I have been sunk in a pit of broken IM and work related strife for the last couple days. When I did get the damn thing to function properly, I managed to chat a bit with Brian and Jin. Now I read about lime green loads and three day benders and feel as though I missed one hell of a time. But I think the skies above goonville are clearing. The communication channels between myself and the upper admin around here, which were seemingly severed on monday, have since been restored. More so, they've been used, as it seems that I am indeed a useful member of the staff. Hehehe Matt... I said member of the staff.... yeah. But before you trick yourseld into believing that I have been restored to the good graces of my superiors, you should know who has been selected to be the acting chief on the 5th of July.

Thats right. Me. Kind of like them saying "yes, you have to eat this dirt, but your portion is less grimy." Oh well, at least I still have a job.

You ever get the feeling that your bosses are discussing your continued employment in hushed voices? I've been getting that feeling a lot lately. I hope that Dusty and John's cross nation adventure goes well. The rest of the story is on the way. Time for me to salvage my livelihood.

Writing a good story is kind of like raising a child. You have to provide it with the best ingredients, plenty of love, and then allow it to develop on its own. Under supervision, of course. But somewhere around page 15, my "child" decided that dad was a fucking moron. Before I knew it, I had consistency issues, timeline problems, fuzzy characters... and all the while my "child" and I were having some creative differences over what scenes should be included. One in particular I dropped 5 or 6 times, only to have it reappear during every rewrite. I cant wait till this little bastard graduates from story high school and goes off to college.

Long story short- the final sections I had promised Dusty wont be available until next week. I'm sorry. I guess you'll just have to read and re-read the sections you have now, D.

It's "Who's New to Screw at AU" Day. Err... I mean.... its Freshman Day. As a university official, I have lots of things to do.... err.... accomplish. Then its off to Michigan for the weekend. Have a nice saturday and sunday all.

Only moderately narcissistic? That simply wont do. I'll have to work on that.

As for part 6 of the yet un named story- dont worry kiddies. It's on it's way. I had to rework a section that I thought the "personal experience" dial might have been turned up to high during. But I promised Dusty that the full text would be available for her to print out and read on the train.

I watched Max wave to me from the window as I started the car. It had been so long since I’d seen my own father that every time I left Max, I always imagined it was my dad standing in the doorway. My dad had come with me on a carry once when I was still working for State. I had some vacation time, and my mom was visiting my sister in California, so the old man came along with me to South Africa. We spent three days climbing around in the Drakensburg Range, trying to find all the places that had given Tolkien his inspiration. When I was younger, he and I took adventures like that all the time. Our adventures didn’t usually take us as far from home as South Africa, but they were always unique. I miss those times.

After Moscow, my family was told that while transporting sensitive documents between Baku, Azerbaijan and Tbilisi, Georgia, my helicopter had been shot down. They were kind enough to say that final radio transmissions recorded that I had successfully destroyed the documents, and had even tried to bolster the confidence of the other people on the aircraft. Naturally, the disputed mountainous area we had flown over left little hope of recovering any remains, and an empty flag- draped casket was buried at our family plot along the Pierre Marquette River outside of Custer, MI. My family was compensated for their loss with enough money to pay off the house, settle everyone’s student loans, and provide my future nieces and nephews with a college fund of their own. It even made the front page of the local newspaper. A memorial service was held at the church we went to on Christmas and Easter, and high school teachers and friends showed up to express their condolences. She and her family were there. Hell, that’s how I found out about all this stuff- her father "briefed" me on my own demise during the second evolution of my training.

He told me that my Mom was strangely at peace during the entire ordeal. In the eulogy, she said she knew I was in a better place and doing God’s work. God’s work? Now that’s funny. You have to understand that the career that I fell into is not unfamiliar to my Mom’s side of the family. My grandfather, though he never spoke about it, was recruited by William Stephenson and Wild Bill Donovan during World War 2 to serve in the newly formed OSS. Every Christmas, while we opened presents at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, we would receive several 5 minute phone calls from various cousins around the world. No specifics, no embellishment, just seasons greetings sent through a maze of clicks and foreign ears. At last count, I think the total stood at 9 aunts, uncles, and cousins on permanent tour of duty for Uncle Sam. Oh, and 1 KIA. So when my Mom said "God’s work", and seemed to be calm, I’ve always believed that she either believes or is choosing to believe that I’m just a phone call at Christmas that never quite connects to the satellite.

All these thoughts raced in my head as I drove through the rain. I had to focus. Dwelling on the past is inefficient. Finding my cell phone in the center console, I got back on track.

"Gegenterrorismus, Stadler."

"Sie klingen erotisch auf dem Telefon."

"I said I wasn’t helping you anymore, Jack… you don’t deserve it." The woman said, switching seamlessly from Bavarian German to English, complete with a horribly sexy accent.

"It’s very important, Elise. Do you still have access to the NCIC database?" I said as I pulled the car to the curb in a residential area. Gathering my belongings into my attache, I stepped out of the car into the cool morning air.

