Let's Get Ready To Rumble!
'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,