I Think, That’s Me Problem - humor - maybe
*smiles...
"I think, that's me problem," Grumble groused into his beer, "I'm a think'n man... always have been. Think on your feet and they'll never be able to nail you down."
"Most I ever seen you think Grumble," Peter replied, "Was when you tried to figure out if you wanted a stout or a half'n'half." The barkeep flipped his bar rag over one shoulder impatiently. When the old fellow finished swallowing he snatched the glass away from him and refilled it by half. "This one's on the house and then you get yourself on home to the missus."
Grumble smiled, his eyes blurry with the drink. "Stingy bastard y'are. You could have filled it all the way; but I s'pose yer correct."
"Of course I'm correct. You're the last one here and I need my rest. My own missus is upstairs watching the telly and it might be nice if I watched it with her."
"Why? Ain't nothing on worth watching. Car chases..." He lifted the glass and looked at its contents, "And lots of blood. Murders, mayhem, sex." Tipping the glass up he swallowed the contents in one go. It was then snatched back by the pub owner.
"Just like real life ain't it?" he replied, dunking the glass in the sink and washing it out. "Go home now Grumble, it's late."
The old fellow slid off of his barstool and tottered to the door. "G'night then Peter. Up to yer telly now with its guns and its guts strewn about the screen like it's all normal."
"And it's not?" Peter called over his shoulder. To this the old fellow simply waved a hand in the air.
As soon as Grumble was out the door it was pushed closed behind him with a thump. Turning he saw Peter look out the glass at him after which he turned the 'open' sign to 'closed' and locked the door.
The light was flipped off and the last patron standing was left all alone in the darkness.
"G'night to you too, ya ungrateful bastard," he cursed at the door, "May all yor butter curdle and yer beer go flat."
With a squeal of tires a flash of headlights washed over him. He was about to yell something foul at the driver when the car slid to a stop in front of him and the rider's side door was thrown open.
"I desperately need your help; would you get in?!" called the driver urgently.
"Well... sure...and thanks for the ride," the old fellow managed with a quiet burp. Tottering to the car he eased himself in and then closed the door. "I don't live too far distant..."
The car was off again like a rocket, tires squealing. The force of acceleration pressed the occupants back in their seats.
"Whoaaaa... nice ride ya got here boy'o. In th'glory days if we wanted speed we had to get out and push."
"My name's Herns," the driver told him. "Agent Sam Herns. The people following me..."
"Are Soviet spies," Grumble finished for him.
"That's right."
"And they mean to kill you cuz you know their secret plans."
"How did you know that?" the driver hissed.
"Seen it on the telly; and it was an old rerun of a spy thriller at that. This body's old brain is still active. You do know the cold war was over a long time ago?" Not waiting for a response he instructed, "When the road forks take the left path and mind the ruts. Does your magic carpet have a good undercarriage?"
"The best, why?"
"It won't after we're done with it."
Headlights came on behind them and the car was jolted from behind as it was rammed. The driver cursed and down shifted banging back on the intruder in turn. Stomping on the accelerator there was the sound of a supercharger kicking in and the car leapt like a startled Roebuck.
Clicking his seat harness into place, Grumble opened the glove box in front of him and began pawing through it. Car documents and napkins went to the floor but other than those items there was nothing. Closing it again, he thought for a moment and then reached under his seat where his hand closed over top of a large pistol. "Thought as much," he slurred. "Ss'always under the seat, ain't it? Least wise it is on the telly... and here we are now."
"Making the left," the driver told him.
"Three speed humps!"
"What?"
The car went airborne and for the duration of a five count the engine revved as its wheels found no traction in thin air. When it smacked back down again Grumble said loudly, "Two more 'o' them things com'n... can ya control it?"
The head lights behind them flashed as their pursuer's car followed suit and tried to be an airplane. When it smacked back down one of the headlights flickered out and the horn sounded briefly as the driver was hammered into the steering wheel.
