The Inadvertent Spy

I didn’t ask to be born, but who does? I feel my situation is unique though. More created than born. I have name. I had a different one an hour ago. I go from place to place and travel back and forth through time. I never seem to stay in one place for very long. I have to believe that if he can just finish a story, I will finally be anchored to a home. A place where I can rest.

Who’s he, you ask? The dummy on the other end of the keyboard? I don’t even know. I can tell you he has big ambitions to be a big-shot writer. I can also say with confidence that it will never happen because he’s a talentless hack. He can’t keep an idea in his head for more than five minutes. He must have the busiest and most unfocused mind in the world. An hour ago I was wearing the uniform of an American G.I. hiding from Nazis in Europe. Now, I am still in Europe, and still a soldier, but I am dressed in some peasant-like attire with a weird old helmet on my head. My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a “THUNK” sound.

I feel a searing pain in my right shoulder and realize I am now lying on the ground. I look down and see an arrow sticking out of me. What in the hell?!?!? Oh, this writer guy is an asshole. So this is it. I jump around from story to story and am now, in all my glory, about to die on a muddy field at the base of a castle in what I assume is the French countryside. Zut alors! Well, at least the story finally ends for me.

All of a sudden I am standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers. I have a piece of chalk in my hand. I drop the chalk and quickly grab onto my right shoulder. I check my hand for blood. Nothing there. I here snickering coming from the students. I look up. A well dressed girl in the front row asks me if I’m alright.

“Sorry, yes. I…ah…just had cramp in my arm,” I reply. I look up at the clock. 11:55. “Let’s knock off a couple of minutes early today. Sound good?”

I didn’t even get a reply. The teenagers burst into conversation with each other as they shut their books and head for the door. I close it after the last student leaves. I sit down at the desk and think. I’ve had it. I am done being out in the freezing cold, watching people get blown up with hand grenades, and now, being frigging shot with an arrow! This story ends today. Mark my words you hack writer, this story ends today. If you are too dumb to come up with one, then I’ll have to do it for you.

Think for a second. What type of stories does he like? I end up in a lot of action type scenarios. In fact almost all are some type of war or battle story. But I’m a teacher today. This arrogant idiot isn’t trying to make a Good Will Hunting or Dead Poet’s Society type story, is he? He can’t possible think he has the talent to pull something like that off. I’m going to have to turn this into some type of action situation. That seems to be his comfort zone.

I exit the school and start walking down the street. I see a man walking towards me. There is nothing special about him, but I decide he is going to be my lead-in to start the story. I start to hum the theme to James Bond. “Dum da dum dum dum da dum dum dum”. I watch as the man morphs into a dark, custom made suit. His build suddenly becomes very athletic. His average looking face changes into incredibly handsome features. The dumb writer’s getting it, I think, just keep throwing the hints out and see if the lug can follow along.

I make eye contact with the man. As our gaze connects, he suddenly reaches back and grabs onto his neck. His face winces in pain and he falls over. I rush to him. I can see a small dart protruding from just under his right ear. Hurt? Try a full sized arrow, I think. I snap my attention back to the moment. I kneel down beside him and ask him if he’s okay? He slips a small metallic disk into my hand.

“Get this to agent Z. He’ll know what to do,” he says before he dies on the sidewalk.

As I look at the disk in my hand, I notice the world is starting to go blurry. Oh no. He’s out of ideas again. I’m losing him! I quickly search the spy’s pockets. I find a cell phone, a wallet, and a matchbook. Suddenly the world becomes clearer again. Good. I gave him some options on where to go. I have to keep driving this story if I am going to get him to finally finish something. Before I go, I decide to check under his arm. Bingo! There it is. That small but powerful Walther PPK. This is crazy I think, but pocket the tiny handgun anyway. I slip into the crowd that is starting to form and make my way to the side of the street. I hold my hand out for a taxi and jump into the first one that stops.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

I look at the matchbook. It has an advertisement for the Village Lounge club on Delaire Street on its cover. When I open it up, I see that “1:00” is written on inside. My watch says 12:45.

“Village Lounge club and I’m running late,” I answer.

“No worries there!” The driver hits the gas and we go flying into traffic, weaving around cars and any other obstacles that pop up. We make it to the club in just under 15 minutes. “Twenty bucks”, the driver says.

I reach into my pocket to pay him. What am I doing, I think? I decide to go through the wallet I just “liberated”. Full of cash. May as well use his! I take out a few bills and pass them to the driver.

“Thanks,” I yell as I get out of the car. I look up at the sign. Big round letters spell out The Village Lounge in purple neon. There is a small awning over the front door. I enter. The lights are turned down low. A few people are milling around a stage near the back getting ready to play a set. I can see a small drum kit and a couple of musicians holding horns. It figures the writer would like jazz. What a tool he must be. I sit on a stool at the bar.

“What’ll it be?” asks the bartender. He is well adorned in a tuxedo minus the jacket.

“Martini,” I answer. I wait a second for the inevitable. The “shaken not stirred part” does not come out of my mouth. This is the first time this guy has avoided using a cliché in his life. Is he getting to be a better writer or maybe he’s never heard it? What an uncultured piece of crap. I’m a fictional character and I know it for god’s sake.

The bartender sets the martini down in front of me. I pay using the borrowed wallet again. I take a sip and glance at my watch. 1:03. The front door swings open. A man in a tailored suit enters. He takes off his dark coloured fedora and looks around the room. I nod to him and turn back to the bar. He sits on the stool beside me.

“Agent Z, I presume?”

“Call me Slade,” he replies.

“I have something for you,” I say as I slip the disk across the bar.