"Of course, where do you think most of our criminals come from?"

"Can you run the alias ‘Fritzy’ through NCIC and your records. Reference it against Caucasian males in the New York area with any priors, especially felony kidnapping. Check the hotlist, too. Call me at this number when you get something?" I could see Elise’s face contorting into annoyed anger as I tossed the crime scene grenade into the car and closed the door.

"I don’t have time for the Mickey Mouse, Jack. You know this is a needle in a haystack."

"I’m up to my ears in haystacks these days." Holding the phone with my shoulder, I quickly picked the door of the car I had parked behind and sat down.

"You never seemed to complain before…"

"Nur mit Ihnen, Schön…" My german was horrid, and I heard her giggle. Finding the wires I needed, the car awoke with a quiet purr. Memories of haylofts and Elise Stadler were still pumping adrenaline through my veins as I ended the call and pulled off. In my rearview mirror, I saw the small flash of the grenade going off, sending trace evidence and ammonia to every tiny niche of my car, leaving behind only a tiny percussion device that looks like a screw cap for a plastic two liter bottle. The rain seemed to hang in the sky as I began to retrace my route from a few hours earlier. By now, someone would have tried to make contact with the three corpses I left in that apartment. I had decided it was time to see who came to find out why they weren’t answering the phone.

**********************************

Tune in next week for more. Time to go to the bar, help Muda move, and relax on the beach.... not neccessarily in that order.

About two days before I left for Canada, we responded to a call from an RA saying that one of her residents had locked himself in his room and was threatening to kill himself. Not a funny situation. We responded to the floor, and were directed to his room to find the door closed. After identifying ourselves several times, and stating our intentions to key into the room, we opened the door to find the room abandoned and the window open with no screen. Immediately, the worst thoughts went through our heads. In the time that I've been at this job, I've seen plenty of nasty stuff, but nothing is so tragic as a student taking his or her life. Thankfully, I've never had to respond to a body, and I hope I never have to. On this occassion, we found ourselves faced with having to peer out the window and look for just that. Luckily, we saw nothing outside, and the mood lightened. But now we were faced with finding someone who had seemingly disappeared from their room. So we started looking around, and happened to open the closet door. There we found a naked man, curled up in the fetal position, babbling incoherently about his girlfriend. It was both sad and very frightening.

So thats the sad part of the story. Now comes the neccessary disconnection from the event and the analysis, which is downright funny as hell.

We have 'jackets' on both this dude and his brother. Both driven to apparent insanity because of women. I could relate. So when we caught this dude, it was the recommendation of my office that we get this kid some professional help. I further suggested that we get his brother help, too, because I could forsee him snapping one day. It was decided that the brother was ok, and only the recent attempted suicide section of the family would be offered help.

Well guess who we found today, wandering down the middle of a rainy Nebraska Ave praying at the top of his lungs and shaking like he was possessed? Thats right, contestant number 2 from "Name That Loonie". The one that they said didnt need any help. Vindication is sweet... so sweet....

We now return you to the continuing adventures of Jack Thompson, International Shitbag.

That was the favor I took in exchange for my soul. The favor her father had given me. So he wasn’t all together innocent in my destruction either. But this had only small bearing on his concern for his daughter. He knelt down beside his wife and smiled at his little girl, who was locked in an embrace with her mother.

"Hi honey…" he said, smoothing her hair with his hand. "How do you feel?"

"Where am I? How did I get here?" she asked, regaining some of sharpness in her eyes that I had always loved. Could it be that she didn’t remember how she got there? Abernathy looked relieved to discover that fact, and walked over to the couch from his perch in the doorway.

"You’re at the rectory at St. Vincent’s. I found you on the steps last night. This note was in your coat pocket. I called it hoping to find someone who knew you, and sure enough your parents answered." Max had developed quite the knack for concealing the full truth after so many years as an asset. I once asked him how he justified helping people like me, when in doing so he had to betray the teachings of the church. I remember clearly that he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Jack, son, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Sometimes we have to focus on the greater good." Monsignor Abernathy had a very Machiavellian approach to Catholicism.

"What a wonderful coincidence." Dad said, focusing his gaze on the old man beaming behind them. "We should call Detective Phillips. Tell him we found her."

"Oh, I already took the liberty of calling 911. They should be here shortly. I hope this was the right thing to do." Max said, sounding genuinely naïve and proud of his forethought.

"Thank you, Father… You seem to know exactly what to do." Dad said, growing more and more weary of the clergyman’s façade, which he was almost certain had been rehearsed and played out more than once.

"Did they hurt you, baby?" Mom said, having assured herself that the tattered vision in her arms was indeed her daughter. "Did those bastards touch you?"

"Mom, please. Not now… I’m fine."

"Ok. I’m just so glad to see you." She pulled her close again, the tears flowing once more. "Look at your tattered coat… don’t worry, we’ll get you another one."

"Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s old…" she said, looking down at my jacket that was wrapped around her. Things were still pretty fuzzy, but she knew without a doubt that it wasn’t hers. It certainly wasn't her style, and she searched her memory for where she might have come in to possession of the green canvas barn jacket, but was drawing blanks. "You said I had this coat on when you found me, Father?"

Think fast, Max. "Yes, dear. That’s where I found the phone number for your parents. I hope you don’t mind me searching through the pockets."

"What? Its not yours? Take it off, you can have mine." Dad asked her, suddenly refocused on the task at hand.

"No, you keep your coat. No one is using this one." She said, looking off into space, desperately trying to sort through a jumble of emotions and events in her head. It was about that time that the police showed up, Detective Phillips in the lead, and a procession of emergency personnel behind him. Pushing through the front door without so much as a good morning to Abernathy, he stood dumfounded at the sight of the girl on the couch. As the EMT’s swarmed around her to make sure she was alright, Dad walked over to Phillips and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, facing the opposite direction.

"Close your mouth, David. You look like a bluegill."

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Phillips replied under his breath.

"What does it look like, you moron. She’s recovering. No thanks to you." Dad said, turning to face the younger man. Phillips was about 37 going on 12. I’d had the misfortune of running in to him a year earlier while trailing a German businessman suspected of serving as a middle- man for an Israeli/Chinese arms deal. They, the police, were interested in our businessman after his name came up while interrogating a known drug trafficker. Dave Phillips, however, had been asked to ensure that there were no loose ends after my end of the mission was complete. He was surprisingly adept at this task, given that he’s a fucking idiot. Not that I left a lot of ends to be tied up, but he was always thorough in his work. The rest of the time, however, he was completely devoid of tact and social skill. I’m still waiting with baited breath for the day I’m asked to rid the world of Dave Phillips.

"But I thought it was too soon. What the hell happened?" Dave said, shifting in his wet trench coat.

"Don’t panic, Phillips. You need to find out why someone had the number to my phone at the hotel. The rest I can handle." Dad said, turning back to his family. They were all standing, proceeding to the waiting police cars that would transport them all down to the precinct for questions and cookies compliments of the state. The rain from the evening before had turned the morning damp and gray, and the wind from the north was unforgiving on clothing that was already soaked. She smiled and hugged Max before she left, thanking him for his efforts.

"You’re welcome, sweetie. God bless you always." It was that word, "sweetie", that stuck with her. A flood of thoughts came back to her, none of which made any sense. Why was that so familiar? Her head was starting to ache as the officers ushered her into a waiting car. The chill from the weather made the hair on her arms stand on end, and she pulled up the jacket around her to fend off the cold. Breathing deeply, she tried to relax her mind, hoping that would trigger her memory. But just as soon as she was allowing one clue to process, another hit her squarely in the face, or more accurately, squarely in the nose.

"Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get you cleaned up soon." Her mom said, brushing her hair behind her ear and out of her face. "Are you sure you don’t want Daddy’s coat?"

"No, I want this one."

******************

"Where is she?" the woman cried, placing her hand over her mouth and the other on the old priest’s shoulder. The ordeal had left her exhausted, and the old man had to help her as he had me to the couch where her daughter was just waking. Collapsing to her knees, the older woman held her baby closely. Not so much a baby anymore, not by a long shot, but you know how parents are. You’re always somebody’s baby: even when you do what I do for a living. I rather like that rule.
Closely behind was her Dad, who was equally emotional in his own unique way. It’s not that he wasn’t concerned, very much on the contrary. But like the old adage says, "It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks." You would react in the same way, had you been conditioned to do so. The kinds of things that someone can get you to do, instinctually, after drilling it into your head are amazing. Her Dad was the prime example of this. I sometimes think that my falling in love with his daughter was simply too coincidental. As if the black ops community had decided to try their hand at arranged marriage. But why in the world would he want his little girl to have to live through the kind of things that his wife had to? Maybe that’s why he was both upset and relieved when we broke up. I know I would have been, if I were in his shoes. Of course, at the time I couldn’t have thought of anything more devastating than losing her.

We all like to aggrandize events of the heart in hindsight. The highs seem all the higher, and the lows so much more traumatic than they really were. But I’ve spent many a strange night in a set of even stranger locations contemplating the events that shaped my life, and that single moment when I saw her slip away ranks high on the list. Before that day, I had my life planned out almost to the day. I would finish college, get commissioned, engaged, and assigned. Over the next two years, while she finished school, I’d get a good percentage of my overseas posting out of the way, and by the time she graduated, I could get assigned state side. Marriage, kids, captain’s bars… it was all in the plan. And the kicker was that she approved of all this before I even mentioned it. But when you’re a thousand miles away from each other, that master plan becomes a dream that is fueled by every heartache. And that dream solidifies, and the plan takes on a life of its own, independent of the individuals involved, and unalterable. So when it’s altered, and there is no longer two people involved in the equation, the whole thing goes to shit.

