The Spy

By Gailen Murray



Thirty five year-old Norman Cornblatz, aka ‘Jungle Jerry’, is six foot, five inches tall, 195 pounds of pure macho; exhibiting broad muscular arms and shoulders; a ruggedly handsome face with curly blonde hair.  He is the ideal specimen for a Chip-n-dale poster-calendar.  Always wearing dark glasses, he is a buff, tanned, he-man who is a master of guerilla warfare and survival skills.  Working for the CIA, even his wife Vivian of thirty years is unaware of his true identity.  All she knows is, he would be gone for weeks at a time as a salesman for his military arms supply company.  It is a secret, undercover, covert government operation, set up in the White House itself where its only access is through the Lincoln bedroom.  Even the president is unaware of its existence.



Norman crossed the border in Kzarzanistan, leaping from an airplane at 21,000feet.  Free falling, he didn’t open his para-sail until he was a mere 300 feet above the ground, landing on the roof of the military complex with pinpoint accuracy, breaching the security of the headquarters of the rogue nation.  He repelled to the ground, overpowered two guards at the rear of the complex and bolted into the confines of the building, scanning the interior for the enemy.  His mission was to compromise the Kzarzanistan’s plan to build a nuclear weapon.  After he had successfully cracked the safe that held the jewels, an alarm sounded when he opened the vault door.  Bells, whistles and sirens went off as the room suddenly began to fill with a deadly gas.  Norman slipped on his mask and grabbed the plans, cramming them into his vest pocket.  He ran to the door and peeked into the hallway.  It was filled with clouds of poisonous gas and he heard the sound of running feet, as the enemy came to intercept him.  He unsnapped his sidearm and was going to shoot his way out in a hail of gunfire.  Instead he ran to the window, only to discover it was covered with bars.  Norman calmly pulled a PLBD (personal little blasting device) from his belt and placed it on the window sill.  He armed it and crouch to the side, covering his head with his muscular arms.  There was a tremendous explosion and nothing was left of the window except for a huge gaping hole.  Fearlessly, form two stories up, he jumped to the ground, tumbling several times before leaping to his feet and running in zig-zag patterns as bullets whizzed past his head and chewed up the ground at his feet.



In the cover of the forest, Norman ran through the brush, hoping to put distance between him and his pursuers.  He climbed and climbed until he came to a clearing.  In the dim light of the approaching dawn, three hundred yards away, he could see a black abyss before him.  He ran to the edge of the canyon, searching frantically for a means of escape.  Behind him, he could hear the dogs tracing his scent.  Soon, the light from dozens of torches began to emerge from the trees.  He reached for his sidearm, only to find the holster empty.  His gun must have fallen out when he tumbled to the ground back at the fortress.  Now he was defenseless except for his cunning and the fact that he was a master of the martial arts.  However, karate didn’t offer much defense against flying bullets.



Then he heard the distant sounds of a helicopter.  In the emerging light of the approaching sun, he saw it, flying along the rim of the valley, coming to his rescue.  As it neared, he saw the rope, trailing below it.  he would have to cast himself into the blackness before him and hope to grab the rope as it swung by.  There would be only one pass; only one chance.  One quick touch told him he still had the plans for the nuclear device in his possession.  As bullets whizzed past him, Norman leapt from the edge of the crevice into the blackness as the helicopter passed overhead.



“Norman!” someone shouted.  “Norman, wake up and help me unload these groceries.  I swear, I don’t know how you can sleep with that helicopter clippin’ the treetops,” Vivian shouted.



Then the real Norman Cornblatz, aka ‘little big man’, at the country club, pulls himself out of the car into the bright sunlight.  He’s not thirty-five, he’s fifty-three.  He isn’t six foot five, but five foot six, with narrow bony shoulders.  He doesn’t weigh 195 pounds, but 295 pounds of USDA, Grade-A couch potato.  He doesn’t have curly blonde hair, but is mostly bald except for a pathetically inadequate comb-over.  His brown, beady little eyes are bloodshot.  Nonetheless, his mission is clear now; moving the contraband from the grocery cart to the armored vehicle.  Turning slowly, his beady eyes scan for any signs of Kzarzanistanians lurking in the parking lot.  He moves with the quickness of a cat, only to drop the eggs.  Oops!