Spy Who Came Out of the Temperate Weather (With 90 Percent Chance of Precipitation)

Let me introduce myself.

Zing!

I am Special Agent Rex Roget.

Bazing!

I am in the middle of a shootout with enemy agents.

Baringa!

This is my fifty-ninth case in which I somehow manage to solve the problem without getting my head blown off.  

Crrumpa! 

I do not know what they were thinking when they invented that last onomatopoeia.

Chabunka!

Or that one. Anyway, my name is famous and often mispronounced which really makes me angry.  Roget, like the Thesaurus which makes my name easy to pronounce.  Right?  Argh, if only it was that simple. Excuse me. 

“You over there, come out with your hands up.” I yell at some shady guys by the dumpster.

“Boss, I’ll cover you.” Officer Yamashima tells me with her gun drawn.

“Very good.” I run and squat behind a car.  I hear the zing of bullets overhead. I pull out my Glock and fire off a few rounds just to let them know I mean business.

“I’m hit!” One of the bad guys shouts.

“That’s it.  We give.” Shouts the second bad guy.  When I look over the hood of the car I was hiding behind, I see one bad guy on the ground and the other with his hands held high in the air. Officer Yamashima is racing toward them wrapping up yet another Roget case.  Just when it looked as though the planet was in peril, I was able to bring justice to the unjust, right to those who were in the wrong and a happy ending as I have in my other fifty-eight cases.  When the bad guys come around, I will stop them cold in their tracks.  I am dependable that way.  I love being a private eye.  

“Another Agent Roget thriller is done.” I gloat sitting at my laptop.  I have written over fifty pulp fiction stories about this agent.  Hollywood has done three movies starring Robert Downy Jr., but during contract negotiations with his agent, he decided he was done with Agent Roget.  I can’t say I blame him, because I have run out of fresh ideas for him.  To be honest, I haven’t had a fresh idea since book number forty.  Who am I kidding, I haven’t had any fresh ideas since episode number twenty.  What you will be reading is a rehash of several of my previous books.  I do not know how Stephen King does it to tell you the truth.

“Percy, I have your lunch.” Mrs. Gibson begins her walk up to my office on the second floor of my famous log cabin in the middle of the Minnesota woods near one of their ten thousand lakes.  

“Thank you, Mrs. Gibson, just set it on the table over there.” I point.

“Yes Percy.” She does as I have requested, “I hope you don’t mind, but the weather is looking a bit rough out there.  I was wondering if you’d mind if I left a little early.”

“Nope, we are all caught up.” I nod.

“Bless ya sir.” She smiles as she puts on her overcoat that was hanging on the hook on the wall.

“It does look like quite a storm is coming in from the north.” I peer out the window and see the black clouds rumbling across the sky.  January is usually a heavy month for snow up here.       

“If ya need something, please call now.” She shakes a finger at me like my mother did many years ago.

“I should be fine, Emma.” I pat her on the arm of her coat as she slips into her boots.  There is about a foot of snow already on the ground with the promise of another foot on the way and since my cabin is isolated, it is a good idea that Emma Gibson leaves early today.  

I will most likely sit in my easy chair in front of the fireplace and read some Walt Whitman before I drift off into a much-needed nap.  From my office, I watch Emma pull out of my unshoveled driveway before turning onto the gravel road, now covered with snow and disappearing into the thick spruce woods.

Alone at last. I am not hungry, so I leave the tray that she had set on my table.  I pick up the tray and deposit it in the kitchen after descending the steep stairs.

My cabin is already cozy from the blazing fire she had started when she first arrived over two hours ago.  I kicked my shoes off and leaned back in my La-Z-Boy and took my cell phone out of my pocket where I had my eBook of Whitman poetry.   First, I checked my texts and saw that Astor had left a text.  Opening the text he has left two words, “CALL ME.”  All caps.  

I know that he has some bad news, but if I don’t call him, he will call me and screw up my day.

“Hey Astor, got your text.” I say before he can say “Hello”

The snow is beginning to fall with big fluffy flakes.

