HOLY CRAP! Remember the government spy that was in my coffee shop, lo, those many months ago? He's back, and he brought his laptop and his "I have a shadowy past" stubble with him. He's sitting in the booth next to me, and he is completely staring at me and I am completely staring at him. It's basically a staring contest. Because I KNOW he remembers I was the girl who took sneaky surveillance pictures of him and told the world he was a secret spy, and he KNOWS I know, and ... yeah.
I am pretty sure this is how it's going to go down: He'll stake things out for a while. I'll get up to leave. I'll be walking down the stairs to my car when all of a sudden I'll hear footsteps behind me and, before I can even turn around, there will be a hand gripping my arm and a voice in my ear saying something like, "There's a black Lincoln town car parked at the end of the street. Do not stop at your car. Do not use your phone. Do not turn around. Walk straight ahead and get into that car." And I'll do it, because, well ... because I'm an idiot. But YOU watch TV! No one ever DOESN'T do it! I HAVE to do it! Besides, what if there's a bomb strapped underneath my car? Or a sniper perched on the roof of the coffee shop ready to shoot if I try to run? I watched Alias, OK? I know how it works.
So I get into the backseat, and there's a driver in the front, and he throws a black eyemask at me: "Put that on," he says. So I do, and then we drive along bumpy roads for a little while, and I try to remember the turns, you know, left, right, left, left, so when I make my great escape I'll know where to go, and then about 15 minutes later the car stops and he tells me I can take the blindfold off now. We're parked outside an old, abandoned warehouse, and he tells me to go inside. I walk over to the building slowly, hesitantly, thinking, well, if I have to die today, at least my apartment's clean and my bills are all paid and I'm having an OK hair day. I open the door, and standing inside, next to two chairs, is ... it's the government spy! He tells me to sit down, and then he explains everything. His name is Zack Mauer, and he's on a very top-secret mission--a top-secret mission I almost compromised thanks to my, quote, "Internet shenangians." He's been in hiding for the past eight months, and now he can't hide anymore--but I know who he is, so I have to go with him. Plus, he could use my help. "You DO take good surveillance photos," he tells me grudgingly, and I have to admit I'm flattered. But my mental self-congratulations are interrupted by a loud crash at the far end of the warehouse, and Zack Mauer springs into action, grabbing my arm with one hand and his gun with the other: "We've got to go," he exclaims. "I'll explain the rest on the way."
Of course, none of that has happened yet. Right now, he's drinking coffee and I just refilled my Diet Pepsi. But it MIGHT. I'll keep you posted.