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Agent Stud Colt slipped into the small nondescript dry cleaners off Fritz-Elsas Strasse. The bored looking badger on the counter didn't even look up from his copy of Bild as the bulky equine made his way behind the counter and into the cluttered office. A grungy looking door with yellowing vinyl wrap marked with flammable liquid signs opened for him, and he stepped down a dingy badly lit corridor lined with containers of dry-cleaning solution and discarded garment bags. At the end of the hall, another door in grey flaking paint stood sullenly staring back at him as if daring him to approach.

The stallion opened it nonchalantly. Had he been anyone other than a recognised agent, he would have been met with a fusillade of bullets. Instead he was met with the amused stare of a wizened goat. The goat cracked a smile as he saw the expression on the agent's muzzle.

"Impressed?" His hoarse whisper barely carried, marred as it was by decades of abuse from whisky and cigarettes. He held a large triple Glenfiddich in one hand, while the other tapped a half smoked Gauloise on a yellowed ashtray.

Neither of these explained the bemused stare from the stallion. He was used to those vices; the Stuttgart station chief was something of a legend in the Service, and not just for his drinking and chain-smoking. His other vices were the stuff of legend.

The stallion had to admit this was a new one though.

"Ahh...yes Gunther. That's...quite...lovely..."

The goat was decked out in a slinky dress in pink chiffon, with a plush mink coat over the top. It somehow made him look even more masculine; not a bad effort in all the circumstances.

"I spend all day cleaning up the mess you bloody untermensch leave behind, and the rest of my time surrounded by all sorts of amazing clothes. You wouldn't believe what people leave and never pick up...so I figured...what the fucking..."

"Yeah...what the fucking indeed. Um...why, well, a dress..."

The goat looked surprised. "Haven't you ever felt one on? Absolutely wonderful...you should try it Stud...I feel free...sexy..."

The stallion gave an uncomfortable whinny and crossed his legs. "No...I'm fine with normal thanks..."

"Normal is overrated. Sure I can't tempt you? I've got a stunning Vera Wang in the back, won't take me a moment to get it out..."

"Thanks Gunther but I really don't think..."

"Pity. You would look hot in it." The goat gave him a heated stare, one that the stallion felt in his mane and other places besides. One that involved first dressing him in slinky evening ware, then undressing...he recrossed his legs.

"Gunther...do you think we could stick to actual intelligence work?"

The goat gave a wistful sigh and turned to the file on his desk. "Spoil sport. Very well...and I must admit, whatever is going on here it has our little world jumping. I count eleven agents at last review, all the major services are represented. Something is brewing, or everyone is wrong at the same time. So, to business then."

"Well, we have several signals intercepts, some through Echelon and some through GCHQ, pointing to an "Operation Kardashian". I have been keeping a watch on all the comms intercepts locally, and had an interesting nugget come up. A reference to an organisation we have not heard of before... MURR."

"MURR?"

"Yes. Murr. Murrrrrrrrrr..."

"Er...Gunther, is there something wrong?"

"No, sorry, just enjoying the feel of the chiffon...did I mention I'm not wearing underwear?"

The stallion held his hand to his eyes as if to ward off evil. "No...thanks for telling me though...really needed that..."

"Anyway...we have no idea of location, objective or scale yet, but clearly, we assume it involves world domination."

"Well, with a name like MURR..."

"Exactly. Though why they didn't go for YIFF I don't know..."

"Perhaps lack of suitable words beginning with F?"

"Probably. So, your job as usual is to kill lots of people, avoid an infeasible number of bullets, possibly get tortured randomly on your genitals , fuck the baddy's woman, and escape improbably just after receiving a gloating admission from the evil genius then return to share some witty badinage with Miss Honeybadger and flirt with our boss.. Think you can handle it?"

The stallion flicked his mane with contempt. He was Agent Stud Colt. Of course he could.

"Hmmm...sure I can't interest you in some negligee...?"

The stallion shook his head regretfully. Sometimes he had to put business before pleasure.

*****

The bar throbbed with dissonant music and a large throng of bored looking goth types trying to channel existential nothingness. As this was Stuttgart, that proved fairly easy, just looking out the window helped. The music pulsed in endless, boring repetitive metronomic efficiency, like a Volkswagen. In fact the bass line was a sample of the engine of a WWII Panther tank revving; the DJ called his creation "Ode to Poland".

