Ruminations of an Expatriate

You’re So Right Chronicles

In case any of my five readers have missed the chronicles of You’re So Right, the master of iconoflatulence (not to mention he who coined the term) , I have created a new page and am posting his periodic incomprehensible, yet decidedly entertaining, ruminations to his own page.

Table of Contents
Part I – I Can’t Place the Face, but the Odor is Familiar
Part II – Do These Shackles Make Me Look Fat?
Part III – Avian Passion Aside: No Means No
Part IV – The Condi Man Can
Part V - POWs and MIAs
Part VI – Agent Double O Smegma
Part VII – Put Your Hands Together
Part VIII- Nur Deutch, bitte
Part IX – Is this really the end?
Epilogue

Part I: I Can’t Place the Face, but the Odor is Familiar

As the shards of my shattered consciousness began to reassemble themselves, against my better judgment, like astigmatic quilt-makers on crack, I realized that it was pronounced “ha” as in hah not “ixla” as in Xalapa.

My vision cleared in brief bursts. Slowly, like one of those fifties movies where they played with the focus of the camera to simulate…well, someone’s vision clearing in brief bursts. When I finally came to, I really wished I hadn’t. Before me, squinting through clouds of acrid tobacco smoke at a wheezing laptop, muttering and chuckling as he hunted and pecked, sat a vision from hell. Not just any hell but a really bad hell, like living in the suburbs of a major American city . Or maybe having to sit through 24 hours of C-Span. Bad hell.

Hunt, peck. Peck, mutter, hunt. “Welcome back, sailor.”

With what, I am proud to say, considerable clinical detachment, I did a quick visual assessment of the abomination before me. Small, thin, dark as Cuban maduro with stringy matted hair the color of, say, the bilge from some steamer in Vera Cruz harbor. Arms like armadillos, feet covered in patent leather penny loafers. Awful. But the head. The head. So strangely distended under the massive pressure of a large granite boulder held in place by hemp and burlap. Sloping quickly back from the wrinkled forehead to form a shelf over the grizzled neck.

“I said welcome back, Kitty.” I realized he was talking to me.

“Where am I? Shit!” This is what I would like to have said. But, since I was incapable of speech just then, what I actually whined was “Whffffffarrach! Shisssht!”

I was unable to localize the pain with any certainty. It was mostly between my shoulders and my scalp, I knew that. It was like driving a 1972 Volkswagen behind a truck hauling sheep manure up a hill. You can’t go around it and you can’t stand the smell. Eventually, I realized that something had gone really wrong with my teeth.

“What’s the matter, not feeling so great?” The horrific demon before me continued hunched over the computer and distractedly worked at his left nostril with a mini-whisk, clearly vexed with some elusive turn of phrase on the screen before him.

“Whachadotobe?, you sonabamick!” I moaned.

“Oh, not much. Just a little pre-Columbian dental work. Thought I’d take care of it while you were still in dreamland.” He pulled luxuriously at his pulpy roach as the blue of the monitor reflected off his filthy, holographic My-Little-Pony shades. “Want to have a look?” I detected more than a little pride in his remark.

He lifted a hand mirror and held it before my face, tilting and zooming until he was sure I could see myself clearly. “Go ahead, say ahhhh.”

I barely recognized my own visage. My hairline, which I had always considered one of my best features, had somehow receded to about mid-crown; the sixties surfer bob replaced by a series of short tufts. Pig-tails actually; densely knotted and slathered with a tarry substance which held them a various angles away from my head. My face was bright red. Ape’s-ass red, except in the rivulets of dried tears which revealed the pallid skin beneath.

With great care, I drew my lips back from my throbbing choppers. I gazed in horror at the intricately chiseled and perforated designs that covered the formerly off-white glories with which my sainted parents had worked so hard to provide me. Each incisor was now adorned with three vertical grooves bordered by a sort of crescent moon chipped out along the midline; the designs on one side perfectly symmetrical with those on the opposite side of my mouth. Festooned as they were with tiny constellations of holes and imbedded chips of semi-precious stones, I couldn’t help but admire the artistry on some depraved level.

“What the thuck?” This last accompanied by a convulsive wince and fresh torrents of tears brought on instantly by the pressure of front teeth against lower lip. “Whath have you done to be, you badman!”

“Mad?” He snapped his head back so quickly that he slightly lost his footing, balancing as he was some 60 or 80 pounds of stone on his scrawny neck. “Mad you say?”

Whether it was the cackle of fetid laughter fouling what remained of the breathable air in that dank space, or the crude bludgeon brought down sharply on my stubbled pate, I know not, but the resultant return to incoherence was welcome beyond words. As I slipped into that satiny abyss, I realized that I was in the presence the very person I had come so many miles and spent so many years in search of. Once again the Shepherd of Satsop was within my grasp!

Part II – Do These Shackles Make Me Look Fat?

“OK, Let’s try this again. Muy rrrrrobusto, RRRRRRoberto!”

“Muy robusto, Roberto. ARGGGGGH!” The sensation was a lot like having one’s small intestines fed into a blender straight through the abdominal wall. As with all the times before, I had to look down and confirm, to my amazement, that there was nothing attached to or boring into my wretched gut.

“I don’t think you are really trying, you Gringo swine.” He reached once again for his Teletubbies ring.

“No, no. Please! I can do it.” He eased his hand away from the ring and gazed down at the notes before him on the podium. There was no way I could do it.

“RRRRRamon! Que pasa, hombrrrre?”

“Ramon, que…..ARGGGGH!”

“You imbecile! Where did you learn to speak Spanish, the phone directory?” His eyes were bulging so far out of his head they smudged the back of his glasses. “You’ve got to roll your R’s. RRRRRRRRoll your R’s!” The viscous spittle against my forehead sounded like hail on the roof of a ’57 Chevy.

“I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You certainly fucking don’t!” He took off the mortarboard, shuffled back over to the couch and fell into its fetid recesses. With childlike joy, I realized that today’s session was over.

As he lit up another dark dogend he glared at me in utter exasperation. “How in the name of all that is holy do you expect to be ready at this rate? Your coming out is just a few days away. You are going to ruin everything!”

“I…I’m sorry. Can we try German?” Big mistake.

“German? Did you say German, you pea-brained frat boy?” as reached for his pinky.

When I came around again he seemed to have regained his composure somewhat. “Ausgeseitnicht! Sie sind jetzt hier. Wie gehts?”

“Good, thanks. Sorry about the German remark. I’m just not myself, I suppose.” I attempted a smile through my cracked and bloody lips. “That’s an interesting trick. How do you do that?”, nodding toward his hand.

“Oh this little thing?” He held out his mottled ham and smiled coquettishly as he cocked his head to each side and admired the ring like a newly betrothed farm girl.

