by Hemingway
The Spy who was unable to make phone calls
This is a story about a spy named Hemingway, Nik Hemingway. Debonair, sexy, fit, intelligent and completely incorruptible, he is Canada’s best spy and often its only hope. Hemingway has been on countless missions and each and every one has been an unequivocal success. He is fluent in English, French, Spanish, Hindi, Farsi and Cantonese, and he is an expert in innumerable martial arts and fighting styles.
Of course, as Canada’s leading (and some think only) spy, Hemingway is a weapons expert, and if it has an engine, then Hemingway can drive or pilot it. Unlike most others in the global espionage community, Hemingway is also a diplomat, and his record shows that diplomacy and a soft touch can often achieve more than subterfuge and intimidation. He is quite frankly the greatest spy the world has never seen. Nik Hemingway makes James Bond look like Mr. Bean.
Getting to this point was a long road for Hemingway. From his early years in 3-fingered, banjo-strumming, Peterborough, Ontario to today, standing in his penthouse apartment atop one of Paris’ most private boutique hotels, his eyes moved from his bed with its 3000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that likely cost more than the GDP of Egypt, to his sleeping supermodel girlfriend’s perfect body laying on those sheets.
Turning, he took in the view of the overrated Eiffel tower through his wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling picture window, he was able to relax his in-born hyper-vigilance and he felt a moment of perfect peace and calm. After all, no one and nothing was trying to kill him yet today.
Sipping the one small, Turkish coffee he allowed himself each morning before starting his 4-hour daily workout regimen, he heard Tatiana stirring in bed behind him. He turned back again to gaze at her appreciatively. She was after all, the most beautiful woman he had seen this week. He watched as she slowly woke herself up by writhing and stretching slowly across the bed, moving smoothly like a cat or like a drop of some incredibly beautiful liquid. She moaned seductively and said, “Let’s order some breakfast in, sweetheart.”
“Perfect idea!” Nik responded with his uber-masculine baritone radio-voice, which was no small part of what the goddess Tatiana found so irresistible about Nik. “I’m jumping in the shower. The phone is right next to you, my darling. Just press 7 for room service. I’ll have the Caviar Benedict and some melon please.” And with that, Nik loped across a cream shag carpet to the bathroom, a carpet so thick, his feet practically disappeared into the pile.
The shower was hot and had like, something like 15 jets blasting him from every angle. There was no curtain, just an Italian block barrier to walk around that had been so perfectly designed, not a drop of water escaped despite his frenetic lathering and rinsing.
Walking back out with a white towel on his waist low enough to act as brilliant white underline to his 8-pack, he said, “Where’s breakfast?”
“Oh you call, please. My English is not so good and I love to hear your voice. I’ll have anything. Let me have what you’re having, Cheri.” God, saying “Cheri” in that Russian accent was sexy as hell.
“Err,” said Nik, "Why don’t we go out for breakfast?"