Agent on the Run (Chapter Seven, page 2 of 6)

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The manager glanced up my tall frame and his whole disposition changed in the familiar hang-up that I was used to, but nonetheless angered by. With a curt jerk of a finger he gestured to an outward amenity station, "You can get your sauce over there!"

I was tired and hungry and right now the thought of pulling the pompous white hided racist across the counter and pummeling him half to death sounded like a good idea. Before I could act out on that ill-advised fantasy though the sudden quiet of the place was punctuated by sudden, "Hey!"

All eyes of the people caught up in the sanctimonious taboo swiveled to a man standing in line waiting for his food a couple of feet away from me. He was an aging portly built man complete with beard and tattoos. He had truck driver and biker written all over him and he was white.

He had a no-nonsense attitude about him that might find some root in the faded Semper Fi tattoo bedecking one arm. Despite the man's worn down and bedraggled appearance there was still something about him that demanded respect.

"I didn't fight and bleed alongside people of his color in the fight for freedom so lily livered panty waisted idiots like you could stand so high and mighty behind a counter and dictate to someone as if they were beneath you, when you don't even have a drop of spilled blood within you for a noble ideal and that's if you ever had the gumption to even try! Now you reach your hand into that box and pull out them sauces like the man asked for or so help me I'll come back there and lay you out!"

The apoplectic red-faced manager quickly did as ordered and then disappeared into the recesses of the kitchens, as the normal flow of the restaurant gradually restored itself in the absence of the manager. Something else was somewhat restored, my faith in my fellow man. I inclined my head toward the unlikely defender of equality and received one in return.

I had been going to just leave the restaurant with my food, but I decided to stay and claim a spot so to speak.

Jane was hard at work the next morning when I stepped within the apartment. From the amount of active computer monitors and strands of wires radiating out from the devices I had brought back I surmised that she had been at it all night. She truly did seem to be serious about helping.

I glanced at the monitors and what I saw was beyond my comprehension skills. It was apparent that she knew what she was doing at least.

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