“Just something I worked out in my spare time. In case I had surprise guests. A little nanotechnology for the tum-tum. You swallowed it with that hamburger helper at lunch a few days ago. Works great don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Feels like I’ve got a roto-rooter in my guts. ”

“Just what I’d hoped. Here, check it out.” He swiveled the laptop around so that I could look over his shoulder as he clicked through the diagrams and spec sheets. As near as I could gather, the thing, which looked a little like a miniature molly-bolt, was designed to lodge itself into the lining of the small intestine where, upon activation from the remote control, it would continue to drill and tear its way through the digestive system. Talk about Montezuma’s revenge.

“How long ’til I shit it out?”

“I’m not exactly sure, weeks…months. You’re the first, you see. Look upon it as your little contribution to science.”

“This is truly flattering. All to motivate me to learn Spanish. Sort of gives new meaning to the term ‘total immersion’.”

He had to grab the sides of the stones to support the head-shaping machine as he exploded into paroxysms of laughter. Stomping the floor, he rocked uncontrollably as his howls were gradually replaced with a gasping for air. When the coughing had stopped, he regarded me with a sidelong glance and what I thought was a possibly a glimmer of respect…or was it some new recalculation of how much more it would take?

“That’s very droll. Very good. Did they teach you that at the academy?”

“Academy? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I would have shit myself if that were possible in my condition.

“Very well. Have your little games. Ready to get back to work?” He crushed out the roach on the back of my hand. The duct tape might as well have been monel metal.

“If we must. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all, fire away.”

“Are you planning to kill me?”

He turned to face me and raised his arms slowly in a gesture of evangelical sincerity. Out of the corner of my eye, I might have seen something scuttle across the room. “Kitty, you cut me to the cuticle.”

“In seven days, you and I will sitting at a table on El Gastrointerologico Square sipping a cold Bohemian and watching the pigeons mate. This I promise you.”

“Now try this: Rrrrrrruiz, mi amigo! Dos Tequila, Porrrrrrrrrrrrrrfavor!”

Part III – Avian Passion Aside: No Means No

“You, sir, are an anachronism. A stereotype. A figment of someone else’s imagination.”

With real satisfaction I noted that, like clockwork, the mood change had come just as he drained his second box of Cabernet Classique. He wiped his chin with a tamale husk and turned to consider me more closely. This only redoubled my concentration on a point beyond the horizon.

“You would be intensely annoying, if it were not for the fact that you don’t exist.” In leaning over to jab my chest with this thumb he kicked the shoeshine boy in the nose. The pathetic figure continued to buff while trying to stanch the flow from a nostril with a polish applicator. My companion tossed a coin in the street and pushed him roughly away. “That’s enough, get lost.”

He was winding up for a four-alarm rant. I could scarcely conceal my delight. We had been at our usual table on the plaza for most of the afternoon. He had had me shift my chair several times to position my blistered pate between him and the sun and now it was beginning to drop behind the tiled rooftop of the Hotel Central.

“I suppose it was the pigeon remark that brought this on.” I had to tread lightly, no sense goading him into using the ring.

“I suppose it was the pigeon remark that brought this on.” He twisted his face into a nasty grimace and raised his voice to a squeal as he did a horrid impersonation of my newly acquired speech impediment. He belched loudly and called for another large box of red wine. “And I want it fresh. None of that old stuff.” He shouted after the retreating waiter.

“I simply said that the males seem unusually aggressive. In light of the fact that the females are clearly not interested. They should take the hint.”

“They should take the hint.” Again with the voice.

“These are not your effete, politically correct, ‘By your leave, missy’ gringo birds!” I tried to imagine the smell of Listerine and failed.

“These are unspoiled, hot-blooded, revolutionary LATIN pigeons. They see what they want and they take it! They part the feathers and have at it. Your pathetic rules of permissible behavior don’t apply here, Heloise!”

“No need to get so upset. I only meant that in a civilized, sophisticated, democratic society…”

“Oh? And where might that be?” You’re referring of course to that little banana republic just north of the border?” He cleared the table with broad sweep of his arm, held the wine over his head and made like a shopvac straight from the spigot.

“That little republic, for all its shortcomings, is based on the rule of law…”

“The law! That’s rich! You mean like the ‘law’ in Guantanamo? The Bay of Pigs ‘law’? The ‘law’ that contracted the Kennedy assassination? The ‘law’…

“Oh, please. Not that Kennedy thing again.” This was going beautifully.

“Yes, that Kennedy thing again. Do you deny that Kennedy was assassinated by Texas oil businesspersons concerned that he planned to end the Oil Depletion Allowance because he was acting to deneuter the Federal System, through issuance of Executive Order 11110?”

“OK. So you have a problem with the current administration. The system is designed to deal with that. Checks and balances. How about some of the Democratic candidates? How about Hilary?”

“Hilary? Don’t make me laugh. Hilary Clinton has gone through so many contortions trying to explain away her vote to authorize Bush’s Iraqi adventure and enunciate her current positions on the war I’m surprised she’s not in permanent traction. She will pander to just about any constituency to fulfill her desire to be president. Which in my book, qualifies her for immediate disqualification.”

I resumed my serene consideration of the horizon.

“Bahhhh. To hell with you. I gotta shit.” He threw up his hands in exasperation and started for the facilities. I glanced at the clock on the tower of the Bacilica Paris Hiltona Cathedral and noted it was exactly 5:19 pm. Say what you will about the man, he’s as regular as an atomic clock. Must be all that fresh fruit.

The entire cantina staff arose and hustled to assist with robes and headdress as their benefactor shambled toward the WC, beads rattling, feathers wafting. My chance had come at last.

Part IV – The Condi Man Can

“Going somewhere?”

I really felt like the question was giving me more credit than I deserved. The hoop skirt, which I was forced to wear as part of my promenade ensemble, was extremely confining such that my walking was reduced to tiny steps reminiscent of incontinent Geisha, and, since I was lashed to it underneath by a series of ingeniously placed cable ties, quite impossible to remove without adequate assistance and a good half hour with the jaws of life.

“It’s a scorcher, huh?” I mopped my brow as I tried to figure out who had sneaked up behind me so quickly on my carefully planned escape route through the narrow alley. The wiry figure wore a broad fedora and, with glare of the setting sun and the mixture of perspiration and Estee Lauder foundation flooding my eyes, I was having a hell of a time seeing who it was.

“You’ll have to go back, you know.” The figure stepped into the shadows under a small veranda as she lit up a Lucky and closed her cell phone with a snap…a multi-tasker if ever there was one.

She motioned me to join her in the shade as she removed the Fedora and revealed her newly straightened coif. “Do you always walk on the Gringo side of the street?”

