Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #3

Fortunately though, Thomas Haggard is not in Washington D.C. right now. He is, as mentioned earlier, in Amsterdam; in Amsterdam for the first time, in fact, and is now scoping large of spoonfuls of Dolce De Leche ice cream into his small, mouse-like snout of a mouth between long, rambling retellings of the proud events that brought to him to a Café’ de Hogedaz, with a folder full of classified documents, talking into an obscenely large broach that seems to be making feedback-type sounds now and then, that is the largest thing on the equally large chest of Nadia, the Russian stewardess, who is hanging on his every word, in middle of Amsterdam.

Thomas Haggard has never eaten Dulce de Leche ice cream before.

This was choice was Nadia’s suggestion, an advisement to compete with the rich red wine gravy she had given him extra portions of just hours before. For all his refusal to be captured too tightly in the pull of any strange advancing woman on this, his first government sanctioned trip abroad, he had to admit that Nadia was an interesting spesimen. Mr. Haggard never much gone for Eastern Europeans types, what with their questionable, flimy accents and the baggage of socialist propaganda still fresh in their sad, oppressed little minds. But Nadia was different. There was a softness to her english that belied the strains of the strict, soviet bluntness of her birth tougue. Her eyes were a startiling grey and were fixed directly into his as he rolled off tale after boring tale of supposed cia missteps, allegitly illegal torture proceding and decripts of the cute things Regain, Haggard cute little persan pussy, did in his tiny studio back home in D.C. It was almost as if she was interested in what he had to say.

Not that this Nadia was a passive.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Internet security protocol astounded him and they found much in common, despite her lowly employment as a night train attendant just two day’s new to the staff. Stopping at his first jazz club visit after his first tight pull of what Nadia insisted was a just a freshly rolled cigarette, they traded algorithms for replicating the jazz solo with the innocence and wonder of teenagers. And in between sets, she told Thomas of her trips to India and Indonesia and Africa of all places and Haggard gapped that she somehow remaid alive through it all, actually seemed to enjoy these excursions among people so….so foreign.

Tom had no such stories to share. Well, there was that one very drunken night when he mistakenly stumbled into that night club in the far edges of D.C. And though the music was strangely releasing in a way he couldn’t quite discribe and he vaguely remembers being lost in the middle of the dancefloor amid a fog of forbodding dark bodies with his eyes closed and his limps flailing almost uncontrolable, it didn’t really make an impression on him. Mostly he’s just glad he got out alive.