Secret Agent
It is a wonderful day in June, the sun is shining bright in a cloudless sky, and people are milling about the shopping centre tending their buisness, dressed in very little.
Except someone dressed in a suspicious black suit, standing on the street corner. His eyes are moving constantly, judging people passing by. At least it isn't snowing in the middle of the winter, so his pitch black sun glasses are not out of place.
Another man, also dressed in black suit, this one carrying a leather suitcase, walks up to the man with the sun glasses, and extends his hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Sir."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Your contact, Sir."
"What the fuck do you want?"
"I'm here to take you to hq, ir."
"What the fuck are we doing standing here, then?" he asks and starts walking down the street, the other man catching up a moment later.
They walk together in silence for a while.
"You were fucking late," says the sunglass man.
"My apologies. Last minute things to sort out. How long have you been waiting?"
"Who the fuck's asking?"
"Damien Orleban, sir."
"What kind of fucking name is that?"
"Long story. I think it better not to tell it now. May I inquire as to what your name is, sir?"
"Fuck off. For the time being I have no name."
"Whatever you want, sir."
"No, I think you can't meet such a fucking stupid promise," murmurs the man behind his sunglasses.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, just fucking leave it."
"Alright."
"Are we going to fucking walk the entire way to headquarters?"
"No, sir, a car will be waiting in a couple of blocks."
"Fucking great."
They pass a kebab shop. The sunglasses stops abruptly, as does the man wearing them.
"Hey, I'm starving. Want some food?"
Orleban flusters uncertainly. He glances at the man, then aroudn the street. Slowly he seems to make up his mind.
"Sorry, sir, wrong man," he says.
"What?"
"I think we got the wrong man."
"How on earth would you get the wrong man? Think just about anybody would follow you, even lead the way, if they were someone else?"
"I'm awfully sorry, sir, but I was told you were going to say 'fuck' in every sentence."
"Oh yes. I know! Sorry. I'm the right one, though. Fuck!"
Orleban smile. "Bye, sir."
The man runs after him, trying to convince him.
"But I know about the codeword. Fuck. I know I should say fuck every time. But I am hungry! Fucking hungry, pardon me. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Surely you must know I am the right one. The fucking right one!"
"No, sir, I'm afraid not. A professional wouldn't make that kind of mistake."
They reach a car, a door opens, a few words are exchanged between Orleban and people inside. Orleban then gets in, looks knowingly at the sunglasses before closing the door, and the car drives off.
And so his first shot at becoming a secret agent fails.