Chapter 3
We were in downtown Istanbul, spies pinging all among whores and prostitutes for 29.95. I had one, maybe two; the government frowns upon federal fornication in Istanbul.
Still don’t have a plot. Maybe a murder mystery. Fuck this spy shit. I’m all baked potato and the sun has not yet risen like as Hemingway said. Then again some publisher probably wrote that shit.
So there was this bad guy sinner dude. Me and 42 waxed him up real good, spit on his corpse, called him a fagot and took his information. Info led to a nuclear bomb site in Florida. We dismantled it, me and 42, and the al Qaeda boys cried. Didn’t get to kill none of them though. Pshaw.
Gotta find a plot. Cannot go on as a wandering minstrel tryin’ tuh fornicate internationally like a smooth fornicator. Censor me; I’m all jelly today.
There was a problem with the transposition of communication. Too many crackles. Didn’t know what Control had in mind. Bitch got ahead through affirmative action and stern sensuality. I had no sensuality except when I needed to fornicate. That’s why I would never rise, if you will, in the JAR. I was stuck as a NOC. Me and 42 took off for Alaska, something brewing with the Russian Nips, probably more nuclear shit—broken down silos and suitcase bombs bent on destruction of capitalism as we know it. I mean, after all, capitalism is what we fought for. Felonized gas prices for boys from who knows where. The PETRO Industry, Inc.; that’s where I’ll head after I finish this spy shit—that and the Riviera or Mollosund, where I shall eat starfish and catfish and mutton. Good for the nerves, and nerves is one thing I have ’cause I take L-Tryptophan, nerve medicine, that and vodka, my half-gallon of vodka, which I store like a horse in the freezer.. Give me two dots; I’m Walter Whitman at the gravesite, buryin’ Union boys.
Had a girl in Anchorage like A. P. Bond. She had breasts, much to my surprise, dangling. She wasn’t interested in my innards, where the soul does its jumping jacks. She asked me if I had money. I told her I had, “None, just the 29.95 for fun and sexual exploitation of a fine young woman.” (She was 13.) Then she left; she disappeared like a banshee on LSD. I loved her though. I mean, she had breasts and that was extraordinary for a spy, dangling.
About Tim Ruane
“Caregiver day is a wonderful idea, becase when you love your children, every day is a day you get to be with and celebrate them.”
This is a comment by CJ on the post “What to the Child of Domestic Violence is Father’s Day?”