It wasn't an ordinary day for George. He had been paid handsomely by his agency boss, the mysterious Mr. Willington, for his handling of the terrorist situation in the exotic Greek capital of Rome. He instinctively patted the holster under his arm that held his Second Piece (almost as large as his first weapon of choice, he smiled as he thought about his other holstered gun,) noting that he was still not sweating even in the hot Mediterranean sun.
George, not his actual name but just his handle for this latest job, was a man of action. He knew when to kill, when to shoot, and when to shoot his entire load. Mr. Willington saw his value immediately when George was late for the interview because he had Mr. Willington's secretary, Miss Honeyfanny, bent over before him with her lace panties below her knees as she took George's weapon of choice into her gaping and moist love tunnel.
From that moment, Mr. Willington knew he had just the kind of agent needed to stop the evil Soviet and satellite agency known as C.O.I.T.U.S., the Communist Overseas International Team Using Sex. George had no idea how they were using sex, but he trusted Mr. Willington's assurances that it was for no-good purposes.
He was standing in the patio bar at the Hotel Roman, a very famous hotel in Greece known for lots of beautiful exotic women and a parking lot filled with many exotic cars such as Jaguars and Fiats and Volvos. Putting out an unfiltered cigarette, George watched as the women in French and Italian dresses walked by and gave him looks of barely contained interest, as they could tell by the way he wore his aviator sunglasses that he was a man of intense interest to all the other women. George was used to being the center of attention, with his full moustache and his tailored trousers that proclaimed him to be a man worth noting. But he was bothered, as his contact was not normally late to their meetings.
The contact, an older Greek boy named Pietro who insisted that he massage George's muscular back and shoulders every time they met, had left crying the last time they had discussed their mission. George didn't want to get a full-body massage, as he wanted to keep his gun holstered. He explained this to Pietro, who grew sullen and lost all interest in discussing the mission. George thought back to this episode as he lit another cigarette and couldn't understand why it was so hard for young men to take their jobs seriously. He was thinking of what he'd say to Mr. Willington when he saw the mission objective, the German Frau.
She was stunningly beautiful. Six feet tall in heels, ankles and calves that could not hide the fact that she was a former East German sprinter, an ample ass barely contained in a grey woolen skirt, a bosom that would be the envy of any waitress at Octoberfest in Beidelbaum, and it was topped off by golden hair that was perfectly braided just like a grownup Heidi. She was the center of attention for all the men in the bar, and that included George. And she noticed this fact with a stoic grace as she von trapped herself over to George and asked him something he didn't expect.
“Vould you like to arm wrestle?”
George nearly choked on his cigarette, but maintained his cool demeanor and answered, “I don't normally compete against women.”
The German Frau was not amused by this answer. She asked, “Are you as a chicken? Are you a small man unsure of your own strength?”
This was too much for George, so he had to answer. Plus, he knew that this may be the best way to follow her to her C.O.I.T.U.S hideout believed to be located somewhere in the Greek subway system.
“Want to make it interesting?” he asked.
“You are already interesting to me,” she answered, as she removed her coat and revealed her strong arms that surprised George with their well-toned arms and knotted muscles. He thought for a moment that Petro would have loved to have been there right then, but kept his focus on the prize.
“If I win,” said George, “You have to take me home and let me show you a good time.”
“And if I win,” said the German Frau, “You have to show me what you have beneath your liederhosen.”
George quickly downed his single malt scotch and rolled up his sleeves to prepare for battle.
(to be continued)