glued on Morrow’s shapely gams. How am I supposed to compete with that? I mean, give me a break. The guy bought a car and clothes and a fancy camera and a full set of golf clubs, all so he could expose some of his officers for selling secrets to the enemy? Morrow’s been watching too many of those Oliver Stone movies.
But the last and final truth was that I kind of wanted to keep her around. I mean, she has those incredibly sympathetic eyes and occasionally they come in handy.
In any case, by now you probably have figured this out about me: I don’t give up easily. Someday soon, maybe right after I kick her ass in this trial, I’m going to prove to the lovely Miss Morrow that I’m not a Pudley. Maybe I’m no Humongo, but I’m no Pudley. Metaphysically speaking, of course.
