Medical Master of Mayhem
As is so often the case I got the call on a Friday at work. The grandmother in room two had a social disease, the toddler in three had shoved an aquarium rock up his nose, and Mrs. Morrison in four was convinced she had passed a snake in her bowel movement (“It was two feet long with a head and two eyes!”). The call from the President was a welcome respite.
Three hours later, I advanced the throttles on my F/A-18 into afterburner and lifted off from Millington NAS. I took my briefing from the CIA Deputy Director for Operations via secure data link. My face camo rakishly applied, I sat alone in the cockpit, lost in thought.
My tricked-out HK416 was stowed inside a custom drop tank alongside my CZ Shadow 2 OR tactical pistol, both veterans of countless similar operations. Someday the CIA’s Special Activities Division would recruit some proper operators. Until then, Mrs. Morrison and her snake remained at risk of interruption. I donned my game face and began my descent into Bagram.
Two days later, I was back at the clinic. My ears still rang from that Soviet F1 Limonka grenade, and my scrub shirt concealed the fresh bullet crease across my right shoulder. The clinic crew assumed I had been off on some writing junket, just like always.
The impassioned thanks of half a dozen recently liberated Sports Illustrated swimsuit models and yet another handwritten “thank you” drafted on White House stationery were all I had to show for my weekend’s festivities. Alas, operating in the shadows to rescue lonely supermodels and messily retire sundry drug lords, terrorist masterminds, and bloodthirsty war criminals was my lot. In the interim, there was always Mrs. Morrison’s snake.
Who am I kidding? The only way I could terminate a terrorist mastermind would be if his evil lair was wheelchair accessible. A liberated supermodel would undoubtedly view me as both “adorable” and “harmless.” She’d look at me with those deep sultry eyes and then tell me how much I favored her grandfather. The only time the President might need me would be if every single military organization including the Cub Scouts were otherwise inexplicably indisposed. Then why do I persist in buying guns like I might actually someday be called upon to do something extraordinary?
Truth be known, it’s because guns are just cool. Many’s the rarefied smoke pole that found its way into my personal collection simply because it pushed my man buttons. The CZ Shadow 2 OR is an undeniable boat anchor of a pistol. However, this thing runs like a chimp after Cheetos.
