Chapter 1: And So It Begins
September 22, 1991
I came to Amsterdam to defend my country and right a wrong. I knew I would be unhappy here…What other place could hope to have the beauty of my homeland? But the cold and the wet have been driving me to distraction. This is intolerable.
In an attempt to ease my suffering, I decided to spend the day in warmer climes. So I went to Paris. I deserve a treat and the food in Paris is a decent second to the food of my beloved Israel. I’ve more than earned such an indulgence—one must do what one can to preserve ones soul after all.
September 23, 1991
My life is now forever changed. You would think the food or the culture or the art would accomplish such a feat—but no! It was not the delights of Paris that have changed me—I met someone. A magnificent specimen of man crossed my path; bewitched my mind and ensnared my soul. We met at a coffee shop, and though our conversation was brief, we connected on a soul-deep level.
His eyes are the clearest blue. And his face! His jaw was chiseled from the same stone that David was made of. He is tall and dark haired and utterly captivating. I am determined to have him at all costs! My beloved is worthy of the best—and he shall have it!
Though his taste in coffee leaves something to be desired. I mean really, what man turns his nose up at espresso? Plain black coffee is fine during a stakeout and one cannot obtain a worthy bean…but when one is in a coffeeshop with superior offerings and one *ignores* those offerings…Clearly, my beloved cannot understand enough French to obtain the coffee he deserves. My heart breaks for my poor darling!
This is a complication that I did not account for. I had to leave my beloved behind so that I could complete my mission. But our parting shall only be for a short time…We shall meet again my beloved. Soon.
Chapter 2: The Hit List
I was going to wait to post this until this weekend...But I couldn't resist. This whole series just gets more and more hysterical the more I write it. Enjoy!
Today I must break out the sack cloth and ashes. That sound you hear is the sound of me wailing my heartbreak to the world.
My beloved man bear has been taken in by this shameless hussy. A devil in human skin has ensnared my darling. My beloved has cheated on our love…and now he is marrying some pathetic American hussy. Only a devil would be named “Diane.”
I understood his need for companionship—for I cannot be with him in person but I do not desire his suffering. And my boo bear is a tactile darling and needs more hugs and fun touches than he is getting from his truly atrocious employer. Do not even get me started on this Mike. We would be here all day. I am shaking my head. Ugh.
But! My beloved has been taken in by a money grubbing home wrecker. I could have ignored the meaningless sex. A man has needs, after all. But you do not marry your orgasm friend! You thank them and send them on their way! What is he thinking!! He can do so much better than this! He has done so much better—he has me!!
Her red hair is obviously fake. And do not get me started on the rest of her. (Which is also clearly fake) She does not even appreciate him! Mark my words, this marriage will not last long. My darling is meant to be with me. Me. This situation must be rectified…
June 25, 1994
Today is a Day for Rejoicing!
I told you their marriage would not last!! My beloved is too intelligent and discerning to stay with such an obvious, plastic hussy! I Even her laugh was contrived and fake!
And I told you! I told you, that he would see through her and come back to me! And now, he is free of her! He has broken free from the shackles of his oppressive marriage and shed the cocoon of that Diane woman. (May she rot in the Dante’s hell as her insides are removed)
Yet, even during my celebration, my heart is full of woe for my beloved one. It was not enough for the plastic, she-devil to ensnare my darling. To share his love and his touches and his sexy times. No! She robbed my beloved! That damned —no, she is not even a woman—thing stole all of my darling’s money right from his own bank account! The injustice!
And to add insult to injury, robbed him! Why is this thing not imprisoned for her crimes? Why do the Americans police not serve or protect their most vulnerable people? My darling should not have had to suffer so.
But she is gone! Poof! No more will she darken my beloved’s bed. Or enjoy his time or touches. Ha! He will see now, that we are meant to be. As we have always been meant to be.
Ridiculousness knows no bounds
Ever since my beloved married that shameless hussy, I have been keeping a closer eye on his romantic liaisons. Purely for science, of course.
I only do this for my beloved’s sake. I am busy with my work for my homeland. Important work, to be sure, but work that keeps me from my beloved. I do not expect my darling to be celibate while we are apart…but after the disaster of his last relationship, I have decided that my love lacks any sense of self-preservation. Or good taste in women. I am shaking my head at his ridiculousness. Honestly.
I resent the implication that I am “stalking” my love. I am not stalking him. I am keeping track of his so that I can step in and protect him if, and most probably when, he requires rescue. My blue-eyed darling is sensitive and I will protect his delicate heart at all costs.
This brings me to my latest dilemma. My beloved has gone and gotten married. Again! And to another whore. My darling, I know you need companionship. And, I have already mentioned that I do not expect you to remain celibate…but must you insist on marrying your toys?
Your little indiscretions are for orgasms not for marrying. Either find a cuddle companion or an orgasm friend…but do not mix the two! Have you learned nothing from your last foray into matrimony? You are not meant to be with a woman. And your taste in women is frankly atrocious.
This marriage will not last any longer than the last. One way or another.
May 28, 1996
What Did I Tell You?
Did I not say that my darling’s latest marriage would not last? Did I not say that his taste in women is tragically atrocious? Did I not say that this latest home-wrecking, opportunistic, dishonest, lying whore would only break his poor heart? Well?
Of course I did. No one knows my beloved better than I. No one understands his sensitive, delicate heart the way I do. My poor blue-eyed fox. This wife did my baby wrong. She took him for granted….She cheated on my darling.
While I hope that this experience teaches my love a lesson…Since the last marriage did not teach him anything, I am not sure if I should hold out hope for the lesson to stick this time. At least for my beloved. His new ex-wife? She must be taught a lesson.
Hmmm. I have been reliably informed that executing this vile temptress for her unfaithful, deliberate destruction of my darling’s heart is perhaps a bit extreme. Other words were tossed around like “unethical” or “terrifying” but the idiots who used such words have since been…terminated. Who knew that so many of my co-workers had such ugly secrets? They should’ve been more careful. That is all I am saying.
This Rebecca can continue breathing. For now.
Lessons…These Are Things That Happen!
I have been out of touch with my beloved for several months. Clearly, this was an error on my part. But what could I do? I was working on a very sensitive project for my country and the assignment necessitated a complete technological blackout. Obviously, this was a miscalculation and cannot be repeated.
I mean really. What is this man thinking? He is not thinking I tell you! Not with the brain on his shoulders! Clearly, he is only thinking with his cock. And while he has a lovely cock, it is not meant to be the decision maker! Gah!