And so did I. Over the next number of years, which I like to refer to as my "self destructive downward spiral", my life changed completely. I finished school, albeit reluctantly. I eliminated the military from the plan completely, opting instead to work as a courier for the State Department. They would give me a diplomatic pouch, or a shipment of computer equipment, or boxes of American trinkets to be sold at the embassies over seas, and I would escort them to their desination. I turned to the three most powerful drugs I could take and still keep my job; alcohol, nicotine, and women. But nothing seemed to fill the great empty void she had left.

Then one night I woke up at 4 in the morning and had what you might call a vision. As the subtle blue hues of earliest morning sunlight crept in to the dingy Moscow hotel room through the tapestry style drapes, I saw spread around me a scene so pitiful it made me sick. Empty bottles were strewn haphazardly around the trash- covered floor along with articles of clothing and cigarette butts. My head was fuzzy and pounding, my mouth and throat felt like I had swallowed a towel, and through the increasing tunnel vision, I could make out the forms of two women lying next to me. They were attractive, as a fresh coat of paint is attractive on an old Ford. But without that flashy exterior, they were run down. Lines stretched across their skin, and you could hear the early stages of emphysema in their labored breath.

Before you ask, no, they weren’t prostitutes. Some Russian women will sleep with any American, provided you have the means to get them the hell out of Russia. We always talk about how great the rise of the intelligentsia in Soviet Russia was, given that it planted the seeds for democracy and ushered in Glasnost and Perestroika. What you don’t learn until you’ve spent some time in Russia is that the intelligentsia has been there since before Alexander II. Who do you think started printing little red books in the first place? All that the intelligentsia really did is siphon off the majority of gorgeous, well- bred, Russian debutantes, and turn them into frumpy college educated factory workers and revolutionaries. And I can tell you from experience that fucking either of the latter feels more like work than play.

I still hadn’t moved, and was starting to wonder if I ever would. I closed my eyes to fight off the nausea for what seemed like only seconds, but was woken once again, only this time to find the women had broken open the locked diplomatic pouch I had under the desk. I wasn’t supposed to arrive until early that morning, but I had taken an earlier flight the night before and not checked in through the proper channels. Even through the hangover, I knew I was fucked. So I stood up, grabbed the Makarov pistol I had traded a carton of Marlboro's for from a guy on the street, and demanded to know what the hell they thought they were doing. The next few seconds were a blur to me for years. It was only after Rome that I could remember with any certainty what had happened. Seeing the gun, the woman who had been rooting through the case turned and headed for the door. The other woman, who had been standing at her side, leapt at me. Maybe it was the half naked woman flying through the air toward me, or maybe it was simply something I had wanted to do for a long time, but for one reason or another I pulled the trigger. The first round landed squarely between the shoulders of the woman headed toward the door. The sound was enough to snap me temporarily out of the alcoholic haze just as the second woman collided with me. We struggled for a short time on the floor, her hands digging at my face and throat while she kneed me in the groin over and over again. It was strangely surreal, this fight that I was in, and I could see myself from above. Then, out of nowhere, I found the gumption to fight back. Grabbing a fist full of her hair in one hand, I yanked until she rolled off of me. Then I brought my other hand around to strike her and realized the pistol was still there. I think I hit her in the left shoulder, if I remember correctly, because she grabbed her left arm with her right. I managed to pull the pistol back across my chest just as she rolled at me again. But this time, a single bullet stopped her before she managed to get my eyes out of the sockets.

I stayed there on the floor for only a short time, listening to my heart beat out of my chest. I had just done the worst possible thing in the worst possible place to do it, and I had nowhere to go. I just sat there, waiting for the police to show up and cart me off to Lubyanka for "debriefing". Luckily for me, or maybe not, the first people to show up were embassy personnel who had been tracking me since I landed. I think they call them attaches, which is the polite diplomatic term for a goon from one of our various alphabet soup agencies. They had been following me since I arrived in Moscow without checking in properly. Believing that I may be a profiteer and traitor, they were waiting to see what I would do with the pouch entrusted to me before sending me to our version of "special prison". When they heard the gunshots, they came running. Entering the room, they saw what I had done. More importantly, they recognized the women I had killed as people blacklisted as potential security threats. That’s when things got a little odd. They wiped the gun clean of my prints, and placed it in the hand of the second woman killed. The skin residue from under her fingers was cleaned, as was that of the first woman. The two men then removed small baggies filled with random hair samples, dead skin, glass, blood, and semen, and began spreading them all over the room. Like tossing a million different clues into the crime scene, any evidence linking to me suddenly became only a minute segment of the case load. I was cleaned up, given new clothes, and walked downstairs. Once in the lobby, one of the men passed a package to the desk clerk, bid him good day, and we got into a silver sedan that was parked out front. The police reports indicated a murder/suicide between two prostitutes, complete with eyewitness reports of the two women entering the hotel with a large group of men.

