No One Wants Me to Speak At Career Day
If I seem a little off today, it's only because I haven’t eaten for a month, I've got a poison dart lodged in my pinkie toe, and lice have wiggled their way so deep into my central nervous system that I can’t even remember what sex I am anymore. It turns out being an international master spy, um, kinda sucks.
I had big dreams once. You know that guy in the history books who had big dreams? Mike something? Yeah. That was nothing. Now, twenty-five years later, here I am, in some town---I’m gonna say Dallas, but who the hell knows at this point---stuck blogging like some high school loser as a ruse to temporarily deflect the lethal cat-and-mouse tactics of a Cantonese supervillain I’ll refer to only as Mr. Pan.
He’s close. I can feel it. Three years ago, even two, I could have counted on my beloved Jenny Machete to sneak me over the Connecticut border in the trunk of her Dodge Durango, her delicate, pearly white hands scattering mortar fire over the cowering heads of Pan’s one-eyed, bikini-clad henchmen---but they killed her, those monsters!
(Well, they didn't kill her, but she's managing a Starbuck's now, so I am so over her.)
It’s just me fighting this dirty little war now. Even Central Control won’t have anything to do with me. They say I’ve turned. They say the job has made me bitter. They say I’m an out-of-control renegade whose only agenda is danger and whose only mistress is revenge.
You know what I say to that? Duh! You’d be edgy too if Central Control kept taking out six percent of your paycheck for maintenance of their so-called 'on-site' fitness center, which is all the way across our secret compound, and God forbid anyone but Agent Firescout or Silent Dagger get to use the thigh machine or change the radio station!
I swear to god, the James Bond movies are completely inaccurate. (Except Moonraker, and any part where they’re chasing each other on skis---for some reason I’m always having to do that.)
I should go. Midnight soon approaches---and the time of killing is at hand.
(Unless tonight's when we set our blocks back. Because then I have another hour before the time of killing. But I think I lose an hour's sleep because of that, which seems kind of unfair.)
Well, I appreciate you all letting me use the blog for my intricate deception. If you ever need, like, a cheap radiator flush done, I might be able to talk to my brother-in-law; he's a bit of a pedophile, but he's really good.