Because I'm a spy. [comedic monologue-type-thing]

As far as you know, my name could be Cecilia, or Ashley, or Jennifer. That’s the way I like it, really. I like to remain anonymous--no, not anonymous, mysterious. You don’t know anything about me. You can’t even be sure if the pair of boobs on my chest are real or just another guise. This thick blonde hair might be a wig and you just can’t tell the difference. I like that. It makes my job easier. I’m sure by now you know what that job is. I’m a spy, but to you I could be a nurse, or a photographer, or a model or a stay at home Mom. That’s the way I like it.1

This is only my third mission, but already I’m knee-deep in some of the juiciest intrigue this side of church gossip. I’m the best spy around, but you don’t know that. You think I’m some dumb broad out shopping with her friends, looking for silk stockings to wear to some posh party with my husband’s rich friends, but what you don’t know is that I’ve got a pistol in my shopping bag and I’m just waiting for the right moment to shoot you right between the eyes. Because I’m a spy, and that’s the way I like it.2

So obviously I’m sharp enough to notice your tone as you’re leaning over the phone with your voice hushed and your hand over the receiver. So I can’t read your lips because you’ve got them covered, but I can read your body language. I know that you’re not receiving some goo-goo phone call from your foxy secretary, because let me tell you something: I know gals like her. She’s the kind I’d take shopping so obviously she’s gotta have taste. And if she has any taste, there won’t be any goo-goo phone calls for you because let’s face it, you’re some old working stiff. And you’re ugly.3

I’m pretty smooth. I get out that door without you even noticing, but the minute I step into the yard all those caged dogs lining the fence all start yapping at once, drool and foam exploding from their gnashing, tooth-filled mouths. Thank god I’ve got a poodle waiting for me at home, because I’ll need some major refinement in order to fix my opinion of dogs after confronting these Rottweilers and their stink. 4

I manage to get over the fence easy enough after clambering on top of a cage and using it as a sort of step up. Now I’m in the alley and my high heels are slipping and sliding through the mud and grime. You may be asking, why in the world would someone ever wear high heels on a parachuting mission? I’ll tell you why. Just because a gal’s dropping a mile from a plane doesn’t mean she can’t do it in style. And I was never the type to look frumpy, especially not when I’m making a rendezvous. Who knows when some prince charming of a contact might come my way. I’d hate to look like some average infantry buttercup. Because I’m not. I’m a spy. And that’s the way I like it.5