I Spy Pie: A Short Story

Chapter One FBI agent Amber Martinez stifled a yawn as she stared at her computer screen. It was 11:24 pm, and she was sitting in a ragged swivel chair in her small cubicle. She took a swig of now cold coffee from her “#1 FBI” mug. Leaning back in the chair, she sighed loudly. “If only…” she muttered. Suddenly, her computer's monitor dinged. She sat up expectantly and squinted at the screen. An email. From someone she didn’t know. She eyed it suspiciously before clicking the link to open it. “Oh my God…” she whispered to herself. Her eyes widened. She began to get up slowly, as if in a daze. She nearly stumbled over her chair while still studying the screen. “Oh my God!” she yelled, much louder than before. She turned around, running, knocking

She was wearing a pink sweatsuit and smacking gum in her mouth obnoxiously loud. “Like, welcome to I Spy Pie!” she said in a stereotypically snobby girl voice. Stark subtly acknowledged her with a slight nod of the head. “Can I speak to the manager, please?” he asked. He eyed her over the rim of his sunglasses intimidatingly. “OMG, is this because you found my fake nail in that cupcake? I’m, like, super sorry about that. It’s just that I tried this new nail salon over the weekend. It’s called Hashtag Nails. Not very good. My nail job is so crappy now! I’m really-” “Shut up!” yelled Stark. The girl widened her eyes, taken aback. She hurried to the back to find the manager. “What was that?!” yelled Martinez, throwing her arms up in the air. Sticky Joe came to learn that Martinez and Stark had many arguments. Or as Martinez called them, “heated agreements”. The two were interrupted by the same nasally voice. “Like, here he is!” she said. She then hurried to the back of the store, watching Stark with wide eyes as she did so. The group turned around to be greeted by a very short man with a large potbelly and a dirty apron. He had a black comb over. Sticky Joe noticed beads of sweat collected on his

Sticky Joe grabbed a magnifying glass, some tweezers, Ziplock bags, fingerprinting tape, a super cool memo pad and a pen. Sticky Joe was satisfied. Of course, he didn’t see why they couldn’t have gone to, like, any grocery store anywhere, but he didn’t mention this. The group was walking out of the dusty old room when something in the corner of Sticky Joe’s eye caught his attention. He walked over to the table that it was sitting on. “Hm… It done says it’s a fancy ol’ bag,” Sticky Joe muttered as he read the label. He picked it up. It was cheap tan cloth that was frayed at the edges of the flaps. He rubbed it between his fingers, encouraging a cloud of dust to billow out of the fabric. “Wha’s this?” Sticky Joe yelled to Johnny without tearing his gaze from the bag. “Hm?” Johnny replied as he turned around. “Oh, that old thing? You don’t want that piece of crap. It’s just a bag with a bunch of secret compartments. But it’s all beat up now. You can just drop it off in the garbage on our way out.” Sticky Joe gave Johnny a death stare. He loved this bag. It reminded him of himself. Frayed and old, and imperfect, but reliable. He picked it up and inhaled it lovingly. Then he