Between beers three and four I found a manila envelope sitting on the bar stool next to me. I turned it over to see neatly stenciled words reading: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE PHONE CALL TELLS YOU TO.
To my credit, I waited a full thirty minuets before deciding a phone call wasn't forth coming and opened it.
I was hoping for a silenced PPK and grainy black & white photos of a prominent businessman or a visiting dignitary. Plane tickets to Moscow? A code disguised as a clever riddle? A scrap of micro film? Ship logs from the U.S.S. Eldridge? Photographs of the Roswell Crash?
I tore it open with dreams of adventure, danger and deceit but all I found was a badly painted picture of a fish.
Between beers five and six I remembered there's a sushi bar next door. It's probably the alcohol, but I've got a crazy hankering to kill me a chef.
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