The F.C.I.

The F.C.I.

The who?

The Federal Correspondence Intelligence. Those men and women, those slightly less brave men and women than those in the F.B.I., who do the country of America justice and a great service by monitoring the movement of mail, e-mail, fax, phone-calls etc. to ensure no unpatriotic acts are being planned or, at least, corresponded about.

The F.C.I. that’s who, that’s who those two junior agents were, the two young and dashing, not so dashing as the F.B.I.,agents were. Agent Charleston and Agent Foxtrot, Charleston was the athletic blond crouching by the 5 foot by 5 foot crate with his torch at the ready, Foxtrot was skinny ginger freckle-face chatting with the storeman at Fed-Ex Chicago’s main depot.

Both men were positively jittery with excitement, Charleston shone his torch eagerly into the slim millimetre thick cracks in the crate trying to discern perhaps what was inside whilst Foxtrot bit his fingernails during breaks in the conversation between himself and ed-Ex storeman Steve.

‘So....you guys are like government postmen?’ Enquired Steve, eyeing cautiously the guns that each agent had holstered at their hips.

‘No sir, we don’t deliver no post.’ Stated Foxtrot.

‘Nor do we kill anybody....’less we have to...’ Smiled Charleston

There was silence save the ‘ulp’ as Steve swallowed heavily, his adams-apple bobbing up and down comically.

‘Well I guess you guys are more like cops then...?’ Hazarded Steve once more.

‘Hmph!’ Chuckled Charleston whilst still closely inspecting the crate.

‘Steve, I know you’re trying to make conversation but please be refrainin’ in comparison between our good selves and regular law enforcement, it only serves to aggravate my partner.’ Said Foxtrot.

‘...mm sorry.’ Shrugged Steve.

Suddenly the room was filled with the solid sound of a pair of boots marching a good solid firm-heeled march towards the crate. The boots, and marching feet, belonged to a square jawed black man in the same sort of uniform as Agents Foxtrot and Charleston, a grey suit with pink trim.

‘At ease agents!’ Ordered Agent Mashed-Potato before Foxtrot and Charleston even had the inkling of an idea to stand and salute forming in their minds.

‘Sir, we intercepted this crate that was being sent to Valerie Stern.’ Said Agent Charleston.

‘Good work boys, good work.’ Shouted Agent Mashed-Potato, giving the sort of smile that smashed down walls and blew up tanks.

Agent Charleston and Agent Foxtrot smiled to each other, a much less harsh smile, in the knowledge of the acknowledgment of their labours. Tireless hours sifting through the shit and the spam, the endless sea of senseless communication that flows through the process of running a pro-wrestling federation, no matter how illegal. The crate had been a blessing, a boon, a wooden raft to their sinking ship of forwarded, re-forwarded, re-re-forwarded supplications for the application of penis pills and dong-stretchers to the majority of the roster, regardless of gender. Why the amount of times the two agents had to travel to Nebraska, centre of the country where all dead mail swims to at its own pace, was....

‘Well boys, what the hell are you waiting for? Crack that fucker open!’ Ordered Agent Mashed-Potato breaking the dual retrospective day-dreams of both Charleston and Foxtrot.

The two junior Federal Correspondence Agents jumped to the nearest crow-bars and started frenziedly demolishing the crate. Whilst some law enforcement agencies train their officers in bomb-disposal or fire-fighting or aquatic rescue the F.C.I. diligently pumped out agents who could break down a shipping container within an hour with their bare hands or tear open hundreds of letters a minute without a paper-cut or destruction of the contents whilst still leaving the letter capable of realistic resealing and resending.

However before the agents had even prized out their first nail, Agent Mashed-Potato called a halt to proceedings. He ripped the address label off of the top of the crate.

‘Well look here boys...air-holes! Something may be alive in this crate....or it might have been alive....hmmm postage is from Borneo....’

‘It’s like that case last year, Boa-Constrictor snakes packed full of cocaine!’ Exclaimed Charleston.

‘You reckon?’ Asked Foxtrot, a quivering edge to his voice.

‘...Keep going boys...but break her open gently...’ Smiled Mashed-Potato, hard enough to crack steel walnuts.

The two junior agents went back to work on the crate but with a much more careful air to themselves. At last, all nails having been removed but the construction of the crate keeping itself all together, Charleston gave Foxtrot the nod that signified he should perform the magic crow-bar flick that would send the crate panels crashing apart at the same time.

Foxtrot had been waiting for this moment his whole career.




CRASH!

‘It’s a......it’s a.......’ Stammered Steve still overawed by the F.C.I.
‘It’s a monkey!’ Exclaimed Foxtrot.

