Spy Guitar

It started with George playing around with electric guitar sounds. The particular sound George was using made me think of a spy.

My songwriting technique is complicated, just like me. When I write a song I always have a story in my head… sometimes it’s my story, sometimes it’s something I’ve imagined as my story. And as is evident from the song, I’ve always wished I could be a spy, or at least play one in a movie. Every spy story requires a few things, beauty, betrayal and suspense. So as George played this song I this is what I imagined…

A single ray of light shone through a part in the red curtains. It was the only natural light in the room. It was a big room, elaborately decorated. Handmade rugs covered the marble floor. It was a cold room, but it was beautiful. There is something about cold and beautiful… it’s a mesmerizing combination. The phone rang urgently, and my partner reacted quickly. We kept eye contact as he said, “we’re on it”.

With only a head nod our plan was set into action. I collected my gun from the secret safe in my shoe closet and walked out the back door as it sealed securely behind me. My handsome partner pulled the car around, and into the shadows of a beautiful building. We put on our black shades as we drove silently into the day, the noon sun beating down on the aged brick streets. I love the sun, but I seemed to always be hiding from it.

As we round the corner of Pierre and Chapel, I see a glint of silver from the roof of an old cathedral bell tower. I quickly use my telescopic sunglass lens to zoom in and investigate. A big Russian man with steel blue eyes is dressed in black. I notice a scar on his face as he smiles at me in a weird sadistic way.

I nod, and Alden turns another corner, parking in a dark alley. We climb wordlessly through an open church window and rush to the tower. The beautiful stained glass flashes color… gold, red, and black across my partners face as he leads the way. His handsome demeanor was that cold beautiful I couldn’t seem to escape. Flights and flights of stairs, but we never tire. We stop abruptly as we reach a weathered wood and wrought-iron door.

Alden hesitates, so I step in front and push the tower door open cautiously. I scan the room; gun in hand, ready to kill. I circle the room twice, but see no one… not even my partner. I feel a pang of panic as I see the sun swimming through the shadows, illuminating a piece of paper looming on the tower ledge. It says, “We had a deal.”

I pick it up, confused and nervous. A million thoughts rush through my head, but the one that fights its way to the top of my consciousness is, “Where is Alden?” I whisper his name into the dusty cold air. Suddenly, I feel cold metal pressing gently against the back of my head. I slowly raise my hands into the air and turn around.

Alden. Sad, but determined he mouths “I’m sorry” as the Russian man places a white cloth over my face and the world turns black.

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