Surveillance WC:289

Surveillance
WC: 289

I was on my way to CVS for Ibuprofen; I had this killer headache. I heard a gruff male voice above me, over my right shoulder.

"Can you give me a hand, here?"

This bald, buff guy was halfway up a tall ladder leaning against a utility pole, two doors down from my house. Dressed in black, he looked like someone out of a Tom Clancy novel or Central Casting.

"What are you doing?"

"Installing a camera. "

"Why?"

"Surveillance."

I wasn't about to help this guy spy on my neighbors, or worse, on me...since I did have a few things to hide.

"You're gonna be in hot water if you don't help me, buddy!"

Did I lock the house? Is the padlock on the basement door secured?

"I'm shaking in my loafers, buddy! "

He came down the ladder, camera in hand. He placed it on the ground, pulled out his badge, and flashed it.

“FBI!”

I wanted to ask him if the Bureau bothered themselves with illegal cock fighting, but I didn’t—because I figured they did.

Against my better judgment, I followed him up the ladder.

Once the camera was up and running, I continued my trek to CVS for something a tad stronger than Ibuprofen. Much stronger.

Wait! Was he really with the FBI? It might have been a fake badge. How would I know? Was he with the Mob? Or worse, the Cartel?

I would not be able to prove how I got the cocks. They don’t come with papers.

What if I didn’t lock the house or the basement door?

I cut through the alley and hurried back to the house.

Darn Feds!

The two-million-dollar question: where to stash the cocks?