Lie about how you met me.

One of my good friends, Gavan, recently put up an interesting and amusing post on Facebook. It went like this:

I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.

This was my response:


It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.

I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.

As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:

"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"

Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.

We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.

We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.

Gavan, you served us those beers.