The Official Spy Handbook

The contents of this handbook are intended for those having achieved spy status.  If you are an ordinary citizen and are not in the spy business please return this book to your local bookstore.   Place the handbook facedown on the counter and say,  "There are too many fat pelicans."

 

         At this point in time one of two things will happen.  They will either issue store credit for the value of the handbook or they won't believe that you are not a spy and you may be placed in the trunk of a Buick Skylark.

 

         If you find yourself in the trunk of a Buick one of two things will happen but we'll come back to that later.

 

         OK, so you're a spy.  Congratulations.  I'm very happy for you.  Over the course of your working life you will be referring to various sections of this book and you may not always be in the best of positions at the time.   Therefore it has been laid out so it can be easily read with a small flashlight or in momentary bits by a lit match.

 

         Do not lose this book.  Do not lend it to anyone, even if they too are spies.  Do not accidentally return it to your local library.  This copy is water resistant for up to 4.3 seconds; so unless you are a speed-reader do not allow this handbook to become wet.   

 

         Page 68 is made from Vanadium.  It will withstand the impact of a 9mm bullet fired at close range.  If you keep this handbook in the breast pocket of your official spy dinner jacket, (not the blue one) then this bulletproof protection will be directly over your heart.   Note:  The impact will still knock you down.  The odds are that you may hit your head during the fall and the possibility exists that bones may be broken.  Should any of the above occur, refer to page 188, Spy Insurance – benefits & claims.

 

         Because you are expected to carry this handbook with you at all times the front and back cover of the book have been slightly inflated with hydrogen for your comfort; be careful not to puncture them.  Should your cover be blown you may purchase cover replacements through Spy Supplies, Inc.  No checks will be accepted from spies with blown covers.

 

         If upon graduation from spy school you were issued a standard 1187 identification badge,  laminated  with pocket clip, you did not really graduate.  They were just trying to let you down easy.  Spies do not wear I.D. badges.  Please return this handbook to your local bookstore.  Place it facedown on the counter and say, 

 

“There are too many fat pelicans.”

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Blending In

 

       If you were paying attention in spy school you learned that blending in to your surroundings is a key element to survival.   The last thing you want to do is to go out of your way to avoid looking like a spy.  That's a dead giveaway.   It is recommended that you purchase your clothes from,

 

(Advertisement)

 

 

 

       Sorry but due to budget restraints and departmental cutbacks we have had to sell advertising space within this handbook to help offset printing costs.

 

       Blending in with your surroundings is not limited to clothing.  As outlined in your first year textbook, 'It's you.  It's you. You were given several examples and story problems to solve.  This handbook has been harmonized with that outline in that key phrases should spark your memory, thus allowing us a greater economy of words.  (This too helps to reduce printing costs).  To this end, the following have been designed to assist you in remembering your blend techniques.

 

1.                   Unless it's a life jacket never wear orange.

2.                 One sock up, one sock down - bend to fix it - look around.

3.                 Slip knots, slipknots, great for ties - when you dress in your disguise.

4.                 Roses are red, violets are blue - Don't wear your class ring  from old Spy U.

 

 

 

This page is designed to sharpen your decoding skills.

 

 

 

Unicorns never play accordions.  Sam lives west of the bridge.  Every other day it seems to rain. -  On the back of the label there is a coupon.  Notice the flowers along 8^th Avenue.  Life is what you make it.  Yellow and green are colors found in nature.  - All children should get cookies. - Nine from fourteen is five.  Unicorns haven't the finger agility required to play the clarinet.  Military attire is drab.  Before entering the cave John lit a match.  Earth rotates as well as spins.  Right after the dance Mary took off her shoes.  -  Tempo is another stumbling block for unicorns.  Westerly winds are warmer this time of year.  Otto drove his Volvo across the bridge into Norway.  -  Perpendicular lines on this map indicate checkpoints.  Elevation changes are shown by the shaded areas.   Neurons, protons, and sub-atomic particles have been caught and placed in this jar.  Chirps from birds tweak ears on cats.  Indications are that the Mayor will not run for another term.  Looking back at it all I'd have say that it was a bit more adventure than I had wanted.

 

 

 

Once you have decoded the above -

write the secret message here.