“Madam Secretary!” Despite the restraints, I involuntarily attempted to bring my heels together in salute.

“I couldn’t help but think you were on your way somewhere.” She eyed me with more than her usual loathing as she delicately removed a bit of tobacco from her tongue with thumb and ring finger.

“No, Madam Secretary. I mean yes, Mad…”

“Look, for starters, call me Condi. We’re in the field, after all.” She meant just the opposite, of course. Her voice had its usual high-pitched vibrato; sharp and hard enough to cut glass. Like a elementary school thespian with a bad case of stage fright.

“Why, how…I mean, what are you doing here?”

“The boss sent me.” She was really enjoying that smoke. As she took a deep drag I noticed for the first time that she had a small tattoo on the knuckle of her middle finger, “Vulcans Rule” in that silly Goth lettering. She spit though the gap in her front teeth and drilled a neat hole a couple of inches into the dust.

“You mean the Pres… ” She cut me off.

“No, shit-for-brains, the Angler.”

Cheney. I knew the job was high-priority when I took it, but I was beginning to get the idea that there might be more to this than met the eye. “So I was just on my way to call in a little back-up. There have been complications.”

She eyed my peek-a-boo pumps. “I can see that.”

“I was going to get in touch with our guys in Merida. Bring in some muscle. Get primitive with this SOB.” I hoped I sounded a lot more macho than I felt.

“Yes, I’m sure. Unfortunately the plan’s changed.” She whipped open her cell phone, muttered something briefly at the screen, and popped it back in her pocket.

“Changed?” To be perfectly honest, I was already looking forward to a quick extraction from this assignment. What a relief it would be to put the hyperbolic haciendas of Xalapa far behind me. But it was not to be.

“…and we’ll let you know when to move in via your scrotum phone.” I only caught the last bit. I had been dreaming of the taste of a triple Whopper with practically real cheese.

“Huh? Move in? But I’m already moved in and I want to get the hell out!”

“I told you, soldier, the job has changed.”

“But I was right of the verge of taking him out!” In the distance I could hear shouting in the square…over the sound of my sphincter double-clutching like styrofoam in a newly opened bubble pack. “You said terminate with extreme prejudice! I was this far…” She cut me off again. It was getting old. Didn’t any manners come with that Ph. D.?

“You know I hate that expression.” As she put the fedora back on she smoothed the brim in a gesture reminiscent of Michael Jackson.

“No. I mean yes. You said kill him.”

“Keep it down, dickwad, they’ll hear you.” The noise was getting closer.

She handed me a small package, and started toward the taxi that had just pulled up at the far end of the alley. “Better hustle back now. No sense in getting another bellyache.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Condi. Don’t leave me.” I tried to hustle after her but it was no use. She was striding away like a high government official very familiar with the term plausible deniability.

“Sorry cowboy, got to get back to DC. His master’s voice, you see.”

“Cheney?”

“Negatory. It’s Georgie. He’s been a naughty boots and needs his bottom spanked.” And then she was gone.

I knew there was only one option now. I reversed directions and headed back toward Gastro Square. As I waddled around the corner, he was pounding angrily at the ring. All hell had broken loose. Sycophants were running in all directions. Posses were being formed. Directions provided. Google googled.

When they saw me everything stopped. You could have heard a pin drop (if was a fairly large pin, like a cotter pin, or a bowling pin maybe).

I smiled sweetly as I readjusted my cravat and returned to my Tequila Almondrado. “Sorry. Had to tinkle.”

Part V – POWs and MIAs

“Not only is it possible, it is absolutely probable. Don’t you agree?”

It was a fortnight Tuesday so he was changing the plugs in his nostril and right earlobe and switching his eye color to a sort of glittery chartreuse. The plugs were moving up from the diameter of about a quarter to say thumb size. Which was convenient since he like to use his thumb on occasion to dislodge a particularly ornery booger. This way he could work at it from the top and side simultaneously by simply removing the cork. The one in his ear was purely for decoration.

The eye color was a little more high-tech. He had been able to come up with various herbal solutions that, when mixed and dropped in the eye, could change the whites to just about any shade he wanted. For the last two weeks it had been Carolina blue.

“Does that hurt?” I couldn’t help but notice that he took a good long hit from his hash pipe before working on the eyes.

“Yes, a little. I haven’t got the dosage quite right yet. But one must pay attention to one’s appearance if one wants to get ahead in the world. And besides, I wouldn’t subject an animal to anything I wouldn’t do to myself. It’s a matter of medical ethics.” He was regarding the result critically in his hand mirror.

“Did you know that I made over $11 thousand pesos last month selling this stuff on the internet? They love it in Amsterdam.” He wiped his eyes and forced the larger plug into his nose. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think it is probable that my plan will succeed?”

“I find it neither probably or possible; I find it totally preposterous.” I tried to appear confident as I took a long drag on my Cohiba.

For several days now he had allowed me to have my hands free when he let me out of the cell for my daily airing in the blogatorium. This I assumed was the result of the incident in the square. He must have concluded that I could be trusted with a little shorter rein, at least until he figured out why I hadn’t taken off when I had the chance.

“Preposterous? How so?”

“Well let me count the ways.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

“One, there’s no reason to believe you will be able to break in to the museum. The security will be tight as hell for days prior to the visit. Two, you’ll never be able to get close enough to him during the tour to inject the curare. Three, there will be secret service and contractor guards all over the place…they will probably outnumber the spectators…thick as fleas on a dog…stink on shit.” He raised his hand as if to say there was no reason to be crude.

“No question. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He placed a small bottle of mescal and shot glass on my bench and gestured for me to help myself.

“Four, you’ll never get him out in one piece. Five…hell, do you need more?”

“Please. I don’t consider any of your concerns so far as even a minor inconvenience. I can handle it. With a little help.” He shifted his eyes toward me slowly and with great melodrama. I thought I heard one of those 50′s movie’s orchestral soundtracks hitting descending chords. Turns out, I did. He had it on his sound system and had queued it up somehow from the laptop.

“Creature from the Black Lagoon, right?” I asked.

“Damn, you got it the first time! Well done.” He smiled broadly and I couldn’t help thinking the new nose plug was really quite dignified.

“There’s no way in hell I would help you with this. It’s evil, its warped, its…” I groped for the right words.

“Long overdue?”

“It’s the end of life as we know it!”

“Yes. Like I said, long overdue.”

“What happened to your friends. Why aren’t they here Why can’t they help you?” I finally got the conversation around to what I had been needing to know for some time.

“And who might that be?” He poured himself a drink and fired up the pipe again.

“Well, the Candy Boys for one (two)?”

He gave a sudden cynical snort and belched fumes. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to get hammered here.”

“Well, what about ‘em?”