That was the favor that was done for me in exchange for my soul. The favor her father had given me.

She looked good for her condition. I didn’t know how long they had had her cuffed in that disgusting bathroom, but even one second was too long. Just thinking about what she must have been through made the blood run cold in my veins. All I wanted to do was drive her as far away as possible. Maybe take her home, all the way to Colorado. But her family was no doubt in town looking for her, and I had more work to do before I was certain that this was over. The police had proven inept once again, reporting that they couldn’t find her. What took me two hours of elbow grease had proven impossible for them after almost two weeks of looking, and something about that didn’t settle well with me. This whole thing was becoming all too stereotypical- the bungling cops, the seedy hideout, someone handcuffed to a radiator. Nothing ever happened like you see on TV. No modern criminal put half the amount of effort into crime as their fictional counterparts. And following my role, I decided that I had to find out what this was all about. But unlike the renegade detective in the movies, these people would not be carted off to the loony bin with one final "I’ll get you, Batman". They would be rather more silent, I think. Irregardless, I couldn’t take her to the police directly until I knew what color jerseys everyone had on. St. Vincent’s would have to do.
Monsignor Abernathy, the rector there, had been my confessor in Rome a few years earlier. I believe I shocked him so badly at one of those confessions that he made it his personal mission to save my soul. I think we had been making progress, but I suppose that remains to be seen. When I heard he was back in the states, I had promised myself I would drop in to visit. I doubt he or I had this particular situation in our minds when that promise was made. This was weighing heavily on my mind as we pulled up to the rectory behind the church. I could see that a light was on in the living room, and upon seeing the approaching headlights in the drive way, I saw him stand. By the time we reached the door, he had already opened it, and was ushering me in. He guided me to the couch and helped me set her down before he turned.

"What in the world is this, then? What’s happened to her? And who are you?" He inquired in his unique high pitched voice. Brushing the hair back from my face, I looked square into the old mans eyes, and saw my reflection in his glasses.

"Is it too late for a confession, father?"

"Oh, Jack… dear lord, son." He said, grasping my hand and arm in greeting. "I said to stop by anytime, and sure enough you did. Now what is this all about, Jack?"

"She was kidnapped, and now she’s not. You shouldn’t know any more than that. Can you do me a favor?" I asked while scanning the street out the window for the impending retribution that I was sure would be forthcoming.

"Of course, but who is this?" the old man said, running his hand over her forehead, brushing the tousled pink hair from her eyes.

"She’s the one, Max…" I replied, pulling my coat up around her. "In the pocket of the jacket is a piece of paper with a telephone number on it. Call this number in two hours. It’s the hotel room where her parents are staying. Then call the 911 operator and tell them that a girl was dropped off at the church last night. Make sure you call 911, not directly to the precinct. We need this recorded. And you can’t tell them I was here, Max."

"Oh, I know the drill. Where are you off to?" he asked, knowing full well I couldn’t tell him.

"This isn’t over quite yet, father. I’ll save my story for the confessional." Shaking his hand, I headed for the door.

Over the last few weeks, since I returned from Canada, I have had a recurring scene running through my head. I decided that perhaps the best way to get it out of there was to write it down. So what follows is the first little bit of the story that has grown from that scene:

The building was dark as I approached in my car. The streets, like those in every other city story, were strewn with debris and vacant of any people, save the occasional bum. It was just as anyone would have expected it to be; desolate, trashy, and dangerous. Why the hell would they choose a place like this? It would be the very first place I’d look. But then again, there are so many blocks like this that one single run down tenement is like a needle in a stack of needles. But this needle was different from the rest. This is the one that I was looking for.

It was raining pretty steady by that point, I recall. I can’t place the exact time, but the DJ’s were switching to low voices and love songs, so I’d have to guess it was around 9 when I finally got out of the car. Crossing the street quickly, I hugged the side of the building closely until I reached the stoop. In a few short strides, I was at the door and peering in through the dirty window. A hallway extended from the door to the back of the building, where there looked to be another door that had long since been nailed shut. In a similar fashion, the fire escapes on the north side of the building where I had parked my car didn’t seem to have any ladders. I had to assume the same was true for the rest of the building, given the limited amount of intel I had. It seemed there was one way in, and one way out. Slowly, I pushed on the latch and the door swung open wide enough for me to slip through.

Everything seemed dark on the first level, and the rooms looked empty. Flooding from the rain had cracked the walls and the ceiling, and was coming down in steady streams at some points. I knew the only lights I saw were coming from the third floor, so I spent very little time on the ground level before climbing the stairs. The whole place stank of urine and mold, which I found strangely comforting. I suppose, in retrospect, I like shit holes like that because I know that no matter what I do, I’m still the cleanest thing in the building. I’ve never claimed to be normal. The stairs creaked, but that was easily overcome by careful foot placement. Reaching the landing on the second floor, I felt a very slight ache in my stomach. Not the kind of feeling you get when you’re not feeling well, but the kind of feeling you get when you just know what’s going to happen. It was my little biomechanical alarm that told me when she was close, and it had never been wrong. My pace quickened.

