"Trust no one" said the man as he handed me a slip of paper and melted back into the crowd.
I walked backwards for several blocks, to make sure I wasn't being tailed, and then left a chalk mark on the side of a mailbox before discreetly rearranging my necktie to signal that the coast was clear.
My handler, disguised as a flock of pigeons, landed in the park across the street and began pecking at breadcrumbs spread by elderly loafers on a series of benches that formed a geometric pattern -- a pattern that only Black Ops knew about.
It was clear to me that the President was in danger, and that nonfat dairy creamers were not all they are cracked up to be. Going online at a coffee shop, I found a dozen pairs of argyle socks on sale for 5.99. But it was a setup; I was brought in for questioning and gave them nothing until I was released on my own recognizance, with instructions not to leave town.
I immediately left town for a safe house out in the country that acted as a covert cider mill during the off season. I'm there now, waiting for the mysterious Joe Bananas to make contact and give me the code word to unlock the biggest case of sedition since the War of Jenkins' Ear.
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