“Hmm. Let’s see. The Candy Boys. They broke up you see. One is in retirement in Southern California…the father of six, and the other is in the slammer in Ciudad Juarez. Something about visa problems.”

“Visa problems?”

“Yes. He was able to run afoul of the authorities entering Mexico. No small feat, eh?” It sounded farfetched to me, but if he was making it up it would have been a lot more believable.

“Little Red?”

He placed one tattooed hand over his chest. “Please. The heart is a lonely hunter.” He took a moment to gather himself and continued.

“My formerly darling Red works for a temporary agency in a large metropolitan area. Answering phones and saving up for another tummy tuck, I’m told.”

The horror, I thought, the horror.

“Doctor Zachary, the Haagen Daz twins, Blossom? Surely one them could help you.”

“Gone. All of them. Gone, or fired. Let’s face it, they weren’t all Fortune 500 material.” Drops of green tears spattered off the table before him.

Just then I gave an involuntary lurch as the violent buzzing in my lap scared me into near myocardial infarction. It was the scrotumphone. They always ring at the most inconvenient times. Thankfully, the Shepherd was still lost in his memories of gangs gone by. I needed to get to the john in a hurry.

“Alright, dammit. I’ll do it.” His head turned with such suddenness that I could hear the snap of the overloaded neck tendons straining against the weight of the cranial compression device (or as he was now marketing it on the web: “Dr. Jalapa’s One-Step Slopehead Conversion Apparatus”).

“You will?” He looked like a nine-year old who just learned that Sister Walter had renounced her vows and run off with a Christian Brother.

“Yeah, I will. But it better damn well work.” The phone was buzzing like a tree full of cicadas up for their 17-year orgy. “Hey, I gotta go in the worst way.”

“It will. It will, I promise.” He unlocked the remaining bonds and helped me to my feet.

Part VI – Agent Double O Smegma

“You know, I’ve got something for that.”

“What?”

“That little problem you are having with your…shall we say ‘morning constitutional’.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. Can we get back to work?” I was wondering when my bathroom habits would become an issue.

“Suit yourself.” He turned back to the 1:100 scale model of the Museo de Anthropologia de Xalapa, but couldn’t let it go. “I mean, you realize that a soft and well-formed bowel is the nexus of a disciplined mind and healthy body.”

“Please. I’d rather not get into this subject. I feel fairly well qualified to direct my own shits without consultation with you. I’ve had a life time of practice.” By feigning modesty I hoped to steer him away from the real reason I didn’t want to talk about my marathon daily sessions in the boom box.

“Of course. It’s just that if you spend any more time in there we’ll have to put up a plaque. I have a little number that I’ve been marketing on www.rumblejunction.com that is getting a lot of good press. It’s made in Schwabing by elderly Germans with strict adherence to a recipe I pulled together based on veg…”

“Elderly Germans?”

“Absolutely. They don’t get any more anal than an elderly German. Why do you think they designed their toilets like that.” I’d always wondered about that little shelf.

“Alright, enough.”

“I have some free samples I can let you have cheap.”

“Enough!”

“Like I said, suit yourself. But you’re going to need a U-Haul for those piles you’re working on.”

“ENOUGH!”

He sighed deeply and took another mammoth wad of Red Man and placed it thoughtfully in his right cheek. “So, here is the tunnel that leads from the rotisserie chicken place…”

My mind wandered back to my days at the academy.

It was our third year at the Chaney Institute for Advanced Tradecraft, Indoctrination, and Personal Grooming and they were beginning to separate the ass-kissers from the brown-nosers. I was way out in front on almost every phase the curriculum. There was only one guy standing between me and the top of the class – Brash McGrath. Unlike me, McGrath was born to the breed. Rumor had it he got in after choreographing an elaborate (and fictitious) scandal involving his father, a noted New England liberal senator, three girl scouts and Donnie Osmond.

While I was at the library burning midnight oil, trying to pound the fine points of water-boarding and canine intimidation techniques through my thick skull, McGrath was down in the R.M. Nixon bowling alley or the Rumsfeld Canteen knocking back Rummie Punches and keeping the other cadets in stitches with his stories of date rape and identity theft. He had the gift, no question.

But now we were coming down to the wire and there was one course left to would allow me to get my nose in front – Clandestine Communication 312: Scrotumphone – Operation, Maintenance, and Impromptu Variations. The innocuous title did little to reveal the intricacies of what was, by general acclamation, the make-or-break course for aspiring field agents. “Learn the phone or go home.” We heard it from Day 1 and it was now nut-cutting time (literally.)

Professor Ambushure, the ancient, reviled, and only instructor of CC312, made it clear in his introductory remarks that only those passing the General Assessment and Simulation (GAS) phase of the course would be fitted with the device and admitted to the second and final segment of the program, field applications.

He also made it clear that there was no predetermined quota of successful candidates or, for that matter any general agreement as to what constituted success. He was the sole discriminator and court of last recourse…all may pass (doubtful), or none may pass (likely).

“I am the decider,” he reminded us often with an odd squint and duck on the head.

The initial weeks of the program were technically challenging (power supply, range, modulation, etc.) or physically taxing (learning to walk with a ball-bearing clipped to your nuts) but not difficult for the typical type-A fascist cadet, and some in the class were already saying, over a late-night Harriet Myer (Grey Goose and Diet Dr. Pepper), that the old Prof was losing his stuff. They stopped laughing soon enough.

The Scrotumphone is a miniature transmitter/receiver which, after removal of one of the recipient’s testicles, is fitted into the void and serves as a constant link between convert operators and their minders. Constructed of non-metallic components and equipped with a rechargeable power supply it is virtually undetectable and, after a period of adjustment, transparent to the wearer.

That’s not saying its perfect. The designers never quite got the power level right on the vibration-only mode of the ring (cost overruns) and since that is effectively the only ring that is ever used, it presents a significant challenge to one’s self control for the typical user. Also, due to the limitations of miniaturization and the obvious difficulties presented by its location, the user has two options when sending or receiving. The first, sitting with one’s head between his legs and speaking in a loud, clear voice, has some appreciable drawbacks, though it has reportedly been used successfully by an agent posing as a street person in New York. The second, the one employed most widely, is effected by breaking wind in a variety of volumes pitches and durations, thus producing a coded message.

That is what made part two of the course so fiendishly difficult. Cadets were required to learn a comprehensive alphabet and coded vocabulary generated solely by the use of anal sphincter and the requisite amounts of gastric emissions. Those incapable of stomaching the required gas-producing cuisine or unable to appreciate the tones, meters and flourishes of the butt language washed out fairly quickly. Others were simply unable to tolerate the long hours of practice in close quarters.