This is beyond ridiculous. My darling has learned nothing from the other two marriages that he has had. Nothing! Not a single thing! They went into one ear and right out of the other ear. I am beyond annoyed.
If one more person tells me that ridiculous, erroneous American saying about the third time being “the charm” I shall have to resort to extreme measures. Extreme. Bloody. Medieval measures. A torture dungeon is not out of the running. I am still considering the creation of one. Do not test me.
October 27, 1999
Early Hanukah Gift?
Hah! The bitch is gone and the divorce is final! Again. For the third time. Third. Time. Honestly!
And I was not even required to step in to assist the process along. This Stephanie was unable to handle my beloved. With his single-minded, patient, tactical mind. Or his large, competent hands. Or his beautiful cock…
But I digress. This whore was so narcissistic as to resent my darling doing his job. Work is important, it helps one to feel accomplished and of use. And this floozie could not understand that! She incited many arguments about my beloved working “too much.” As if such a thing is even possible. Pah!
Clearly, she felt threatened by his clear superiority and could not handle his success. He caught a serial killer; which is no mean feat. I am tempted to send this Boone flowers. I could not have orchestrated such circumstances any better. Boone lived up to his name; he was a well-timed boon to me. My poor heart was having a hard time accepting these circumstances.
Today is a day for celebration my friends! Celebration! Fine food! Costly libations! Celebrate with me.
Though, I am slightly disappointed that I was not fast enough nor required to assist this Stephanie out the door. Bittersweet my friends. Very bittersweet.
Chapter 3: Surrounded by Idiots
Today is a day of mixed feelings. I have long been saying that my beloved man-bear lacks any kind of competent assistance. One needs only look at how long his partners, and I use that term very loosely, last in the field. One pathetic man only lasted 6 hours! 6! Hours!
All errors are my own (beta what beta). And yes, it says "baboon." That's not a typo. That was a deliberate choice. Enjoy! :)
December 12, 1992
I Have Nothing
Today is a day of mixed feelings. I have long been saying that my beloved man-bear lacks any kind of competent assistance. One needs only look at how long his partners, and I use that term *very* loosely, last in the field. One pathetic man only lasted 6 hours! 6! Hours! I recognize that the rest of the world lacks the training and the standards of my Mossad, but truly what in the world is America coming to? It is little wonder that they have such problems with crime. If they wanted to have less criminals, they would implement better standards for joining their law enforcement agencies. That is all I am saying.
The last Chief Medical Examiner that worked for my darling’s NCIS was something of an idiot, if I am at all honest. The man lacked a spine. He lacked conviction and fortitude. He would have been better off in some useless field like postal delivery. How he even got hired at any law enforcement agency, even NCIS, is truly baffling. The man was afraid of his own shadow for Israel’s sake. He could not even look my honey bear in the face much less his beautiful blue eyes. What kind of self-respecting man cannot even manage eye contact?
And now that that incompetent baboon has left, they have hired some crazy man who prefers to be called “Ducky” as if he is a water fowl. If this Ducky only had poor naming choices to call his own, I would be able to ignore it. But to add insult to the injury, the man is more long-winded than Yitzhak Rabin.
And if that were not bad enough, he is determined to create a “bromance” with my boo-bear. As if this Duck can be an adequate substitute for our bond. My darling needs no bromance—he has me!
I must research this "bromance" further. If it is as the name suggests, then this Duck-man must be dealt with--and swiftly.
This Ducky man, I fear, is truly insane. Why else would he insist on speaking to the dead as if they can reply? They cannot hear you, crazy Duck man. They cannot hear you.
I truly fear for my beloved’s sanity.
July 8, 1994
You Cannot Be Serious
Long have I been complaining about my beloved’s lack of adequate backup. He is not meant to be alone, my darling. And it is foolishness to ask such an esteemed, competent, diligent investigator to work alone. Do they want my darling to die?! These. People. Honestly.
I may have, perhaps, planted some seeds that my beloved is excellent and deserves a partner…and a prestigious position. Who can say what politicians will listen to when they are drunk and have some pretty, disposable thing in their lap? Not I.
Now my darling has a partner. Granted, he is not much of a partner. But we all must start somewhere, I suppose. He certainly lacks the skills of my darling man-bear. But canon fodder is always necessary no matter your field of battle. And now my darling should be able to throw this Stanley at any adversaries to buy himself enough time to get away. Or at least to get to a better covered position to remove them from the field.
What kind of a name is Stanley anyway? Americans regularly perplex me. Were his parents high when they named him? This is not a strong name. I am skeptical of the medical practices these American doctors perform. Do they drug laboring mothers so severely that they are incapable of intelligent thought, or any thought? And the fathers must be similarly incapacitated. Why else would there be so many ridiculously named children? Denial is not, apparently just the name for a river in Egypt. I shudder to hear such things. Truly.
In this Stanley’s favor is his complete and utter lack of sexual interest in my beloved. It seems that, along with his unfortunate name, he is tragically straight. May he lure conniving whores away from my darling. Though I am sure his cock is not nearly so beautiful as my man-bears. Who can compete with perfection?
I have low expectations from this Stanley. But I shall wait and see what happens. If I am lucky, he will learn and learn quickly how best to serve and protect my beloved. Though I do not hold much faith in luck. So while I hope for such an occurrence, I expect him not to last long. He too will eventually cave under his own mediocrity in the face of my beloved’s acclaim. Time, it seems, will have to tell.
September 2, 1996
I have despised my beloved’s trainer at NCIS almost since their first interaction. The man lacks class, intelligence, and respect for my beloved. Honestly! What sort of trainer smacks their trainee on the head? The man is barbaric! If he were not so well connected, or at least so easily identifiable, I would have him dealt with. It seems luck is with this Michael for the moment.
He also has the most unfortunate taste in clothing and facial hair. Truly, it is very tragic. I credit this Michael with my darling’s insistence on cutting his hair himself. And shopping from some kind of second-hand store for elderly American men. My beloved is a magnificent specimen of male yet you would never know if from the way he dresses. It is most cliche. And utterly, horrifyingly, tragic. My poor heart breaks to see him so clothed.
This Sears is clearly only fit for the poor, destitute, and the average, unremarkable plebeian American. Their color choices are disgusting. Their choices for material are devastating. And the clothes are sewn by machine. Clearly, this is why they are so poorly made and unflattering. This is a store for the ugly and shamed to give their patronage. Beloved, let me save you! Or at least, let me save myself from this agony. Either or.
Yet this is a day for the history books! Michael, the pestilence on my life, is retiring. Ha! True agents do not retire. This shows that he is weak and stupid. Obviously.
