At An Interview
A man in a suit sits at desk with a city view. He is wearing a yellow silk tie, probably called “poupon” or some rich sounding color.
Interviewer: What can you bring to the company?
Me: I will let my resume speak for itself.
Interviewer: How about you speak for yourself.
Me: Actions speak louder than words. But for fear of deafening you with my transferable skills, I will tell you this: I made fifty million dollars last quarter.
Interviewer: Where did you work?
Me: Everywhere. Nowhere incorporated.
Interviewer: Do you have experience with the stock market?
Me: I don’t like invisible hands.
Interviewer: Okay. How do you cope with challenges in the workplace?
Me: I love a challenge. A chase. A kill.
Interview: Thank you, it was great meeting you.
Me: Thank you.
Me: One more thing. I am a Russian Spy. I am here to kill you.
I pull out a gun and shoot him twice. I walk to the elevator. The interviewer screams in pain. The receptionist does nothing, she is at her desk but still has 12 minutes left on lunch.
At A Nightclub
I exit my dancing cage and walk to the bar. I am wearing nothing but strategically placed rhinestones, high heels, and a boa (a real one, no feathers). I am a spy with many alias’s, mainly cage dancer and dancer. A man approaches me.
Man: It’s hot in here
Me: Sorry about that.
Man: Can I buy you a drink?
Me: Alcohol is your ice pick? I think you need something sharper.
Man: How is this for an ice breaker: I think you are beautiful. I will buy you anything you want. Clear?
The man snaps his finger, a waitress brings over a bottle
Man: So…what type of music do you like?
Me: Radiohead. Dylan. Bieber.
Man: That’s great. What do you like to do?
Me: I have to kill you.
Man: You mean “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”
Me: Haha. No. Cheers.
Man collapses and dies. I poisoned his drink while I was talking to him. He didn’t notice, because, you know, men are stupid.
At A Staff Meeting
Boss: Emilia, you received a perfect score on your Russian Spy review. Every target hit.
Co-worker: Also, I can take your Saturday shift because you deserve a night out.
Boss: Plus you don’t have to polish any cutlery tonight. Also, I will stop talking about my kids and my dog and my cottage because I know you don’t give a shit.
Co-Worker: And we bought you a cake with your name on it, which I realize now is Emilia spelt with an E and not, “pale white girl move your ass”.
Me: That is so thoughtful. Really. Thank you. One last thing, I want a promotion.
Boss: I will let you know if any spots become available.
Me: I think I can arrange that.
I take my gun and shoot my boss. I turn the gun to my fellow co worker who already has a gun pointing at me. We stare at each other. We both smile and put our guns away.
Co-Worker: You ruined your cake.
Me: I don’t like chocolate poison anyway.
She smiles and winks at me. We both jump out the window and go do Spy stuff, not because we have to, but because it must be done, and we understand the gravity of the situation. Spying is our passion, purpose and priority and it is funner than clearing dishes. Most importantly, a Spy never shoots a fellow Spy. This is the Spy code. They also never eat poison cake.
*Other possible titles include "Day Dream on the Job", or "What Happens When You Watch Movie Trailers About Russian Spies Before A Shift"