[If you’re new to this story please visit Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels for the whole saga. As a quick update: The Smoking Man is major player in the cabal that spies on everyone and controls everything. He is well aware of the power of bullshit and his organization uses it for its own purposes. They’ve been seeding your mind with stupid ideas since the day you were born. If you have a deeply held idea that’s completely illogical (and you do), it was planted there for future use by the Smoking Man or others of his ilk.
The Analyst, his loyal employee (minion?), specializes in sifting through mountains of data to find points of interest for the Smoking Man. He’s been trying to track the squirrels since he detected they were capable of deploying Swedish Disco as a mind control agent.
The Smoking Man and The Analyst have a small army of Extreme Greeters. At their direction, The Greeters rappel out of black helicopters to greet the living hell out of “terrorists”. Through Doogie’s careful actions, the squirrels have far eluded detection, though it was a close call in Chapter Five: Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment]
The Analyst had to admit, it was a fine memorial. The paint was barely dry but he already liked it. The new memorial to the fallen heroes of the “battle of REDACTED” was a six foot mural. It had eagles, amber waves of grain, flags, and many visuals of guns. All of this was carefully non-specific. If you didn’t know the context you’d be forgiven for thinking a platoon of Marines had fallen while trying to liberate orphans from North Korea. Of course, the real battlefield, a convenience store in flyover country, was classified; as were the participant’s various injuries. Even so, word got around as these things do. They now had a pilot who answered to “One Ball”. Everyone also agreed that Mike’s abrupt departure after getting mauled by a bear was completely legit. Rumor had it he was now hitchhiking across Montana. Understandably given his description of the bear’s stench, he’d developed an unhealthy obsession with scented candles. Their staff shrink had warned everyone that should anyone fart in his vicinity, Mike would surely kill them. Everyone was relieved when Mike’s disability paperwork had been processed and he’d disappeared before Taco Tuesday’s refried beans came into play.
“You wanted to talk?” It was the Smoking Man.
The Analyst sighed, he’d actually seen the man coming! He worried that his boss, formerly a fearsome avatar of evil, was losing his edge. That was the topic he intended to breach.
“Yeah boss, “ The Analyst began. “Let’s get some coffee and talk somewhere private.” He led them to the break room where a veritable mountain of K-cups were stacked near an industrial coffee maker. Reaching into the pile he grabbed two cups at random and slapped them into the machine.
They waited in silence the brief interval while the dispenser filled their disposable cups. Good old fashioned Styrofoam cups! There were advantages to being evil and one of the best was drinking from sturdy thermally effective cups while the populace made do with flimsy paper.
He handed one to The Smoking Man and took a sip from his own. The Smoking Man didn’t hesitate. He took a big swig as if he weren’t even remotely paranoid. This was serious!
“What if that had polonium?” The Analysis asked, quite concerned.
“Nobody has poisoned me so far.” The Smoking Man replied, utterly unconcerned that almost anyone who knew he existed was either plotting to kill him or fleeing from his wrath.
The walked past the new mural, barely glancing at the second newest mural (a suitably redacted monument to Rodney “Wet Pant” Slovosfeld), and slipped into a side room.
“Something is wrong.” The Analyst began.
“What’s wrong? Did you finally figure out which Senators are Chinese spies?”
“Please, we knew that years ago. I’m worried about something that matters. It affects our mission effectiveness.”
“Spit it out.” The Smoking Man slumped in a chair, completely at odds with his former ramrod straight posture. Was he dying?
“It’s you.” The Analyst blurted out. He figured he had a 50/50 chance of being killed on the spot, but he said it anyway. The Analyst was deeply dedicated to the organization’s mission (whatever the hell that might be) and he genuinely liked his boss; more for his cold effective competence than some minor emotional attachment that might sway a lesser intellect. Franky, he liked working for Darth Vader. The real Darth Vader. The implacable, towering, James Earl Jones voiced, half-mechanical, force choking, death machine… his bosses’ current slumping apathetic attitude was clearly a sign of deterioration. At the moment The Smoking Man looked almost human. That would not do!
