A turn for the worst
Tom was having a slightly late mid-life crisis; forty years late. He had achieved close to nothing in his life, a few erroneous medals for the occasional second place. A shop clerk for far too long, his life had seemed furtive and futile. He had had a wife, four kids, a dog, and a guinea pig; a damn shame then when he divorced his wife, all four kids had moved out and had developed strange allergies towards dogs and guinea pigs. Pretty unlucky really. So to conclude, his life was rather dull, well rather dull until recently that is. It had all start a week ago. He was finishing a frankly unoriginal baked potato and cheese, when the doorbell rang. Opening the door a fraction to check the immanent danger of what might well be innocent Girl Guide, selling freshly cooked chocolate chip cookies. Or a slightly less innocent however probably exciting, adrenalin pumped axe murderer from hull.
"Mr Richards I presume", a well dressed, slightly orange man, ungracefully loomed in the frame of the door. Tom was reminded of a tangerine he had eaten on a holiday in Bermuda. He adjusted his hearing aid.
"Well if I'm not, you've got the wrong house." Chuckling to him self under his breathe, the man reiterated.
"So you are Mr Richards."
"Yes." The old man said curtly.
"Well now we have that clarified. May I …"
"If you're advertising carpets, I already have one fitted. If its vacuum cleaners you're selling, mine is already full functional. And if your one of those cons men, well, I still have my shot gun from my farming days."
"No, No. I am here on an extremely private matter, so may I come in? I don't particularly want the whole of Wok Tree Close to hear. Do you?"
"Well I suppose you are going to pester me in till you do." He admitted him through door, and beckoned for him to take a seat. As he sat tom repeatedly rubbed his forearms with agonised strokes.
"I believe you knew martin .martin Jones." The mans clipped voice asked.
"Martin, yes he is my son's god father. Why?" the mans face shrouded over with an anxious paler.
"He has gone missing"
"Missing...well you know his memory is not what it used to be. I men…he thought he was a chicken for over a week last year, it took us four hours to get him off our Nabors roof "
"I don't think you understand the sincerity of the situation, he is missing in Siberia! We have sent countless search parties out, but to know avail"
"Well why do you need me."
"You knew him, so we need you to go to Siberia and find. As you know where he might hide. Or be taken to. Will send you the vitals in the morning. Just before I go I must say, you are now employed by MI5." He abruptly got up, tipped his cap and left. Tom sat and pondered at what he had been a brief encounter indeed. The anonymous man had relayed close to nothing about what he had to do. As he turns the light off and slipped into bed, despite him self was looking forward to the change.
The following morning as he woke he could see sun streaming in through the window. He didn't like sun; it was too bright for his liking. Inconsiderately bright in his opinion. He grumbled out of bed, crumbling under his own weight as he lifter himself from the mattress. He took the torturous trip down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he picked the letters up from the "welcome" mat and flicked strait to the one marker, "top secret!" it suddenly accrued to tom how cliché this simple phrase was.
"Don't they have any imagination" he muttered to him self distractedly.