Bullets pinged around me, hitting city buildings in little explosions of concrete. Ping. Ping. Ping, ping, pow. I dodged, then rolled around the corner and landed back on my feet. I adjusted my invisible tie, strolled into the restaurant and headed for the bar.

“Beer, PBR, can, pull tab, unopened. And shake the ever-lovin’ shit out of it.”

My wife looked radiant standing by the quasi-official counter where a disinterested staff person stood bored. Another member of staff had just departed with patrons in tow.

The place was almost completely empty.

“Sheila will seat you when she gets back. Your name, please?” Apparently Sheila was the only one with seating powers and it would likely be a wait of at least 45 seconds so, of course, they needed my name. Dammit, my cover was blown.

I paused, glanced at my wife, then said, awkwardly, “Fleischman. Joel Fleischman.”

I knew all that time invested watching Northern Exposure would pay off someday.

You gotta give my wife credit. She played it cool. Her mouth dropped open, she facepalmed, then moaned, loud enough for the woman at the counter to hear, “Oh, God.”

They never suspected a thing. Smooth. It’s all in a day’s work when you have a license to ill.
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