Dear Master,

I regret to inform you that my mission to kill Tom Cruise has failed.

Operations began on schedule, and agents were seeded at the casting auditions for 
Dreamworks Pictures' "War of the Worlds 2: Man's Revenge" for which the call sheet 
specified numerous sapiens sapiens of small stature.  Three agents including myself were 
hired for the production.  (All relevant receipts have been forwarded to accounting.)

Subsequent intelligence revealed nine production days during which our agents would be 
on location with the target in Arizona's Painted Desert.  Simulations and drills began 
immediately and were carried on for the five weeks before the shoot.

One week before the shoot cast rehearsals began on the studio lot.  Our team encountered 
problems right away.  One of the sapiens sapiens midget actresses turned out to be 
friendlier than our protocols normally allow, and one of our agents was drawn into a 
carnal situation.

As you well know, our kind are burdened to fart golden coins upon climaxing sexually.  
This came as a surprise to the midget, who screamed.  The trailer was then disturbed by 
her husband, a sapiens sapiens dwarf with a significant enthusiasm for the second 
amendment.  A double hostage situation ensued during which the interloping spouse 
forced at gunpoint our agent and the midget to couple repeatedly in hopes of becoming 
rich off their love.

The LAPD shot all three of them.

At this time I called an emergency briefing and it was agreed that Agent Fairlocks and I 
would move against the target at the first opportunity.  That opportunity presented itself 
upon the first day shooting on location, when the target entered the luncheon wagon for 
his private meal.

Agent Fairlocks erected a boundary circle using the standard charms while I penetrated 
the lock with an equal parts mixture of pixie dust and enchanted cloves.  We came 
through the door simultaneously and drew our weapons, but before we had released our 
first volley the target propelled a stack of cafeteria trays at us using his Hubbardian 
telekinetic powers.  Agent Fairlocks was incapacitated.

"This ends here, Cruise!" I shouted, discharging my weapon.

He dodged the bolt, but awkwardly since both of the units who comprise the target's body 
had been feasting: the upper operative through Cruise's oral cavity and the lower 
operative through his opened fly.  They lost balance upon hitting the floor and I could 
discern the upper operative's feet pushing out through Cruise's abdomen.

"You two fools have betrayed our people, and ignored our every amnesty," I said. "The 
time has come to pay the piper."

"I am a man!" countered the target viciously. "And I can have security in here within two 
seconds.  Do you hear me?  Two seconds.  The only reason I hesitate is because I would 
hate to see you sabotage everything just to get back at me.  Go on -- get out of here.  You 
have a war to fight!"

"My war is right here, Cruise," I whispered.  "Do your worst."

I knew that if I could separate the target into his two component parts I would be able to 
take on each operative singly.  I pursued this strategy with vigour, but Cruise's 
Hubbardian powers proved too much for me.  I was tossed from one end of the luncheon 
trailer to the other like a ragdoll.  I knew my mission had failed and I resolved to make 
my peace.

Just then the door smacked open to reveal a lone figure in a security uniform.  I was not 
fooled, however, even for an instant.  I knew that it was none other than Edward X. 
Hulver.

"Hulver!" I hissed in unintentional unison with the target.

"This ends here," promised Hulver darkly.

"I've already said that part," I said.

"Shut up."

The target stepped forward with confidence, the beady eyes of the lower operative 
peeking out through Cruise's open fly.  "You have no red hair," said the upper operative, 
"and this is not your concern."

"The world's welfare is my concern," replied Hulver crisply, weary but sharp eyes 
flicking between us.  "Not by choice, to be sure, but it's mine none the less."

"You can't stop this," said the lower operative in a pants-muffled voice from waist-height.  
"This is bigger than you."

Hulver chuckled and settled into a fighting stance.  "My kung-fu says otherwise you 
leprechaun piece of shit."

The duel was mighty, the fighters bouncing and flying all over the interior of the trailer in 
a flurry of boxing fists and fierce kicks.  I regained sufficient strength to hide behind an 
overturned table, peeking out between the legs of a chair, waiting for my opening.

Hulver managed to pin the target down in a corner, his face red from exersion.  "Separate 
them!" I cried. "Separate them now!"