__________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________.

 

 

 

 

Note:

 

If you actually wrote the secret message on the above lines, please stop now.  Find a different profession.  Be a sales clerk or a politician but for Pete sake get out of the spy business and return this book - face down, "fat pelicans, yada, yada, yada."

 

 

 

   Things

Only in the movies

 

"Let's meet at the old, abandoned warehouse."

 

"Trust me."

 

The bad guy will spout off three paragraphs of dialog

 before pulling the trigger.

 

   

 

This spy handbook is a work in progress.

You have just read the beginning pages.

Do not discuss this book with anyone.

When you leave here make sure that you are not being followed.

If the mashed potatoes taste funny leave them.  Move on to the carrots.

 

 

 

 

 

Quondo Omni Flunkus Mortati

 

 

Glowie-eyed Creatures

On Mondays and Thursdays

no matter the day -

 

I walk into town

it’s a footpath away –

 

I buy up a butter, an egg

and some booze -

 

I pick up a bread and yesterday’s news,

 

My cabin’s decrepit

a shambles to see -

 

But just out of town

it’s a castle to me –

 

I have me a table, a chair

and a light -

 

And some glowie-eyed creatures

that show up at night -

 

I’ve got me a pencil, a pad

and some chew –

 

I occasionally spit

after writing to you -

 

For all that I have

there’s just one thing I lack -

 

A friend with a pencil

to just write me back –

 

Someone with a table

a bread and an egg -

 

A folded up matchbook

stuck under one leg –

 

A friend who could write

with nothing to say -

 

And send it to me

just a footpath away –

 

Then I’d have me a tree

with an old tripping root -

 

The one that I curse

when I fall on my snoot –

 

I’d have all the things

on this glorious day -

 

For I’d have gotten letter

from a footpath away –

 

It’s on cloudy Wednesdays

I strike up a fire –

 

I click up the lamp

only one click up higher -

 

I take out the book

though I’ve read it before –

 

And look where I left off

no - one page before -

 

The hero was chasing

though he seemed to be late -

 

A villain already

across chapter eight –

 

Tuesday’s of course

I mop up the floor -

 

I sweep out the corners

like never before –

 

And I oil the hinges

that hang every door -

 

I load up the washer

with colors and brights –

 

Gather my darks, my shirts

and my whites –

 

Sprinkle in soap

as the water floods in -

 

Then float half a lime

in a small glass of gin –

 

It’s Fridays, of course

that I love to see -

 

The air it is fresh

the wind, it is free –

 

It’s a gift that delivers

the weekend to me -

 

By Saturday night

my mind is adorning  -

 

The weekly events

that make Sunday Morning –

 

I arrange and embellish

I garnish and splash –

 

Add too many commas

an occasional dash –

 

I end it when I’ve

not a thing left to say –

 

Then wait for reply

from a footpath away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZC

 

 

 



The Crate

 

 

A slight bit of whimsy could be seen in the old lady's eyes as Harold’s body tumbled over the side of the bridge making an insignificant little splash in the river below.

 She folded his wheelchair back into the trunk and as she drove home she thought of watching Barney Miller when it came on.  

 Just about two weeks to the day a person calling himself Stewart Beaker stood at her front door asking if he could come in. 

"I've just a few questions.  It's about the order your husband placed.  There are some delivery preparations that should be made.  We sent him a letter."

 "What order?" the old woman asked, stroking a scraggly old cat that she held under one arm.

"Is your husband at home?"

 "Whatever he ordered, cancel it."

 "He's already paid for it in full.  It can't be cancelled now.  You're scheduled for a Saturday delivery.  It will be here in two days.  I hope you've made preparations.  It was all spelled out in the letter"

 "I don't know anything about any order.  Now just go."  And with that she closed the door.

 That Friday night the old woman dozed off after finishing her dinner.  The cats were perched about the living room and the television flickered and droned on without direction.

 Startled awake by the ringing phone she grabbed at it.  "Hello?"

 "Sam Fishman here, just calling to remind you about tomorrow's delivery.  Someone must be there to sign.  Everything must be ready you know - according to the instructions..."

 "I don’t know about any delivery?  Leave me alone." 

