Beware the Bandersnatch, my boy

I would make a shitty spy.

Seriously. Espionage would totally not be my strong suit. I’d wriggle my way to someone’s baccarat table, receive a SECRET MESSAGE jotted on a tiny piece of paper inside a $50,000 chip, swallow the paper, and then forget the message. My contacts would be all, “so. Agent c3. What is the message?”

And I’d be all, “What message?”

And they’d be all, “The message you received from Brindenburg.”

“Brindenburg?”

They would get these confused looks on their faces. Their *brows* would *knit*. They’d say, “Brindenburg, yes. Our plant in the crime ring.”

“There’s a plant in the crime ring?” I’d answer. I’d be thinking of a nice rhododendron. Or perhaps a joya. Or maybe even a nice little indoor herb garden. Everyone loves a nice little indoor herb garden.

One of them would squint. Another would drop his jaw. Someone else would rub his forehead. Then one of them would say, “Jesus Christ, c3. Did you or did you not receive covert communications from our double agent in Vegas?”

And I’d be all, “Ooohhhhhh. Yes. That totally happened. I ate it.”

And they’d be all, “Good. That’s protocol. What was the message?”

“I dunno. I ate it.”

“Didn’t you read it first?” They’d ask. One of them would have started to groan.

“Oh, sure, I read it first,” I would tell them. Their faces would light up.

“Excellent! What did it say?”

“I have no idea what it said,” I’d say. Their faces would twist in paroxysms of confusion.

“But you just said you read it.”

“I did read it. That was, like, a DAY ago, man. I can’t remember what it said.” Their faces would fall. “I mean, I got the *gist* of it…” Their faces would light up again. “It was something about baguettes, I think.” Their faces would fall.

“Baguettes,” the one in the middle would say. She’d be the one in charge. She’d be all, “We spend three quarters of a million dollars on this operation, a quarter million of which is to insert you into the casino in Vegas where our plant -” Another one would clear his throat. “Where our OPERATIVE,” the first one would continue, “was to, at great risk to himself and to our entire operation, deliver you an encoded message, and the best you can come up with is goddamned BAGUETTES?” She would be yelling at this point.

“Maybe perogies?” I’d offer weakly.

The one who was clearing his throat would reach inside his jacket. The one in the middle would place her hand over his elbow and say, “not yet. Just…not yet.” She would look back at me and say, ” Just…think back, agent c3. Think back to when you read that message. FOCUS. What did it say?”

“Ummmm….I think it said…”

“Yes?”

“…well, that is to say, I’m pretty sure it was ….”

“Yes!? For the love of God, woman, the future of your nation DEPENDS on you!”

“Say, have you ever read ‘Catch-22’ by Joseph Heller?” I’d ask.

All three of my superiors would look as crestfallen as if someone had just shot their puppies. One of them would lean forward and bash his forehead into the desk. The commander in the middle would pinch the bridge of her nose. The one on the other side of her would reach into his jacket again.

“It’s just that, you know, I really like that book. Anyway, the message was something about baguettes and some woman called Louise.”

The commander would perk up. The man to her left would remove his hand from his jacket. The man on her right would raise his head off the desk slightly. “Louise?” They would ask in unison.

“Yeah. Like, um…Louise likes baguettes, or…send some baguettes to Louise or something.”

There would be one of those pauses where you realise the entire world is moving forward in time except for the people in this room with you. Then the fellow who’d bashed his head into the desk would say, “Do you suppose c3 misread the message?”

“Listen, pal,” I’d retort wittily, “I don’t misread things. I just forget them real fast. Like, super fast. It’s my special power.”

The commander would glance askew at the man on her left. “How do you mean?”

“What if it wasn’t ‘baguettes’?”

“It was totally ‘baguettes’,” I’d protest. “I’m a *professional reader*. I think I know how to read a simple one-line message on a teeny tiny piece of paper jammed inside a frigging poker chip.”

“I suppose the message could have been encoded,” the commander would say. It would be like I wasn’t even in the room anymore.

“Encoded with what? French baking? Listen. You hired me to go hang out with hookers and gambling addicts, find some dude in a suit in a sea of dudes in suits, and deliver him a special message that I had to spell out by swaying my hips in a certain pattern. Which, ultimately, is pretty cool, and I did make a few extra dollars from people who weren’t your rhododendron…but that’s beside the point. You asked me to read something and then eat it, and that’s exactly what I did. Now if you’re questioning my *ability*…” I’d let my voice trail off dramatically there.

The man on the commander’s right – the one with his hand in his jacket – would look at me, and he’d ask me in a voice that would sound peculiarly like Patrick Warburton’s voice, “Did the note say ‘baguettes’ or ‘berettas’?”

“Huh?” I would have got a bit distracted by his voice because Patrick Warburton has the best voice ever invented. Next to Vincent Price, who is dead.

“The note. Did it say ‘deliver 30 berettas to Louise’?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah, actually. That’s totally what the note said. Man. You guys would look like arseholes if you sent baguettes instead.” Then I’d snort, thinking about it.

I would be ushered from the room, paid in unmarked, non-sequential bills (upon which I would insist because I simply don’t trust offshore bank accounts not to give all of my money to, say, Greece), and escorted to the memory destruction room. Where they would just feed me a bowl of Jello and realise that there would be nothing more they could do and that even if I did talk about it, nobody would believe me.

I actually don’t remember what I was originally going to post about. Which is super funny.