Insert Chassis Albuquerque: Swinger CIA.

4 January 2017

Swinger CIA.

There was a bus.
It exploded.
Terrorist in nature, not foreign, religious or political, terrorist, home-grown - organic. Though we knew little about their motivation there was this note: NEXT TIME THE BUS WON'T BE EMPTY.
I made a rapid assessment (a `rapid' assessment's a lot like a slow assessment only it's a lot quicker). Clearly it was a threat but there were threats that arrived daily via phone, email, letter, once even a singing telegram (a very dapper, but ostentatious terrorist called Baby Lotion).
Often there were no names and in most cases no real indication or sense of what the problem was or may have been, the kind of blunt, pointless threat that left a lot of the "correspondence" to be junked; they couldn't be resolved because there was nothing to be gained from following up the very few circumstantial leads.
Statistically most are a hoax anyway, a very low percentage of actual threats are preceded by any kind of warning, a percentage in single digit numbers, a positively reinforcing statistic.
It’s the ones that left names that were of concern, the people with genuine, sensible retribution in mind, bold men and women willing to claim ownership and put name to a cause and retaliate.
This one was signed: Pis'd Off!
The head of the CIA emailed: "Johnson, how's this looking? You got anything for us?"
Well, unexpectedly I'd a mild form of orally Sexually Transmitted Disease, courtesy of my wife. Anyhow, using a pretty sophisticated system of levers and pulleys I'd profiled the bomber/terrorist as a disgruntled transport customer.
The CIA head emailed back: "Very disgruntled - age, height, predilections? Jesus Johnson, this is a very fluid situation we have here, what the fuck are you doing there!"
"I've more information, a heretic," I emailed back.
"Focus, Johnson!" he emailed back, because he knew psychologically I'd a propensity for distraction, as evidenced by my reply: "Of course...! You know, my wife's so lazy she gave me a blowjob but got somebody else to do it?"
"What the fuck, Johnson! Any other guy would’ve been thrilled! But you, goddamn, you piece of shit, you don’t appreciate anything I do, you never have!" she'd said.
I emailed that across to him. He replied, "This is highly, highly unprofessional, consider this your first official warning, Johnson!"
Immediately I replied: "Which brings me to my next question: Why won't your wife have sex with me? I mean, you're having sex with mine!"
These were very sophisticated allegations I was making, there could be any reason his wife wouldn't sleep with me, couldn’t there? Does there have to be a reason? I mean, who knows, she's a woman isn't she? Hell, they don't even know, right? Maybe his wife was tired, maybe she'd had a hard day? It may be she just doesn't like me. Or, maybe I smell? I hadn't thought of that, do I smell?
Immediately the Director went off-grid, all "back-channel" communiqu├ęs - very spy-like he had me rendezvous with him at a CIA black-ops drop-point. Maybe he was going to kill me - I didn't have a gun or any CIA authorised weapon so I took a stapler, and the punch from my CIA-issued stationary box.
"I should warn you so you don't get any ideas, I'm armed...!" I told him, patting the side of my coat.
"Jesus Johnson!" he said. "Look, let's just talk this business through...?"
To be fair to him he was very embarrassed about the whole affair, explaining they'd met the way people usually do, on one of those online social dating sites specifically targeting people in committed, monogamous relationships but still wanting to fuck around on their wife or husband and kids.
"The Internet?" I said.
"The internet," he said.
"No, I mean The Internet - you spelling it with capitals? The internet, the Internet, it's so confusing..."
"It is," he agreed but I could tell he was a little unsure, especially when I fingered the stapler in my coat pocket, momentarily he'd seemed alarmed. Thinking it through I said, "Look, it would make a really big difference if I can just sleep with your wife - she's a Chinese, isn't she?" I insisted.
"What's that to do with anything?"
"I've always had a thing for Asian women, you know, the pretty smiles, the jet black hair - my wife's from Jersey. My wife must've mentioned it?"
"Actually, she has, a few times, not that she's from Jersey but that you're an Asian-fetishist."
"Can't you make it happen, an exchange of sorts...?"
"No. But that's a good idea, thinking about it I think she might even be into it, you know, a threesome! I'll let you know if I've any luck with it."
"My wife will probably tell me if you guys do, or show me photos or video," I said dismally.
"That's true actually, your wife's real wild - so, maybe we should get back to this bus bomber business, any ideas...?"
"I have a name - Motorola Cooper."
"The TV reality star?" the Director said, incredulous.
"The one and only," I said.
"Evidence?"
" Mountains, sir, some of it true. He sent the note on personalised stationary, we have footage of him rigging the bus, he's being on air making military statements."
"Jesus! Reality stars!"
"I wouldn't know, I didn't vote for him."
"A little fame and they really think they can get away with anything!"
"It's the attitude, sir," I agreed.
The Director looked at me. "Great work, Johnson, great work - now let's go see how we can go about fucking it all up for this Motorola Cooper character - what you say?"
"I have to get back to the office," I said trying to sound very enthusiastic but I couldn’t quite pull it off and had instead considered taking liberties and made jokes you may already be familiar with and said: "Well, enjoy fucking my wife..."
"America thanks you, and don't worry, my wife and I will enjoy fucking your wife - she's wild!" the Director said.