“Hey Percy, I just wanted to let you know that Bridgeport Publishing is not going to publish your next book or number fifty-nine as you call it.” He sounds agitated.

“Why not?” I shrug knowing he won’t see my lackadaisical gesture. 

“They are tired of Rex Roget.  They claim the last two episodes did not sell.” 

“What are they suggesting?” I ask, checking my cubicles as I try not to yawn too loudly.

“They want him to be a spy.” He reports.

“Are you crazy?” I feel that the question really answers itself. “Rex has always been a keen private eye.”

“We both know that, but Anton King, the publisher, happens to crave spy novels like Fleming and le Carre.” His voice has reached it’s highest pitch. “How ‘bout it?” 

“I don’t know if I want to cater to the whims of publishers.” 

“Just this once for me, Astor.” He is pleading which warms me a bit. “We have a chance to get Ben Affleck to play Rex.  Whadda say?”

“Affleck?  He’s as flat as a board.” I huff.

“C’mon.” 

“Alright I will do my best.” I shake my head.

“You are the best writer-”

“Aw cut it, Astor.  I will give it a shot.” I grimace just before I press the red button. 

Putting down my cell phone where I have my Whitman, I march upstairs to my office and open my laptop.  It won’t take much to change a few details changing Rex from a private eye as he has been for over fifty-eight books and into a spy like James Bond.  I must admit the genre is a bit convoluted, but I will add my name to the list of authors of spy novels. 

I open the manuscript and begin to type: “Rex Roget was sitting at a cafe in Vienna when two enemy agents…” 

I smiled as my fingers flew across the keyboard changing the private eye to a lethal spy.

Snow is falling harder now as it does during this time of year.  Silently the snow falls on the spruce trees that surround my isolate cabin 

Rex is making his way through Vienna when I hear a knock at the front door.

“Who the hell could that be?” I grumble as I walk down the steps to answer the door. “Probably some moron who got lost in this snowstorm and…” 

I open the door and standing on my porch is a man dressed in a suit and tie. Though he is dressed in formal attire as the snow continues to land on him, he is a complete stranger to me.

“What’s the big idea?” He asks in a hostile tone.

“And who are you?” I ask, squinting at him as the cold air rushes into my small cabin.

“You know who I am.” He raises an eyebrow as if I am a villain.

“I most certainly do not.” I shake my head.

“You created me.” He pushes by me and walks into the cabin.

“I created you?” It is a question. 

“Yes and until now, I have been quite content being who you made me to be.”  He cocks his head.

“Why are you here?  Did you forget to take your medications?” 

“Very funny, Percy McIntyre.” He coughed to clear his throat.

“I will call someone if I need to.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“My card.” He presented me with a small business card. I read it half amused until it hit me.  The card said, “Rex Roget, Private Eye.”  There was a phone number in small print.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, tossing the card into the fire.

“Apparently it is.” He said in an accusatory voice, “I am no longer a private eye?  I am now a spy.” 

“You are Rex Roget?” I swallowed hard. 

“In the flesh.” He held his chin up, “And you sir have betrayed me.  You have turned me into a spy.  I have never intended to be a spy.   A spy is one who stays in the shadows, hidden, like a coward of which I have never been, I assure you, Percy McIntyre.”

I was flabbergasted by this unexpected encounter with the main protagonist for fifty-eight of my pulp fiction books of which three had become box office hits in the movie theaters.  How could he just walk off the pages and walk into my cabin in the middle of a snowstorm in upper Minnesota?  

“Why have you changed my occupation to spy?” He sat in my La-Z-Boy and folded his hands under his chin. His face was strikingly handsome just like I had written him.  He was dapper like Bond, but from his attitude did not wish to be employed as a spy in his country’s service.  With my chair occupied, I was forced to sit on the stool near the fire I used to stoke the flames.

“It’s a simple thing, you see-”

“It was the money, wasn’t it?  It’s always the money.” He brooded. 

