Ever have one of those days when you wake up half-naked in the bathroom of the local McDonalds with little paper umbrellas in your hair, a paper hat over your raging, drunk-hard johnson, and someone's phone number scrawled across your forehead in a sharpie, and no idea who it was, or how you got there?
That was this morning. Last night I got so hammered on well-deserved, post-internal cleaning margaritas that I'm surprised I can even walk, much less ponder the fine details upon which the fate of the free world rests.
Case in point, how many days to NAZISMASH, now? I asked the entire lobby at the fine eating establishment whose gents' I woke up in, but no one had a darn idea what I was talking about. By the time I realized that this was super duper way above top secret stuff I was yammering about, and I was therefore duty bound to shoot my own mouth off, I was halfway down the street to inquire at the Burger King, and realizing my guns were both empty, which made my own attempts at harshly policing my actions surreal. And impotent.
Bits and pieces of yesterday started coming back. The sad first post-wetwork margarita. The commiseration from fellow super spies who, knowing better, don't ask me who or why, and just order me another. The favor of ordering another for them. The vicious circle caused by commiseration, bought rounds, and limitless government-granted platinum cards.
When did we play pin the tail on the bartender? When did someone invent the rules for strip beer pong? When did the 6-D Devil Dogs show up and, not realizing they were in the wrong bar, accuse us all of being as fruity as a banana tree?
When did I empty both those lovely, meditation-worthy Desert Eagles into their leather-clad asses and send them crying home for mommy?
I am not certain of these answers, or any answers at all. But I know that I am hung over and broken-brained, out of ammo, and needing a lift. And for some damn dumb reason, the Flier is not answering the phone I commandeered at this lovely Burger King.
I may have to thumb a ride back to Neo York if this continues. Not as shameful as the time I had to pretend to be a nun hooker to get from Vietnam to Cambodia, that one time, but I still look damn good in a black habit. Especially when I pull out my two babies and threaten to empty them into the driver if he won't let me have his camaro for national security purposes.
First rule of SPYGOD: always have a backup plan you know nothing about, but can assemble from random found objects and at least one deadly weapon at a moment's notice. The life you save may be the entire world's.
(SPYGOD is listening to !@#$ you I'm Drunk (???) and enjoying a Power Blender Beer Margarita)