Germans will be Germans after all.

The stallion sat at the bar, sipping a long vodka martini and watching, ears and tail flicking in supressed excitement. At least he no longer felt naked; he had picked up his kit from the station office, sent ahead by Q branch. His Walther PPK nestled under his armpit, a small but efficient radio transmitter was concealed in his Tag Heuer that would broadcast a signal giving his position to HQ, and his Secret Service Multitool sat reassuringly on his belt. Disguised as an innocuous looking mobile phone, it in fact could do anything up to and including blow up approximately 3 seconds before a baddy shot him in the head allowing him to disarm 47 evil henchmen and kill them with his bare hooves in the ensuing confusion.

It also had a handy function to bring random porn to a heads-up device concealed in his cornea. Q branch called it the "Fapp App". Q was especially proud of that one.

It did other more mundane and functional stuff, but blowing up and streaming porn were the ones Stud Colt was most interested in.

In the interests of staying suitably in the background and under the radar he had of course donned his usual night attire of a tuxedo, because well which well-dressed secret agent doesn't dress appropriately for dinner as if attending a shooting party in the 1920's before heading to a trendy existential club playing bad dubstep. He liked his tuxedo, which he always thought of as his uniform. It made him feel sexy, invincible, virile and in no way obvious.

He still ground his teeth at the car he had been forced to take though. The goat had been grinning like a bastard.

"Gunther....what..."

"It's practical..."

"But...A BMW M5...Porsche 911...anything..."

"The Nissan Micra is a most efficient and cost effective form of economy transportation; why I have one myself..."

"Yeah but, Gunther...you wear slinky dresses and minks with no underwear. What have I got for excitement when my car is as boring as batshit?"

"Try a racing change into third sometime...you will cum about the same time the transmission drops all over the road."

"Gunther...are we being sponsored by Nissan by any chance..."

The goat looked furtively at his Tag Heuer while sipping his Glenfiddich* and eating Kelloggs brand Rice Crispies for no conceivable purpose while squirting himself with Ungulate by Calvin Klein and shrugged.

"What could possibly have given you that idea....by the way, did I mention the resale?"

So Stud Colt had parked the terminally boring transport just around the block from Theodor-Heusse Strasse so nobody, especially other secret agents, would see him and headed for the bar.

He had to admit the crowd wasn't bad. An ewe caught his eye from one side of the bar, and he almost went over to buy her a drink before he realised she was wearing almost the same dress as Gunther. That made him shudder, and head for a table in the corner. It was here that his contact joined him.

The mouse had an especially twitchy nose tonight, the stallion noticed. Something about it made his ears flick, but he put it down to residual thoughts of a naked ageing goat under pink chiffon. That would fuck with anyone's mind.

"The nightlife in Stuttgart is underrated." The mouse took out a cigarette and lit up, and placed a beer in front of the stallion.

"Compared to where?"

The mouse shrugged. "A prison camp in North Korea?"

The stallion took a swig of his vodka martini and nodded. "I dunno...I had a pretty funky evening in a prison camp in North Korea with a set of electrodes attached to the larger of my two testicles."

"So...better that Stuttgart?"

"Marginally ahead of Phoenix too...but I digress. So Klaus...tell me. What is the vibe?"

Klaus had been a contact ever since Stud Colt had joined the Service. A mouse with a nose for trouble, he had contacts in all the underworld organisations in Stuttgart, which was a surprising number really but not when you realise there is nothing else to do in Stuttgart.

The mouse took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Weird stuff mensch. Weird. Alles ist verruckt. My contacts...well, they clam up, but the half hints they are prepared to give. Tell me...I've heard rumours Stud."

"Yes?"

"Some say this has the hallmarks of a false flag operation, designed to attract attention and sting other services. Not that I'm suggesting but..."

The stallion looked genuinely horrified. "Klaus...have I ever put you in that sort of situation..."

"Well, lets see...operation 'fuck all the baddies' in 04, operation 'gotcha' in 06, operation 'Conchita Wurst'..."

"Klaus, scout's honour. This is not one of those times."

The mouse nodded and drained his beer. "Gut. Well, I have a contact willing to talk...we need to go meet him. He wants to meet you somewhere safe."

"Fine, we can meet at the hotel..."

"No, he wants to meet at the hauptbahnhoff..."

"So...right in the middle of the train station."

