literature

Would You Like Spies With That?

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Damon tried to look inconspicuous in the crowded fast-food restaurant as he rummaged through his pockets. He didn't have much trouble blending into a crowd—that was part of the job description, after all—but he didn't want anyone wondering why that man sitting all by himself in the corner was slowly beginning to panic.

Up until now, the job had been going so smoothly. Damon had taken his employers' advice and gone plainclothes for this mission, dressing in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans quite unlike the spiffy uniforms most mooks would wear in those spy films he loved as a kid. He had memorized the street corner he was to deliver the intelligence at. He had been so careful not to let anyone know that the young, stubbled man in his late twenties was really part of a massive organization bent on toppling the leading governments of the free world one by one.

Good God, he thought upon hitting this realization for roughly the nineteenth time in his life, Why do I work for these people again? His hand brushed against his wallet, and, for roughly the nineteenth time in his life, he remembered the exact reason he took on this job.

Oh right, he thought. Bills. His mind back on track, he mentally retraced his steps. He had left his house, taken the bus downtown, and had just arrived at that street corner when his stomach had grumbled in hunger. With just 40 minutes left, this chintzy little eatery was the only place he could grab a quick meal and still deliver that information in time.

Damon was never too fond of this kind of dining experience. The food was okay, but the atmosphere left much to be desired. For one thing, nine times out of ten, about half of the empty tables would be littered with dirty wrappers, drink spills, or even a cold, stray fry or two. The air reeked of fryer grease, the floor was unnervingly sticky, and there was a smelly, hairy homeless man sleeping near one of the doors outside.

And then there was the lunchtime crowd; all of these problems wouldn't have seemed so bad if it weren't for the people surrounding him, gabbing away loudly and obnoxiously as they mowed through their meals. Much of the loud conversation was coming from a group of rowdy, college-aged men, possibly frat boys judging from the Greek letters on one boy's shirt. A pair of middle-aged women in loud, tacky clothing  seemed to be trying to match their decibel levels with every minute of their loud laughter and gossip. Most noticeable were a pair of shrieking children running around with their shiny new toys, ignoring their parents' pleas to sit down and eat.

And yet, despite all those drawbacks, here Damon sat at the smallest, most uncomfortable booth, in the restaurant, having just finished off a cheeseburger and a packet of fries with 15 minutes left on his watch. He would have gladly left quickly and quietly if it weren't for one little detail—the flash drive that held that crucial intelligence was missing from the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

Dammit, he thought, If only they hadn't caught on. If only we weren't being monitored. We probably could've just emailed those files and I wouldn't be stuck here completely and utterly—

His thoughts were interrupted by a small boy, no older than 7 and wearing a baggy turtleneck, poking him in the arm.

"What?!" he said, jerking in surprise. The kid shrunk back a little, clutching the little plastic toy in his hands tighter.

"Excuse me, sir" he mumbled, "I'm lookin' for my crayons. My sister took 'em and she ran away and she came back and said she hid 'em. Just wanted to know if you saw a box of crayons anywhere..."

Damon sighed. "I'm sorry, kid, I haven't seen your crayons." he said, "But trust me, I know how you're feeling. Hope you find 'em."

The kid ran off and Damon continued to rummage. He pondered about how his co-workers' worst days usually involved at least one federal agent or two. At least he could take comfort in the fact that it couldn't possibly get any worse.

---

Agent Burke had been a devoted secret agent for decades. He had dutifully served his agency and his country in every task he'd been assigned to, in every dangerous undercover mission possible. He had narrowly avoided being caught a few times, but had always escaped in one piece. In addition, he was a black belt in several martial arts, fluent in five languages, a master of disguise, and he could recite the entire works of Shakespeare from memory.

But hey, even he craved a burger now and then.

He had meant to spend the day investigating claims of a large, underground organization that was planning some major attack on several governments of the world, and he had meant to start with a mole's claim that an agent was going to be at a particular corner downtown, carrying crucial information stolen from the US government in a little flash drive. Apparently they had just noticed that their emails were being monitored.

However, Burke had decided, just when he was almost at the corner said rendez-vous was supposed to be at, that he could really go for some lunch. Normally, he'd try to resist his instinct to grab a burger, as his wife was constantly rattling off the latest study she'd read about how fast food was horrible and unhealthy (never knowing the danger he survived on a regular basis). But it was the closest and fastest option, so why not?

Burke stepped into the restaurant and briefly wondered if he should have waited until later. The place seemed crowded with the usual throng of lunchtime customers, and most of the seats were full. His stomach growled, urging him forward.

