|
|
|
TGI Spydays
Declined? Impossible. Do they know who I am? Of course they don’t, but that’s just because I do my job well. Here I am, Artemus Swift, the most highly trained operative at The Directive, the most powerful secret government organization in the world, and just look at me. Worrying whether my Citi Card balance is such that I can afford an outing to TGI Fridays. Looking back, I suppose I shouldn’t have had that Brownie Obsession. I guess I should have checked the ol’ credit limit before inviting my arch-nemesis Dr. Jensen Praetorian, of all people, out for dinner. I don’t know why they make us schmooze our vanquished foes. Time was, we just tied them up in their blimp fortress seconds before it crashed and left them for dead. These days though, we’ve got to synergize. Networking, that’s what international espionage is all about now. If your black budget covert organization doesn’t turn a profit, what good is it? None, that’s what. Still, what if my other card is declined too? How awkward is that going to be? Clumsily asking the man who nearly caused the Moon to implode to pick up the check probably won’t go over too well. He’ll most likely get angry and storm off to figure out how to destroy another celestial body. It’s like his favorite pastime. That and model trains. Go figure. Hey, maybe we could skip out on the check. He’s an evil genius. He probably does it all the time. I’m sure we could pull it off. With my host of convenient gadgets and his expertise at being a bastard, it’d be a piece of cake. We’d just need a diversion. Something low-key and subtle like a fireworks display or a helicopter crash. Or both! Then, when the time was right, we’d run out of the restaurant right before it exploded behind us, throwing us forward several hundred feet in a death (and physics)-defying display. Any spy worth his salt has done that at least once. But then again, this place is the only restaurant in the neighborhood that’s even halfway decent. And the Jack Daniels Shrimp may be “to die for”, but I don’t think they mean literally. I guess Operation Cool Explosion is a no-go. How could I have let my credit get this bad? I’ve had to do a lot of spending, it’s true, but I’ve cut back in the past couple months. I’ve been crash-landing less fighter jets recently. I went through the entire of Operation Thanatos without one high-stakes game of baccarat. And, true enough, the Damascus trip was pretty expensive, but that case of illegal weapons-grade plutonium wasn’t going to buy itself off the black market. If I still had access to The Directive’s company credit card, it’d be no problem. But no, that idiot Crash Skillshot had to ruin it for all of us. Seriously, how many Aston Martins does one man need? What was he doing with them, driving them off cliffs? Come to think of it, he probably was. It isn’t a covert assignment for that guy unless he plunges a British-made luxury automobile into the Mediterranean. Ah, here’s the waitress. Declined again, eh? Pity, she had a good tip coming to her before now. Well, no matter, I’m sure Dr. Praetorian will have no problem paying just this once... Wait, what’s that dastard Praetorian doing? He can’t do that! Well, in retrospect, had I known Praetorian would start laughing maniacally, strap on a jet pack, and blast through the window, I wouldn’t have taken him out to dinner in the first place. Seriously, I have a reputation to uphold. How will I be able to enter this establishment again with my head held high? He’s no doubt on his way to plot the demise of Mars. I must stop him, but first I’ve got to orchestrate an elaborate helicopter crash diversion from inside this TGI Fridays. I’ll get you, Jensen Praetorian, billionaire model train enthusiast and madman, someday. Someday.
|
