You're a Spy

I like to play a game. Not all the time, and not with everyone. But every so often someone will have an inconsistency between their behavior and their appearance and my mind rushes to fill in the gaps.

For instance. When I was still working at my pizza place a woman came in. She was middle-aged, and a bit portly. She also had one of those knee scooters. She pushed herself along with one leg, while one was bent at the knee resting on the scooter. She came straight to the register, not stopping to order. I asked if I could help her and she asked to use the phone. Her cell was dead she told me, but she needed to make a call. I handed over our phone, but noticed she pulled out her cell to look up the number to call.

I speed walked over to my friend and esteemed colleague Dustin. "Dustin," I said urgently, "I think this woman is a spy." He laughed and asked why. "Just think, she came in to use our phone because her cell was dead, but then she used her cell to get the number. Her phone's not dead, she's a spy. Our number can't be traced because so many people have access to the line! And she can't use her cell because she's been compromised." Dustin was highly amused.

The woman finished her call and I went back over to take the phone back. She then went to use the toilet. When she was coming out of the bathroom, she fell. Her scooter skidded and she toppled to the right. After the initial alarm we gathered she was fine, and I grabbed Dustin's arm. "She knows I know! The whole fall was staged to make it took like she's helpless!"

Likewise, the well dressed gentleman who came in smelling inexplicably like motor oil became a world class thief, a demolitions expert. He popped into STORE to celebrate his most recent heist (hence the oil) by buying a cheap stroker and a porno.