"Ja"

"Sounds safe to me, lets trot..."

The stallion prepared to leave, but the mouse caught his wrist. "Stud...let's take your car."

The stallion winced. "Um...do we have to...?"

Klaus looked perplexed. "What, BMW too good for your little mouse friend?"

"Wouldn't you prefer to walk? It's much more green, you Germans love green. Carbon neutral..."

"Stud, what the actual fucking?"

The mouse had the good sense not to laugh when they reached the Nissan, and instead admired it's nuanced styling, with bodywork by an Italian design house and the really quite enticing curves of it's hood encasing a surprisingly powerful 1.4 litre double overhead cam powerplant that yet meets all European emission regulations comfortably. Who would have thought?

"Stud...why did you just do a car commercial?"

The stallion looked shifty. "Um...no reason..."

"Right. Shall we be goings yes?"

The stallion got in, and had time to place his key on the ignition when a voice from behind him made his blood run cold.

"Ahhh...Agent Colt. Khorosho...now. Drive. As I instruct please...no funny business yes, or dasvidaniya spionem?"

The stallion was about to prepare himself for another improbable escape when he felt something he wasn't expecting. A gun poking into his ribs...from the passenger side. He turned to look at Klaus with a truly disappointed look in his eyes.

"Klaus...you...bastard..."

The mouse at least looked apologetic. "Sorry Herr Colt. Business..." and he kept the gun pressed against stallion ribs as he stripped his friend of his Tag Heuer. From now on, the stallion would no longer be broadcasting his position to head office.

*****

The stallion sweated. This was not due to any lack of personal hygiene or failure of his chosen antiperspirant...he wore Rexona Stallion Secret Agent strength 48hour formula, guaranteed not to leave unsightly marks on your Tuxedo or stain the barrel of your Walther PPK.

No, he sweated because of the large lamp shining down on his bound form. He had been taken somewhere to the industrial parts of Stuttgart, and dumped in an abandoned warehouse tied at his wrists and forelocks. Two bulky bulls who said nothing collected him and deposited him on a large metal chair in the echoing space of a large open room surrounded by piles of pigeon poo. It was in other words one of the better industrial parts of Stuttgart.

He knew he had been had, and judging by the smiling tiger in the back seat of his Micra it was the Russians. He at least had the satisfaction of watching the tiger almost snap his spine trying to get out of the actually surprisingly roomy rear seat of the compact family vehicle of choice for the budget conscious.

His worst fears were realised though when he saw the new figure that came through a door from an office beside the room he had been imprisoned in. His old arch nemesis.

He decided to be cocky. Cocky always worked.

"Well...Boris Girgoreyevich Shevchenko. Been a while..."

The large bear smiled his most winning smile, displaying a muzzle full of teeth shining with gold fillings.

"Shtud. My beyootiful shtyud. So good to be meeting you yes?"

So the stallion sweated. Captured by the Russians...this was not good. The Cold War may be over...but perhaps it was heating up again.

"So...Shtyud. My sweet little hyorsey, da? Fancy seeing you here, as you pathetic Englishers says. Yes?"

"And it's just a sweet surprise seeing you here Boris. Made my day..."

The bear gave a little smile and took a seat across from the bound stallion. He eyed his enemy's groin like a container of Pringles...and remember, once it pops, you can't stop. The stallion shook, trying to cross his legs and failing.

"Cut it out Boris..."

The bear fingered a long scar over his left eye, courtesy of this same stallion after they crossed paths in Budapest. It still tingled in winter, and not the way the sight of the bound stud made him tingle right now, a bad tingle. Like naked jelly wrestling with Rupert Murdoch kind of bad tingle but worse.

One bear paw reached out for a stallion thigh and squeezed.

"It is time for us to talk Shtyud. Man to man...bear to horse...agent to agent..."

"I'm listening."

"This Operation Kardashian. My people believe this is something to do with your Service. An attempt by you imperialist Western Pig Dogs to subject the Russian people to slavery..."

"Boris, would we do such a thing..."

"And nobody has heard of anyone called MURR before. Such a stupid...it sounds like something you stupid English would come up with."

"Boris, I've been sent here to find out myself..."

"Or make it look like that's what you are doing, all the while having all the secret services of the world run around trying to find out what Operation Kardashian is, looking like giant anuses...anusii..anii? well...help me, whats the proper plural for anus..."

