The Medi-Oscars
The oracle takes a drag of her cigarette as seven Agent Smiths casually walk into her kitchen. She regards him callously.
“I suppose you’ve been expecting me, right?” remarks the foremost Smith. “The all-knowing oracle is never surprised. How can she be? She knows everything.”
The oracle continues to smoke, quietly observing the agent.
Smith muses, “But if that’s true, then why is she here if she knew I was coming? Why wouldn’t she leave?”
She stops smoking for a second only to give him a look of intense boredom. Incensed, the agent grabs a tray of freshly baked cookies on the table and tosses it at the wall.
“Maybe you knew I would do that, maybe you didn’t,” he continues to rave. “If you did, that means you baked those cookies and set that plate there, deliberately, purposefully… which means that you’re sitting there also deliberately, purposefully.”
Ignoring his rant, she asks, “What did you do with Sati?”
“Cookies need love like everything does.” The other Smiths begin to chuckle knowingly with him.
“You are a bastard,” she responds, still showing little emotion.
“You would know, mom,” he snidely remarks.
She takes one last drag and tells him, “Do what you’re here to do.”
He casually replies, “Yes ma’am.”
Agent Smith steps beside the Oracle and drives his fingers into her arm, black ooze spreading outward. A wild wind begins to blow through the room, an outpouring of energy as Smith overwrites the Oracle’s code with himself. The others look slightly nervous, even the one doing the transfer seems scared, perhaps. It finishes, however, and sitting at the table rather than yet another Agent Smith is a short purple-clad troll, who looks up at the agents and asks, “Did they have a sale on suits at the Men’s Warehouse or something?”