the morning when I come to pick you up.”
“Eggs, scrambled eggs. Wiz ze hot sauce on side.”
“Alright. Well enjoy dying Uri. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Agent Clemons waved good-bye to Uri Grigoriyevich for the last time. On his way out he took Agent Packer aside and instructed him not to let Uri anywhere near a computer under any circumstances and to tell the midnight shift agents the same. The fed smiled and nodded and wished his superior a good night’s rest before the big day.
…
There was a new FBI man who came at midnight. Uri did not recognize him from any of the other teams that had been assigned to guard him. Upon his arrival Agent Packer and his partner questioned the man. Who was he? Why was he here? Why they weren’t notified of the switch?
Apparently the FBI man was a replacement for another FBI man who had called in sick that morning. No other arrangements could be made in time. Because Agent Packer and his partner knew the other man they did not object too hard, and after a few minutes they departed, wishing Uri a sardonic good night’s sleep on the way out.
Once they were gone the new FBI agent walked over to where Uri was sitting in the corner, chain-smoking cigarettes and pretending to listen to an NPR broadcast on the radio. He had a large American face that had age lines etched from the corners of his mouth, extending out to the rough-hewn plains of his cheeks. His eyes were green and they twinkled when he offered his hand to shake.
“Uri Grigory… GrigoWhatIsIt… hell I’ll just call ya Uri. My name is Agent Winstone. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Absently Uri reached out and shook Agent Winstone’s hand. He was hypnotized by the green of his eyes and the blistering red cheeks covered in stubble that to Uri’s mind resembled cacti growing in an inhospitable stretch of the Sonora desert.
“You are going to kill me.”
The new FBI man chuckled awkwardly and looked at his partner.
“He says that to everybody he meets. Going on a month now.”
“Why are you here to kill me? Who has sent you to do zis?”
The other agent who had spent six of the last twelve weeks keeping a very close eye on Uri sighed and apologized to his colleague.
“He’s nuts. Now he’s going to tell you about his big covert CIA depopulation theory.”
Uri’s mind was almost going so fast that his lips could barely keep up. He fidgeted in the seat, eyes watering from the smoke.
“Is it Langley? Zey know zat I know about the chemtrails. Zat’s it isn’t it? Or the flouride in ze water supply, zey know zat I know and so zey must be rid of me.”
For a while Agent Winstone tried to explain that he was not part of some shady international cabal of drug-and-gun-runners and only had Uri’s best interests at heart. He had been working with the Bureau for eight years and had never let anything happen to a witness under his charge, but it was no use. Uri Grigoriyevich made up his mind that Agent Winstone had been ushered forth from some seedy government orifice to slay him and once his mind was made up there was virtually no changing it.
Agent Winstone grew tired of trying to calm Uri down after a few minutes and settled in on one of the twin beds. He kicked off his shoes and sat half up with his legs splayed out and hands resting behind his head. Uri noticed a run in one of Agent Winstone’s black socks. It went from the big toe almost all the way down to the heel.
“You mind if I put something on?”
The imperfection in the FBI agent’s sock had so absorbed Uri that he didn’t notice the question was put to him. None of the other agents who were assigned to guard Uri ever had a stain or a blemish on their clothes. It struck him as incredibly odd.
“Uri. You mind?”
The witness shook himself out of his daze and looked at Agent Winstone.
“Eh?’
He was holding the remote for the TV
“Eggs, scrambled eggs. Wiz ze hot sauce on side.”
“Alright. Well enjoy dying Uri. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Agent Clemons waved good-bye to Uri Grigoriyevich for the last time. On his way out he took Agent Packer aside and instructed him not to let Uri anywhere near a computer under any circumstances and to tell the midnight shift agents the same. The fed smiled and nodded and wished his superior a good night’s rest before the big day.
…
There was a new FBI man who came at midnight. Uri did not recognize him from any of the other teams that had been assigned to guard him. Upon his arrival Agent Packer and his partner questioned the man. Who was he? Why was he here? Why they weren’t notified of the switch?
Apparently the FBI man was a replacement for another FBI man who had called in sick that morning. No other arrangements could be made in time. Because Agent Packer and his partner knew the other man they did not object too hard, and after a few minutes they departed, wishing Uri a sardonic good night’s sleep on the way out.
Once they were gone the new FBI agent walked over to where Uri was sitting in the corner, chain-smoking cigarettes and pretending to listen to an NPR broadcast on the radio. He had a large American face that had age lines etched from the corners of his mouth, extending out to the rough-hewn plains of his cheeks. His eyes were green and they twinkled when he offered his hand to shake.
“Uri Grigory… GrigoWhatIsIt… hell I’ll just call ya Uri. My name is Agent Winstone. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Absently Uri reached out and shook Agent Winstone’s hand. He was hypnotized by the green of his eyes and the blistering red cheeks covered in stubble that to Uri’s mind resembled cacti growing in an inhospitable stretch of the Sonora desert.
“You are going to kill me.”
The new FBI man chuckled awkwardly and looked at his partner.
“He says that to everybody he meets. Going on a month now.”
“Why are you here to kill me? Who has sent you to do zis?”
The other agent who had spent six of the last twelve weeks keeping a very close eye on Uri sighed and apologized to his colleague.
“He’s nuts. Now he’s going to tell you about his big covert CIA depopulation theory.”
Uri’s mind was almost going so fast that his lips could barely keep up. He fidgeted in the seat, eyes watering from the smoke.
“Is it Langley? Zey know zat I know about the chemtrails. Zat’s it isn’t it? Or the flouride in ze water supply, zey know zat I know and so zey must be rid of me.”
For a while Agent Winstone tried to explain that he was not part of some shady international cabal of drug-and-gun-runners and only had Uri’s best interests at heart. He had been working with the Bureau for eight years and had never let anything happen to a witness under his charge, but it was no use. Uri Grigoriyevich made up his mind that Agent Winstone had been ushered forth from some seedy government orifice to slay him and once his mind was made up there was virtually no changing it.
Agent Winstone grew tired of trying to calm Uri down after a few minutes and settled in on one of the twin beds. He kicked off his shoes and sat half up with his legs splayed out and hands resting behind his head. Uri noticed a run in one of Agent Winstone’s black socks. It went from the big toe almost all the way down to the heel.
“You mind if I put something on?”
The imperfection in the FBI agent’s sock had so absorbed Uri that he didn’t notice the question was put to him. None of the other agents who were assigned to guard Uri ever had a stain or a blemish on their clothes. It struck him as incredibly odd.
“Uri. You mind?”
The witness shook himself out of his daze and looked at Agent Winstone.
“Eh?’
He was holding the remote for the TV
Similar Books
Big Shot
Joanna Wayne
The Silver Falcon
Evelyn Anthony
Eureka
Jim Lehrer
Ruined
Scott Hildreth
Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death
Sheila Connolly
Seeds of Rebellion
Brandon Mull
The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)
Kirsten Weiss
Specimen 313
Jeff Strand
Eejit: A Tale of the Final Fall of Man
Andrew Hindle
Blue
Lisa Glass