He didn't stand out that much from the crowd. He was a fairly average-looking older man, with a head of light gray, almost white, hair and a full mustache. The only thing that stood out about him was the fact that he was surprisingly shorter than most people. As he approached the cashier, he gave a polite smile, which she didn't return.

"A number one, small, with fries and a Coke, please." he said. The cashier tapped in his order and mumbled out the total, keeping the same glazed expression on her face.

As Burke pulled out his credit card, he looked around for just one empty spot in the whole restaurant. The closest to an empty seat he could see was half a booth all the way in a corner at the other end of the restaurant. The other half was occupied by a young man in an old sweatshirt who seemed to be fidgeting constantly.

Perhaps he'd be willing to share, he thought.

Within minutes, Burke had his delicious-smelling meal handed to him on a plastic tray, and he began to approach the young man, keeping up his smile and cheerful demeanor.

Damon, meanwhile, had emptied the contents of his pockets onto his lap, shifting occasionally so no one would see. He probably had no reason to worry, however—despite the fact that he had thousands of dollars worth of sophisticated technology in his lap, all of his gadgets were disguised as perfectly innocuous items.

I've got my lockpick, he thought, touching the little teddy bear keychain on his keyring, my camera (sunglasses), my tracking devices (tin of mints), my knockout gas (inhaler), my cell phone (cell phone), and my wallet. That flash drive is the only thing that's missing.

"Mind if I join you?" asked Burke as he approached Damon's table.

Damon looked up and nearly froze. Last week, he'd been informed by a mole the identities of several federal agents. The man he was looking at was one of the most deceptively dangerous, crafty secret agents any enemy of the state could ever meet. And he was cheerily asking to sit down and eat lunch with him.

Don't blow your cover, Damon thought. Your job is in the balance here. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm...

"Um, sure, go ahead" he answered, forcing a weak smile. He was eating with the enemy on what was already the worst day of his life. The only comfort he could take was that he was much shorter than Damon had imagined.

Burke noticed, but he didn't let on. This young man seemed nervous in his presence. Funny, he thought, most people don't act that way until after I stop being nice and polite. Something's off about this fellow...

Damon glanced at his watch. 10 minutes left. He desperately tried to think of where the flash drive could be.

I felt it in my pocket when I got here, he thought. It didn't leave the restaurant, so I must've dropped it inside. So, in that case, where...

That's when Damon saw it. The little boy from earlier triumphantly pulled out a box of crayons from a potted plant near the entrance. He then bent down with a curious look on his face and picked up something small and black.

There it is! Damon thought, restraining himself from shouting it out loud. He picked his tray up and tried to casually walk away.

"Well, now, don't be a stranger," Burke said, smiling through his teeth, "Why don't we talk a little? What's your name, son?"

"Um, sorry," Damon said, worried more and more about his cover being blown, "I really gotta go." He watched as the kid sat back down at his family's table just a few feet away, fiddling with the drive.

Burke noticed, too. The gears in his head began turning as he put the pieces together, and the smile on his face became more genuine as he realized his job had gotten a lot easier. A shame he'd have to abandon his burger, though.

Damon, meanwhile, had just approached the table where the kid's family was. The boy was seated next to a pouting, bored-looking girl, who was picking at her chicken nuggets, and a man and a woman, presumably the two kids' parents.

"Hey, kid?" he asked, "I dropped that drive earlier, and it's really important. Can I have that back, please?"

"Okay!" the little boy said. Just as he was about to hand over the drive to Damon, the little girl, a smirk on her face, snatched it and threw it across the room.

"Ava!" the children's mother exclaimed, then turned to Damon, "I'm so sorry, sir, I don't know what's gotten into her today, she doesn't normally act out like this in public..."

"HEY!" a large, booming voice shouted from the other end of the room. Damon turned to see a tall, heavset man squirming out of his booth. He lumbered over the crowd as he  slowly glared all around the room. With one hand, he adjusted the dirty trucker cap on his head, and with the other he held up the flash drive between his massive thumb and index finger.

"Whose is this?!" he asked, a scowl on his face.

"Um, that would be mine." Damon weakly replied. Well, that's it, he thought, I'm dead. Either this guy's going to kill me, or my superiors are.

"Watch where you throw your crap, idiot!" the big guy snarled, as he pocketed the drive.  Damon gave a small gasp.

"Sir, I really need that-"

"Should've thought of that before ya hit me." Before the man turned back to his booth, he gave a quick nod to Damon and tapped the side of his head three times.

The signal! Damon thought, as all the fear rushed out of him like air out of a balloon. Surely, this was the agent he was supposed to meet.

So, he thought, they didn't mean I was supposed to literally meet him at that corner, but at this building. Either that, or both of us being here's just a coincidence.

