The Secret Night Rendezvous

By BobbyRica | May 20, 2011

crica night

It was a dark and clear evening. The moon was full, and the gnarled branches of the ancient trees around me slowly swayed to the wind that whispered eerily outside. I was on my way to a relative’s home located deep in the woods when my car broke down. I had hoped it would be a minor problem but try as I could, there was no way to fix the car and the nearest gas station was miles away. That meant I was stranded in this isolated area – alone and with no one to turn too. Worse, I found myself in an unfamiliar area that very few motorists had traveled before.

crica night 2

Okay, I admit I was just exaggerating! Now that I’ve got your attention, let’s go to the real story. My name is Bobby Rica and I work for the government. You can probably say that I’m the American version of James Bond – except that I’m wittier, handsomer and don’t speak with a funny accent. Unlike Bond, I drink only on days  that start with the letter “T” like Tuesday, Thursday, Taturday, Tunday, Today, Tomorrow and Tonight! Yes, I work as a secret agent for a secret organization that’s holed up somewhere in a secret base. My mission is so secret that I can’t tell you. If I did, I would have to kill you!

On that day, I was assigned to meet a Russian spy who had wandered into Costa Rica. My source told me he was a hardened criminal who had a nasty record that reads like a grocery list. He was considered a dangerous man second only to the Pope! Mr. X – as I like to call him – was due to arrive here any minute now and I was waiting for him.


That day, I was armed to the hilt. In my kind of profession you can never be sure so I was prepared for anything. In addition to my firearm, sidearm and underarm, I carried my security blanket, my compass and my trusty pea shooter in case I ran out of bullets.

“What’ll it be, mister?” the waiter asked me.

“I’ll have my usual glass of chocolate milk please – shaken but not stirred,” I answered.

In case you’re wondering, I wasn’t in a fancy hotel or casino. I was staking out my quarry in Musmanni, a big bakery chain in Costa Rica that sells all kinds of bread in addition to coffee, cookies and donuts. Chocolate milk is a favorite drink that you’ll find everywhere and it tastes just like melted ice cream. I swear there’s nothing like it! The best part is you can get it here for as little as 75 cents.


After consuming my eighth glass of chocolate milk (with some donuts on the side), Mr. X finally arrived. He was as big an an ox and carried a leather briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He walked slowly across the bakery and meticulously surveyed the pastries displayed in the counter. My first reaction was to shoot first and ask questions later but I held my ground and waited for his move.

He saw me and then hobbled to where I was seated. “You have the goods?” I asked, my eyes shifting to every corner of the room.

“You have the money?” he blurted out, with a Russian so thick, you can cut it with a knife.

I opened the satchel and revealed wads of cash. But as he had instructed, they weren’t dollar bills, but the Costa Rica colon.

The guy looked around to see if the coast is clear. He slowly opened his leather case and he took out the only object inside: an object wrapped in newspaper.

My forehead was soaking with sweat as the lump on my throat began to weigh me down. The big guy grabbed a chair and carefully placed the object in the table where I sat.

I slid my hand to grasp the object but the guy cleared his throat, signaling me to hand over the money. I threw the bag at him while I tore off the newspaper wrapping.

“It was difficult to get…” he murmured while he counted his money.

crica night 4

I smiled when the familiar smudge on the head was the first thing I saw. When the newspaper had been removed, his pale face stared at me with lifeless eyes. Its small lifeless body lay rigid as if in attention. So when I placed it back to the table, its head started to move, bowing and shaking. The former president of Russia never looked so good. Except that he’s all in plastic.

I finally found what I had been looking for: a Gorbachev bobbing head toy. It was a collector’s item that’s worth a fortune. If my friends ever found out that I have a Russian issued novelty toy, they’d take it away from me.

I shook the Russian’s hand and this rendezvous is now at an end.

Spread The Word
[backflip] [blinklist] [Bloglines] [BlogMarks] [Blogsvine] [Connotea] [Digg] [Netvouz] [Propeller] [Sphinn] [Squidoo] [StumbleUpon]

Google Reader or Homepage Add to My Yahoo! Add to Technorati Favorites Subscribe with Bloglines Subscribe in NewsGator Online Add to Technorati Favorites! Add to netvibes Subscribe with Pluck RSS reader


You must be logged in to post a comment.