Monday, November 26, 2007

Lotta Carnage Goes To Work

November 3, 2007
I'd feel sorry for Ozzie, but he's a wife beater. So I'm glad he's the disgrutled big guy with his viagra and prozac and lipitor and a diet of Big Macs. And my conscience is even clean about invading his privacy, because he has been paying junkies to follow his wife. Mr. Lee is too cheap to pay a private detective. In a better world I would get to punch the shit out of him and tell him myself that his wife is fucking minor league basketball players. My dad used to say that the truth is a waste of money.

Besides the meaty odor that he seems to feel okay about, or not know of, I was able to enjoy my work. He was drinking I.C. lites and telling people he didn't know what an important step in his life he has taken by switching to lite beer. "Been meaning to take off a few pounds." He means well. One of the arts to my job is to act something like a hooker and something like the one non-hooker on the planet that would fuck Ozzie Lee without first running his debit card on a knuckle grater. Get this: I walked right up to him and told him that he looked like someone I met at Oxford. When I pressed the dueling banjos into his back I thought I might have accidentally cured his E.D. Even I have reservations about helping people like Ozzie.

Anyway, we have a working relationship. The man that's on the official B.I.T.C.H. shit list is the one I feel sorry for. All this quizling did is sell the formula for a designer illness to Boris Badinov. "Boris" is the name we give anyone who sells our secrets to the Russians. His name is too confidential (for now) to part with on parchment, so he will stay 'Boris' until I put the hit together.

When I'm not doing the hooker/Oxford intellectual routine, I'm doing some of my white collar work. Had to flash the credentials to the human resource fruit at the trucking company Ozzie works for. Those dutiful queens love to give up information, and they aren't allowed to unless the feds request the info, and they are completely off the hook as long as they don't tell their boy friends about their adventure with a government spy woman. The H.R. man dressed like Oleg Casini and wore a cologne that almost had me blowing him. Wonder if he would let me do him Greek with one of my many and varied strap-ons. Anyway, he was thrilled to tell me that he did in fact have to speak, more than once, with Ozzie, and that Ozzie wasn't doing all that well with his therapy. He had made verbal threats to a dispatcher, and was always boasting about his gun collection. Best of all, he feels deeply humilliated by the therapy, the meds he has to take to keep his grinding miserable job, and about having to share all facts with Oleg Casini's doppleganger.
A woman has to be proud of her accomplishments, and I am. I have one of the few government clearances that allow me to hand out little glassine stamp envelopes like gift packets at the Sherry Netherlands. It's the only way to form a trusting relationship with the sort of people Ozzie uses to find out Mrs. Ozzies dirty secrets. She's been keeping busy with her secret Watusis, and poor Ozzies is fuming away and popping double helpings of Xanax to keep from getting himself thrown in jail. His therapist tells me that Ozzie is 'managing his feelings' but that he is not comfortable with Ozzie's level of hostility. The good doctor has to keep it zipped about our disussions, and he has to do what I tell him to do if doesn't want to wind up leading group therapy sessions in Leavenworth.
'Boris' is an idealist and an idealogue. The numbered bank account that gets fed by the more-than-ever-our-friend Soviet Union is, he claims, to give back to the people's peons in what used to be an old-school communist country. That was what drove the Cambridge Four when Russia wasn't our friend. Now there is a new big plan for world peace, which, like the last one, is filling body bags, land fills and secret prisons. We have them, too. I am a working girl, and not a social philosopher.

I've been tracking him electronically, and he isn't hard to find because he has a job. He teaches Post Cold War Politics at Yale. He's so overconfident about his importance and his skill as an operative that he eats eggs and hash at the same diner with truck drivers and polyesther shirt and tie men who man from the trucking firm's dark brainless payables and receivables department. Stupider yet, he goes out for beer at bars that would get any real operative booted out like a photo copy of of his own termination notice.

