Operation Suzy


I see her in that club sometimes. She drinks white wine and nobody notices that she carries a semi-automatic in her purse.

Suzy Wafels is the sexiest secret agent I know. We used to be a team, Suzy and me. But we’re not anymore.

We’ve ceased all communications. We don’t call. We don’t talk. We don’t go out to grab a beer.

There’s too much danger, she says. HQ would never approve, she says. You could endanger a mission, she says.
And I know that all she says, all she really says, is that I’m a loser. That I’m not worth carrying an Uzi or defending my country by wiping out it’s enemies.

The waitress brings me a beer. The dj plays a New Order song. I drink. I see. I remember. I accept.

Just like Bonnie and Clyde. Just like Sid and Nancy. Like DeeDee and Connie. Like all before us, we did what we had to do: we blew it.

We weren’t meant to be. Not as a team. Not as a couple. We were fireworks. Slowly glowing. Bold and bright.

And even now, here in this bar, among the dancing teenagers, I feel this energy between us. I get up and walk towards her. She can’t see me. She never will.

A gun shot starts a panic. It works every time. People are screaming and crying.

He shot that woman!

I shoot again. A couple of times. Don’t make it look like a hit, they said, but kill her. Give people the impression some capitalist bastard went nuts and after that, return to Russia.


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