Norman, the notoriously shy librarian, found himself smack dab in the middle of a high-stakes undercover spy mission, or at least that’s what the swirling chaos around him suggested. One minute he was shelving “War and Peace,” the next he was dodging explosions and shouting secret codes he made up on the spot.
Clumsiness had been Norman’s lifelong companion. As an expert at knocking over entire towers of books just by reaching for a single encyclopedia, he was now effortlessly sending priceless gadgets flying with the delicate grace of a drunken giraffe. His foot caught on a cable; arms flailed desperately, sending a high-tech briefcase careening into a brawny agent’s shoulder. Norman’s mouth opened in a silent scream, only to close because no noise came out.
Note to self: Must practice dramatic entrances, preferably ones that don’t involve faceplants.
As the laser beams grilled the floor inches beneath his sneakers—sneakers that, in a less heroic life, were reserved for gentle institutional carpet—his mind drifted to the most mundane thought possible: “I hope the library doesn’t fine me for missing three books this week.”
A splash of formaldehyde or was it just spilled coffee? Hard to tell. His hands shook violently as he tried to uncurl from under a rolling metal chair—another accidental creation of his slapstick ballet. Norman’s subtle internal monologue clashed magnificently with the life-and-death chaos. If I survive this, I’ll never complain about overdue fines again.
Suddenly, with perfect comedic timing, the chief spy pointed dramatically at Norman and declared, “Agent X, the mission depends on you!”
Norman blinked. “Oh good,” he thought. “At least someone’s got the wrong guy; that’s consistent with my track record.”
He leapt up, immediately tripped on his own shoelace, and face-planted into a conveniently placed custard pie—no doubt another method of silent assassination.
As the room froze in shocked silence, Norman wiped custard off one eyebrow, then stared blankly at the stunned crowd.
“I guess you could say I’m… the cream of the covert operation,” he deadpanned.
Then, as if the universe couldn’t resist one more prank, the pie was filled with harmless but suspiciously sticky superglue, adhering Norman’s face to the tabletop.
He sighed dramatically, internally admitting, Well, at least I won’t be overdue for breathing any time soon.
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