Fbi in da V&a

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Firstly I would like to start off by stating that even I, sick of mind and own created reality, could not dream of making this up.

Twas a coolish Friday morning, when I decided to take my lunch break. I believe the time was 3am, but as I work shifts I can’t be too certain. I was almost finished clocking in my hours at the soulless American Airline, and happened to have brought some curry from home. I had decided to wear something formal, which was a manly man blazer jacket, cargo pants and my red “The Sun” t-shirt. As I sat unassumingly on the first floor eating at my curry, a fellow employee named Rudi came into the kitchen with his constant mischievous grin on his spectacled face. Rudi is by far one of the craziest people I have come across. When the passengers call in to complain, he loudly retorts in the most sarcastic of voices “I am so, sooo, so sorry we delayed your plane AGAIN and lost your baggage somewhere between Minneapolis st. Paul and Atlanta. REALLY I am” or would push buttons on his dial pad when he began to get agitated with old Jewish ladies whilst saying “Are you making those sounds on your side? Please stop. It sounds like Jingle Bells”. With this image in mind he came and stood by the windows overlooking the canal that separates our office buildings from perhaps the richest people on the African Continent. The building complex comprised of some apartment blocks larger than the average house, and the penthouse even came with a butler. I’ve always wondered if he had to wear white gloves. Anyways, Rudi had procured a pretty powerful laser, and was shining it at the hapless rich folk who were trying to watch DSTV on their HD televisions. He was enjoying himself immensely, until I saw him shine a light into a flat that had about 5 or 6 men walking around in. They seemed very calm about this light, and unlike the other victims did little to look at the origin of this nuisance. However soon enough I heard someone yell from the bridge, and Rudi ducked behind the wall to the next room where the staff lockers were. It could have been little more than 40 seconds before I smelt a mixture of authority and bad cologne behind me, and lo and behold: there stood a 6 ft man who looked like his lower arm was the width of my upper leg, marine cut hair, unassuming black button shirt and chinos and a stern face. To my surprise he called Rudi over in an American accent. I tried my best to remain inconspicuous, which was hard as the American brute kept looking at me.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked Rudi. “I work here” Rudi answered. “Lemme see some ID” the American said trying to keep his authoritrain on track. Rudi presented his access card to the American who then handed it back. He stopped and stared at Rudi for a while, and I soon came to the conclusion that this man had had a bit too much to drink. He regained sight of his reason for being here, and asked Rudi “Do you know what I do for a living?” Rudi shook his head as did I when he turned the same question to me. A look of satisfaction came over the brutes face as he produced a leather bound book and showed it to me. Inside the book was a picture of the brute (I forget his name) with some official looking writing I did not understand. But what caught my eye in the few seconds he held it before me were three words: Federal Bureau of Investigation. FBI. I had first heard the acronym when watching the X files. I unwillingly turned my head towards my lunch and started to sweat. Perhaps it was the curry. I watched as Rudi went white after the agent had shown him the badge. He explained to Rudi that he could be dead. “You could’ve been shot! Now how the hell do I get out of here?” the FBI agent drawled. “How the hell did you get in here?” Rudi answered in his rolling Southern Suburbs English. “Nevermind that, show me out!” ordered the FBI agent. It was then that I realized that somehow this man had crossed the bridge from the other side of the canal and climbed, jumped or flew onto the first floor balcony and into the kitchen in 40 seconds.

Rudi led the man towards the lifts and the kitchen was silent again. I had thought Rudi and I were the only employees to witness this event, but I heard a little giggle from the opposite corner. There was one of the dozens of nameless Muslim women I work with complete with loose fitting clothing and “kopdoek”. After working this job for almost 2 years I know the first names of about 10% of the company. She looked up and me and smiled.

“Bit early to get shot”


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