In a matter of seconds I had reached the third floor, and was carefully peering around the corner and looking in both directions. The stretch of hallway reaching toward the front of the building seemed unnecessarily dark, even for this place. Moving slowly in that direction, I noticed the light bulbs had been removed, and bits of them had been spread around on the floor. If I wasn’t in such a foul mood at the time, I may have laughed at this Hollywood attempt at an intruder alarm. Stopping at the second to last door on the left, I listened to three voices in hushed conversation. The door was closed, so I had to drop down to look under the door. One shaded lamp illuminated the entire room, and it was sitting on what looked to be a folding card table. Three sets of shoes and legs, two seated, were the source of the voices no doubt. Only one other door was visible to me from the hallway, and that door was closed and the lights were off in the room beyond it.

I waited there, peering under the crack in the door for what seemed like ages. Then, the standing man walked back to the closed door behind him. Opening it, he turned on the lights, and I found what I was looking for. A fourth set of legs and bare feet, her feet. Standing, I drew my pistol from its holster and kicked the door in. The look of surprise on the faces of the two men seated at the table was quickly replaced with fear. I fired two rounds, one in to each head that I could see, and then moved quickly across the room toward the third man. When I reached him, I realized it was a bathroom he was in, and he still had his dick in his hand when I brought the butt of the pistol down on his forehead, sending him sprawling backward into the filthy tub. She let out a shriek as I jumped on him, bashing him in the face again. I reached behind his now bloody head and pulled him closer to the barrel.

"I want a name, and you know what I’m fucking talking about!" I shouted, pressing the pistol deep into his left eye.

"Fritzy… Fritzy set this up." He cried to me, the blood filling his mouth from the head wounds. Tossing him back into the tub, I put two shots into his chest, and turned around. She was curled up in a ball, handcuffed to the radiator. A quick search of the body in the tub produced the key, and I unlocked the restraints that bound her to this place. When I approached, she cowered and cried out again, and made my stomach twist into a knot that quickly rose in my throat.

"Sweetie, it’s me. Shh, shh…. It’s me." I said, pulling her newly freed hands from her face and holding the sides of her head. As her eyes met mine, I saw the recognition in them just before she passed out. I quickly wrapped her in my coat, picked her up, and moved toward the exit. When we reached my car, the lights in the surrounding buildings were coming on in groups and I could see heads carefully cresting window sills to see what the commotion was. I set her gently into the passenger seat, and drove off as the rain intensified.

"Dear Mr. Calkins,

Thank you for your interest in employment with the FBI. Please be assured that your application has been received and your qualifications will be reviewed by the proper personnel. If your qualifications are deemed most competitive, you will be contacted by a representative of the FBI for additional information required for completion of the selection process. Should you have any questions, you may contact ******** at 202-***-****.

Very truly yours,
*************
Assistant Director Administrative Services Division, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

So, its a form letter. And I dont meet all of the qualifications yet. But I have from a fairly reliable source that their hiring folks left and right. It may be a long shot, but a round of w00ts is still in order I think.

Pete and I decided we needed to get the hell out of the city for a while, so we decided to take a little road trip yesterday. Setting out northbound at around 10:30 AM, we wound up on 270 headed toward Frederick, MD. The weather was perfect, the tunes were flowing, and the relaxation started immediately. About midway between Buckeystown and Frederick, we decided it might be nice to check out the battlefield at Antietam. It's kind of a tradition for my friends and I to tour old battlefields. We stand at the wooden battlements and artillery high ground like armchair generals, expousing how we would have done it differently, and usually agreeing that we probably would have fucked it up just as bad as the old timers did. I think that some people find themselves more attuned to the past when treading in the footsteps of their elders. I think we do it to provide a self administered slap of reality about the horrors of war. Regardless, its both an envigorating and humbling experience.

But we got a little turned around while trying to find a place to eat in Frederick, and wound up heading southwest into Virginia. There is no turning around, though. Thats the first rule of any good adventure. So we followed the road as it wound through farm communities and into the Appalachians. Before the CD had ended, we were 6 miles outside of Harper's Ferry, WV, and smack dab in coal country. Harper's Ferry, Antietam.... same same. Let's not quibble about our Civil War historical sites. Crossing over the Shenandoah, we proceeded down the narrow streets until they turned into cobblestone. If you havent ever been to this part of the country, I would recommend you at least stop for a visit. These tiny little towns are built on the sides of iron rich mountains, and seem to have streets stacked on streets because of the vastly changing elevations. Harper's Ferry is no different. We were just looking for a couple plaques or a stone marker or something, and ended up finding a place called the Armory Pub. Hell, it was after 12 by then, so we figured why not try the local ale, have a sandwich, and check out the flora and fauna of mountain country? Finding no reason why not, we sat down and ordered. However, WV law prohibits the sale of alcohol before 1pm, so we had about a half an hour to kill. I suppose we had no choice but to make some innocent chit chat with the waitresses. I would have prefered making babies, or at least practicing, but we had just met these girls, so my choice would have been a bit premature. The timing of the action that is... not the action itself. At least I dont think so.