“That’s good. Good,” he says as he covers the disk with his hand and covertly slips it into his pocket. “We’re not done yet though. You still need to stop the sale of uranium. Our proxy has given your description and information to the seller. You need to present yourself as the buyer before the real one can get there. Understood?” He gets up and walks through a door at the back of the bar before I can even answer.

Silence. I am just sitting there. Not good, I think. I need to do something before dummy hits the “clear screen” button. I take out the cell phone and place it very noticeably on the bar. Sure enough, it starts to ring.

“Hello?” I say.

“Henry Alan Airport. One hour.” The line goes dead.

I push the rest of my drink towards the bartender and get up to leave. I walk out onto the sidewalk. I see a beautiful, silver coloured Aston Martin parked along the side of the road. Its big chrome bumper and grill shine in the sunlight. The round, bubble like features of the car are astonishing. No way, I think. I reach into my pocket and feel a set of keys there. I take back everything negative I have said about this guy. Cliché? Sure. But it’s a frigging Aston Martin! I am nominating this glorified typist for a Pulitzer Prize for this gift he just gave me.

I slide into the driver’s seat. The soft leather feels amazing. I start the car up and pull into traffic. Just a small tap on the accelerator makes the car shoot forward. I suddenly realize that I have no idea where I am going. Whatever. Who cares? Aston Martin, baby! I make a few turns and just enjoy the feel of the car on the road. I look up and there it is. “Henry Alan Airport – exit in 200 metres”. I just have to keep this inattentive “litterateur” wannabe engaged for a few more pages. A few more pages and the story can end. Then I will have my forever home!

I take the exit and follow the road to the airport. As I turn onto the property, I see that the fenced gate is open at the end of the laneway leading to the runway. There is a white Gulfstream jet parked on the taxiway with its stairs folded down. I drive up slowly and park beside the plane. As I exit the vehicle, two men walk down the stairs. The man in the lead is in his 60’s. He is wearing an impeccable suit. His oversized cufflinks and rings sparkle, displaying his massive wealth. A muscular goon stands behind him. His suit is stretched to its limits as it tries to cover his massive build. He is holding a metal brief case.

“Do you have the money?” asks the older man in a noticeable Eastern European accent.  

I stare at him for a minute and suddenly feel a weight on my right side. I look down and see that I am carrying a brown leather brief case.

“Of course,” I say and hand over the case. As I do, “Lurch” steps forward and hands me the metal one.

“Good doing business with you, Mr.….?”

Don’t do it. For the love of god don’t say it, I plead internally.

“Mr. … Smith,” I respond feeling a wave of relief that he didn’t type what I thought he would type.

“Well, Mr. Smith, have a good day.”

He turns to get back onto the plane. As he does a convoy of three large, black SUVs enter the gate and drive towards the plane. The typecast villain turns and looks suspiciously at me. I smile and draw the Walther PPK from my pocket. I fire off a couple of rounds in the direction of the gangster and his henchman. They ricochet harmlessly off the side the plane. I dive into the Aston Martin and hit the gas. The convoy of vehicles picks up speed and begins to give chase. I peel out of the gate and drift the car about 90 degrees onto the street. The SUVs stay close behind. I look down and see a button with what appears to be water drips on it with a tire in an awkward direction. I press the button. I look in the rear view mirror and see a stream of black liquid shoot out of the back of my car onto the road. The lead SUV hits the oil slick dead on. It begins to go into a spin and flies off the road crashing into a pole. The other two vehicles pass by the slick on either side and remain in pursuit.

I make a few quick turns but the SUVs stay with me. Both have rolled down their windows and are firing at me with submachine guns. I look down at the Aston’s controls again. I notice one with images of nails on it. I press it and look back in the mirror. I can see small metal objects bouncing onto the road. As one the SUVs drives over the debris, I can hear a loud BANG and see one of its tires explode and deflate. It skids off the road as well. The last SUV is unaffected.

I am running out of options. I need this writer to come up with something. Do your job! Finish the story! Suddenly, I can hear the “whoop whoop” sound of helicopter blades. As I race down a rural highway after fleeing the city streets, I see a black coloured helicopter flying low behind us. I can’t outrun that, I think. As it closes the distance, I can see missiles fire simultaneously from tubes on both the right and left side of the landing skids. The missiles slam into the back of the last SUV. I see a large ball of fire as the SUV is forced into the air. Its nose comes crashing down first crumpling the engine compartment. The rest is swallowed in flames.

The helicopter flies over top of me passing my car’s roof by just a few metres. It gains a little altitude before turning and facing me. I hit the brakes hard. The helicopter lands on the middle of the road. A friendly looking older man with grey hair exits the passenger section of the chopper behind the pilot. He approaches me with a smile. I exit the vehicle and walk up to meet him.

“Do you have the uranium?” he asks in a very proper English accent.  I look down and notice I am holding the metal case. I hand it to him. “Excellent work, Mr. Smith. You have saved the world again!” He takes the case and walks back to the helicopter. “Enjoy your well deserved vacation,” he yells over his shoulder as he boards the helicopter. The rotors quicken and it lifts off and flies away.

I walk back towards the Aston Martin feeling a sense of completion. I won! I beat this stupid writer. The story is done and now I have a place to rest forever. I look in the passenger seat of the car and see a beautiful woman sitting there smiling at me. She is wearing a gorgeous evening dress and her hair looks like five stylists have been working on it for the last ten hours. I have never seen a woman so stunning.

I smile as I approach the car. Suddenly, I hear the sound of crumpling paper. I feel the sensation of being thrown through the air before landing in some metallic object that causes me to bounce around a few times before resting on its base. What the hell is going on?

THUNK!

I am lying on my back staring up at a grey autumn sky. I can feel the wet ground on my back. I look down at my body and see an arrow embedded in my right shoulder. All I can do is yell out, “You have got to be kidding me!”