I did not think the man capable of such sophisticated thought. I am pleasantly surprised to be so wrong. Who knew the man had a modicum of self-preservation left in his mangy hide?
No longer will he darken the door of my love. My man-bear is now free to work without having to suffer through the stupidity of such a superior! To shine even brighter now that he will no longer be held back by such vapid mediocrity. My snuggle-bear will be setting records and making a name for himself, mark my words. The world will see what he is capable of! Take that you insipid weasel! Ha!
I do not wish you well, Michael. But I am pleased to see the back of you. Though, please do yourself and the rest of the world a favor and take care of your unfortunate backside. Your ass is tragic. Watching you walk away is nigh unbearable.
Chapter 4: Here We Go Again
If you thought the Duck man was the worst staffing choice that NCIS could make, then prepare yourself, my friends. Today I have learned that the Duck man is the *least* of NCIS’ problems.
March 28, 1999
If you thought the Duck man was the worst staffing choice that NCIS could make, then prepare yourself, my friends. Today I have learned that the Duck man is the least of NCIS’ problems.
They hired a goth to be their Chief Forensic Scientist. This Abby may be the most unprofessional woman I have ever come across. And since I have been to many countries in many situations, that is saying something.
I cannot for the life of me understand what they are attempting to do. She wears mini-skirts and platform combat boots to work. Platform. Combat. Boots. What will the Americans come up with next? Screen doors for submarines? Lipstick for domesticated farm animals? Gah!
This is an outrage! This Abby has taken to throwing herself at my man-bear. My beloved darling. She is preying upon his good nature and his soft spot for women. She is shrewd, this Abby. Very shrewd. I would applaud her technique if it were not being implemented on my beloved.
If she were Israeli, I would recruit her to Mossad. We can always use more canon fodder. Besides, honey traps are not so easy to come by anymore, you know. People get so touchy about being asked to seduce a target these days. What is the world coming to, I ask you?
She has nicknamed my man-bear her silver fox. After extensive research, I am forced to admit that this is an accurate descriptor of my darling. He is indeed a silver fox. But her attempts to possess him are troublesome. Obviously, he does not see her in a romantic light, luckily for her, but her insistence of special treatment and inserting herself into his life concern me.
As my beloved silver-bear has already proven, he has truly atrocious taste in women…And the right whore under the right circumstances are enough to entice him into matrimony. One need look no further than the demon woman Diane or the backstabbing, cheating whore Stephanie to see that my beloved has been led around by his most exquisite cock on more than one occasion.
Though my man-bear has, so far, not fallen for her charms, few though they may be, I am still concerned. My beloved may have Rules about orgasms with co-workers, but his liaison with Jennifer shows that he is not above ignoring his own rules. My darling still has not learned that one’s orgasm friend is not worthy of becoming one’s life partner. A lover’s work is never done. This is most frustrating.
As to this Abby… I would dearly love to rip out all of her organs and feed them to her. That is a pleasant thought.
If only I did not have to protect my beloved so stringently, I would be able to get more done and, thus, hasten our reunion. Alas, my beloved is too skilled a lover for this to be possible; his cock too enticing.
Though how so many of these women are discovering just how enticing his cock is perturbs me. I cannot imagine that my darling just whips his cock out at any opportunity. Perhaps they are following him into the toilet? Further research is obviously needed…
If this Abby does not tread lightly, I will be forced to take action. My beloved man-bear must be protected, even from himself. I have many resources available to me now that I did not have before. I will see who is ready for a promotion.
I am watching you Abby…
April 15, 2000
What Did I Say?
I am not surprised that Stanley could not perform under my beloved. Though he did last longer than I thought he would, I suppose his stamina is slightly admirable even if it is not impressive. At five years, he clearly could tell that he did not measure up to my beloved.
Am I surprised? No, I saw this coming, if you will recall. I knew that, with a name like Stanley, he would be unable to perform for long. Even his name speaks of weakness and, clearly, his actions display his fear and inadequacy. Apparently, this Stanley was having performance issues in more areas of his life than just his work…
Well, you were adequate to your task, Stanley. I will give you that. You managed to keep my beloved from death. I have been informed that you actually learned something from my daring. Congratulations.
Though your transferring to another position in NCIS does leave one with questions as to your intelligence. At least you managed to be of use for a time, however brief that time was. Though your esthetics leave much to be desired. I am just saying.
June 15, 2001
What Have We Here?
Well well well. My beloved travels quite frequently for his abysmal employment. And he spends some time undercover, his favorite part of the job if his behavior is anything to go off of. (My darling only makes that twinkle-eyed stare if he is enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself.)
So my man-bear dressing even worse and going undercover in Baltimore, was not a surprise. Well, his sartorial choices were horrifyingly surprising but his assignment was not. Truly, I despair that my grizzly-man will ever learn how to properly dress himself. Beloved, you catch more idiots with honey than with rotting grapes. Honestly.
While my grizzly-love was in Baltimore, he came across a young, cocky, bubbly-assed detective. If my heart were not already spoken for, this fine ass may have been enough to keep my attention for a few minutes. Not long, of course. This Anthony is pretty but he lacks that certain je ne sais quoi to hold my attention. (The strength, poise, steely blue eyes, and beautiful thick cock of my man-bear.) That I would probably break such a pretty young thing is entirely beside the point. I am looking at you Uri. Keep your ridiculous opinions to yourself.
I hope attractiveness is an indication of intelligence and competency because I have high hopes for this Anthony.
Perhaps some—surveillance countermeasures—should be enacted…To make sure that he is a worthy partner for my beloved. Of course.
And I do not have to worry about my darling fuzzy-bear going after this Anthony romantically. He seems more fond than horny when around him. I will admit, that Stanley was not the best trial case for whether or not my man-bear would go after his male co-workers romantically—the boy was weak as water. I will remain vigilant just in case.
I must admit, though, that I do not believe his experience as a cop will serve him overmuch as the partner of my intrepid man-bear. My snuggle-puss is more clever and circumspect than some lowly cop. I shudder to think of the bad habits young Anthony has picked up.
It turns out that, after some research, Anthony has some decent skills after all. I would not have pegged him as having the patience or skill to go undercover; much less pull it off convincingly. Though he has the looks for such an endeavor, he seems too immature to pull such a thing off. Clearly, this is wrong.
This situation bears further... study.
Chapter 5: Interlude the First
Anthony has been working one on one with my beloved for the past two months now, give or take, and I must say that they are developing an interesting dynamic. Anthony is quite the people person and successfully runs interference with all the plebeians that my man-bear is too amazing to have to deal with.
