THE SECRET JOURNAL OF NEIL PATEL #26

WARNING: NEIL WRITING = TYPOS

Entry #26

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?”

Exhale. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

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. 

Hugs,

Neil