"That's it! That's the signal! I knew they were here!" shouted the little girl.

"Oh, nice one, Ava," the boy said, "First you hide my paralysis darts, and now you blow our cover."

"We're so fired for this..." the supposed father of this questionable family groaned, his hand on his forehead.

Burke rolled his eyes. Oh, great, he thought, another team from one of those "trendy" family agencies.

"Looks like our cover's blown, too." the big guy said, pulling a pistol from seemingly out of nowhere. Within seconds, several other restaurant patrons, the cashier, and the bum from outside (who had just walked in) had all drawn weapons of varying size and shape, and they were closing in on the agents.

"Any last words before we take you and all these witnesses out?" the cashier asked, a sneer spreading across her face as she steadied her revolver.

"I've got a few!" another voice shouted. Everyone turned towards the source of the voice. The frat boys faced the crowd of spies with their own arsenal of guns drawn and ready, their rowdiness replaced with steely glares of determination and a badge.

"How about," one of them said, "'By order of the FBI, you're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit terrorism'?" Upon hearing these words, the rest of the restaurant staff behind the counter leapt into action, whipping out badges and guns, aiming their weapons at any enemy they could find.

The only people left in the entire restaurant who didn't have weapons drawn were Damon, Burke and the two middle-aged ladies. Damon, unable to move any further towards the trash due to a gun being aimed at him, turned his head towards the women.

"Let me guess." he said, "CIA? FBI? One of us?"

"No." said one of the women.

"Congratulations on being the only civilians here today."

"Actually," the other woman said, her voice becoming more and more heavily accented as she spoke, "Ve are agents from—how you say—Russian Foreign Intelligence Service." Both she and her partner drew their own surprisingly huge guns from their tacky little handbags.

"Oh," muttered Damon, "Fantastic."

Suddenly, a shot rang out from the direction of the kitchen. On cue, everyone started firing at each other and darting around the restaurant.

I think that's my cue to get out of here, Damon thought, dropping his tray. He tried to dodge people and bullets as he looked for a way to the door. Unfortunately, the only sure way he could get out without getting shot at was also the grossest way — he had to crawl onto the floor.

Damon cringed as he ducked down and set his hands on the cold, sticky tiled floor. The chaos above him seemed almost inconsequential as he crawled towards the door, thinking about all the germs and diseases he must be picking up just from one square inch of the tile.

When I get back home, he thought, I'm going to need a long, hot shower. And lots of hand sanitizer, just to be safe.

As he approached the door, the cashier fell down next to him, a crayon-shaped dart stuck in her neck. Damon stared for a second before snapping out of it and focusing back on his escape. As silently as possible, Damon opened the door and snuck out. Once outside of the restaurant, he stood up and began sprinting down the block, searching for the nearest bus stop.

Meanwhile, Burke was also making his way out of the restaurant, jerking in every direction as the bullets whizzed past. A few of them grazed his jacket, leaving very noticeable rips in the sleeves.

If only I were just ten years younger, he thought, trying to catch his breath as he crawled underneath a table for cover.

Just then, he felt something under his foot. Moving his shoe aside, he noticed a familiar piece of shiny black plastic.

"Ah. There you are," he muttered, picking up the flash drive. He put it in his pocket as he crawled out from under the table. He noticed a napkin holder whiz past him, crashing into the nearest window.

They're running out of bullets already? he thought, What are they teaching the young people these days?

Burke continued his walk to the door, opening it just as a cash register came clattering to the ground behind him. He double-checked his pocket to make sure the drive was still there, and closed the door behind him just as the sound of hot oil sizzling filled the air.

As he walked towards his car in the parking lot, Burke heard a faint sound of sirens in the distance, getting steadily louder. He shrugged, and unlocked his car doors.

Perhaps I'll just go home for lunch, he thought.

---

Damon stepped into the office, adjusting the tie on his suit. Sitting at the other end of the room, at an ornately-decorated desk, was a vaguely male figure partially obscured by shadows. He drummed his pale, bony fingers at his desk as Damon walked in.

He should really get better lighting in this room, Damon thought. How does he get any work done in the dark?

"Is there something you want, Damon?" the figure asked, snapping Damon out of his thoughts.

"Yes, sir," Damon replied, trying not to stammer, "You see, after yesterday—"

"I already told you, I'm not going to fire you over that. There were too many circumstances beyond anyone's control.

"I know, but—"

"Besides, you weren't the idiot who lost the drive. I see no reason to fire you when you only did what I asked."

"Actually, I was just wondering...could I possibly get demoted to an office job?"
I wrote this as my final in my Creative Writing class in the spring of 2011. I'll probably put up some of the other stuff I wrote for that class...
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