Mysterious secret-agent mission…



GUN 2013

Chapter 4


Another e-mail by high-tech magic greets me this morn. It’s another one from the president. This one is written in code. Alarms sound forth in my cobwebbed mind as mine eyes decipher the call of a new secret-agent mission.

My delicious wanton wife, Patriotism, has returned home from endless nights of frolic with the lucky black feller. My true love now demands I kneel before her in voluntary submissive worship.

I tidy up the mattress in the corner beneath the book shelves in Spin & Marty’s home office. I tidy it up for the dogs who follow Spin from room to room every day. When the artist parks infront of the computer in here the dogs like to lay on this mattress ~ sometimes all four of them. I only worry about the little dirty one. I’ve been sleeping on it almost all winter when the dogs are upstairs at night. I am only another stray given shelter from the cruel cruel world by the benevolent Spin & Marty. Marty is presently teaching first grade in a public elementary school.  These fine folks’ house, in an undisclosed location, is ruled by cats and dogs more so than by they, the mortgage slayers. These animals are job security for me, or were, because I do, or did, all the sweeping.

The White House’s favorite secret agent laces up his boots and casts his meager possessions into his rucksack, dons this burden upon his back, in a flash is out the front-room door. The pace has finally picked up. I am on the roller coaster again. Life is an adventure.  I coyly slip through the deep tangy shadows of early morn, having risen to go forth duty-bound, before the sun opens his fiery eyes.

The boulevard, usually choked with traffic, is relatively quiet. A few homeless stir in this dark world. A car slowly tools thru a green light. The traffic light for me remains red. I walk thru it, head for the trolley maybe a mile away.

I am too old for this. A hike less than a mile up the street unravels my weak physical condition. At a donut shop I request a carmel-frosting-covered long john & a hot cup of coffee ~ pay for it with social-security money ~ sit down next to a Mexican.

Yours truly will be in Prescott by nightfall.

~ by Rawclyde!




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