of which came a steady stream of steaming water that fell into a pool underneath. Leading from this pool were a series of pipes that continued on to every dwelling in the settlement, filling a small trough with water outside each one.

Jamez breathed a sigh of relief: he may hate these “monks,” be he could sure use a nice, cold glass of water right about now. Or a nice, warm glass of water. Any water at all would have been nice, actually. It being cold would just be a preference. A preference that Jamez definitely would have preferred would be met.

What’s this? Oh, there was a man speaking to Jamez.

Jamez rose from the ground and brushed himself off, realizing now that he had managed to make it to the small settlement during his lapse into daydreaming of sweet, cool, moisture.

He could feel the liquid going down his throat, his parched lips being caressed by the wondrous concoction of hydrogen and oxygen.

No, Jamez, snap out of it! You’re not even really that thirsty.

He took in his surroundings. Well, for one, he was back on the ground again. Two, there was a man just standing there, staring down at him. James quickly rose and brushed himself off again. Then, addressing the man, he said, “I once had a puppy named Timmy, but he was hit by a car in the third grade,” and promptly fell unconscious due to lack of hydration-dehydration, they call it.

When Jamez Blak finally awoke, he was inside what he presumed was one of the huts in the monk’s settlement. He swore under his breath: falling unconscious on their doorstep and spewing random words at them is never a good way to get on someone’s good side.

He sighed and then realized that he was missing one of his appendages.

“WHO TOOK MY GUN?!” he screamed, storming out of his hut, “Whoever the hell did this, as soon as they give the gun back, is getting a friggin’ bullet in the face. I swear.”

Upon reflection, Jamez also realized that this was, probably, not the best way to make a friend either.