"Yes I can control it!"
Cocking the hammer back, Grumble made to aim and pulled the trigger. With a huge explosion the rear window blew out. No sooner had he done this and the car was again airborne but this time in a more controlled fashion.
"When you land, pull off to the curb quickly and kill the lights!" he yelled.
The car slammed down again but swerved only slightly as it pulled off to the side of the road.
"Kill the lights," the bar patron instructed again as he rolled down his window.
With the noise of a mutilated garbage truck, the sedan following them went airborne over the second speed hump. Crashing down again it rocketed past in the darkness. A moment later they head it crash down after taking on the third speed hum and then there was a collision and resulting explosion.
"Three speed humps because it's a dead end," Grumble told the driver, "Seems they found Th'Grand Olde Oak Tree so now it really is a dead end." He chuckled at his drunken bad pun. "Turn around now and get me home, please."
Flipping the headlights back on the driver looped back around and headed out of the park, taking care to go over the humps slowly this time. "So where did you learn the craft?" he asked Grumble. "That was remarkable."
"Craft?"
"Spy trade; or was all of that just lucky beans?"
"I think; that's me problem," Grumble replied. "I'm a think'n man... always have been. Think on your feet and they'll never be able to nail you down. If'n you use your imagination you'll always figure it out in the end."
A burst of machinegun fire sprayed the car spidering the glass of the driver's side and causing general chaos inside the cabin; though it missed them both. With that the sedan was off like a rocket once again screaming down the road to the whine and roar of its oversized engine.
"Bloody Hell!" Grumble cursed, "Who is it this time, the glimpsy gobbly Chinese? They do like the motorbikes don't they?"
"Can you shoot him?" the spy asked as he down shifted and wheeled to the left and a side street taking them back in the direction of the pub.
"I dunno," Grumble replied, "I boffo'd the rear window last time I tried."
There was a spat of sparks behind them as the passenger of the bike steadied up and began spraying them in earnest.
"Damn!" the old man cursed as he managed to get turned around in his seat. "S'pose I'll have too now, won't I?"
BAWHOOM!
The recoil forced the gun up and it bounced off of the ceiling. Grumble cursed. On its way back down it went off again on its own punching a hole in the back seat. The bullet, exiting the boot, took out the lock whereupon the lid bounced open. Though he couldn't see them, a dozen small round objects dumped out behind. A moment later the motorcycle and both riders were blown a hundred feet into the night sky as the objects all erupted as one.
"Very nice," the old man muttered. I'm guessing proximity fuses?"
"Cluster mines linked together radio-graphically so if the first missed they run into the shrapnel of the rest."
"Well why in blazes didn't you use them before?"
"I forgot."
"Fine business it is forget'n something like that!" Grumble fairly yelled. "Next you'll be forget'n your name or who you work for... or worse..."
"Sorry, sir, it must be the pressure I'm under..."
A rocket streaked towards them narrowly missing as the driver swerved the car around; losing control in the process. Glancing off of three parked cars they came to a rest against a telephone pole, the engine spouting steam like a geyser.
"And who did that one belong too, the bloody IRA?" Grumble fairly shouted at the driver.
"I'm not sure, sir," Herns replied shaking his head to clear it, "Either them of the Columbians."
"My God man, you've got the entire world pissed at ya! I'm surprised I ain't seen any bloody Taliban."
With that a sheet draped figure stepped out of the alleyway next to them and raised an AK-47 with a shout of, "Aiiieeeeeeeeiiiieeeeeiiiieeeeee!"
A small rocket streaked in at a downward angle blowing this person to pieces.
"Drone!" Herns cheered. "Hurah for our side!"
"Get out of the car!" Grumble yelled as he bailed out.
No sooner had the pair abandoned ship than a second rocket struck home blowing the marvelous piece of automobile into beer cans. Herns, pistol drawn, blood streaming down his face and limping along on one leg still managed a smile when Grumble caught up to him. "Can't thank you enough, guv," he managed.
