I was on a special mission that entailed penetrating the Swiss-French border. It was just me in my German car, surviving on shear wits and the Gummy Bears I found in my winter jacket pocket. After several wrong turns down shadowy lanes and expertly executed j-turn maneuvering, I approached the border at 30 km/hr. It was then that I realized I did not have my passport. But it was too late, I had come this far and there was a mission at stake. So I roared through the checkpoint and was in the foreign country, a man without documentation, the potential to be a hunted beast.
The mission went off without a hitch, no collateral damage. Contact was made, the “package” was delivered. It was now time to get back to neutral quarters.
I steered the car and ahead saw a truck blocking the lane. An ambush? A barricade? Perhaps.
I swerved around the lorry and teased the gas pedal with my foot. Ahead was a border guard. Unseen were the cameras, computer face recognition evaluation programs, vicious guard dogs, metal detectors and take-no-prisoners intelligence agents weaponed and ready.
I nodded to the guard. Sweat began to trickle down my forehead — the heat was on full blast. But inside I was cool as a cucumber.
I was through. Back in Switzerland. I gave a hearty laugh. Double-O your mother, dude. I was the man.
What was the mission, you may wonder? That is between my wife and her dry cleaning.