"You should see this!" I say into the reciever. "There's a t-shirt for sale here that says, 'Tell Your Boobs To Stop Staring At My Eyes'." I giggle.
"Why would anybody buy a shirt like that?" LHM asks in disgust. "How tacky."
"Yeah!" I say, "What kind of a person, indeed!" I place the t-shirt on the checkout counter and wink at the cashier. (Sorry, Dad. If you're reading this then Father's Day won't be much of a surprise this year.)
I gather my purchases and head back to my room to go over reports for the night. I am especially anxious to read Fish's. He called me on the radio early this afternoon all in a tissy. "Polly! This Subject I'm following... His car is on fire! He's speeding down the road toward his house! I'll call you back!"
Well, there's something you don't see everyday.
A half hour later Fish radios me again. "Man, I've been doing this for 11 years and I've never seen anything like that before. It's almost as good as when the old homeless guy threw poo at my car." I consider asking him about the homeless poo experience, but think better of it.
"Anyway, the guy rushed home, ran at top speed into the house, and came back with a bucket of water. His limp miraculously disappeared, too, by the way."
Now, what are the chances of that? Of all the days that the guy would be under surveillance, it would be the day that he was required to test his supposed disability under extreme circumstances. Karma? I'd like to think so.
Anyway, I'm set up on a rural road here in Almost Canada. It's nearly 8am and still dark. The area is flat and barren with a few pine trees dotting the landscape. This is crazy. Why would anybody live out here voluntarily?
And I have no place to hide. There are no trees tall enough and thick enough to provide significant cover on the tundra.
I suppose I could dress up like a moose. Blend in. Go casually graze on the bushes under the Subject's bedroom window...