August 2, 2001
Wait And See Is A Valid Approach
Anthony has been working one on one with my beloved for the past two months now, give or take, and I must say that they are developing an interesting dynamic. Anthony is quite the people person and successfully runs interference with all the plebeians that my man-bear is too amazing to have to deal with.
With all the fucking he does, one would think he would be permanently suffering from blood loss. Thankfully, this does not seem to be the case.
Though Anthony could spend less time with his orgasm friends and more time with my beloved. I mean honestly. He is surrounded with the magnificence of my beloved on a daily basis and yet he seems to be completely immune to my man-bear’s charms!
It is most frustrating!
It is also saving his life. I am not above rending a young interloper limb from limb in the protection of my man-bear. My beloved has a very delicate disposition and must be protected…even from himself.
You are very fortunate, Anthony. Very fortunate indeed.
October 25, 2001
It Is Almost Comical
If I did not know better, I would think that my beloved is the protagonist of a comedy; a tragically erroneous comedy, but a comedy nonetheless. I despair for my beloved…and my own sanity.
To compound matters, my Ziva came back from yet another mission where she failed to actually hit a target. At. All. If she were not so successful at seducing her targets, I would wash my hands of her. Honestly, this has gone from tragic to just embarrassing. No child of mine should be so incompetent with a weapon.
Sure, give her a knife and someone around her size and she is deadly enough. But deadly enough is not good enough. I know her eyes are in optimal working order—I have sent her to an optometrist several times for confirmation. Sigh. Fine, I have sent her to have her eyes checked eleven times. Must you be so annoying, Abram?
The point, is that I have had it independently verified by no less than six separate optometrists that her eyes are fine. She has better than 20/20 vision. And yet.
My Ziva cannot hit the broad side of a barn, to quote the Americans. She cannot hit anything. Unless, of course, she hits it completely by accident.
If she were not so skilled at sex I would have no use for her and would have long since sent her back to her mother. I mean really. I have a reputation to maintain. Gah!
Her only saving grace is that she seems to be capable as a handler. I suppose it really is true that those who cannot do instruct others. Or in her case, critique others to the point of homicide; po-tayto po-tahto.
But I digress. My beloved has been working with this new boy toy of his for the four months. And I will admit, they seem to have hit their stride; and made more than a few of the American agencies furious with their closure rate. The world is now being forced to admit to my fuzzy-bear’s clear superiority. To quote the young people, suck it Hassan!
Ahem. Anyway, things seem to be going well for my love. Or they were until his latest case. And really, just how many times must my silver-bear get screwed by his orgasm buddies? It is as if he is cursed to see a red headed woman and lose all ability to think.
A gross stereotype. Not all men are walking hard ons. I am a perfect example. I am fully capable of seeing attractive women and not losing all blood flow to my brain. Why is it that my man-bear is not so capable? I suppose it is only logical for my beloved to have some flaw. Perfection would be annoying and he would be long dead by now if such were the case.
But must he? Must he?
My darling, your cock is lovely. Orgasms are wonderful stress relievers…For the love of sanity, buy a prostitute for fucks sake and be done with it. You are not allowed to marry another whore. I forbid it.
I am putting my foot down, beloved. My foot is down.
November 30, 2001
Adoption Is Still An Option, Yes?
After the loss of my Tali’s death, I resigned myself to the two children I had left. Ari is…capable if not entirely useful. Ziva. Ah, Ziva. She has her uses. But truly, those uses are few and far between.
Between the two of them, I am convinced that they desire to kill me.
Against my better judgement, I sent Ari to England for medical school. Though ultimately useless, I was willing to indulge his insipid desire for independence. Provided, of course, he repaid my generosity with obedience.
But no, of course my headstrong, stubborn, mule-headed, idiot boy child could not do so.
Sigh. And to make matters worse, Ziva has gotten it into her head to help him along! Who told her she could attempt to use her meager intelligence in such a way? She cannot afford to think for herself; she is always making bad decisions.
Is obedience really too much to ask for?
If that were not bad enough I have had to suffer through not one but two pregnancy scares. Ari I can understand, as my beloved has shown on multiple occasions, it is difficult if not impossible for virile, young men to think when all of their blood is in their cock.
But Ziva? Does she not have a routine of taking her birth control daily? Do I not send her to the finest Mossad doctors before and after each and every mission? Truly, I despair. The wrong daughter died.
Tali was never so obstinate.
January 4, 2002
What Is This?
For a short while, I thought my beloved might have been taken in by his new boy. For truly, Anthony has a rather stellar ass—even if the rest of him tends to leave something to be desired. But it seems my caution was for nought.
My silver-bear has just adopted the attractive youth as a surrogate son.
This I find acceptable. With someone to focus on, my beloved will stop thinking with his, admittedly beautiful, cock. And this bond will only serve to bring them closer and make them more protective of one another.
I could not have planned it better myself.
Such things cannot be forced, after all. They must be organic. I should know, I have many failed attempts to draw from.
Truly, this is the best possible outcome for me. My beloved gets to build a family for himself. I am not forced to raise yet another child. Shudder. And I only have to deal with a fully functioning adult.
No rambunctious toddlers or “independent” teenagers in sight. Yes, this is the best outcome. I am tempted to send Anthony a fruit basket. Perhaps flowers?
He has proven himself competent at what my beloved has desired to teach him. And he is a crack shot—if only I could get him to teach Ziva. Yes, I am pleased with this Anthony. Truly, the best possible scenario has come about. I can now sit back and enjoy the entertainment…And possibly pay my darling a surprise visit; he is not the only one who needs some good orgasms.
Chapter 6: It's January...What now??
I hate the fuck out of everyone I work with. No, I mean seriously.
January 12, 2002
I hate the fuck out of everyone I work with. No, I mean seriously. I spent the entire day stuck in meetings with a bunch of idiots; the whole lot of them.
The day from Hell started with a call from the director ruining my breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, my friends. And mine was ruined.
Some plebeian moron decided to break protocol and approach their intended target…in a foreign country. Without authorization. They did not even have a plan for fucks sake.
How am I surrounded by idiots, I ask you? Stop laughing Asa. Stop it!
The director of an intelligence agency is incapable of tying his own shoes. He is incompetent and lacks conviction and, more importantly, a backbone. Instead of managing the situation and following the many contingency plans we have in place for these situations he just ran around sweating and swearing and just generally being uncouth and stupid.
And this is the man I work for.
And don’t get me started on the rest of the day!