Predictably, those sent packing quite often did not go quietly (no pun intended); reprisals, litigation, exposure to the press were all threatened. Without exception, all threats were dropped after a session or two with management and most were left simply bemoaning the awful unfairness of it all…questioning that anyone could master the insane difficulty of the technique.

In fact some did master it. When we were at our lowest, Professor Arbrushure would somehow know when to appear and demonstrate a particularly troublesome squeak or bugle. He had no peer in the world of posterior telecommunication. Legend has it that at one particularly raucous Holiday party the good Professor regaled the senior staff with a rendition of the Night Before Christmas complete with carols in three-part harmony. Some learned it, and so did I. I’m not fast and I’m not fancy but I’ll put my accuracy up against the best.

In the end, I did finish first in my class. Contrary to all expectations, McGrath ended up failing the simplest of requirements, the periodic inspection of our newly implanted hardware. It seems our golden boy failed to keep his bits and pieces in good working order…some cheesy build-up they say. Devil on the microtransmitter. They also say he went rogue – out there somewhere working for who knows who. One nut short of a load.

“…at which point you will be free to go, the World is saved, and I will join my friends at an undisclosed location for a well-deserved retirement. Any questions?”

“Uhhh, nope.” I wish they had known more about ADD when I was coming up in the world.

“Clever lad. Let’s drink on it.”

Next Installment: Put Your Hands Together One Tim

Part VII – Put Your Hands Together One Time

There are 543 ways to kill a man with a paper clip. That’s not counting the several additional ways that can be effected with the direct assistance of the victim. But I don’t count those since its so danged hard to get someone to hold a paper clip up to his temple, for instance, while you pound it with a hammer.

Diego was proving to be a difficult student. Partly, I think, because he seemed to have a hard time taking commando training seriously, but then again Diego seemed to have a hard time taking anything seriously. I would try to show him a particularly lethal martial arts move such as the semi-secret “middle finger thrust of death” and he would giggle because he said it tickled. Small arms drill was tough because he insisted on holding one hand to his ear prior to firing off a round. “Mui ruidosmente,” he said. Percussive device construction was out of the question; way too dangerous for the instructor.

I would have put up more of a fuss about Diego if it wasn’t for the fact that he was here at my insistence. After several increasingly acrimonious discussions, the Shepherd (or K’awil as he was now requesting that I address him) consented to the addition of several staff to assist us in the very difficult and dangerous mission ahead.

“We need hardened criminals, assassins, amoral soldiers of fortune…people who would just a soon cut your throat as give you directions to the Circle K.” I got Diego.

“Now tell me again where you found this guy? He’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Yes, well good help is hard to find, Itzamna.” That was what he was calling me now and had advised me to get used it.

“You know, I’m really flattered to be named after the lizard god or whatever, but I’d just as soon you called me shitbird around the blogatorium. Itzamna seems so formal.”

“You will find it helpful if you expunge any recollection of your past life. The transformation must be intellectual as well as physical.” I still didn’t see how all this Olmec stuff had much to do with the plan, but then I hadn’t been listening all that closely when he explained it the first time and I wasn’t risking another round of K’awil’s prickly temper. It was irrelevant anyway since other plans were in motion which would, in the fullness of time, supercede his.

Diego was not the only member of the crew about whom I had reservations. Several evenings earlier the boss had insisted, out of the blue, that we forego our evening cocktails on the square in favor of a walk in the Ambulario Agua Floral. The Ambulario was a group of narrow walkways surrounding a serpentine system of dark ponds and parks to the south of the city. It was favorite of the locals for an evening saunter with the missus, and leash laws were seldom enforced.

We had become a common site around town, as much as two persons looking like they stepped out of a 7000 BC Tehuacan mural can be considered common. Since physical encumbrance was no longer the primary consideration (there was always the belly-burner) I was allowed to forgo the elaborate, and restrictive, hoop-skirt in favor of a simple, but tasteful, sarong. This enabled me to maintain a pace appropriate to my companion who, as always, clattered and reeked along in what can only be described as a power walk.

“Joel. Que pasa, hombre?” We had stopped at a ramshackle kiosk which sold coffee and small cakes. The proprietor was a stout curly-headed man with a disturbingly large lump protruding from his forehead. He offered his hand to the Shepherd and attempted to kiss mine prior to my withdrawing it with such force that he lost his balance and almost ended up on the sidewalk. Not for the first time, I imagined with horror what my high school gym teacher, Mr. Abel, would think of me now. The things I did for my country.

“My good sir, excellent to see you. I hope you and your charming companion are having a pleasant stroll. May I offer you a cup of our newest blend?”

As he poured, Joel launched into a very detailed description of the origins of the coffee, the bean, the proper method of roasting, storing, brewing, and serving the precious liquid. He also offered, in hush conspiratorial tones, that he expected, shortly, to be turning in some numbers that would “..make those effete intellectual snobs in Seattle wished they had stuck to the hula hoop.”

Through a rather thick New Jersey accent and sudden flop sweat he was able to communicate a rather desperate attempt to impress his latest, and apparently only, customers of the day. My companion said little, just the occasional grunt or nod. When he did speak it was to ask mild but leading questions regarding marketing, capital expenditures, return on investment etc. It soon became clear that Joel’s business model for the little economic dynamo was in a state constant flux; one day strictly point-of-purchase sales, the next high-volume supplier to the big east coast latte’ and cocaine set. It also became clear that there was more than simple curiosity behind my companion’s probing. K’awil…god of the sun, destroyer of worlds…had evidently fronted this knuckle-head some serious cash and was wondering what the hell he had been thinking.

“…shall we go?” I had been ruminating about how many of these jumbo Yucatan skeeters it would take to extract a pint of my red-blooded American blood when the Shepherd snapped me back to reality. He hadn’t waited for an answer and I nodded an abrupt goodbye to the rattled coffee vendor as I set off in pursuit.

“Interesting gentleman.” I wheezed as I caught up, trying to gauge his mood. The shepherd said nothing as he lighted a man-sized joint. He removed a nose plug to allow for the unimpeded flow of exhaust.

“Couldn’t help thinking that little fella might be into you for some serious pesos.”

“Serious by your standards perhaps.” He stopped to regard of group of mariachis working a line of visitors to the “Bifurcato” a small petting zoo for cloven-hooved mammals. “I reckon it would be about 12 seconds of my income from advertising alone. Those clicks really mount up.”

“Well even so, a peso saved is a peso earned. I can see you’re upset.” I could see nothing of the kind.

At that he turned to me with a broad smile, his royal blue eyeballs shining in the setting sun. “Upset? Quite the contrary, Itzamna. Quite the contrary.” He gestured to me to join him in applauding the mariachi band which was just putting the finishing touches on “Dos Gardenia.” I did so numbly.

“We are applauding ourselves, you see?

“No.” I certainly didn’t see and felt like an idiot once again. “Why?”

