Pants Afire
There are gangs, mobs, and plenty of thugs on the loose, the FBI’s got a lot to do. Wicked people are everywhere and they’re doing everything, which guarantees I’ll be on someone who’s doing something. My former associate grew weak, close shaves, one after the next, he couldn’t stomach. Alone in my tasks, the NSA had nothing to ask. So what.
God knows more than the CIA, and my perky Cs found supporting. I’ve scored a few missions and have been successful. Some say it’s because I stand five-foot-five and weigh 120 lbs, but I swear, it’s certainly not for knowing the true color of my shoulder-length hair. While members train to be deadly with their hands, sheer white stockings glide up my tan calves. My cover is so deep, my true eye color has never been seen. If you visit India, avoid red scorpions.
I like to reminisce. Let’s do this:
Staked in the town where they say nobody sleeps, I slept quite often in a penthouse suite. 10-million-dollars is what that place was worth, yet the ATF never said a word. One morning near Wall Street, I sat in an alley. As I gulped the last drops of Caramel Colombian, The Follicle Group for Males readied to make sales. I left behind an average tip, and then coordinated in; periwinkle Stilettos, sheer thigh-highs, a white peasant skirt, and a shoe-matching short-sleeved silk blouse. After I popped in blue contacts, I changed my name to Ginger McFib.
If heavily cloaked with hundreds of daggers, observations matter. Sitting in the odious establishment resenting the Green Beret for never getting me anything, was when the prey came moseying. Six-feet-tall, looking like 200lbs, displayed a delicious bare-orb at the reception counter. From behind the desk, a grinning villainess took 45-year-old Grady Barren’s name and address. Then she did what all thugs do, she sent him back to meet the head goon. The a-bit-above-an-average-size man, sporting healthy round buns beneath white jeans, which kindly outlined a half-swollen spear, strolled his precious glossy sphere, without fear, to the rear.
Special Ops do espionage, my long skirt shrouded wet warm thighs from wandering eyes. Health inspectors rarely wear teal, plus some of them never carry and conceal, and yet that Lady Menace permitted me access. Though he was no Ranger Joe, and the Best of the Best wasn’t going to get undressed, a sworn duty to preserve silky globes was mine to uphold. The cranium vandal inspected his victim while I, on all three floors, set live packages behind each door.
Moments before my butt thrust against the exterior wall, Simper Fidelis 911 received my anonymous call. Shielded beneath a baseball cap, their duped dude made his exit. My ass slid across glass and blocked the entrance. “Excuse me,” said the chump. He pulled that Yankee nuisance from his round and oh-so-smooth and completely bare surface.
My new blue eyes beamed. “I’m a hand model. Just got back from India.”
“That’s neat.”
“Want to make pornography?”
“Want, what?”
I raised my thumbs over my shoulders and to the glass where then they rapidly tapped. My Cs bobbed with speed, and I changed my wording, “This place is quarantined.”
“You said, por—”
“They have an aggressive infestation.”
“That’s disgusting.”
I slapped the side of my face and I bounced in place. He stepped back and laughed, and so I stopped moving. “You want to join me for coffee?”
Hazel eyes scanned from my head to Stilettos. “I just walked out. Everything was fine.”
YOU ARE READING
Pants Afire
AdventureA comedy about women who do most-everything to protect what's most important to them.
