Confessions of a secret agent

Initially, I have to say, I greeted the project with a certain degree of scepticism. Everything I knew about psychology, of human nature, indicated that they wouldn’t fall for it – I’d be discovered straight away, and forever be cast into unemployable obscurity. Worse than that, my department would be shamed; Project Mongoose upstairs would laugh us out of the building. I couldn’t face the thought of relentless mocking by a team that had seriously considered assassinating Fidel Castro with an exploding cigar.

But I did it, for the good of the people and the sanctity of the American Way. If there’s one thing I believe in – one thing I’ve always believed in – it’s the glory of the stars and stripes, flying high against a cloudless sky.

They didn’t have cloudless skies where I was going. Rain, I’d been warned, would become my worst enemy. That and the loveless disposition of a socialist nation; somehow, I had to fight back my pride and embrace both.

I dyed my hair, perfected a goofy grin that looked so fake nobody would believe I was an agent, and lived out the six hour BOAC flight to London Heathrow. I almost turned back when I arrived at the fingerprint-smeared gate; the wind passed through my suit, as they said it would, and I disembarked into a world full of frowns and grey woollen jackets. These people, I thought to myself, eat congealed pigs’ blood and ride the bus to work; there’s no civilisation here.

I went to university in Oxford, drinking at the King’s Arms and the Turf Tavern, laughing at the jokes of the pathetic proletariat-like people and drinking their lukewarm beer. It was like pulling teeth, but all the while I was reminding myself: one day you will be their leader, and all this will be yours. That is to say, yours and Department 7G at the Central Intelligence Agency.

And so here I stand, my mission come to fruition; my identity as Anthony has proven almost impenetrable. I am the Prime Minister of their outdated, crumbling parliament - who would have thought it possible? My every decision as leader has been designed to fit in with the United States of America’s best interests, and yes, the newspapers have called me on it a number of times, but yet I’m still here, making the same decisions. I could not have asked for better.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I miss my country. At night, when Cherie has gone to her bed and the children are being psychologically programmed by the guys, I find myself lying under the flag of the most freedom-loving country on Earth and I masturbate. I masturbate hard.

And then, as the night pulls in and takes me to other worlds, my dreams consist of golden eagles and the beautiful sound of troop movements. A world that is not yet, but soon will be, I tell myself.


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