“Another important piece of the puzzle just fell into place. How did you like the latest member of our little gang?”

Next Installment: Nur Deutch, bitte.

Part VIII – Nur Deutch, bitte.

From my perspective on the throne I had a perfect view of the top of Rove’s head and it was not a pretty sight.

I needed to be thinking about other things, but I just couldn’t seem to get past all of those nasty implanted follicles. Why was it that the doctors insisted on such a regular pattern of plugs? It looked like someone had laid a colander over his head and stuck a tuft of fescue in each hole. Wouldn’t it look better with a sort of scattergun layout? And where did they get the donor follicles? These seemed awfully curly, and they were definitely darker than his natural, rat’s belly tone. No, too awful to even contemplate. And yet his perpetual smirk seemed to confirm my worst imaginings.

Curly or not, his thinly-turfed and greasy noggin was working up quite a shine, what with the lights, the crowd, the cleavage of the Fox News correspondent whose bodice he was peering down, and the vermouth and prune juice cocktail he was nursing. “Dry vermouth, Taco-boy, with a twist,” were his explicit instructions. Diego could barely contain himself as he prepared the drink and performed the well-rehearsed slight of hand which added a few special ingredients along with the lemon peel.

With effort, I was able to redirect my attention to the elevated platform opposite my own where K’awil sat perched; resplendent and bathed in light. As usual, his sartorial judgment had been spot on-with his jaguar cape and condor feather miniskirt. An occasional guest would pause to regard him dully or squint at the small description at the base of the dais before wandering off. I couldn’t speak for myself, but the immobilization stuff appeared to be working perfectly for him. Not a muscle twitched, not an eyelash flickered as he gazed serenely out over the tuxedoed and perfumed gathering.

The past twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind of activity.

We departed the blogosphere at dusk. Joel’s fleet of newly acquired roach-coaches pulled out at the appointed hour with his wife’s large extended family manning the espresso machines, cold-fusion generators, hummus-makers, muffin ovens, dog grooming stations, sonic cannons, defibrillators, mirrored disco balls and other necessary equipment items. The Shepherd whistled a merry tune (Was that the theme from Chariots of Fire?) and flashed the occasional thumbs up as we passed his regulars positioned at street corners and in second story windows.

“Take the next left and for heaven’s sake watch for the stale yellow.” I really hated it when he back-seat drove like that.

“This is not the route we rehearsed.” I signaled the left turn and tried to muffle the sound of two short bursts and a rising quaver…the signal for standby.

“Always vary your pattern, Itzy. Surely you, of all people, should know that,” as he offered me a Gas-X.

“No thanks. Just a little kick-back from those Serrano brownies, I guess. ”

I was pretty sure he was not aware of my communications even with all of the increased traffic of the past few days. Fortunately, when the final preparations were complete, the boss had authorized an impromptu tasting of Joel’s new line of pastries and coffees, just to keep things loose. The fat man’s constant trips to and from the kitchen to bully his wife and his incessant sales patter got really old but the gastrointestinal fall-out was perfect cover for my transmissions. I had been able to keep the commanders of Operation Border Wind informed and primed to strike on my signal.

It took most of the night to move the Olmec galleries and set up the area for the reception. Via his contacts in Vera Cruz, the Shepherd had arranged for the catering to be switched to Joel’s suddenly well-respected and profitable firm, and his expectation that everyone, including museum staff, would assume that the layout had been modified to accommodate the airtight security was also correct. As with every highly orchestrated and critical operation conducted by elite military organizations, no one had the slightest idea what anyone else was doing and was too intimidated to ask even the simplest questions. If they didn’t know something, then obviously they weren’t supposed to know it. It would be inappropriate, indeed unpatriotic, to ask.

“Now remember, Itzamna, from the moment we reach the insertion point all communication between us must be at a minimum. And what communication we do have must be in German. Nur Deutch! Is that amply clear?”

“Yeah, but I still don’t see why…”

“Your understanding is not required, shitbird, I asked if my orders were clear.” His hand shifted nervously toward the Teletubbies ring.

“Ganz klar, ganz klar!” I said. “Scheise. ”

Next Installment: Is this really the end?

Part IX – Is this really the end?

I wasn’t present when Moses parted the Red Sea, but it must have been quite a bit like when the Angler entered the room that night.

He was preceded by the usual phalanx of knuckleheads in sunglasses hoping to take someone down, but it was unnecessary. The advance team had done its work well. Like eels on their way to Sargasso, or pinworms in search of an asshole, some primordial sense caused the group to move together in a florid, sweaty tide…first opening before him and then closing together after, as if sucked along in some repulsive vortex of human degradation.

I’d seen his entrances before, of course, but one never tired of them. The Angler looked more like The Penguin than usual in his crisp tuxedo and evening defibrillator messenger bag across his shoulders. The spotlights glinted off his high-gloss dome and caused his thick glasses to darken like smoked windows in a nicely pimped-out ride. As always, he muttered out of the side of his mouth and gestured erratically as he shuffled along. This was disconcerting even to his closest advisors since it wasn’t always clear to whom he was talking or whether he was just engaged in some delusional dialog. The hazard, of course, was guessing wrong if he actually was talking to you. More than one hapless aide had lost his job (and parts of his anatomy, they say) by assuming the boss was off on one of his Baskerville moments, and subsequently learning that he had, in fact, missed some instruction requiring immediate action. This caused there to be a second layer of entourage which, in its anxiety, continually attempted to interpret the Angler’s behavior and relay commands, impressions and anxious observations outward from the core like cilia around a one-celled organism, i.e., shit rolling outward rather than downhill. Rove removed his hand from the Fox reporter’s ass and strode forward to meet the great man.

“Dick, Dick, Dick” He said. “Glad you could make it. How was your flight?”

The Angler stared at Rove’s outstretched hand as if he were attempting to hand him a turd. “Who the fuck are you callin’ a dick?”

“Well, er…you sir, you’re Dick.” Rove ran his unrequited hand across his scalp like Kookie Burns in the opening of an episode of 77 Sunset Strip.

The Angler turned to the storm trooper closest to him. “Take this man out and have him shot.” The crowd drew a breath in unison and the security goons were already in motion, but Rove was too quick for them.

“Dick. Hold on. That’s your name. Remember me? I’m Karl, you know, Dirty Tricks Meister, the President’s brain?”

“Bull shit! I’m the President’s brain.”

“Well, of course. But two brains are better than none, right?”

The Angler held his hand up in a tiny motion and, after a short sidelong muttering, broke into an odd choking sound. His face was contorted in a tortured grimace, one side up, the other down. Slowly, in what must have seemed like a lifetime to Rove, it became apparent that the VP was laughing, or what passed for laughter. Slowly the merriment began to ripple out through the rings of the sycophantic hierarchy until everyone in the room was roaring with laughter. Tears rolled down cheeks, bosoms heaved, spittle rained down like an August thunderstorm.