“You don’t understand-”

“Oh but I do, my good man.” He continued to glare at me, “You created me the way I wanted to be and then you changed me without notifying me first.” He was doing his best to shame me.

“It was nothing personal-”

“You must realize that everytime you open that laptop of yours, whatever you put down affects me directly.” He inhaled deeply, “This is what fictional characters go through without the author realizing what they are doing.  For over thirty years, I have faithfully done your bidding.  I have found myself in some pretty tight spots you understand.” 

“And haven’t I always gotten you out of your predicament?” I shrugged.

“Using Machina de Deux? A poor man’s device if ever there was one.” He huffed. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” I scowled.

“What I mean is that thirty years ago you were the young up-and-coming writer.” He looked at me with an expression of pity, “What happened to you, Percy McIntyre? Where did you stray from that dream?”

“I have been published almost as much as Stephen King.” I held up my finger to make a point.

“And he has had a roomful of best sellers.” He stroked his chin, “You?”

“Three movies.” I held up three fingers to emphasize my point.

“Starring Robert Downy Jr.” He scowled, “I bear no resemblance to him.  You wrote me that way.” 

It was true, the character of Rex Roget was a much larger, more substantial figure, but Downy played him like a less robust character.

“I did not complain when he was cast as me, but now this abomination.  I cannot stay silent any longer.” Once again, he crossed his arms across his chest, “I will not be a spy.” 

“You can be a great spy.” I insisted.

“Baahh, rubbish.” He grimaced, “What will you have me do?”

“I will have you save the world from the bad guys.” I answered.  For a moment he seemed to be appeased by the idea.

“It does sound appealing, but I have spent thirty years being the hero of the downtrodden.” He shook his head, “The rewards warmed my heart.  I could see where I made a difference to someone who had lost hope.” 

“What about saving the world?” 

“What about it?” He sat back in my chair.

“How would it feel to save humanity?” 

“I dunno.” He shrugged, “When I find a lost soul, I can see by the expression on the face of the person I have saved, what my effort has yielded. Why after all that, do you wish to change me?” 

“Alright, I’ll be frank with you.” I took a deep breath, “My agent called me and said the publisher said I lack fresh new ideas.” 

“What does that mean?” He asked, leaning forward in my chair.

“It means readers are finding you…boring.” I sighed.

“And whose fault is that?” He asked, peering at me with one accusatory eyebrow raised.

“Mine, I guess.” I sighed again.

Was Rex correct in blaming me for the recent failures.  My books did not sell like they used to.  When I was young and full of energy, I was famous.  For a short time, I was on the A-List and seated with honor in places I frequented, but then at some point, my fortunes began to sag.

It was right around the time my wife Lois passed away from cancer.

That was it.  Her passing drew out my creative soul.  She was my creative soul who was now ten years gone.  I began to struggle to write a decent novel.  

Sometimes, I would see her spirit walking through my cabin.  She had a sorrowful expression on her face as she faded away.  I would call out to her, but by then it was too late. 

“I’m glad we had this talk.” He smiled, “I knew you were a talented writer, but you needed someone to remind you of that.  Do not make me something I was not supposed to be. You tell your agent that Rex Roget is still on top of his game.”

“I will.” I promised as he came to his feet.  He was dashing and filled with good intention as he made his way to the front door. 

“How about Hugh Jackman?” He winked as he put his hand on the doorknob.

“I beg your pardon.” I shook my head.

“I think Hugh Jackman would make a wonderful Rex Roget.” He opened the door.

“Wolverine?” 

“Whatever he is, but I must be going.” He tweaked my nose before turning and vanishing into the falling snow.  

I watched the sky darken as the snow continued to fall.  In the morning the land would be reinvented into a crystal white landscape, but for now I would have one last glimpse of what was to be. After the first movie, I had enough capital to buy this cabin, because I was overwhelmed by the natural beauty of this place.  I was never disappointed. 

I would go back to my laptop and write as I had thirty years ago when I first started. 

“That’s the spirit, Percy.” Lois would kiss me on the cheek as I ascended to my office.