The Spy

I wish I’d paid more attention when I went to spy school.

I wish I’d graduated from spy school.

I kind of wish I had actually enrolled when I’d had the chance.

I looked over at my captive and tried to remember the last question I’d asked. Was it, “Who do you work for?” Was that too cliche?

My captive looked up at me with large cow eyes.

“Please,” he begged. “Just let me live. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Yeah, alright,” I said as I moved to untie him. He came clattering face first onto my brown carpet. “I guess I’ll let live, or whatever.”

“Thank you!” My captive scrambled to his feet and ran to the front door. He yanked and yanked, but the door would not budge.

“Dude!” I called over my shoulder. “I didn’t say you could leave. I said you could live.”

My captive sunk to his knees and began to sob. “Please, I’m just the pizza guy.”

“I didn’t order a pizza,” I said, regretting my decision to let him down.

“I must be at the wrong house!”

“Oh, you’re at the wrong house, alright,” I said as I walked over to him. “Even if I had ordered a pizza, it would have been with extra pineapple, not espionage.”

I laugh at my little quip. Maybe I didn’t need spy school after all.

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