Hulver turned to look at me quizzically and the target took advantage of his momentary 
distraction: the lower operative extended his head from Cruise's pelvis and bit Hulver in 
the delicates.  Hulver howled and flopped backward.

I ran out from cover with the separation incantation on my lips, but was stopped by a 
forceful push of invisible energy from the target's fingertips.  Hulver watched me mutely, 
his face still scrunched up in agony.  "We must work together!" I implored him.

"I'll never cooperate with one of your kind," he swore, getting to his feet.  "Stay out of 
my way."

Hulver was not prepared for the target's final assault, however.  The target wrestled his e-
Meter from his belt and engaged it.  A beam shot out of the end and opened up a time 
vortex near the coffee station.  The interior of the trailer was suddenly rocked with 
violent winds as the present boiled away through the clenched edges of the glowing 
temporal anus.

"No-o-o-o-o-o!" I screamed, but it was too late.  Hulver was sucked into the vortex, 
which then disappeared with a flash of blue light.  "Fuck!" I commented.

"Fuck indeed," chuckled the target as he ambled slowly toward me.  "Fuck all the way to 
Faerytown."

He savaged me with both fists, pinning me against the wall as he pummelled my kidneys 
with martial precision.  Then, in the midst of tossing me around the room a bit, I managed 
to prepare and release my incantation.  With a flourish I delivered it and the target broke 
apart.

The upper operative landed in a steam tray of pasta and the lower operative, tangled in 
Cruise's pants, rolled across the floor and lodged beneath a table.  Separated, their 
strength was a tenth of what it had been.  No longer bearing the shape of a sapiens 
sapiens, his Hubbardian powers abandoned him.

"Ha!" I yelled in triumph. "How the mighty have fallen.  Judas may forgive you but I, 
sirs, cannot."

I cracked my knuckles and prepared to aim an unforgivable curse at the upper operative.  
"Avada --"

Just then Steven Spielberg burst into the trailer.  In a mad dash to preserve his 
camouflage the upper operative jumped upon the shoulders of the lower operative and 
pulled a loose flap of Cruise's facial skin over his head.  "Steven!"

"What's going on here?  Your call was ten minutes ago," said Spielberg.  "What happened 
to you, Tom?  God."  He cupped his hands and shouted out of the trailer: "Can we get 
make-up in here?"

A flotilla of make-up girls and loose-jointed hairstylists pushed into the trailer behind 
Spielberg.  George Lucas wandered in with a cup of coffee, some of which had spilled on 
his flannel shirt.  "Has anybody got a napkin?"

"Not now, George," snapped Spielberg.  "We have a situation here.  Tom looks like shit."

"He doesn't look so bad."

"Half his face is hanging off!"

Lucas shrugged.  "We can fix it in post."

Spielberg groaned.  "Get the fuck out of here, George.  Seriously.  Just get the fuck out."

"Tou-chy!" commented Lucas as he wandered away.

The target allowed himself to be worked over by the stylists.  Then he remembered about 
me and cast about until he spotted me crouching on a pile of broken chairs.  "Him," he 
glowered, pointing.  "He said I was gay."

Spielberg turned to me.  "You're fired."

I was escorted off the location by security and allowed to make a telephone call to see if I 
could get a taxi to pick me up in the middle of the Painted Desert.  I gave up after a few 
unsuccessful attempts and resolved to walk home to Ireland.  "Fucking Ewoks," spat one 
of the security guards at my back so I put an unmentionable curse on his testicles.  I could 
hear him howling for miles.

And so now I make my report to you, Master, and await whatever punishment you see fit 
to visit upon me and my family for this failure.  Words cannot convey my regret and my 
shame.  The Hubbardians remain at large, and no doubt their store of mystic knowledge 
has been swelled by stolen intelligence from the two betrayers known to the sapiens 
sapiens world as Tom Cruise.

I remove now my jingly hat and lay it aside, my head as naked and red as a baby's.  I 
have laid down my belt of charms, for I no longer deserve to carry them.  So too my 
sacred cock-ring, and my ceremonial nipple clamps.

I stand before you naked and beaten, my ass still sore from Tom Cruise's violent 
minitrations.

Your faithful servant,

Alawicious