I went from a three hour meeting which was more of a planning session for dealing with the fallout right to another crisis. Six agents missed their scheduled check-in. Which was a disaster as they were actually useful agents. Dealing with that whole situation took the better part of the rest of the day.
I had whining agents, clingy children—thank you Ziva, that does not help. Put on your big girl panties—or just panties I do not care and I do not want to know—and do your fucking job already. Or else. I am serious here Ziva. I am looking at you.
And to make matters worse, my favorite craft shop was closed. I could not even pick up my usual order of yarn! My yarn. What is this world coming to?! Why is nothing sacred? All a man needs are competent minions and good, quality yarn. And beautiful cock from his beloved man-bear, but that is beyond the common plebeian man. Beautiful cock from a devastatingly hot man-bear only comes along once—like a growly, sparkly unicorn. And he is taken, thank you very much.
Why is no one capable of doing their duty without needing to have their hand held? I have important work to do! Yaseuf! Stop lurking on my blog! This is my space! Mine! Go away and bother someone else you fucking troll!
As I was saying, my most favorite yarn store was closed. There was no “going out of business” warning. One day they were open and the next they were closed. Poof! They were gone. This is unacceptable. I ask for so little. I deserve a nice, cozy, warm yarn shop with all the best, prettiest yarns. I deserve the pretty things damn it!
So I decided that I needed to do something about the situation. And I was feeling vindictive. Yes, it even happens to me. No it is not my default state of being. Honestly.
I tracked down the owners of the shop and had a polite chat with them about why they closed down. It turned out that they were ex-mafioso brothers who were hiding out from their parents who did not approve of their true love. But a cousin, twice removed from the mother’s side, had come into the shop and things just went to hell from there.
I kid you not. Truth truly is stranger than fiction, my friends. Truly.
Well, needless to say, I spent many long hours extolling my fury at their cowardly retreat; hours, my friends. And then I offered to take care of matters in return for them reopening the shop. They agreed with haste.
And so I went to pay the unfortunate cousin a visit and explain why they had made an error. The cousin begged for the opportunity to go home and forget the entire encounter…and after much deliberation I agreed to let them leave after I had had a chance to work off some of my anger.
It turned into a most productive evening. The next time such a situation occurs, I shall have to take some trainees with me. The chance to learn enhanced interrogation techniques at the feet of a Master does not come along very often. My people should be made to grasp such chances with both hands like their very lives depend on it…
They very well might.
January 19, 2002
Despair Is Looking Like a Nice Vacation Spot
I adore my beloved. I have enumerated the many ways in which my darling is much beloved, and well endowed, on numerous occasions. Yes, Grant I do not need you to remind me. Go alphabetize the file room…Again.
Why can my children not follow my example? If Ziva brings home one more idiot, I will be forced to take drastic action for the sake of my sanity. And do not get me started on Ari! That little shit seems intent on screwing his way through all the whores. Normally, this would not be an issue; I try not to judge and whores have many uses. But this is beyond the pale! He does not just exchange orgasms with them, oh no, he has to parade them around my colleagues and take them to public places…In Europe. And spending my money to do so. I have a reputation to maintain you little shit stain. Stop thinking with your cock and do your job.
Honestly, I do not know why I have not just cleaned the slate, so to speak, and started over. It was not difficult to procure these children, surely it would not be difficult to procure better behaved replacements.
But there was an upside to my misery, my beloved, darling man-bear came to Europe for a case! Ha! Naturally, I took the opportunity to grab the bull by his horn. And so I was able to run across my beloved. We had a most pleasant conversation regarding cleanup.
Sadly, before our conversation was able to lead to happy orgasm time, the men I was hunting and the men my beloved was hunting crashed out little date. I freely admit that I was most put out. I was, perhaps, a little rougher with the hooligans than was strictly necessary. But they are not in a place to complain and I have no reason to complain—they were excellent means by which I was able to exercise my frustration. I was not required to bring them in hale or whole anyway. I did the world a favor. Such scum belongs at the bottom of a hole in the ground, at best.
They informed me that they regret all their life choices.
January 25, 2002
My darling seems to be quite pleased with his Anthony. This pleases me greatly. They make a most attractive team, and they are effective as well so we all win. It helps, of course, that my man-bear tends to infuriate most, if not all, American and European law enforcement agencies.
The American CIA in particular have a — what is the phrase, hate on? — for my man-bear. He takes great pleasure in ruining their operations at any and every opportunity.
Why, just this week, my man-bear worked a case involving the deaths of several Navy sailors that had strong ties to the CIA and an ongoing operation of theirs. Something inane involving guns and smuggling…Truly, I was not very interested in the details. The only details that matter to me involve my beloved and his growly, forceful competence.
Do not get me started on the thigh holsters.
I did not know that thigh holsters could be so arousing…or sexy. Before yesterday, I would not have classed thigh holsters as anything remotely on the level of sexiness. But I was wrong. Oh, how wrong I was. Thigh holsters are a gift from God and I bless the man who created them.
My beloved does not typically wear a single thigh holster, much less two of them. But he did. And they did marvelous things for his gorgeous cock. Oh, my friends, the things those thigh holsters did for his cock. They were like glowing, neon signs leading straight to heaven. One could not help but stare.
Even the YouTubers agree with me. A short video of my beloved wearing his thigh holsters was posted to the YouTube, by a completely anonymous person, and all of the comments are about how hot and sexy they make him look. His approval rating went through the roof. I hear that fan mail may have even been sent in to NCIS for him.
Truly, whatever genius soul came up with such a fantastic invention deserves to be immortalized, perhaps in song. No, an international holiday should be announced in their honor. A day where everyone the world over celebrates thigh holsters and what they do for a man…Perhaps one must participate in such a holiday by wearing thigh holsters the entire day?
Do you think the U.N. would be open to such a suggestion? This bears researching…
January 30, 2002
I Regret Nothing
I was recently sent out on a ridiculous assignment; ridiculous and pointless and just generally infuriating. It took me away from my man-bear! It took me away from my latest project. I am most displeased.
So there I was, after a fourteen hour flight, slugging my way through a torrential downpour to a small, seedy back alley bar to wait for my contact…Only for them to not. show. up.
Naturally, I found this behavior to be unacceptable and completely infuriating. I made it my mission to teach this rude asshole a life lesson he would never forgot. But this first required me to find the asshole first.
Thus I began my search.
I traversed so many seedy establishments and questioned a frankly ridiculous number of greedy, homeless busybodies. I talked and I questioned and I waited. I was very patient. Shut *up* Rasul. I was.
