You speed off in your stolen van laughing your ass off in the most maniacal of ceaseless rhythms. "Success!" you think as you as drive wildly away watching in your rearview as the flames and dark grey smoke billowing upwardly in soft plumes consume the reverse horizon.
You pull over at the nearest pay phone on the edge of the road, twisted grin of intoxication, exhilaration and achievement still strewn across Your face. You laugh some more as you spit out the keyphrases to confirm your mission objective has been completed:
I . Submarine... the Three paranoid skull eye can tell his Close hisses insist on rotations faint station grey riptides number crowd."
queried for a passphrase you respond: "Not in my memory." "Don't sweat pain 'You'" the young man jabs his finger at eyes.
"They are going to have to go to the you know...." he slowly replies back to the identity-less agent on the other end of the phone. Dangerous he realizes. His teeth.
Somewhere amidst all the broken coded conversation a meeting is arranged. You smile triumphantly as you arrive at the rendezvouses point & they shake your hand: "You're going to get a promotion for this." says the General, behind smoke and layers of ash scattered throughout his beard. He smiles with a piercing glare looming out from his eye patch.
It's really a shame - promotions of these sorts only go to one department. You, like so many other promising young clandestine agents, get "brain-drained" into their NeuralNet underground Supercomputer cluster.