This may or not be based on a text conversation I had with one of my friends, though articles pair for life so this is unlikely.
G was a secret agent, or at least that's what his friends and the counter intelligence agencies thought. Correctly. In reality he was so much more, a toilet cleaner from Grimsby, a pimp, and yes, a secret agent. Though not a very secret one, he had a bad habit of unintentionally writing his name and job description in big letters on noticeable landmarks. Despite this he'd managed to retain his cover, also as a secret agent, for many years now, with almost no one knowing his real name, Gee.
He was reclining to some jazz when the call came through. He could tell it was important because it wasn't just any phone ringing, it was the company phone, a.k.a a toaster. This phone was only ever used for emergencies, such as crashes in the market and making toast. Throwing off one of his many imaginary friends with benefits he snatched up the receiver.
The boss didn't sound pleased. "G we're in trouble. Pimp cane sales are really down this quarter. The word on the street is that the Cospey Cartell are better manufacturers, and what's worse, more gangsta than us. The word off the street was too busy going down on one of your hoes to answer us properly, and the word on the highway was 'microscope'. This is becoming a problem."
"Damm Cospey and his cheap undercutting tactics. Surely people must know his canes fall apart when beating the less worthy classes!!"
"It seems he's countered these shortcomings with a clever and encompassing media campaign. Forcing drumming gorillas and poor individuals suffering from severe eyebrow epilepsy to promote the product."
"The swine... but where do I fit into all this?" said G, deftly catching the toast as it flew from the answering machine.
"Come to my office and I'll explain everything. I can't talk now, I've just got word your phone may have been bugged."
G looked down at the toast in his hand, it wasn't toast at all. It was cooked bread. He was being watched.... no wait, that was him, he had a mirror in his room. ..a suspicious mirror. He shot it.
Only when he had attached the giant secret agent badge to his shirt did he began the long and arduous trek to HQ. But that got boring so he took a bus, and on the bus he took a man. Before eh veen ahd itme ot crorect ym splelnig he was there, standing in front of the impressive clearly labbeled building. No one suspected a thing.
"So boss, what's the plan?"
"The only solution as far as I can see is for one of us to infiltrate the cartel. Cospey knows you work for us, so you're the perfect candidate."
G nodded in understanding, this plan was superb.
The boss continued, "now as a gun-toting swimwear model it should be easy for you rise up through the ranks in his organisation, ready to take it down from the inside. This will most likely culminate in a final boss battle with a heavily armed Cospey, and lots of annoying loading screens."
G had been taken from 'swimwear model'. "I shall infiltrate with haste. Rest assured his level 10 loacation will be burned to the ground, and his canes shafted up Jon."
"I wish you the best of luck, and as Liam can tell you from personal experience, Jon's shaft is both cavernous and accomodating."
The boss handed G his briefing, and a pair of briefs. It was all he would need. But it probably would help if he had a rocket launcher and some cheat codes, so he gave him them too.
 Chapter 4: The only chapter with the same square root as half it's value
It had gone badly wrong. Jon's shaft had caved in on G as he was loading the bodies of Cospey and his randomly generating guards into it. Trapped, and with only used steroid needles lying around to eat, depression quickly set in..
- "Mission Log: Day 454, all hope of rescue has long been diminished. I'm down to my last roid's needle, this surely is the end. If anyone finds this, I want my wife to know that I love horses."
G's body was never recovered, but Jon did have a lot of fun sitting down after his disappearance, often drawing inspiration from it to write class articles. Pimp canes were eventually replaced with pimp cakes, universally praised for their corrosive powers on the skin of ho beaters. Within two weeks the mafia was dominated by old retired ladies with well furbished kitchens.