Incognito

The young, exuberant, shy, kind, occasionally friendly, slightly odd, eclectic, happy, sly man paced briskly across the street. He carefully contemplated his latest dangerous, cunning, well-planned and played, over-the-top mission, in which he must successfully infiltrate the somehow secretly hidden arms warehouse stored oh-so-secretly on the out-of-the-way, harsh, cruel, predator-infested, highly armed, overly protected, camera covered, guard dog infested island in the south Pacific, which was also one of the world’s top honey producing sights known for its highly skilled, well-trained, overly productive, sometimes rebellious, wonderful, lovely, cunning, striped, and just in case someone forgets to mention-devilish- bees. He knew that this new mission was to be carried out with great and careful care if he wished to keep all of his organs perfectly intact without the slightest hint or even suggestion of maiming, he must use an excellent, well-planned, overly-thought-out, perfect, infallible, foolproof, watertight, indistinguishable, and down right forgettable disguise, he must be incognito. He would start this mission at the local cool, funny, quite entertaining, always so crowded with people it make’s you want to pull your hair out, frustrating, over-the-top, delightful, possibly evil, “groovy” and/or “outta sight” (as one from a different generation might say) hangout spot- Pat’s Bar & Grill- which I can say from personal experience is much more bar than grill.
            He was already prepared to be incognito. He had died his typically neon-orange, eye-killing, painful-looking, terribly odd, and overly-curly hair a more docile, smoother, calmer, less headache-causing, easier to blend in brown, but unfortunately he had done that two weeks prior and his red roots were beginning to show as if someone had accidentally spilled red dye that could be used for the new fad-weave your own stop sign- atop his head and had forgot to inform him. He had shaved his eyebrows and plucked his eyelashes, then applied new, false, possible over-dramatic, what he felt were “stellar” (his words not mine, for some reason he feels as if he must refer to everything with out-of-date, seemingly overused expressions), dark, possibly mischievous, and overly obvious imitations of ones specifically made for those of the earth lucky enough to have been granted blue-black hair just to cover it up (these I believe came from some odd, random, extremely unique, rare rabbit found somewhere in some ill or possibly unexplored area until recent times.) I have found in my past experiences that waxing is much more effective than shaving and plucking is just plain pointless for it consumes far too much of one’s valuable time. He could not force himself to shave his beloved handlebar mustache, so he was forced to die it also, but he had mistakenly had purchased a box of black die (not even the same color as the rabbit he wore as eyebrows and eyelashes) and was far to lazy to go back to the local corner store- Sue’s Grocery & More- to get the correct shade of brown. That was probably a splendid, superb, and just plain wise yet unknowing idea on his part because just the day after the mistaken purchase, Bob, of Bob’s Theater and Rodeo Warehouse, had purchased Sue’s Grocery & More and turned it into Billy Bob’s Toy Mental Health Center (named after his son, of course, who had just this year decided that his toy soldier had become a head case and needed to be committed.) The man then decided the handlebar-style did not suit his face, so he painstakingly plucked it, for he had run out of razors and wax and Sue’s Grocery & More was no more. That too, though had a rather sad twist for our main character, for he felt himself unable to continue with his ruthless plucking tirade. He had only lasted three whole minutes before he had broke down in tears from already missing his beloved bar mustache (and also from the pain, though he will not admit it.) So folks, just picture the sight of this man with me- false eyebrows and eyelashes, brown hair with shockingly neon red roots, and a partially removed, black handlebar moustache- what a sight. That alone would have made him quite an odd, surprising, unusual, almost surreal, lovely, foreboding, terrifying, and just down right whimsical sight. This, though reader, was not the end. He then got red-colored contacts (possibly because he had waited far too late and red was the only color left, though he will not admit that he was ill-prepared for his dangerous, possibly random mission), erasing the need of his ugly, green glasses (which in my opinion would be great for Christmas because he would look very in spirit) but leaving his normally blue (which I must admit is quite odd for a man with red hair) eyes an odd, fairy-like, bright, creepy, completely not genuine, just plain different purple-color. Our main character felt he was very well incognito and was also well-prepared, but was soon surprised.
            Our main character had now arrived at Pat’s Bar & Grill, accumulating many second glances and odd stares along the way (from what I can guess they all knew our main character and wondered why he had tried to look different for in such a town as small as this one, everyone knows everyone- including visitors). He quickly found a seat with a man that could easily help him reach his target, shall we call him Mr. X. Mr. X was extremely good looking, he had wonderful features and shockingly black hair and bright, crisp blue eyes that could allure anyone with ease, not to mention his sharp, exquisite features and wonderfully-delightful American accent. (Oh I really must stop, I am just flattering myself far too much.) They had a good long chat and a plan was arranged. Our main character and Mr. X were to meet the following day at the airport, fake passports and identification in hand.
            Mr. X arrived at the airport at the correct time and waited for hours on his accomplice. Mr. X became rapidly annoyed and headed for home (though he did enjoy the wonderful, taste-bud-pleasing airport food.) Mr. X is sad to report that he has not heard from our main character in days, it would seem as if he had been placed in lock up for an indiscernible amount of time by his, well, his mother. Mr. X is still awaiting on the call or the knock on the door or even a measly and completely impersonal e-mail or text message for when his friend will be released from his unfortunate and untimely lock up so they can play SUPER INTERNATIONAL, ROCKING, TOTALLY AMAZING, OVERLY COOL, EXCELLENT, ENTHRALLING, INCOGNITO!!, the game, again.