Anyhow.

We had a beer, some food, got some small talk and smiles, tipped them well, and were on our way. We did eventually get to Antietam, went on the tour, did our analysis bit, and completed the mission. All around, it was a good scouting mission for future date locations. Should the need ever arise. What? It could happen.... shouldnt I be prepared? ;)

1. My little sister just packed up and moved to california with her Coast Guard boyfriend, and my mom is just slightly freaking out.
2. My dad still hasn't heard anything about the status of his job, specifically, wether or not he'll have one when the generals at Compaq and HP get done "sorting things out".
3. One of my very best friends, whom I was the best man in his wedding, was recently diagnosed with testicular cancer. Then his wife left him. Nobody has been able to get a hold of him for about a week.
4. My childhood retreat in the mountains, along with another 29K plus acres throughout the state, is burning out of control. The national park service has asked for volunteers to help save as much as possible.
5. Another good friend of mine called on saturday to ask "how much do you think a nice engagement ring costs?"

And yet I'm here in the swamp, swimming in from the car to herd idiots for 9 hours. Aint that about a bitch?

It's only 10 past 8. The office has only been open for ten minutes. And yet, I've already had it out with one employee and two "customers". And I'm not even supposed to be dealing with complaints anymore. We recently hired a fresh complaint recepticle... er... desk supervisor. All that fun has been transfered to her. And yet, here I sit.

0730: I'm driving in to campus past the McDonalds and see one of our buses, empty, idling on the side of the road in a no parking zone. So I pull over and wait, and within seconds, the driver comes strolling up with his mouth full of McMuffin. I stare him down until he notices me, and when he does I simply raise my arms as if to say, "what the fuck, dude?" Knowing he's nabbed, he tucks his tail between his legs and crawls back on the bus. I follow them both back in my car, park, and he meets me in the office. "What was that all about?" I say. "I was hungry." he replies. "Yes, but you arent supposed to take unauthorized breaks. You arent supposed to park the bus anywhere but at one of the stops. You arent ever supposed to leave the bus unattended, especially when its running." The managerial response flowed like honey, but I was more baiting him to continue to dig himself deeper into trouble. And he did. "Yeah Nick, but what are we supposed to do for breakfast? Are you saying we have to drive on an empty stomach?" I think somewhere in his brain, the team of monkeys decided that by accusing me of being too harsh, and insinuating that I make them do their jobs without a daily allotment of gruel, my "Human Resources Discrimination" radar would sound and I would cave. Amatuers. "No, you should eat at home before you come to work. Like I do." I lied. I dont eat breakfast. But he didnt need to know that. I wonder if he tells his kids, "no, dont worry about eating now. If you get hungry during class, just get up and leave... I'm sure no one will mind." Mental giants, my friends.... mental giants.

0745: I've just finished up with McMuffin man, when one of the ladies on the cleaning staff comes down the ramp, hands me a ticket, and then smiles a big toothy gold grin at me. I wait for a couple seconds... ok, maybe 10 or 15, just staring at her, returning the smile. Neither one of us says anything. I was starting to think that perhaps she had written, "Lets Have a Staring Contest" on the ticket, when she suddenly began to make noise. I would call it talking, but it really wasnt. It was more incoherent mumbling with the occassional giggle. Was my fly down? Did I have a booger on my face? Or was I just being a schmuck and making her vocalize something along the lines of "Is there any way this ticket could be voided out?" Hell, I would have settled for the usual "Aye Unnico... permeet no teeket?" But she just stood there. By now she was starting to get uncomforatble, and the glare from her teeth was starting to tan my face, so I asked her what I could do for her. The conversation that followed was like negotiating with the Chinese through an interpreter that only speaks ancient aramaic. In the end, I gave her my card, and told her to talk to her ma-na-ger. Hopefully he or she can form a complete sentence.

0805: A white Audi come screaming up to the front of the building, and into a space clearly marked "University Police and Emergency Vehicles ONLY". The gentleman exits the car, and comes barreling down the ramp into my office. "Somebody gave me this ticket and I cant figure out why." "The ticket is for no parking." "But I do have a permit, they must not have seen it." "No sir, the ticket is for no parking. Like parking in a no parking zone. It's not for absence of permit." And I shit you not, the next words out of his mouth were "I never park in no parking areas, it must be a mistake." Sometimes I wonder if these little fuckers are just trying to be cute. Other times I wonder if I've been mysteriously transported to a land where idiots run rampant. Still other times I simply wonder why the fuck I'm still working as lead wrangler and the momo corral.