‘Now, now, Agent Foxtrot...you wouldn’t call a Chink a Jap, so why call this fine fellow the equivalent?’ Interjected Mashed-Potato. ‘Boys, this here is Pongo Pygmaeus, and damned if I know what the Hell he is doing in a crate addressed to our main investigation TCW!’

Dynamite Bundy was pissed off, he didn’t know how long he’d been in the crate but it had been very stuffy...and there had been no TV! He blinked into the bright light whilst cuddling his replica 411fed and ECF title belts.

‘Oook! Oook!’ Went Dynamite.

He was very pissed off and only three things would calm him down:

1. Wrestling
2. Drinking
3. Meeting his hero, Darkness.

The demon watched the pawns take control of the chessboard, laughed, and discarded the metaphor. These were Knights and a Queen, three unable to make a straight line, and one with absolute freedom of motion. They were all of them beautiful, in their own way.


"Another drink for the monkey."

"He really attacked two government agents?"

"Attacked, and destroyed. I don't know what kind of monkey he is, but..." *looks at the monkey down another bottle.*

"Maybe he's a mutant."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Seems to like you though."

"It's just the beer. He couldn't hotwire the van. Until we got here, he ..."

"That would explain the stains then. Look, I'm nobody important. I don't need trouble. I'm not looking for it."

"I understand." (makes to pay his check)

"No, no need to pay that. I hate the government, you see - I owe those motherfuckers for 9/11."

'...okay."

"What you and the monkey there did, it makes you heroes. So, if you need anything...."

"I need to disappear. Probably." ( The monkey crawled into his lap, and Kissed him on the cheek. Was he going to pass out? )

"I can get you there. Just tell me where you need to disappear to..."

Or maybe it was a game of...what was it called? Battleship. Random shots in the dark, between two sides hoping to inflict complete destruction upon each other.

Charleston: "We'd like to take this time to clear up any confusion..."

Reporter:"You're bleeding."

Charleston:"Apprehension of the suspect was successful. The best thing now is for everyone to go about their lives."

Reporter:"Is that a bite mark?"

Foxtrot:"That's outside the scope of this interview."

Charlestone:"No. And you can quote me. The American people need to believe in heroes."

Reporter:"I'm sorry...who are you two again?" ( *nods to his cameraman to hurry up his call so they can use the cellphone's video camera.*)

Foxtrot:"FCI. We're the guys who read your mail."

Charleston:"The fact that you've never heard of us should prove how important we are. If you want a demonstration, just give me your name."

Foxtrot:"We're understaffed, you see..."

Reporter:"I'm sorry, but I only use E-Mail...anyone can read it. If we can talk about the monkey?"

Charleston:"Who said anything about a monkey?"

Reporter:"So you're denying the monkey."

Charleston:"I can't confirm that I'm denying."

Reporter:"So you're denying that you're denying the monkey?"

Foxtrot:"He's not a monkey."

Charleston:(glares at his partner, before including the reporter in his sweeping indictment of humanity.)"No, I'm neither confirming or denying that I am denying anything until I've had time to consider the costs and benefits of taking an official position on the matter. If you wish, you may call it a denial of a denial of the denial."

Reporter:"About the monkey."

Charleston:"The monkey is not part of the deal."

Reporter: (bluffs) "I know where the monkey is."

Foxtrot:"Where?"

Charleston:"Don't ask questions! It gives him power!"

Foxtrot:"I'm going to have to insist you tell us. That monkey is a material witness is an ongoing federal investigation."

Charleston:"It may involve the AntiChrist."

Reporter:"Holy shit."

Foxtrot:"Exactly."

Reporter:"This is what happens when the right wing nuts take over the government."

Charleston:(pulls out a gun):"If you know that, you know I'm not afraid to use my second admendment rights. Get in the car. You're driving us to the monkey."

Reporter:"Shooting me isn't -"

Charleston:"Too bad for you I've never read the bill of rights."

Foxtrot:"It's all about keeping plausible deniability."

*****

The demon had to go. There was a summoning...

Valerie Stern waited in an empty lockerroom after the show, nervous, chalk in hand. Was a circle of protection really going to help her? She'd drawn ten of them, just in case. "It looks like a dart board." Talking to herself. She'd lost it. She wiped the dust from her jeans, stood up, on pins and needles. A flick of a lighter. A single red candle. Not part of any spell, it was only there to calm her nerves with the cent of dried apples and cinnamon.

She felt like Eve.

"Eve never asked to meet with the snake."

In the line of every circle were candles, now.

The demon had come.

"Are these for me?" She forced her voice to remain flat.

"One candle isn't very much light."

"Get rid of them. I don't need your hellfire...and the scent is killing me. That used to be my favorite..."

