The Call

The Call

Fan fiction by Kelly Crane

What kind of sick bastard calls at 4 in the morning? I mean I've only been in bed for 90 minutes…

The phone calmly jangles for the third time. I grab the handset and groan, “Michael Ian Black. This line is secure. What?”

A cultured, erudite, and thoroughly annoying voice responds with the finest Oxford accent, “I'm sorry old boy. Did I wake you?”
 
Frickin' Europeans. All that education and they still can't tell time.
 
“That's ok I've been asleep for minutes,” I respond wearily.
 
“Excellent! My name is Nigel Phelps. I've a job for you.”
 
Gee, that's funny, the last time I heard that voice the name was Roger Moseby. Sometimes I hate this spy crap. Oh well, if he wants to be Nigel today who am I to argue? He may not know what his name is but he pays well regardless.
 
Time to continue the game. “What's the job?”
 
“A simple transport.”
 
“People or objects?”
 
“Both, across a border.”
 
Oh joy, probably at least fifteen major felonies required. “How much?” Here's the fun part.
 
“Twenty thousand.”
 
“Pounds?” I ask eagerly.
 
“Dollars.”
 
Crap. “Expenses?”
 
“Within reason.”
 
“Where do I need to be?”
 
“London initially, Frances will meet you at Heathrow. You’re booked on the 6 a.m. from Kennedy.”
 
Ah, Frances. I'd ask her out if I weren’t convinced she was a man. Really cute but shoulders like a linebacker. “I'll get packed. This better be first class.”
 
“It is. I’ll see you in a few hours then. Goodbye.”
 
“Later.”
 
Hmm, 4:18 a.m. Barely enough time to pack. Better just take the basics and cruise. That's the nice thing about jobs with expenses paid - you can grab what you need on the fly. Plus it sounds like the job is on the continent and it pays to dress like a native.
 
Let’s see… got the overnight kit, a small bag with a few pairs of socks and underwear. That seems to be it. Heading downstairs to the garage I throw everything into the passenger's seat of my GTO. The engine catches with an angry growl and I'm on my way. Traffic is light, mostly delivery vehicles, so I'm able to make good time. About an hour later I pull into the airport’s long-term parking lot.
 
Heading to the British Airways desk I tell the clerk, “Michael Black, 6 a.m., London.” I flip open my US Michael Ian Black passport to prove to her that I'm who I say I am. She pulls up the info and asks the inane questions that are required by Federal paranoia. I apparently answer them convincingly as she hands me my ticket.
 
I barely make it to the door and get a disapproving look from the steward... er, flight attendant until she sees the first class seating. On the way forward I glance at my fellow passengers and idly wonder how many of them are fellow spooks. Settling into my big, comfy seat I tell the flight attendant not to wake me for breakfast and lean back for a nap.
 
Maybe if I'm lucky the plane will crash and I'll be able to get some rest.