Let's Get Ready To Rumble!
It is fast approaching 3 o'clock. The agents are getting ready for action. Usually this would mean wearing the darkest suits and clip-on ties, like they are going to a funeral of a distant relative or a work colleague. In dangerous missions they would wear Kevlar vests. Today, although the mission is deadly, the agents have to accommodate for the extremely heavy headgear that they are all wearing to block out the psychic intrusions of the German mercenaries in the employ of our target: Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist.
'So, wadda ya think?' asks Agent Oslo Fontina, CIA hitman. He is covering the whirring machinery on his head with an Afro wig. 'You look ridiculous,' I tell him frankly, 'like a Harlem Globetrotter gone wrong. Like Napoleon Dynamite with a gun.'
'Heh. Yeah.' he smiles as he checks out his reflection in the mirror. Some of the other agents do the same. One guy is camouflaging his headgear with a ten-gallon hat. Does he want people to think he's a tourist?
'Fatty,' says Fontina, 'frankly this might be the last time I see ya.'
'Let's hope.' I mutter.
'Nah man,' he says, suddenly deadly serious, 'I mean Roquefort might have you killed.'
My heart feels tingly. An arctic wind rips through my soul.
'...or maybe not.' Fontina continues, 'in any case I want you to have this gun.' He slips a tiny pistol into my jacket pocket. 'Now just in case something goes wrong just head for the hills sahib. They may or may not find ya. That's up to you.'
'Wh...why are you doing this Fontina?'
'I like ya. Besides....if anything were to happen to me I just....could you tell my Ma that....that...I did good? Tell her I was a painter or something. You don't have to say I was successful or nuthin'. Shit, maybe tell her I was a..a..house painter with a mangy dog. I don't know. Just tell her I was happy. I don't want her to know that...I...that I'm....a...anyway here's the address.'
I peer at the scrap of paper. 'You're from Gibsonton, Florida?'
'Born and bred baby!'
He turns back towards the mirror and has already forgotten the conversation.
Plump and plucky,
Fatman
'So, wadda ya think?' asks Agent Oslo Fontina, CIA hitman. He is covering the whirring machinery on his head with an Afro wig. 'You look ridiculous,' I tell him frankly, 'like a Harlem Globetrotter gone wrong. Like Napoleon Dynamite with a gun.'
'Heh. Yeah.' he smiles as he checks out his reflection in the mirror. Some of the other agents do the same. One guy is camouflaging his headgear with a ten-gallon hat. Does he want people to think he's a tourist?
'Fatty,' says Fontina, 'frankly this might be the last time I see ya.'
'Let's hope.' I mutter.
'Nah man,' he says, suddenly deadly serious, 'I mean Roquefort might have you killed.'
My heart feels tingly. An arctic wind rips through my soul.
'...or maybe not.' Fontina continues, 'in any case I want you to have this gun.' He slips a tiny pistol into my jacket pocket. 'Now just in case something goes wrong just head for the hills sahib. They may or may not find ya. That's up to you.'
'Wh...why are you doing this Fontina?'
'I like ya. Besides....if anything were to happen to me I just....could you tell my Ma that....that...I did good? Tell her I was a painter or something. You don't have to say I was successful or nuthin'. Shit, maybe tell her I was a..a..house painter with a mangy dog. I don't know. Just tell her I was happy. I don't want her to know that...I...that I'm....a...anyway here's the address.'
I peer at the scrap of paper. 'You're from Gibsonton, Florida?'
'Born and bred baby!'
He turns back towards the mirror and has already forgotten the conversation.
Plump and plucky,
Fatman
posted by Fatman | 1:54 pm
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