And by the way, I think I may have found the origin of the word "momo". It's most certainly a New Jersey thing that I picked up somehow. You know Jersey... you cant look at the state without catching something contagious. I was watching the cartoon version of "Clerks" which my roomate bought yesterday, and the phrase "He's such a mo" was used. I may have brought it to the ringers, but I cant claim credit for it.

OK, enough for now. Time to start working again.

That about describes it. I just didnt feel like getting up at 6 to come in to work this morning, and I dont foresee my mood improving all that much. Perhaps all I need is some coffee.

I've recently discovered that you should never watch a movie or TV show with someone who's occupation is the subject of the program. Yes, of course I knew this before just recently, but lessons like this need to be rehashed from time to time to keep them effective. When I was younger, I really enjoyed the movie Top Gun. That was until I watched the movie with actual aviators. Now I cant help but hear their comments in my head when I try and watch, and the movie just isnt as fun. Last night, I was watching a JAG rerun and having a grand old time until my best buddy the JAG officer in training got home and said "oh, not this fucking show. Talk about clown shoes. We make fun of this show all day at work." Dont you have some drunk driving E-4 to prosecute, Perry Mason? Dont make me have to goon you.

But we did agree, nearly simultaneously, that Catherine Bell is reason enough to watch the show, regardless of the quality of the script. If you'll permit me a brief inappropriate and sexist comment-this once again proves that theres nothing like a great rack to bring together two sides of an argument.

Ok, I feel a little better now. Time to try that coffee.

We were set to pick up the keys to the new place on Friday afternoon, sometime around 4 pm. At 1 pm, we got a phone call from the realtor telling us the deal had fallen through. Citing about 5 different excuses depending on who called, the realtor could only apologize for potentially leaving myself and my roomates homeless. As far as I can piece together without a bolted chair and a sock full of quarters, the owner became nervous about possibly having to pay for repairs on the house, including the roof, the plumbing, and a thorough asbestos scrape from the basement. This, combined with an apparent medical emergency that would force the owner to liquidate funds, she refused to sign the lease.

Three hours before we were supposed to pick up the keys. 4 days after we had signed the lease with the realtor. Without digging up anger I buried that day, suffice it to say I was rather annoyed.

So we were left with very few options. We had to be out of the old place the next day, and our only choice seemed to be renewing or resigning the lease where we were. Reluctantly, I walked down to the leasing office and pleaded for their mercy. I was consoled, given a dixie cup full of lemonade and a cookie, and asked to wait while they checked their records. About 10 minutes later I found out the following:

1. Our old place had already been rented, so we couldnt renew.
2. The cleaning crew was slated to repair the old place the next day, so we had to move out that night.
3. There was one open three bedroom apartment down the street, and to secure it we needed one $500 security deposit check, and one check for June rent and prorated last day of May rent totalling 1880 some dollars.

These were my realities:

1. My UHaul reservation was for the next day, because that was the only day we could all be there to help move out, and the leasing office had not told me when I called that this extra day was unacceptable.
2. My bank account was diminished, given that I had recently paid for a fucking house that I wouldnt be moving into.

But again, a lack of options makes choices rather easy to make. Within 3 hours, we had the new apartment keys, and were faced with moving our belongings down the street and up three flights of stairs by hand. Trust me when I tell you that when faced with this kind of task, ignore the Marine DI in your head screaming "quit your belly aching, bitch! You can move that stuff!" and pay a moving company. However much they ask. Then again, it was 4:45 pm on a Friday- we wouldnt have had much luck finding three townies with skateboards, much less a bunch of bonded professional sherpas. With this in mind, we began moving things and cleaning as we went. At 11:45 pm, we had only a few more things in the old place, but the three of us could barely move. We decided that we would call it a night, and not risk braking anything (both valuable or ourselves). The next morning, we got up early, finished the move, finished the cleaning, and were walking out the door just before noon.

And then there was much napping.

I find it ironic that the very first suggestion when the question of where to move was brought up was "how about a smaller place in King Farm where we are now?" But if I would have done that, I never would have received this wonderful ulcer, and I'm kind of getting to like him now. I think I'll call him "The Old Bitch Must Pay".

My new duties at the department started on Monday, and nothing has really changed, save the fact that my computer station doesnt seem to have any internet access beyond university sponsored pages. If you all would like, feel welcome to drop me an email at my work addy: ncalkin@american.edu. I get here a little earlier in the morning lately, so if anyone is around before 8 am or after 5 pm eastern time, you may see me on IM. No worries, this will only last until my new counterpart in the office (who used to be my assistant) complains to the boss about not having the internet at the front desk. She always gets her way, so things should be back to normal shortly. Why does she get her way, and I'm forced to eat crow you ask? Well, I'll post about that later.

It's after 8 now, so I'd best get back to gooning. More later.