THE SECRET JOURNAL OF NEIL PATEL #27
WARNING: NEIL TYPOS AHEAD...
You think I’m crazy, right? By now you know my decision-making skills (starting with my ill-fated choice of buying a motorcycle) leave more than a bit to be desired. But that’s a conversation for another day.
Let’s get back to the knock on the door and the sweet voice on the other side.
Mr. DEA Agent, calm as can be, saunters to the door. All the while the gunfire keeps going. And going.
I’m still hunkered down. I’m crazy not stupid.
Mr. DEA opens the door. There stands a dude dressed on in black. Even his face is painted like he just jumped out of an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. He’s leaning against the door jam picking at his teeth.
“So, you want me fluff pillow?” the man says in a high-pitched voice.
“Took you long enough,” Mr. DEA says.
“We didn’t plan on your biker buddies being here. You know I don’t like complicated. I like vanilla, easy peasy out and cheesy.” The man cranes his neck around Mr. DEA. “And who’s that guy?”
Mr. DEA lies. “Another inside guy. I’d tell you who he is but then I’d have to—“
The man in black holds up a hand to stop the line. “Okay, okay. I get it. You do super duper top secret squirrel stuff now. But you can’t tell me you don’t miss the shoot em up bang bang.”
“I think I miss the facepaint more than the bang bang getting shot at.” Then he leaned in closed and whispered to his buddy. They look over at me twice.
The guy in black disappears just as I realize the shooting has stopped. Mr. DEA walks over to me and I rise to standing, careful not to wobble.
He puts his hands on his hips and says, “Now, what are we going to do about you?”
All I wanted to do was go home.
When I have time I’ll tell you the rest of the story.
Here’s to crazy!
THE SECRET JOURNAL OF NEIL PATEL #26
WARNING: NEIL WRITING = TYPOS
I think in my last entry I made it seem like I was shivering in a corner, trying not to pee in my pants. Let me clarify: I’ve been through worse before. Much worse. If you’ve know me for any length of time you know.
What I was trying to say when the pen got away from me was that I had no idea what was going to happen next. If I’ve learned anything from Cal and the gang it’s to continue the reevaluation process. The battlefield is always changing.
Well, the battlefield was moving our way. Gunshot getting closer. Barking orders. And all the while Mr. Agent just sat there looking very happy with himself.
“Don’t you think you should get down. You know, maybe take cover?”
The guy ignored me. He even started whistling. What the hell, right?
Fine. Let him get shot to hell. I had things to do, people to see, places to travel. A life to live.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs now. Closer. Closer.
I grabbed the only thing I could find: a bronzed statue of Napoleon. The pathetic weapon was the side of my hand. Better than nothing. I’d take someone down with me.
Clutching the wily former leader of France in my hands, I listened as the footsteps stopped outside the door. Whispering. What were they saying?
I looked over at Mr. Agent. Still grinning. Still whistling. I wish he would just tell me, dammit!
Then, as I braced for impact, or maybe a grenade tossed in for good measure, the strangest thing happened. Someone knocked on the door. Not a pounding knock like the cops like to do. No, it was a polite knock. And then, in a sweet voice that was obvious raised a few octaves too high, a voice said, “Housekeeping. You want me fluff pillow?”
Gotta run. Bad guys doing bad things in bad places. I’ll let you know the rest in my next entry. Thanks for your patience, Dear Diary. You’re a model of manners.