“Me? What are you talking about. I’ve got the world by the balls. You and I can do basically anything we want anytime we want. If I want a riot in Bolivia I can so order. If I want the press to call it a rainbow they’ll do it. ‘The burning embers of La Paz are a poignant reminder of the power of love, and were most certainly caused by American rednecks.’ They’ll do it. Want me to demonstrate?” The Smoking Man’s speech was fiery but his posture still sagged.
“Yeah, but are you happy?” The Analyst countered.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve wreaked havoc planet wide, in the name of America’s true (and secret) government for decades. But where’s the magic?”
“I see your point. What’s the point of clandestine skulduggery if I’ve already done it so many times that it’s routine? The world is a mess, which is my plan.” He sighed, “I’ve won too much. Perhaps I’m tired of winning.”
“That’s not right!” The Analyst complained. “You’re flat out evil and you’ve got plenty of years left in you.”
“Meh.” The Smoking Man waved at him vaguely.
“We could do something new?” The Analyst prompted.
“After a global pandemic? How do you follow up a masterpiece like that? Does the symphony revert to a kazoo for the encore?”
“Nuclear war?” The Analyst was grasping at straws.
“Forget it, “ The Smoking Man shrugged, “the timing is all wrong. I didn’t pull the trigger immediately after the first terminator movie. Now it would come off as stale and derivative.”
“Insurrection?”
“Nah, color revolutions are getting trite; name a nation where the people actually like and support their own government. Name a place where the elections are transparent and trusted. I’ve installed faceless unpopular authoritarian bureaucracies everywhere that matters and some places that don’t. The people are brainwashed idiots. They cry out to be oppressed and they’re getting what they want… good and hard. Overthrowing a ‘good’ government to install an ‘evil’ one, would require I find a good one left.” He paused. “It’s sad. I’ve hunted my prey nearly to extinction. Maybe I’ve done it all. It could be time to retire.”
“NO!” The Analyst shouted, surprising even himself. “Don’t give up!”
The two men sat in silence for a long time. Finally The Analyst broke the tension. “Did you like the video we got from that poacher? The building was barely standing. What a party!”
Everyone with sufficient security clearance had watched Chigger’s video. They’d made popcorn. Shit got crazy in flyover country, bears and Batman, what better entertainment could there be.
“Ah yes, Batman.” The Smoking Man smiled weakly. They’d let him run amok for a few days before rounding him up for re-education. In that time he’d been a one man anti-crime wave. One guy got thrown off a bridge after stealing a bicycle! Certain rural areas near the convenience store’s foundation would be crime free for generations. “He had a heck of a good time didn’t he?”
“And why not?” The Analyst countered. “We got into this business because we love it, and we believe in the mission.”
“Oppressing citizens…”
“Well I was going to say beating the hell out of terrorists but sure… whatever.” The Analyst agreed.
More silence. In the distance there was a muffled scream. The fellows in Information Retrieval were hard at work. Good for them.
The Analyst tried again. “Maybe it comes down to work life balance.”
“I have no life.”
“Well of course not, none of us do. But there’s still balance. Maybe you could get some of the magic back?”
“Hm… It is true that I’m in a rut. I just order things done. I haven’t personally planted a land mine or emotionally manipulated a patsy in ages.” A light was beginning to shine in his eyes. It was the combination of hope and a desire to be even more evil.
“That’s the spirit!” The Analyst coaxed. “Why don’t you take a few days to get back in touch with what matters. The joy of being an ultimate bad-ass! Maybe setup a redneck to take the fall and then assassinate Bill Gates and blame him for it?”
The Smoking Man’s posture was straightening. Hope is a powerful emotion.
“Not Gates, we spent a fortune on him.” The Smoking Man shrugged. “Who else is left. The world is a total mess. Who’s left to target?”
There was a soft knock at the door. A secretary entered, walked directly toward the Smoking Man as if The Analyst didn’t even exist, and handed over a printed sheet with trembling hand. Without a word, and without turning her back, she edged back toward the door, slipped out, closed it… and RAN.
The Smoking Man read the words and folded the paper carefully. He deposited it in a pocket and began to grin. It was a fabulous, evil, dangerous smile.