The agency wouldn't bother with the fancy liquidation process unless he was more dangerous than he is trying to be. If all he was was a common traiter, one of the shirt and tie men from the FBI would simply arrest him. But he's an 'Academic.' People would make a fuss. And he has a lot of friends with the East Coast intelligensia. I have about a week's work to do on Ozzie and his spies and supervisors and therapist before I get to go up close and personal with 'Boris.' If I was an idealist and ideologue I'd try to do something about the new role our universities are playing. The freshmen and upperclassmen and even the graduate students are paying over 30,000 a year for tuition, and half of it goes into a slush fund for all the government spooks that have to have a cover story and access to a lot of money. Too, they have to have the social entre that makes 'Boris' such a pain. If he wasn't teaching at the Ivy League, no one outside of Wilbur's Tavern would share info with him. I'm not going to get riled. It's brilliant, using colleges as MAC machines for spies and traitors that our government needs to deploy every once and a while.
Ozzie's choice of social outlets is a lot like those of 'Boris.' It's almost funny. He is a regular at Wilbur's Tavern, and he's been there even more regularly since I started dropping in for a nice cold I.C. lite. Ozzie is pretty dim, but he has the sort male ego that makes my work so rewarding. Yesterday I cooed audibly while allowing him to put his hand on my thigh. That's why they call it work. For the more relaxing moments, I started meeting with some of the members of Mrs. Ozzie's favorite sports team.
Didn't mind this part a-tall. Ronald is a seven foot center, and when he isn't playing basketball or working at his software company, he likes to meet with friends at his clubhouse. I picked him up as he walked out of the lockerroom, and coaxed him to take me back to the clubhouse. The slate grey suits he prefers look better than anything of the kind on a seven foot, gaunt black man with the features of a god. And Ronald has the steel nerves and talent that makes me cum. He's not a loquacious man, but he didn't mind telling on his teammates. It seems that Mrs. Lee pulls train, which means my job will be easier than I first thought.
Like father, like daughter. The management back at B.I.T.C.H. has pictures of me sitting on Dick Cheney's face. That's enough to keep us girls in our own good stead with the federal government. Otherwise we would all have to take orders directly form the White House and the Pentagon, which is like letting your pet schnauser drive your Lexus.
Dr. Helperin is a piece of work. Psychologists study much of the same spook shit that spies learn at spy school, but they are too insecure and pathetic to do anything but weasel into the heads of hapless, bellicose employees who wish they had amounted to more than they did. They all know the preschool level 'ego up' and 'ego down,' as well as how to make a total douche bag believe they should have high self-esteem. And of course they all know how to make normal healthy people think there is something wrong with them, something that can only be corrected by a douche bag clinical psychologist.

Ozzie had been ripening like an oversize watermelon, and he was drinking in the same bar as Boris, thanks to my role as social director for people who are very, very expendable. His cadre of junkie rats had told him about his wife's comings and goings, and I found a perfect occaision to loop the information I had gathered into calm bar banter at Wilbur's Tavern. As he got to my first base in the parking lot behind Wilbur's, I interjected to him that he was a married man, but of course he shouldn't feel he is doing anything wrong, when his wife's pass times are taken into account. He was too full of himself to let that stop him from trying to kiss me like Cary Grant. All three hundred sixty pounds of Cary Fucking Grant.

He had another 'therapy' session with Dr. Helperin coming up, so I called the good shrink and told him to give Ozzie the ego down. "Remind him about his "perspiration problem," I suggested to Doc, like I was recommending a good riesling. That, along with me keeping Ozzie as horny as he can get, is like mixing nitro with glycerine and giving it a good shake. Having the looks of a Swiss model makes it plausible to be a major cock tease. Mrs. Lee was in a lot of danger, so I had Dr. remind him what happens to men who beat their wives. Boris was starting to follow me around like a puppy, after I seduced his narcissistic little ass in one of the music rooms at Yale. And like Ozzie, he was now a regular at Wilbur's.
I remember the way my father would clean up after himself after building a bird house in the garage or after fixing the throttle on his Austin Healy. That's what it felt like when I gave me report back at B.I.T.C.H. headquarters. It was my favorite ploy of all, and it had the neatness of my fathers crafts. I call it the 'modified Blanche Dubois.' With Ozzie holding in his craw the anger that any good cock tease can instill, I picked my moment and started screaming at the poor jerk. "How can you try to make love to me when the only man I want is sitting one seat down to your left?"