 She pulled the phone plug from the receiver and left it lying on the table next to her chair.   Boots jumped to the arm of the chair and then stepped onto the old woman's lap.  As she stroked the top of his head he curled up and purred loudly.   "What did that old fool order?"  But Boots only blinked under the heavy stroke of the woman’s hand.

 

  * * *

 

 

                The next morning Boots jumped onto the bed and began to nudge the old lady's arm.  Groggy and annoyed she rolled over and mumbled it was too early. Boots hopped up onto the nightstand and batted at the window curtains causing shards of sunlight to strike her pillow.

       The old lady was just about to yell at the determined cat when she heard voices coming from the side yard.  ""Who is that Boots?  Who's in the yard?"  She sat up and slid her feet into her slippers.  Then she heard a very loud mechanical sound.  Pulling her robe around her she went over to the window and drew the curtain back.  Boots leaned over and peeked around the edge of the curtain as well.

       An 18-wheeler had backed up into the side yard and a large crane was hoisting a huge crate off of the truck bed and was placing it onto the ground.  Her first inclination was to bang on the window and yell at them to get out of her yard but before she could the front doorbell rang.

       She snatched Boots up under her arm and headed for the front door.  He began to meow but not so much to ward off intruders as it was to express to the old lady that just moments ago he had filled up on salmon flavored crunchies.   The old lady's steps were deliberate and forceful - jostling poor Boots as she walked.

       With her free hand she unlocked the door and flung it open ready to chastise whoever it was that had the audacity to violate her Saturday morning and trespass onto her property. 

       Sam Fishman stood sharply, clipboard in hand, ready to greet Harold, the man with whom he had secured the sale.  As the door opened he could see an elderly woman with a course scowl holding a cross-eyed (though not Siamese) cat under her arm.

       "What do you want?"  She growled between clenched teeth.

       "We'll need a signature." He replied, holding out the clipboard.

       It was, of course, at that exact moment that Boots ejected a brown stream of mostly digested salmon flavored crunchies onto the signature page.

       "There you go." the old woman said and flung the door closed.

 

* * *

 

 They had been childhood sweethearts and were married the moment he returned from the war.  You never saw one without the other and you could always see the love they had for each other in their faces.

       As they grew old together they formulated a pact.  He would always say, "Should anything happen to me, just take me out to the bridge and toss me over, and remember - not a word to Social Security."  Then he would laugh and laugh. 

       It had always been her desire, in the event she went first, that she have a Polish cremation.  This is a little known tradition whereupon your body rests on an elevated wooden platform.  Underneath – a gross of accordions are set ablaze.  

       Now that Harold was gone the old woman sat alone with her cats.  There were never any visitors and Harold's Social Security and retirement checks kept coming in just like clockwork.  The only change to her surroundings was the large crate now sitting out in the side yard.

       The crate had been out there for several months and only once did the old lady wander out there for a closer look.  From the side of the crate she had peeled back a plastic envelope and removed the enclosed document.

At the top of the document, in German, it read,

 Beiliegend, 144 Begräbnis- Akkordien

       She smiled, thinking that Harold must have known that his time was drawing near and to help in her preparations, whenever it became her time to go, he had ordered her 144 funeral accordions.

  

* * *

 

The story is true.  It took place several years ago in Ashtray, Wisconsin.

When Harold had placed the accordion order with Sam Fishman, he had explained the pact that he had with his wife.  Several years later, Sam was one of the few attendees at the old woman’s funeral.  He describes the ceremony as one of the most moving events he has ever witnessed, although he claims that even to this day, the smell of melting accordions brings a tear to his eye and makes him just a little nauseous.

 

 

Sam is retired now and lives just outside of Elbow, Virginia.

 

 

Intelligence is not part of Evolution

 

 

          I am looking at the bottom of an empty beer glass -

          Once alive with the fine taste of logger

          tiny bubbles rising -

          white, frothy foam atop the amber liquid.

 

          Now empty.

          Gone.  Like the ways of Life itself -

          in the blink of an eye - or in the fading reverberant tone

          of a belch.

 

          All is quiet now.

          Desperate men living tormented lives

          sink quietly into their sofas -

          Aproned wives in distant kitchens

          dream of romance

          and examine choices past.

           

          The canned laughter from a TV sitcom

          spills out onto the carpet

          and lays as brainless as it was at birth.