Thus, after four days of work—my efforts were rewarded. I had a name. I had a description. I knew their favorite haunts, drinks, and even their preferred brand of toilet paper. There was nothing I did not know about this idiot.
Then I laid my trap. Of course, I had already completed my assignment by this point. But the spirit of the matter had to be dealt with. I detest loose ends. You cannot see it, but I am grinning.
I was quite brilliant, if I do say so myself.
Like clockwork, the idiot walked right into my trap. Caught, like a useless fly in my web of intrigue. Hoist on his own damn petard. Karma. Poetry. Take your pick, they’re all accurate.
There were tears. There was blubbering. There was begging. There may have been a slightly large amount of blood.
He too regretted all his life choices.
He also promised that he would make it up to me.
It pays to have minions. Always remember that, my friends. Never look a gift Minion in the mouth. One because you never know where that mouth has been…And two because you now own that Minion and delegation is your friend.
You can never have too many Minions.
Chapter 7: All the Protestations
In which Valentine's Day comes...and then goes.
February 14, 2002
I Hate Life and Everyone In It
All of my plans…Ruined.
That is right my friends, I had plans.
Glorious, dedicated, intricate, lovely plans. For the absurd American “holiday” Valentine’s Day.
I admit, normally I do not participate in such incipient and degrading commercialization. I do not believe in participating in such an obviously manufactured holiday designed to perpetuate the greeting card industry and sell chocolate. As if chocolate companies need any assistance selling their wares. Really.
But I made an exception this time.
I tracked my beloved man-bear’s schedule. I fixed my own schedule. I had my private plane stocked and made ready. I sent my idiotic children on two completely separate missions across the globe from one another. My minions were briefed on my expectations during my absence. Everything was set and ready for my absence.
And it was all for fucking nothing.
Someone is going to pay and pay dearly for this.
My plans were simple. I would just happen to appear at my beloved’s most favored diner during his customary dinner time. I knew, of course, that he would not have a case because I had *planned that shit down to the last detail* and my source assured me that it would be taken care of.
And I had no reason to doubt my source seeing as their continued good health was dependent on their success. I am a lenient man, but even I have limits.
I arranged for my man-bear to wear my most favorite of his clothes. He does look quite dashing in ice blue. Admittedly, this took some doing. My beloved is quite pleasantly paranoid. And he keeps track of his personal belongings with aplomb. But I persevered and accomplished my self-appointed mission.
He would wear the jeans that were made to cup his delectable ass, the shirt that I sent him that brings out the ice in his eyes and appropriate footwear. I could barely wait to see the efforts of my labors.
And to labor with my efforts. I particularly could not wait to pay homage to my beloved’s most beautiful of cocks. It promised to be a most memorable occasion. I salivate just thinking of it.
I offered the diner owner an appropriate sum to set out candles at the tables for the event. Shut it, Zoe. It was not bribery—it was monetary compensation!!
I even provided the candles. She was kind enough to tell me which booth my beloved favors when he dines at her establishment. Not that I did not already know this, but independent confirmation is always a worth addition.
I asked her to hide my man-bear’s most favorite of meals in her kitchen and even showed her what temperature to heat it up to—and how to do so.
I leave nothing to chance when I am at all able.
So the stage was set. The players had their marching orders. Everything had been arranged in a most organized fashion.
And then my fucking children had to fucking think and ruin everything!
It started with Ari.
It always starts with Ari.
He decided that this would be the perfect, most amazing of times to use the brain he was born with. Not that he used it in its intended fashion. Oh, no. He decided that he was too good for the task I had appointed to him and that he would “tweak” his task to suit himself.
Three solid months of planning were ruined. Four different agents were killed and my idiot of a son almost blew his cover.
What brought this about you ask?
The idiot became pussy blind.
Yes, he threw away over three months of work from over a dozen different agents so he could fuck his target and get caught doing it. Because fucking a married woman is not satisfying if her husband and twenty of his closest friends do not know you are fucking her.
Quite literally. (Pun intended.)
Because he is an idiot and believes himself above paid service.
I have rolled my eyes so hard I believe I have seen the face of God.
He could not keep his dick to himself. His hand was, apparently, no longer good enough. His cover was no longer important. My orders no longer mattered.
Once I no longer desire to tear my insipid, moron of a son into his component parts I will begin his…discipline.
I have been reliably informed that filicide is in fact a crime. No matter if the filicide is most justly deserved.
I am not pouting, David! You’re pouting!!
Which brings me to my mentally challenged daughter, Ziva.
I have known for quite some time that Ziva is not cut out for thinking. When Ziva thinks, she makes the most horrendous decisions.
She is much too literal to be anything more than a foot soldier.
Eight different trainers, aside from myself, all have reached the exact same conclusion.
But not everyone can be a genius like myself. Or competent, capable and authoritative like my man-bear.
But I digress.
Ziva must have the entirety of his mission laid out for her…in explicit detail. She does not function well with room to maneuver. She does not think well on her feet. She does not think well on her back either. Which caused much despair in her trainers. Honestly. She received points for enthusiasm—when she could muster any up—but she lost points for being as engaged and imaginative as a blow up doll. One of her trainers is still in therapy. I did not ask and I still do not want to know. His loss is greatly felt. He was one of our best trainers.
A moment of silence for our lost brother…
She performs admirably, if mediocrely, at seduction assignments. So long as her targets do not want anything more strenuous than straight vanilla sex and she is not required to think. It blows my exceptional mind that a child of mine can be so terrible at seduction.
Ziva is as subtle as a nuclear bomb.
Which is to say that she is not subtle at. all.
It is a good thing her poor performance does not affect my own reputation as a skilled and exceptional lover. Otherwise I would relegate my wayward progeny to the depths of the filing room and she would never see another field assignment again.
I do not deny that it still smarts though. I cannot understand where I went wrong with her.
I had given Ziva an easy assignment. She was to seduce a boring, middle class American and keep his attention away from my operative for two days.
That is it. Two. Days.
Surely that is not such a difficult task to perform?
I had my minions prepare her luggage so that she would not be mentally taxed with deciding what wardrobe to take with her. She was prepared with her backstopping, should she need it. She was given ample currency, the schedule for her target…And fucking pictures of her target and sent on her way.
I all but seduced the man for her.
And she still fucked it up!
That is right. She fucked the entire operation up.
First she refused to let the driver take her to the airport.
Her driving caused an accident that resulted in the deaths of five people.
This, of course, caused her to miss her flight entirely.
Which means she did not make her scheduled check-in.
