I opened the door to an anemic-looking specimen who looked like he couldn’t lift a buttered scone without a derrick.
“Sir,” he said, “you don’t know me. My name is George Allen. I’m from Interpol.” He flashed an ID. “We’ve been tracking the movements of a known international terrorist. Here’s a photo.”
It was the woman in my basement alright.
“Her name is Hannah Leipzig, alias Sabine Toussaint, alias Jennifer Wilson, alias—”
I held up my hand. “I get it. She’s got a lot of library cards. Go on.”
“We fear she may be hiding in your house at this very moment.”
“Do come in,” I said. “Would you like a buttered scone?”
“No, thank you. Sir, I don’t think you understand. This woman is very dangerous. It’s not safe for you here.”
I pulled out a deck of cards and fanned them. “Go ahead, pick one.”
His lip trembled a bit.
“Go on. I’m not leaving until you pick one.”
He did what he was told. (Morrison Man has the power to persuade anyone. Except DMV employees, for some reason. I don’t know why that is. Anyway, I digress.)
“Okay,” I said, turning my head. “Don’t show it to me. Got it memorized?”
“Good. Now, put it back into the deck. Okay. You ready? Watch this.”
I squared up the deck, did a series of cuts, gave a one-handed riffle shuffle, then punched him square in the nose with my left.
“That’s called sleight of hand,” I said. “Now, tell me why you’re really here.”
(Note: I didn’t hit him hard. I number my punches on a scale according to strength. I hit him with a #5, otherwise known as my “hipster be cool” punch.)
“You’re crazy!” he screamed. “I’m telling you the truth!”
“He’s lying,” said a voice from behind me.
I’d told her to wait in the basement. I’m glad she didn’t. Morrison Man likes a strong-willed woman. She came up behind me, using my body as a shield.
I must say here that my enchantment with her was only exceeded by my anger at having my day interrupted in this manner. I’d planned to attend my annual meeting of the Morrison Man Chess Club. Morrison Man chess is like regular chess, only instead of chess pieces, we use live scorpions. Again I digress.
I stared fish-face dead in the eye. “I happen to know you’re not with Interpol. All agents are required to know my identity, as my hands are lethal and my wit is registered as a WMD. When I answered the door, you lacked the look of awe and admiration that I know so well from the eyes of Interpol agents around the world. Now that that’s out of the way, you leave me no other choice but to bubble wrap you and mail you back to your mama’s house with a note saying ‘returned for structural defects’.”
“No such luck,” he said, suddenly brandishing a Ruger 9mm.
“Cute,” I said. “Tea party favor?”
Tune in next time to find out what happened next.
(Hint: He didn’t find me amusing.)