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.
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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.
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'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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"

Barbara Banal Gets Angry

Last meeting with the boss I got yelled at again about my weight. I'm five nothing, 180, and the bitch says I have to gain another thirty pounds to be more nearly 'invisible.' Crisake, I got a job in the back office at a realty firm on McKnight Road and get my hair done by a fag at the Ross Park Mall. I'm invisible, for fuck sake. As covers go, it's better than Marvel Comics. But no, all the up close wet work I did on the West Coast doesn't mean shit. I have to choose make-up that accentuates acne scars and makes olive skin look purplish.
The Big Boss says I'm not working 110%. I told her there's no such thing, and she said there is if she and the rest of B.I.T.C.H. says there is. You would think this was all for the Pink Thunderbird at Mary Kay, and not an anti-terror unit. Sure, my feeling get hurt.
Working in Pittsburgh. How fucking intriqueing. I'm telling peope about the Christmas big blow out sales and about how to clip coupons and about how much I love shopping along the Miracle Mile. There are W.O.G.s and illegal aliens working at the sun glass booth, and some of them work for Al Quida. Their cover stories are a lot like mine. There should be some sort of unifying theory that would make us all best friends. As it is I have to use my collection of guns, baseball bats, dime store toad stickers and mail order stun guns so the jobs look like hate crimes done by white trash or drug deals gone sour by young African Americans. For Uncle Sam. Yeah, a woman has feelings.

Helen Twelvesteps: Spy Woman Undercover

Harvey had been doing so well in his recovery process that it was safe to meet him off campus for a treat. We are very careful with our clients, and I wouldn't risk causing him to relapse. It's always tempting to go back to the old habits, but dear Harvey was ready to step out of the half way house for a few hours. I agreed to meet with him at a brand new Juice-ateria in a very staid part of Coconut Grove. He couldn't get into much trouble there, so I gave him cab fare for a round trip to and from our little outing. That was all the cash from his trust fund that I could let him have, since it wouldn't allow him to buy any of his drug of choice, should he try to elope from our lovely, pastel treatment facility. And I had him co-sign a receipt for the money I would need to pay for our carrot mocca mousse frappes. That is what we decided we would both have at the juice-ateria. I like to have my patients decide these things in advance, because even the tiniest of decisions may be too much for someone who has issues as compelling as Harvey's.
In the recovery business we think of these special little meetings as part of the therapy, part of re-integrating back into a larger community that doesn't shoot a couple thousand dollars into their veins each hurtful, empty day. Too, it's a reward for staying clean. But it's quite a gamble on our part to let him off campus alone, even for a few hours.
He wore one of his Armani suits, which draped sadly because he had lost so much weight. And he was nervous, reminding of a rabbit in box trap when he met me at Mimsy's Juice Treats. But he had done a nice job arranging his few hairs around his pate, and he was at least able to maintain eye contact with me in our bistro booth. Harvey needed a lot of reassurace, and at Helen's Twelve Step Haven we don't go in for tough love. We try to love our clients as if they were our very own babies. Harvey is so insecure, it's a challenge.

"I don't feel good about this, Helen. Your not letting us have this time because I'm a Friggley, are you?" he asked as I brought our two nonalcoholic drinks to our table.

"Harvey, to us you are like any other client. We have famous ones, and not so famous one's. A lot of fallen proffessional people come to us for help."

"How am I doing, Helen?" he begged.

"You've been doing so well, Harvey, that I talked to your old employer. It's a long shot, but I think they might just take you back."

"Do you really think the NSA can forgive me."

"I talked to them, and they already have. They just have to know that you won't compromise national security again."

After we finished drinking our treats, I told him I had a extra special treat for him. He was ready, I could see it in him.
"Harvey, I would like to see if you can surprise me. You'll need to be on your best behavior, but I'd like you to come with me to my apartment. I think it's time you made a leap in your recovery process."

Like a little child, that's our Harvey.

Oh, it's a tired, silly little trick of ours. My control personage, Tyrone, was thrilled when I suggested it, with so many upper crust adult children being allowed to work for the big league. After petting and soothing and fucking near diapering poor Harvey, I took out my private stash and spiked my vein right in front of him. With the ligature held firm in my white, white teeth I gave myself a thrill with the good smack that I so enjoy. Harvey could only agree that one last adventure wouldn't hurt him. His shot had some extra ingredients in it, taken as it was from my other stash. As soon as his eyes rolled upward, I called Tyrone. "Send the disposal team. Our Harvey decided to elope."