MI6

I ran into Dogboy in the bar the other night.

"Hey," I said. "How was that MI6 thing?"

Dog Boy frowned, then ordered a beer.

"So?" I asked. "How was it?"

"I don't know what MI6 is," he said. "Is it a new car?"

"Come on, you told me you were going. How many C's did you meet? Was the real James Bond there?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

He shook his head and walked away. I'd have believed him, except that a decidedly English accent had slipped into his voice. I followed him over to the pool table.

"So seriously, you're not going to tell me?" I asked.

"So seriously, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What I'd really like to know is, how did you get an invitation, and I didn't?"

Dogboy rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Eightball?" he asked.

"Eightball," I said, realizing that somethings in life are better left unexplored.

Phone call

I hadn't heard from Dogboy lately, so when the caller ID flashed his name, I grabbed the phone, even though it was well past midnight - the time he usually calls for bail money.

Dogboy: Hey, how's it going.
Me: What jail are you in now?
DB: I'm not in jail, dude. That was last week.
Me: So what's up?
DB: I'm wondering if you want to share a hotel room in London for the MI6 thing.
Me: Huh?
DB: The bash. I'm a little tight this month -
Me: Wait a second - you're invited to the MI6 anniversary celebration?
DB: Well, yeah.
Me: You got invited and I didn't.
DB: Oh . . . (silence) . . . Hey, listen, I'm sorry for bothering you.
(the line went dead)