"I ain't a guv," the old man growled as he got under the fellow's arm. "I'm retired right enough and well I should be. I'm too old for all this modern technological whiz bang Tom Foolery crap."
He flattened them against the building as another rocket streaked past close enough that it almost touched their bellies. When it reached the end of the street it went vertical and burst in the sky like a holiday rocket.
"Do you have the paper on you they're trying to get back?"
"Everything's on a thumb drive." The agent said this between clenched teeth as the pain began to set in.
"And did you place it into an envelope with the proper postage on it?"
"As instructed, sir." Reaching into his breast pocket he pulled out a plain yellowish padded envelope and placed it into the pub patron's hand.
Grumble looked up and down the street and spotted what he was searching for; a good old fashioned concreted to the ground steel post box. The things were damned near indestructable.
There was a spat of machine gun fire as the Columbians took aim at the Taliban while that group tossed grenades at the Soviets whom they'd misidentified as the American CIA.
"Wait here," the odd little fellow instructed the agent, "I'll take it in."
With that he sprinted for the post box. Once there he quickly made his deposit and then sprinted back again to where he'd left the wounded agent.
The night quieted then and all his old ears detected was the pinging noise of hot metal as his previous ride continued to burn. This was accompanied by the resulting beee-dooo beee-dooo of the fire brigade coming to make things right.
Without waiting, he stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and nonchalantly ambled two blocks down and three over where he arrived at the entrance to Peter's Pub and Ale House. Once there, and seeing a light on upstairs, he pounded upon the door.
"Open up there Peter!" he called out. "Open up so I can have one more bloody arf & arf before my bed, eh?"
The light went out and from behind he heard the call of a cabby asking if he needed a ride home.
Turning he squinted his eyes and thought about it for a moment. "I suppose so... aye... all right then. Home to the she devil it is."
The following morning as she fixed him breakfast, Mrs. Grumble stated flatly, "I understand there was a bit of a stir in town last night."
"Eh?"
"It's all over the news this morning Mr. Grumble."
"Is it now? And what does the bloody news say this time?"
"Some lunatic is a stolen sedan was racing all about and made a horrific mess of things."
"Bah," he retorted, stirring in two lumps of sugar with his cuppa. "I don't believe it. It's all cover up and lies. They never get things right in any case so I'd say don't believe a bit of it."
"Peter called," she added, setting the teapot upon the table.
"And what's he got to say about anything?"
"No pub for two weeks and no darts for three. He said you nailed the barmaid in the arm again and now she has to have a tetanus shot."
"Ungrateful bastard; I'm his best customer."
Next, placing his plate of eggs and toast on the table, she replied, "Of that I am all too aware."
Grumble took a forkful of the eggs and almost choked on them. They were wet still and she knew he liked them well done. "Anything else?" he asked while trying very hard not to toss up right on the plate.
"Someone named Alice called and made a request. At least I think it was a request as it was a very odd phone call and sounded as though it were very far off."
He looked up and frowned. "Fine then and what was the message."
"She said you're over thinking things again and to stop it. She said quite clearly you're mucking up the works. She also said quite adamently, 'Good job now stay out of it.' " She fixed him with one of her looks. "Any idea what that might mean?"
"She's an editor... they're all two dimensional at best. How the blazes am I supposed to know what it means? I'll speak to the publisher and see if he can assign me someone else."
"Speaking of that," his wife next asked, fully understanding which side the bread got buttered, "Did you post your latest manuscript?"
"Last night, why?"
"No reason... it was just a thought."
"I think that's me problem," Grumble heard in his mind. It was his voice but younger by many years. "I'm a think'n man... always have been. Think on your feet and they'll never be able to nail you down."
Already he was contemplating the further adventures of Agent Sam Herns; though he already knew if it wasn't for him the MI-8 spy would have been snuffed out long ago.
Or was it the other way around?