Eventually the Angler’s face caved in under the strain of such a prolonged effort and the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The gallery was silent.

“So, Karl. What the fuck are we doing here?”

“Well …Mr. Vice President, we’re here…”

“Call me Dick.” He seemed to be looking for something over the heads of the crowd.

“Well, uh, Dick…” The Angler’s massive head shot around to face the Master of Dirty Tricks, accompanied by an audible groan from the crowd, but mercifully he continued to be distracted by something in the hall. Rove went on. “You’re here to congratulate the President of Mexico on 2500 years of Western-style Democracy and his induction into The Brotherhood of the 800-Pound Gorilla Club. Remember?”

“Of course I remember! What do I look like, an idiot? He continued to scan the darkened corridors surrounding the gallery. “Let’s get this goddamned show on the road. All these mummies are getting on my nerves.”

“Right, Dick. It’s going to be just a moment. We’re sending word to Calderon now. He was waiting for you to arrive.”

“Calderon?”

“Yes, the President.”

“Bollocks, I know the president and it ain’t nobody name Cauldron.”

“No, Calderon. He’s the President of Mexico.”

“Who gives a shit! Can we get on with this? Where’s my speech?”

Rove handed to the Angler several three by five cards. “Here I prepared these myself. I’ll call Calderon now.”

“Well let’s make it snappy… and keep yonder taco-bender away from me.” He was eyeing Diego who was making a titanic effort to breach the various layers of entourage while balancing a large tropical drink on a tray over his head. Despite several attempts to repulse him, he had slipped past the perimeter (Young Republicans on spring break) and, apologizing profusely the whole way, was now nearing the inner core.

“Meester Shaynee, Meester Shaynee! Try some of our local spirits!”

The cameras and lights swiveled in unison at the sound of the diminutive waiter’s voice as he elbowed his way through the crowd. They were hoping for something nasty, but were ready to make do with a minute or two of soft news.

“Sontheen’ cool for ju, Meester Shaynee.”

Again, the crowd parted, but this time it was Diego on one end of canyon of human flesh and the VP was at the other. Camera’s flashed, microphones dangled. The buxom Fox News correspondent (was that a nipple?) edged closer to the Angler. “Mr. Vice President, it appears the Mexican people would like to buy you a drink.”

From somewhere in the dim periphery of the hall a cry began to rise up. Quietly at first, then louder until the entire gathering had joined in, “Drink it. Drink it!”

Diego was rearranging the little umbrella and smiling sweetly as he held the tray aloft. The cuff of his ruffled tux fluttered under the strain. The pineapple and maraschino cherry garnish glowed seductively in the light as the cameras panned back and forth between the two.

The road crew of advisors attempted to assess the pros and cons of the situation. Drink or not drink? What were the geopolitical implications? Finally, after a hushed and intense confab with the wonk squad, a silver-haired lifer came forward and whispered in the Angler’s ear.

“Mr. Vice President, this was not anticipated. We don’t have time for a poll. The media are here. You’ll be leading the 11 o’clock back home. We think you should drink it. A small sip. Don’t swallow.” He receded into the gallery and began mentally preparing his resignation letter.

The Angler’s face went through its complete repertoire of expressions at least twice as he stood there muttering to himself. He damn sure didn’t want to drink whatever that little fucker was carrying, but he didn’t want to create an international incident either. Why do people have to be so damn thin-skinned? Take that boneheaded judge, for instance…

“What the hell. Come on over here and lets have a taste, Pedro.”

The crowd applauded excitedly as he grabbed the hollowed-out pineapple and took a sip, the delicacy of which would have done a debutante proud. He smacked his lips a couple times. “Not bad, Jose, think I’ll just have another little draw.” The crowd chattered and the advisors gasped as the Angler removed the umbrella and drained the pineapple. “Yep, not bad at all.” He motioned for one of the goons to extend his sleeve so that he could wipe his mouth on it. Diego genuflected and headed back toward the kitchen.

“Mr. Vice President! Welcome!” The room again swiveled at the sound of Calderon’s voice and the sight of him riding down the marble gallery on a tricycle. Dressed as Buster Brown, and pedaling with his legs out to the sides to avoid banging his knees on the handlebars, he looked utterly ridiculous, exactly as the advance team had planned it.

The Angler, ever the professional, pulled out the three by five cards and readied himself to speak. He took his place beside the podium and checked his tie. Calderon dismounted and smiled broadly at the crowd and began reading from the Teleprompters to his right and left.

“Let me again say welcome Mr. Vice President and express my heartfelt wishes, and those of all the Mexican people…”

The vibration of the scrotumphone going off practically rattled me off my perch. It was the operatives signaling that the building was surrounded and it was time to spring the trap. All that remained was for me to sound the attack–a sustained F-sharp bugle followed by three sharp tweets. I took a deep breath, prepared my sphincter and…nothing.

“What the hell?” I gathered my guts and tried again. Still nothing. This couldn’t be happening to me. I’d been in some tight spots before but had always been able to gas up. In fact, a little panic usually seemed to help. I bore down and tried again. Quiet as the grave. Again, the phone went off like a hive of hornets in my groin. I was helpless.

“Itzy, sind Sie fertig? Alles ist in ordnung.” His voice was crystal clear over the earpiece we had implanted in the coil of waxed hair over my right ear but to my amazement (and I was staring right at him) his mouth was not moving. “Itzy, Kanst du mich horen? Angriff! Jetzt! Angriff!”

I realized it was time to get back to basics. I ran my tongue over my lower right bicuspid and pressed hard which triggered the release of the bitter-tasting antidote. This was designed to counteract the immobilization compound and allow movement. “One minute, a couple minutes, max” he had assured me.

“Why thank you Mr. Cal…er, Presidente, er, Cauldron.” The Angler was behind the podium now and shuffling through the cards. Was it my imagination or did he seem pale? He was definitely perspiring. From my position I could see that he had his legs crossed but was, nonetheless, shifting from one to the another. “Let me first convey the regrets of my boss (chuckles all round) for not being able to attend this evening’s historic festivities and to relay his best wishes to you and all these Mexicans. The last words out of his mouth as he saw me off were ‘Tell Caldey he’s doing a hell of a job.’”

The crowd obediently applauded and cooed as Calderon laughed and blew kisses. The Angler seemed to hunch over a little as he went on.