This could have been overcome if she had merely followed the plan that had been laid out for her (both before *and* after her screw ups). But she engaged her brain, such as it is, and decided that she would decide on a course of seduction once she had spoken with the target.
Which leads me to the most painful portion of Ziva’s fuck up.
She seduced the wrong man.
Yes, after being shown an entire dossier on her target complete with over a dozen pictures, she seduced the wrong man.
The dossier was compiled by an incompetent profiler and she deduced from the man’s body language and a short three minute conversation that she had been sent to seduce the wrong man.
Why, you may ask?
Well, because the man told her his name was different from the name on the dossier.
Yes, she decided that she’d been sent after the wrong man because he gave her a false name.
I am truly cursed.
I have not yet been able to determine what great sin I have committed to deserve the children I have been saddled with…but it must be something truly heinous. Why else would I be tormented like this?
A son that cannot think past his cock.
A daughter that cannot think at all.
Someone is going to die screaming for this. Mark my words, the guilty party will pay dearly for this.
And my idiotic children will remember their bootcamp-esque training days with fondness when I am finished with them.
This brings me back to my Plans…
My source did as requested.
My man-bear and his young assistant were taken off the rotation of cases for the day.
Everything at the diner and with his sartorial accoutrements were handled.
And then the shit hit the fan, as the Americans say.
On top of the cluster fuck that my progeny created, the director of NCIS missed the memo, as it were, and decided to personally assign my man-bear to a case because the gods damned son of a whoring jackal Secretary of the Navy decided he wanted my man-bear on the case.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Yes, Assam, I know the son of a whoring monkey could read this and I do not care! Relations between Israel and America are not dependent on my relationship with such an idiot! No! Stop laughing!! I mean it damn it!
Anyway, as I was saying…
My man-bear was stuck working a case. And he is so dedicated to his justice that he did not leave the office for three straight days.
And so I missed my opportunity for Where Have You Been All This Time sex.
I am most vexed.
And very frustrated. I have been reduced to hitting up an orgasm friend. Who does not have nearly as beautiful a cock as my beloved.
I hate everything.
Chapter 8: The Ides of March
March comes...and Eli happens. Eli happens all over the fucking place. Geez.
March 17, 2002
For the Love of Sanity & All Her Wacky Sisters…
Greetings, my friends. I return to you now, after my trek through Hell.
Yes, you read that correctly. I did, indeed, say Hell.
For that can be the only comparison for the last month of my life.
A month I cannot get back. Time that has been lost. Poof! A part of my life that has been lost to the flow of time. Never to be spoken or heard from again.
Like dust…in the wind.
Why am I so maudlin?
Well, I am glad you have asked! If I must suffer, then it seems only fair for the world to suffer with me.
I have spent the last month cleaning up the mess my children made on The Day We Do Not Name.
Yes, that is right. I shall never speak the name of that most wretched of days. The day my dream of romance on the most over-commercialized, stupidly capitalism generated, not-really-a-holiday-but-we-will-make-you-pay-for-it day of the year.
They should have left The Day We Do Not Name as a fertility festival. At least the pagan hooligans had the right idea. A day dedicated to having sex, talking about sex, celebrating sex, and having more sex. That is the kind of day that I can get behind celebrating.
Perhaps throw in a ritual “kidnapping” for flavor.
Or, if ritual kidnapping is not your particular cup of tea, then mass, public orgies. An orgy would have been lovely.
I have spoken at length of the stupidity that is somehow tied to my genetics. Yes, the Idiot Twins sprung from my loins…But they clearly did not get their intelligence from me. Their mothers must have dropped them on their heads when they were infants. That can be the only explanation for their clear brain damage.
Or they could be changeling children left behind after my real children were kidnapped, for real, by magically mythical beings of power. I could live with changelings. Truly.
One can only hope. And, as the Americans say, hope springs eternal.
But this brings me to the meat on the bone here. The fog on the lake, as it were.
After a, frankly undeserved, dressing down by my director that lasted six straight hours. And did I mention that every time he sees me he decides to add an addendum onto his rant? I was banished from my beloved homeland and sent to wander the wilds of France.
This would, under other circumstances, be a most welcome chance to reminisce about my man-bear and the glory of our first meeting. But not this time! Oh, no this time I was stuck working with the recruits so new they squeaked when they moved. Recruits who had just finished their time in military service and, as such, could not stop yelling. Or referring to me as ‘Sir’ with tears in their eyes and whilst appearing to piss themselves.
There is no crying in Mossad! What the actual fuck?
It was most vexing, my friends. Truly, deeply, actually vexing.
Assam, if you do not step away from that computer and go back to your workstation I will be forced to take drastic action! I mean it! Away foul minion!!
As I was saying…
I arrived in Nice to a most beautiful of sunny days after having spent over three hours stuck in economy next to a ghastly mother of seven whose youngest red headed demon child spent the entire flight wailing at the top of her lungs.
Wailing, my friends. Like a demon banshee straight from the horror movies of old. Truly, I was tormented.
My only solace was to imagine a series of unfortunate accidents befalling the family of demons. By the time the flight landed and we disembarked from the plane, I had come up with three hundred sixty-four different “events.”
Perhaps my silver man-bear would be willing to take a short trip with me? We could bond over our love of peace and quiet. And compare blood removal techniques.
A man can dream, at any rate.
Because I was being unfairly punished for the stupidity of my genetic failures, I was not even given appropriate accommodations. My lodging was inferior and quite small. And to make matters worse, the walls were so paper thin that I was stuck listening to my neighbors fucking the entire night…Every. Night. For the entire duration of my time in Nice.
That is twelve days of bed thumping, fake moaning, grunting, noisy sleep interruption.
Who in their right mind decides to spend their honeymoon in Nice in the cheapest motel available? The place could not have been more shady, my friends. You had to pay, in advance, by the hour for sanity’s sake!
By. The. Hour.
How is that an intelligent decision? Were they trying to get murdered in their sleep?
They could not have been looking for anything down the other’s throat. And they must have been exhausted from all their exercise. I do not believe the orgasms exhausted them. I would be hard pressed to believe the female even had an orgasms, to be honest. (One only hears moaning and screeching that enthusiastic in porn. And we all know that porn is not realistic.) I do not think they were exhausted by exertion as they did not seem to be overly athletic. And they made the exact same sounds night after night. In the exact same place with the same frequency and duration…You are getting my point, yes?
So I am left to believe that they were attempting to either set a record for sheer number of male orgasms achieved in a twelve day period. They certainly were not trying to set any other records.