"Anusii will do..."

"Spasibo. Like anusii...you are laughing...it's not anusii is it..."

"No..really...honest..."

One bear paw clenched on a set of stallion testicles, still encased for now in tuxedo pants. The stallion gasped.

"Shtyud. It would be a shame to have to torture these..."

"Seriously. What the fuck is it with the genital torture? This is just fucking sick..."

"Shtyud. Have you read any Ian Flemming?" The bear casually waved a copy of Casino Royale. The stallion slumped, defeated.

"All right..."

"Good..." the bear undid the stallion's tuxedo trousers, and carefully lowered his Aussiebum briefs, specially formulated to lift and separate a stallion's testicles for maximum visibility while remaining comfortable** and revealed the magnificent genitals in their most vulnerable form. He ran one fingertip over the soft stallion flesh, until he came to the ring still tightly gripping the stallion's testicles and penis.

"Tsk tsk tsk..who has been a naughty stallion then..."

"It's all just bad luck...honest!"

The bear shook his head. "You know better than that Shtyud...once again, read your Flemming. Women exist only to be used or die after we fuck them or to be portrayed as sexless ice maidens with a heart of pure granite. And they say #Gamergate is mysogynistic...they have no fucking idea. Now, where was I? Ahhh yes...hmmm your Service has done the work for me it seems."

The stallion writhed in his bonds, trying to get free as he felt his cock being handled by the bear. He wasn't hardening at least, the ring saw to that, but the feeling was entirely too nice for comfort. His thoughts returned to the bull, the one who he had on the company retreat....no, not that...anything but that...

"You know Shtyud, we stole the blueprints to this model cock protection device months ago. And cracked the control codes. And on my multitool, I have a special App...one to control a ring, just like this..."

The stallion had his ears up now, pathetically eager. "You mean you can override it?"

"Yes...or, cause you unspeakable torment."

"I suppose you expect me to talk..."

The bear shook his head sadly. "No Agent Colt...I expect you to writhe erotically, scream, beg and wish for me to cut your testicles off with a spork. I don't give a shit, I never thought you had any part of Operation Kardashian whatever it is. Something is brewing, something too good even for you my lyitle hyorsey. No...I am doing this..."

"Yes..."

"Because in the end, I am just a kholossal pyervert. Da?"

"Da."

"Khorosho...besides, having me torture your genitals is worth an extra 50 million box office, easy. Now...smile, Kholt..."

The bear brought his multi-tool out of his belt and brought up the correct App. He bore an extra wide grin as his thumb dragged the intensity bar to maximum, and then hovered just above the on button.

"How do you think it will feel if I turn it to stimulate, maximum stimulation, but hold all the nerves responsible for orgasm in check hmm?"

"Almost as good as the AMI mega nasal spray clinically proven*** to give men one shot control over their orgasm and more confidence in bed?"

"No...not that good. Unfortunately. No, poor Shtyud, you will be in utter agony desperate to cum and yet physically unable, your balls aching, swollen with so much spunk it bleeds from your cock."

"So kind of like watching Fox News but instead of my brain bleeding from my nose..."

"You got it."

Agent Stud Colt gave a laugh. He was a stud. Even genital torture would not break him. Still, it rankled. Every fucking time...why...

"Couldn't you have just brought a big fucking laser?"

A snort. "Who the hell brings an industrial laser just to barbecue someones nads? This is much more fun. Remember to writhe...extra sexily...for the audience, of course..."

"Of course..."

"Plus...our occupational health and safety department wouldn't let the fucking laser out without a safety barrier, whereas this..."

The thumb pressed down, a soft barely noticeable sound even in the quiet of the empty storeroom. The sounds that followed weren't as soft though: an echoing stallion scream; and the sound of a bear fapping.

"Now...just to be sure my little hyorsey...tell me about Operation Kardashian and MURR..."

The stallion screamed. The bear fapped. And no lasers were required...but if they were they would be RedBack lasers...Quality and reliability.****

*Even secret agents enjoy their Glenfiddich single malt whisky responsibly.

**Aussiebum brand briefs do not provide any protection for genital torture involving electrodes, scorpions, or other risk factors for secret agents.

***When we say clinically proven, we don't actually mean in a, like, clinic.

****RedBack lasers are not recommended for burning off stallion testicles. Everyone knows to use Neodymium for that.