“In the long and warm history of relations between our two valiant democracies, it has never been so clear how our symbiotic and interdependent relationship benefits both nations. Like the tiny bird which forages for insects on the mighty rhino’s shoulders…ouch! What in tarnation!” Everyone caught their breath as the VP suddenly grimaced and clutched his abdomen. But his hand went up quickly as several knuckle-draggers made moves to support him. “No need boys. Just a touch of kickback.” He went on. “Like that tiny bird, the Republic of…Damn!”

The Angler suddenly lurched off the dais and began marching toward the darkened hallway beyond the light followed by the security detail. “Where’s the john boys. Get me to toilet and make it quick!”

I attempted to move a little finger. No dice. I tried to blink. No dice. I did feel a single tear roll down my face, as I began to get the feeling that things were not working out quite as planned.

“Die Zeit is gekommen! Gehen Sie! Jetzt, jetzt!” If the Shepherd said anything else I didn’t hear it because right then all hell broke loose.

The sound of broken glass, screams and small arms fire filled the room. Bursting through the huge skylight overhead was a squad of black-clad troopers dropping concussion grenades, bellowing orders, and discharging bursts of surpressing fire at everyone and no one. From each entrance, ventilation duct, and window came more soldiers and more mayhem.

“Down, down! Everybody down!” That voice. That incredibly annoying vibrato. It could only be….Condi!

As she smoothly descended the remaining 30 feet from the shattered ceiling, one arm around a pearl-handled assault rifle, and sporting a black beret with an American flag pin, Madam Secretary shot a wink at the last Fox News camera man still filming. I could have kissed her.

Actually, I COULD have kissed her. The antidote was finally beginning to work. I moved my head and worked my hands painfully.

“Take him down boys!” At least a dozen troopers covered the Shepherd like a bad case of Derrier’s disease. Six held rifles to his head while the remaining half-dozen tackled him unceremoniously and dragged him down from the Jaguar throne. Condi showed real interest and then disappointment as the Destroyer of Worlds’ private parts briefly flashed beneath the condor feathers in the awkward rush to restrain him. In truth, he didn’t put up much resistance and I hoped, for his sake, that he was having as much trouble as me with the antidote. Cuffs and hood in place, the squad roughly hustled him out a side entrance and into a waiting line of black SUV’s.

“Damn! I leave for five minutes to take a dump and the place goes to hell in a hand-basket!”

The Angler was still cinching his belt as he emerged from the shadows. The adoring crowd was still too disoriented and terrified to greet him with anything but whimpers. “That came on fast. What in tarnation is going on here!”

Condi stepped forward and, after removing her beret, motioned for the troops to fall back. “Mr. Vice President, an attempt has been made on your life. The perpetrator, someone we have been watching for some time, has been apprehended and is on his way to Gitmo. We’re cleaning up the rest of his mob as we speak.”

“Damn. That’s good work Condi! I’ll tell Georgie to give you a raise, or whatever you want…hell, hair-straightener for life, I don’t know.”

“Thank you sir, but I couldn’t have done it alone. This man, she motioned at me, is the real hero. He deserves your thanks, and that of the American people.” She cast her eyes down demurely.

It was my turn to be shocked. I tried to speak but could only hang my jaw in disbelief.

“What the…” The Angler’s eyes bugged out. “I thought that was a statue of one of these gook kings or somethin’. Like…(he spun around and stared at the empty throne where K’awil had sat) what the hell happened to the other one! What’s going on here, who’s behind all this and (he dropped his voice a notch and spoke in Condi’s ear) are you sure that’s a man.” I wasn’t too doped up to feel the shame of my appearance and I’m sure my crimson complexion burned brightly through my equally crimson face paint. The troops smirked and cut looks at each other. You could have heard a pin drop. (A large pin, like a bowling pin maybe).

“With all due respect, sir, I heard that.” I stepped forward into the light. “I’m a man all right, and I’ve gone the extra mile for this success of this mission.” I gestured toward my cling-free sarong. “But I would have gone this far and farther to protect the God-given liberty and freedom of the country that I love. I may look funny right now, but beneath these breasts implants beats the heart of a red-blooded American boy. When you cut me I bleed red white and blue and these colors don’t run.” It was utterly quiet in the hall as the echo of my raised voice trailed away.

Just then the last of the immobilization compound wore off and to my surprise and everyone else’s, the long-awaited signal was heard. A sustained F-sharp bugle followed by three sharp tweets.

Lamentably, the End

Epilogue

After you get the hang of it, running an industrial floor buffer is not that tough, it’s a matter of balance. You have to hold the handles down low. Let them straighten out and that baby will take you for a ride.

Yeah my first few weeks on the custodial staff were sprinkled with a few incidents I’d rather forget, like the time I damn near strangled one of my co-workers with the cord, but that was so long ago I’d almost forgotten it. Now, those long nights in the bowels of HQ and the sweet sound of sheepskin on linoleum almost passed too quickly. The daylight and the world above held nothing for me.

Not long after we boarded the chartered jumbo for the flight back to DC and had cracked open our fifth or sixth bottle of Dom, we got word that we should probably hold off on the celebration. Things were looking a little sketchy in Gitmo. The news got worse.

Shortly after unwrapping their precious cargo in Interrogation Room 1 they learned that Mr. Rove had not taken a private flight back to Crawford after all. He was none too pleased with his unscheduled trip to Cuba and couldn’t shed too much light on how he had ended up dressed like an Eighth Century Mayan king.

“The last thing I remember was heading for the crapper. That cocktail didn’t agree with me at all.”

Of course after that we came down on Xalapa like stink on shit, but to no avail. It was clean as Ted Kennedy’s conscience. The blogatorium was gone, two Scandinavian college girls swore they’d had that apartment for months and the phone records of their internet usage backed them up. Ditto for the whole gang. Diego, Joel and all the regulars…vanished into thin air. Vigorous questioning of the locals at the square, in the park, and plucked at random from the streets (El Presidente was a big help there) also came up empty. It was like the Shepherd never existed.

The service had, after overcoming the protests of the Angler and several other highly placed patriots, picked up the bill for my surgical refurbishment. New choppers, boob-removal job, nice new surfer dude haircut. Even my complexion eventually returned to its normal prison pallor. We had, after all, rolled up his network and apparently put a halt to his revenue stream. But that was cold comfort. So close. So close, but no cigar.

The worst of it was the ostracization. Occasionaly, it the wee hours I’d be buffing or cleaning the bathrooms and see Condi heading out. She’d see me too but never acknowledged my presence. Once I even called her name. She didn’t even turn around, just drilled a small hole in my newly polished floor with a stream of Red Man and got on the elevator. But that was a small consolation too I guess, I wouldn’t ever have to hear that voice again.

Yeah they’ve written me off. But I know that out there somewhere he’s still at large, working his evil in the world. And sometime, maybe soon, maybe later, but sometime, I’ll cross paths once again with the Shepherd of Satsop.

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