David Sneddon, Bukake Secret Agent

13 March 2003
Dan wants to write the official biography

Sneddon was utterly silent, poised and braced in the narrow gap between the top of the doorway and the ceiling. From his observations, he knew that the two guards would be furthest from this point at the very moment that his target walked through the door....now?

Running through Sneddon's head - a song from his first band, The Martians, the battle prayer from the Bhagavadgita, a vague curiosity as to how he was going to get the stains off his lapel, and this morning, with Cyndi....

Cyndi stretched and yawned. Sneddon had already been up for three hours, and was well into his four hundredth push up, but at her first stirring he slid silently back into the bed and began to fake the shallow, nasal snore he had perfected to convince her that he was just a commercial traveller who happened to be called David Sneddon, and look uncannily like the Caledonian pop pixie and darling of housewives everywhere, not the lethal blend of soulful piano ballads and espionage skills that made him Britain's first line of defence against the foreign threat.

Cyndi dug an elbow into his ribs, her long chestnut hair tickling his nose, and he feigned snorting, uncertain wakefulness. Just another mask. Sometimes he tired of the endless subterfuge, but he knew that nobody walked out on CI7.

Cyndi's hands expertly teased his toned, muscular body. Well, maybe there were advantages to living the lie...

Oblivious to his presence, the rogue appeared beneath his. His bald spot glinted beneath the unforgiving light. Noone is going to save him. Noone will want to know him. Not when Sneddon's finished with him.

"You're late," commented X drily, "and what's that on your face?"

"Your secretary was hungover and not concentrating. She wasn't expecting me to abseil in through the window. Spat yoghurt all over me. She's nursing her head and her pride now."

"I don't approve of your methods, Sneddon. And you're getting sloppy. That Iranian infiltrator almost died before you could get the information out of him."

"I stuck in the knife then gave the kiss of life. It was all part of the plan. But we're not here for my performance evaluation, X. If we were, I wouldn't have turned up."

"You're a maverick, Sneddon, but you're right. We've got a job for you. Rogue agent - one of ours. He's being debriefed right now. If they get his secrets, it'll take years to recover. Maybe decades. Understand me, Sneddon. We cannot let this happen."

"Don't lose any more hair over it, X. The PACE Youth Theatre didn't graduate a fool. I'll see to it."

"Excellent, Sneddon. And wipe your face while you're at it."

A frozen moment. As Sneddon waited, waited, waited for the perfect opening, coiled to drop silently to the floor and cut the enemy's throat with a single smooth motion, he became horribly aware of a wet, sliding sensation across his cheek. As a way to distract a suspicious chef apprehending him as he crept through the kitchens, that trick with the watery cake mix had worked a treat, but maybe he should have grabbed some tissues from the cook's cooling body. A single drop of viscous goodness was lengthening, lengthening, and then, with a balletic slowness, it detached itself and dropped perfectly into the centre of that bald spot, like a dart into the bullseye.

The mark looked up, terror etching itself into every past-it line on his fleshy, discontented face. Seeing Sneddon braced against the walls, transferring his knife from between his teeth to his good hand as he fell, fell like a sticky-faced Azrael to land on his feet in front of his target.

"Oh God -" said target managed to choke out before Sneddon's left hand crashed against his mouth and seven inches of blackened steel drove into his heart.

"And we all have a saviour, so do yourself a favour, and die," Sneddon growled under his breath; the traitor's struggles ceased a heartbeat after they began, and his eyes went blank.

With the spasmic strength of the departing spirit, his hands balled into fists and the tetrapak he was holding burst into waxed paper shrapnel. A wave of semi-skimmed pasteurized broke over Agent Sneddon's face, leaving him dripping from brow to chin in a thin covering of whiteness.

Funny how that always seems to happen, Sneddon pondered as the first alarm went off.

Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
30 October 2003. Dan writes: My only goal
9 October 2003. Dan writes: The Knot
18 September 2003. Dan writes: The Engelbart Elephant
28 August 2003. Dan writes: The Amity Index
7 August 2003. Dan writes: This Sporting Life
17 July 2003. Dan writes: Touch
26 June 2003. Dan writes: Metadata
5 June 2003. Dan writes: Street Mate
15 May 2003. Dan writes: Usher's Well
24 April 2003. Dan writes: Medicamenta
3 April 2003. Dan writes: Weapons of Mass Construction
13 March 2003. Dan writes: David Sneddon, Bukake Secret Agent
20 February 2003. Dan writes: Mary Sue
30 January 2003. Dan writes: Bait and Switch
9 January 2003. Dan writes: What Never Happened
19 December 2002. Dan writes: Sermon on the Mount the Face
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26 July 2001. Dan writes: Bigger, Better, Brother
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14 May 2001. Dan writes: Small Town Boy
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26 March 2001. Dan writes: Cut and Paste
1 March 2001. Dan writes: Redemption
5 February 2001. Dan writes: Blyton the Face of the Earth
8 January 2001. Dan writes: Smoke Signals
18 December 2000. Dan writes: The Loa Depths
23 November 2000. Dan writes: The Limits of Melissa Joan Hart
30 October 2000. Dan writes: Shiftwork
5 October 2000. Dan writes: Dawson
11 September 2000. Dan writes: Testing Times
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3 July 2000. Dan writes: Roboto il Diavolo

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