The Analyst waited.
“It appears the FBI has trod upon our bureaucratic territory. They have expanded their surveillance of American Citizens; which, because it is immoral, illegal, and unconstitutional…”
“That’s OUR job!” Interrupted The Analyst. He was livid. Their organization specialized in spying on law abiding citizens. It was their core competency! They happily provided the FBI whatever illegal evidence they requested. They gladly told the FBI what it wanted to hear, using either true information or fabricated as necessary. In exchange, the FBI stayed out of the ‘wiretapping all of humanity’ game. It was an uneasy truce but it worked. So long as the FBI stuck with their original mission of creating crimes which they would later ‘solve’, all was well. Now they’d intruded on bureaucratic turf where they didn’t belong. It would get men killed… more importantly it might affect budgets! The FBI’s behavior almost demanded a response; it would have to be brutal and sudden. What were they thinking?
“Shall I begin a covert operation to get every single one of them killed?” The Analyst asked. Obviously, the FBI had to be taken down a notch.
“No.” The Smoking Man smiled with the familiar perfect menace of old. “I think I’ll take your advice.”
“Um… How?” The Analyst’s powerful mind was already awash in schemes that would wreak havoc. All he needed was the word.
“I will go to their next ‘stakeout’…” They both chucked at the old fashioned term. “…and I will correct a few of them personally.”
The Analyst beamed. “Yes, back to basics!”
“Find out where their next Stingray operation will go down. I’ll be at your office in half an hour.”
With that The Smoking Man stood up tall and strong and terrible as ever. The Analyst noticed his boss was working his fingers, as if to limber up for his favorite hobby of garroting enemies. The Analyst smiled at the sight. All was well.
Half an hour later The Analyst was tapping on his keyboard when a cold, almost deathlike, hand dropped on his shoulder. He’d heard nothing; not a whisper of sound, not the hint of a shadow. It was as if the grim reaper had glided invisibly into the room. It was good to know his boss was feeling better!
“And?” The voice sounded cold and commanding; cruelty in audio form. It was like old times!
“I’m afraid the FBI has started small. Portland defunded its local cops so the FBI offered to monitor communications and pick out a few people…” He almost added ‘to frame’ but that was implied. “…it’s a hippie convention.” He finished.
“Really?” The Smoking Man sagged with depression. “Every hippie since 1968 has been more or less on our side. What’s the point of looking for criminal activities among people who can’t even hold down a job? Even if they want to cause trouble, the Boomer core can barely get off the couch. Sixty year old dipshits who used to say they’d never trust anyone over thirty. And the younger cohorts are useless…” He sniffed dismissively. “GenX is a rounding error. Millennials couldn’t handle dodge ball. The worst is GenZ. They haven’t had a thought we didn’t plant in their empty head, since they were born. They take Twitter seriously for God’s sake. What’s the point of mucking about with hippies?”
“There’s an angle.” The Analyst tried to salvage what he could. “It’s across from a comic book convention. It’ll pick up all their communications too.”
“Nerds.” Hissed the Smoking Man. “What kind? The Dangerous sort that take Heinlein seriously or the dweebs that argue about Marvel Universe?”
“Hard to say, I’m guessing most of them are lame. But there’s always a few Crimethinkers in any such group. I’m sure you can scoop whatever the FBI finds.”
The Smoking Man nodded, thanked The Analyst for his good work, and stalked off. The poor fool thought he was going to annoy the FBI by spying on some patchouli stinking hippies or by seeking out the smart fraction in a nerd herd. If he was going to regain the magic in life it needed to be a lot more fun than that!
The Smoking Man strode purposefully toward the motor pool; might as well enjoy a road trip while he was at it. It was time to get back to basics. He would relive his former hobbies. In his pocket was a swatch from J Edgar Hoover’s favorite frilly dress. He would go there and provide communication in a way that even the idiots at the FBI couldn’t miss.
He breathed deeply. He felt vitality returning; a sense of purpose. They say it feels good to be a gangster, imagine what they’d say it felt to be him!
If you like what you’ve read, please consider sending a tip to any of the venues listed below:
