Cross-posted to The American Street.
An American businessman visiting San Francisco on a sales trip met a beautiful Chinese woman in a bar. She tempted him back to his hotel room, where the effects of alcohol and a Rohypnol chaser caused him to fall unconscious.
To his spine-chilling horror, he awoke the next morning in a bathtub full of ice, excruciating agony piercing his lower back. A note scrawled on the bathroom mirror in lipstick enjoined him to call for a paramedic.
When the authorities arrived, they discovered that the man had a fresh surgical scar on his back, where a kidney had been removed. The Chinese Tongs, who, it is well known, deal in the international human-organ market, had claimed another victim.
The NSA, through telephonic data-mining, was immediately able to trace the Tongs, roll them up to the last foot-soldier, and return the man his kidney.
The friends of a friend of a friend of mine, at the approach of the birthday of a vivacious young woman -- we'll call her S., although her name is actually D. -- conspired to throw her a surprise birthday party in the basement of her home. The plan was to hide there and surprise her when she arrived home from her secretarial job that day.
When the day arrived, the friends secreted themselves behind her furniture and in her closets, their presents and party favors at the ready.
However, the unsuspecting S. had other plans. Arriving home, she stripped herself nude, collected some peanut butter and a DVD of some hardcore lesbian porn, and called to her dog. "Come on, Skippy," she said. "Let's relieve some tension!"
The overhead speaker in her kitchen crackled. "Ms. S., this is NSA. You have a house full of guests. Repeat, you have a house full of unexpected guests."
S. put on her bathrobe, quickly stashed the porn, and began to make herself a PBJ.
"Whew! That could have been embarrassing! Thanks for the warning, NSA!"
A passerby in a supermarket parking lot happened to notice an elderly woman seated rigidly in the driver's seat of her car, clutching her head.
The Samaritan knocked on the window of the car and enquired if she needed help. She replied heatedly that she needed immediate medical attention -- she believed she had been shot in the head and could feel her brains oozing out.
Before her benefactor could even dial his cell phone, an ambulance screeched around the corner. NSA had already alerted the local authorities.
The story has an amusing ending: What the woman had thought was a gunshot to the head was actually an exploding can of Pillsbury biscuit dough in the back seat, which had sprayed its viscous, yeasty contents all over the woman's head. The microchip inside the canister that informed NSA when it was opened had alerted her NSA Case Officer, who had the presence of mind to put two and two together.
Thanks again, NSA!
The young lovers sat in their car on Lovers' Lane, less than pleased with one another. He claimed the car had run out of gas; she wasn't buying his obvious subterfuge to gull her into heavy necking.
"You know, I've heard that Man With the the Bloody Hook for a Hand roams these parts every anniversary of the Notorious Unsolved Bloody Hook Murders, dear."
"Oh, don't assay that old chestnut on me, you dreadful masher! I know men's dissembling ways!"
"No! It's true!"
The car radio, completely unbidden, crackled into life. "Confirmed. Bloody Hook Murderer is approximately three feet from your vehicle, approaching fast from two o'clock. Advise immediate -- repeat, immediate -- strategic redeployment to neutral ground."
When, some minutes later, the swain's car pulled up outside her home, he jumped out to open the door for her, as any polite young man should. Imagine the shriek of horror he emitted when he found, hanging from the passenger-side door handle, a bloody hook!