This one never even got far enough to be honoured with a title. so why am i wasting your time with it, you ask, how obsessively self indulgent am I? Today, yeah; feeling pretty damn self indulgent. It's hot. mosquitoe are biting my ankles. and I'm special X)
Andy and Jess sipped their cocktails as they watched the sun set over Cullen Bay.
"What I really need are minions," Andy mused.
"Yes, definitely," Jess said, nodding wisely, prodding her strawberries with her tiny paper umbrella. Then she stopped and turned him, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Hang on, and what am I, chopped liver?"
His bottom lip protruded as he weighed it up. "I see you more as spleen…"
She raised a weapon. "Don't make me slap you."
"Hmm, and with my flip flops, I note." His toes wriggled happily in the bar's beach sand.
"You really need some fancier shoes," she said, throwing the flip flops at him. "What kind of spy goes around wearing flip flops?"
"Hey, a spy has to blend in. In Darwin, they wear flip flops. So…"
"Oh right, so the sombrero, that fits in, how?"
"What fun is it being cool if you can't wear a sombrero?"
"You're so not cool. Especially if you're wearing that."
"All spies are cool."
Her eyebrows raised in frank disbelief. "Timothy Dalton. Need I say more?"
He rolled his eyes. But she had a point.
"Hollywood thought he was cool," he muttered into his drink.
"Hollywood thinks sequels are a good idea," she pressed.
She had him there. The sun had almost drowned itself in the Timor Sea.
"Drink up," he said, pushing her untouched third drink towards her. "We've got a job tonight."
"Uh. No." She pushed the third drink back. "I'm never doing anything blindly with you again. I learned that at the Mexican border."
"Twice," he remembered, "Alright, but you don't have to get blind drunk. Tipsy, though, tipsy definitely helps."
He wiggled the drink enticingly. The radio played Islander music sleepily in the background. She took the drink.
And so with the extra sway to her hips added by the third cocktail, it was a cinch to sneak into the warehouse while the guards were distracted. Minus the sombrero, of course. What was not so easy was escaping again when he found the warehouse full of goons unpacking an early shipment of drugs.
In no time flat he was tied to chair with a head goon approaching menacingly, loading his weapon with sinister attention to detail.
"You, sir, are going straight to hell," the goon said lightly as he approached.
Is it just me, or do I detect a Mexican accent there? Andy thought. Sure as hell wish I could remember what happened at the Mexican border… twice…
The press of cold metal to his forehead liquidated all such thoughts from his head.
"Hang on hang on, there must be some time for a little fun first. I can dance. I could try singing? Jeez, I mean you haven't even tortured me yet!" An instant sweat had oozed from his brow, but the gun didn't slip. "Tell me, how much fun can I have before I go to hell?"
"None." The goon cocked the pistol and fired.