There was a beard on the loose. It was a tricky beard. We only saw it at night. One guy saw it on the street. Somebody else saw it smiling in the corner. Everybody tried to catch it, but nobody could. It was one weird beard.
I didn’t tell anyone. But then everyone started talking about how they saw a strange beard flying around town, and I thought, hey—I know that beard. I still didn’t tell anyone. It would look like I was just making it up to get attention.
That cake is KGB, he yelled, blasting the cake to pieces with his gun.
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That’s it, he said. I quit spying. That was the third time he had broken his leg on the job. He decided to quit and stay at home with his wife and pursue his longtime dream, to breed and raise pigs.
His wife was horrified. Now she was married to a pig farmer. She tried to get him to go back to the spy office, but he said no, nothing doing.
His wife became sad. But the spy couldn’t understand why. Now that he was no longer a spy, he could spend more time at home with her. Wasn’t it good to be together more?
She loved being married to a spy, I said.