I almost felt pity for the female. While it was quite obvious that her male companion was getting off on the regular, it was also obvious that she was not. (I had a passing thought to send one of my agents over to rectify the situation…but that would have been a reward. And I do not reward cry babies.)
This made my baby agents uncomfortable.
Which should, quite frankly, be an oxymoron all by itself. Whom gets through Mossad’s training and still cannot listen to fucking without blushing? Were they not trained in the best, most effective ways to pleasure both man and woman? Were they not taught all of the most efficient ways to kill and dispose of remains?
Of fucking course they were!
And yet, my friends, the blushing and the stammering they started never stopped.
Even the Idiot Twins stopped blushing by the time their training was finished. Granted, it took them both eighteen different trainers and Ziva never managed to get satisfactory range scores…but they did actually complete the required training.
That such a pair could accomplish such a feat when the best and the brightest that Mossad has to offer were unable to do so…I fear for my homeland. I fear for my Mossad.
Had I been more rested or in a better frame of mind, I would have used the experience as a training exercise.
Alright, fine. Fine!
Yes, I was so annoyed with the Babies that I did, in point of fact, cave and turn the experience into a training exercise.
One must take one’s amusements where one can when one finds them, after all.
So we setup additional surveillance equipment in the Suite of Perpetual Fucking and the Babies waited for training to begin.
I had Babies 1 and 2 get the equipment setup while Babies 3, 4, 5 and 6 were sent after suitable refreshments. Baby 7 was sent out after additional seating. There is no reason to be uncomfortable whilst one trains, after all.
Once everything was setup to my exact specifications we were ready to begin.
The stage was set. We just had to wait for the players.
After all the Babies were seated appropriately, could see the screens, and had their refreshments of choice…The lights were turned off and I began their training.
We watched over forty hours of fucking from eleven different angles.
It was excruciating.
The Babies were enlightened.
I designed a point system to illustrate the points I was trying to make to them. Points were doled out for orgasm duration, orgasm quality, the length of time spent fucking, stamina of participants—both separately and together, and if condoms were used. Points were deducted for broken condoms, if only one partner orgasmed—usually the male, if the female seemed bored, and for the amount of sweat generated.
Needless to say, by the time the entire forty hours were over the male was in the negative on the point front. The female broke even at zero. And the Babies no longer blushed, stammered, cried—for the love of Sanity!—or pissed themselves.
I can honestly say that by the times I was done training the Babies on seduction and fucking techniques they were ready for the world. My faith in Mossad’s future—and the future of my homeland—was, at least momentarily, restored.
Then we got down to business and I gave the Babies the opportunity to utilize what they had learned with out actual Mossad assignment.
It was glorious, my friends. Truly, deeply, honestly glorious.
Ass was kicked. Names were taken. Bodies were dumped. Alcohol was consumed.
A good time was had by all.
I can only believe that the Director was hoping that I would take these Babies under my wing and complete their training. Why else would such innocents have been sent with me for such a mission?
This is what I spent my Saint Patrick’s Day doing.
Is it any wonder that I take such pride in my work?
— — — —
March 21, 2002
I Do Not Even Know
Shalom my friends. This time, I do not even know what to tell you.
And this time I cannot even say that it started with my idiot children. (Thank all the gods and their relatives.) Both of the Idiots have been quietly doing their duty lately. And yes, I realize this means that they’re due for a fuckup of truly Epic proportions…but I live in hope.
In any case, they were not the cause of today’s strangeness. I know, I am frightened as well.
It seems that my actions on my last field mission were, indeed, noticed by my director. He was speechless with his awe. He stared, open mouthed, at me for over an hour when we returned to Mossad headquarters. I do not think he quite knew what to do with me or my success.
Yes, I truly knocked that one out of the ballpark, to quote the Americans.
And I was quite ready to receive my due. Indeed, the entirety of headquarters were speechless with awe. Several impressionable nay-sayers fainted in my wake. It was quite the ego boost…And also quite annoying.
I mean, honestly. Does no one have the fortitude to do their duty anymore?
What are they teaching at the Mossad bootcamps anymore?
I can only shake my head in frustrated incomprehension, my friends. Truly, today’s training is not what it used to be.
That shall be the first thing I change when I become Director.
Oh, yes. I have not yet even begun to explain the crazy.
After the Hour of Confused-Fish-Face from the Director, I went about my day in peace and relative quiet.
It was glorious, I do not deny it.
In any event, later that day the Director and I were called into a meeting. It seems that the deputy head of Interpol wanted a meeting. Probably to beg for our assistance. Interpol is so plebeian and uncouth. They lack the skill, motivation, and resources of my beloved Mossad.
But we attended the meeting. Or at least we attempted to.
We arrived early to the meeting and were shown to the appropriate room. Our security detail swept the building for explosives and other nasty surprises. Of course, they found some small ordinance and dealt with it. Mossad is nothing if not thorough.
We had just sat down and were served chilled, bottled, filtered spring water—only the best for Mossad—when the deputy from Interpol arrived. He was five minutes late. The man was a barbarian. Such poor social skills. And rude to boot.
The deputy—I cannot recall his name—grabbed his own bottled water and the negotiations began.
It was back and forth for over an hour. Interpol was trying to weasel information out of Mossad without even attempting to offer appropriate compensation. Nothing is for free, you know. And they did not even make an attempt to offer anything for our hard won intel. It was insulting.
I told that stupid goat-fucker exactly what I thought of him. It was most pleasing, to be honest.
In any event, the Interpol deputy turned to my Director and was all but clutching his pearls in offense. As if the idiot could do anything. You cannot see it but I am rolling my eyes.
So my Director turns to me and opens his mouth to speak when he started making the most horrible whining noises. I, of course, turned to the Interpol man to demand he send for a doctor when the Interpol man started doing the same fucking thing. It was annoying and ear piercing.
Rude, the both of them.
I went to the door and called for a medic. When I returned to the table, both men were on the floor convulsing. The drama was just unseemly. Truly.
By the time a medic arrived, both men had foamed at the mouth and died.
And so Interpol must now find a new deputy head and Mossad needs a new Director.
Of course, we all know whom that new Director shall be. Do we not?
I have already written my acceptance speech. And made a list of all of the changes I intend to make.
There shall be no weakness in my Mossad.
Mark my words, my friends, this shall be a day to remember. A day for the history books.
I was not even required to dispose of the baboon who was Director before me. I owe the culprit a drink.
And then a bullet to the brain.
No one kills a Mossad agent and gets away with it.
We have a reputation to maintain. Honestly.