“Hey, man,” said Ziggy as he crawled down from his perch. “I sell books and stuff, too, you know.”
“Sell or collect?”
“Well, like I said, man, it’s been pretty slow lately. Can you help me move this table with, like, all the candles on it? I think right over there will do it.”
“Absolutely not. I need to use your phone,” Avery said as he headed to the cash register.
“Like, what happened to your cell phone, man?”
“It self-actualized…err…it was executed…err…it’s a long story.”
“Okay, but, like, no long distance calls, man.”
“Don’t worry — it’s an in-state call.”
“Okay, that’s cool, dude.”
“As far as you know.” Avery fished a piece of paper with a phone number on it from his fanny pack and picked up the receiver. “Get your bags packed. We’re leaving with the tide.”
“No way, I don’t, like, dig boats, man. I fell out of one in the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at the Magic Kingdom when I was a kid. My dad was, like, super pissed. He made me swim the rest of the way and, like, meet him at the exit. No boats for the Zigster. Nope, definitely no boats.”
“It’s a figure of speech. Pack your things, lizard,” Avery said as he dialed the number.
PART II
CHAPTER EIGHT
Operation Mexican Shadow
Back at the STRAC-BOM headquarters, General X-Ray harrumphed as he noticed the front door left wide open.
“Private Tango,” the General commanded. “Close that hatch immediately. You’re letting out all my bought air!”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The private kicked the door closed with his heel, his arms full of camouflage-patterned toilet paper rolls.
“Make sure the latrine is spic and span. I want to be able to eat off it.”
Nasty, the Private thought as he choked down the little bit of lunch he just threw up in his mouth while thinking about the idea of actually eating off the repulsive bathroom’s floor. Around the building, the rest of the men continued their biannual dusting and cleaning of the HQ. Convinced his men weren’t slacking off, the General retreated to his office. Carefully removing a portrait of Lyndon Baines Johnson from the wall, he placed it gently on the floor.
“Pardon me, sir,” the General said to the painting as he snapped to attention and saluted. Fishing around in the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved a long piece of twine with a magnet tied to one end. Years earlier, the General had commissioned the construction of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters partly on account of the fact that Fire Team Leader Bravo’s mother’s house was getting a little too cramped for their militia meetings and partly because she threatened to call the FBI when she overheard the intimate details of Operation Dragon’s Breath, an ill-conceived attempt to mass produce homemade napalm, a plan that ultimately cost the poor woman her beloved potting shed and greenhouse. The exterior siding in the back of her house still bore scorched streaks of black soot and a few spots of melted vinyl to this day. When building the militia’s new operational command and control center, the General insisted on an intricate and top-of-the-line storage facility for the organization’s funds and secret plans. Initially, he’d attempted to purchase a used vault from the Antwerp Diamond Center in Belgium. The massive safe with its ninety-nine-digit dial, capable of more than one hundred million combinations, was just what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the shipping cost alone for the three-ton steel door was prohibitive. Instead, General X-Ray settled on the next best security device money could buy. Behind the LBJ portrait was a dinner plate–sized hole in the wall. Dropping the magnet into the hole, he carefully lowered it into the space behind the wall. When it reached the bottom, he spent a minute fishing back and forth with the long piece of twine. After a dozen swipes, the General felt the magnet catch on to something. Slowly pulling on the twine, hand over hand, he inched the magnet up. When the magnet finally emerged from the hole, it was stuck to a round metal washer attached to another long piece of twine. Taking hold of the second piece of twine, he reeled it in until a dusty tube sock emerged from the wall. The sock jingled as he carried it to his desk and sat down. Empting the contents of the sock onto his desk, the General put his head in his hands and moaned.
“We’re done for,” the General whimpered as he began to cry over the sad little pile of bills and coins in front of him. “Finished. Doomed.”
“Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” Private Zulu said as he peeked his head into the office. “Is everything okay?”
“No, no, no, no, no,” the General said, slapping his bald dome with alternating hands. A large snot bubble began to form from his pig-like nose. Closing his eyes and wringing his hands, the General let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeal of desperation. “Calgon, take me away!” he sobbed as he placed his forehead on the desk and covered his ears with his hands.
“What’s the commotion?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie as he peered over the top of Private Zulu’s head.
“Not sure,” the private said. “But the General is acting crazier than a sprayed roach. Never seen him like this.”
“Get a hold of yourself, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie implored. “Please don’t let the rest of the men see you like this. Morale is poor enough after we had to spend the night in jail for that sewer line incident on the border.”
“You’re right, Team Leader, you’re right,” the General said as he wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his tanker’s uniform and slowly regained his composure. “Assemble the men in the ready room. I have an announcement to make.”
The mood was eerily somber as the three Fire Teams gathered and stood smartly at attention in front of their slump shouldered leader. The normally bombastic General didn’t say a word.
Fire Team Leader Alpha finally broke the silence. “What’s the problem, sir?”
“Broke,” he replied.
“What’s broke, sir?” Private Tango asked. “Fire Team Leader Alpha can fix about anything.”
“We’re broke,” the crestfallen General informed his brigade. “Nothing left in the bank after our latest bail posting.”
“All of it?” Private Zulu asked.
“Just about. The federal matching dollars I requested were denied. Goddamn Democrats,” the General said, shaking his fist in the air.
“What do we do now?” Private Foxtrot asked.
“Capitulate. The enemy has won.”
“But, General, sir,” Private Tango said. “What about them boys at Iwo or Guadalcanal you told us about? We can’t just give up now. They didn’t.”
“No, Private, it’s over. I’ll draw up the papers and present them to the Mexican President myself. Meet him in the middle of the international bridge. Soldiers, gather up all your weapons and ordnance. I’m sure he’ll want them as part of our unconditional surrender.”
Fire Team Leader Alpha spoke up. “General, can’t we at least sue for peace terms?”
“The Mexicans will never go for it. They’ve wanted us dismantled for years. Boys, be sure to burn all the documents and maps, and don’t forget to booby-trap the latrine. Also, turn off the air conditioner before we leave, but save all the light bulbs — they’re halogen.”
“They’re must be something we can do,” Private Zulu said as he scratched his head. “What about lemonade stands?”
“Firm thinking, Private, but selling lemonade would take too long to generate the necessary capital to continue our operations.”