The shadows returned.

"Just tell me what you're doing..."

"With the orangutan?"

"I didn't sign this match. We've invested a considerable sum in promoting you..."

"Yes, I know. You hoped to profit from my crimes. How is it working out for you?"

"I never asked you to join us."

"Does that make you any less a part of the conspiracy? I'm not making a dime out of my T-Shirt sales."

"Look...I...I'm asking you to not wrestle...a monkey."

"For my sake, or his?"

"There's no fucking point to it!"

"Maybe I'll lose. It'll inspire others to rise up against their oppressors."

"You wouldn't dare."

"He needs all the help he can get. I hear he's a fan of Darkness."

"You'll ruin us."

"I thought that was what you wanted?"

"No...I..."

"You don't know what you want, do you?" The demon stepped on the line of the first chalk circle. A single sweep of his boot rubbed it out. "Let me make it clearer for you..."

Agent Tango was one of the more younger and attractive members of the F.C.I. although sadly given the higher-ups attitude to things like ‘wimmin’, ‘boobs’ and ‘femin...femen...fimin....wimmins crap’ this had led to her entire career being spent behind a desk at F.C.I. Central.

Tango was a twenty something dyed black haired semi-goth, she enjoyed the fashion and the ease of colour-coordination that plentiful black brought to the table but musically she was much more at home with Bowie, Bolan and Lou Reed.

The scratched and bruised Charleston and Foxtrot stormed into F.C.I. Central.

‘Hey guys, what happened to you?’ Tango asked, immediately regretting it for more reasons than one.

Charleston muttered ‘monkey’ under his breath whilst Foxtrot just gave her a stoney stare which was hard to do for someone with freckles but he pulled it off with a vengeful ease.

‘...Foxtrot...you’re not still angry?’ Tango asked, regretting this as well

‘Man has every right to be angry woman.’ Said Charleston.

‘Look I told you, I was drunk, Agent Sonnet...took advantage....’ Tango was regretting everything.

‘It takes two to Tango, Tango...’

‘Foxtrot, please don’t be like this...’ Sighed Agent Tango

‘Like what Tango? Pissed off because I caught my girlfriend kissing one of those fucking creeps from electric mail division at the Christmas party?’

‘It didn’t mean anything!’ Tango pleaded.

‘Maybe not to you but it meant a Hell of a lot to me!’ Shouted Foxtrot over his shoulder as he stormed down the F.C.I. Central corridor.

Charleston, stoic and silent marched after him but not before stopping to give Agent Tango the evil eye. The two men continued to march towards the door marked ‘Electronic Mail division’, they both sighed as they did, the guys in Electronic Mail were not well liked. Unlike the dance named agents of the main F.C.I., the electronic’s had been given poetry based handles and being so geekily inclined, which is probably why they worked in the branch they did, they had taken to speaking in the style of poetry their name suggested.

It was weird and troublesome and a little confusing.

Charleston knocked on the door hoping that Agent Sonnet was not the one to answer, Foxtrot was hoping the creep did. He’d been seeing Tango for nearly a year before the Christmas party thing happened, he knew all the weirdos in Electronic liked her because of the way she looked, she was damn pretty and funny and smart....and he missed her but he hadn’t thought one of them would have the balls to try it on with her. He remembered the scene, chatting about the new 5X speed staple guns with a couple of the guys by the Christmas tree when Agent Swing has tapped him on the shoulder with a manicured hand and pointed his attention to that scene. His heart had shattered instantly like a shoddy ply crate under pressure.

A short youngish asian guy answered the door, darkness and neon seemed to lurk behind him.

‘Boys seeking great ape
Winter of discontent for
you, bloody rain comes.’

Both of the regular agents were kind of glad it was Agent Haiku, he could be very obtuse but at least he was to the point and restricted to a total of 17 syllables.

‘Umm hey Haiku, we need you guys to track down this monkey....and um check out a certain reporter whilst you’re at it....’ Charleston said, he always felt uncomfortable about these guys.

As Charleston passed a wad of paperwork to Haiku the young geek seemed to have an epileptic fit, his eyes glazed over pure black like frozen lakes with bodies lurking below, he frothed at the mouth as he spat out.

‘Bleeder plays us all
Like shuffling through bloody leaves
A bad Autumn falls.’

Suddenly Haiku shook his head and seemed to return to normal.

‘Ummm...well nice seeing you, maybe you guys should get some proper lighting in there..’ Said Charleston backing away.

Haiku just shrugged and stepped back into the darkness slamming the door.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

He’d what...passed out, no just fallen asleep drunkenly. The problem with waiting for lifts in bars is that you feel compelled to keep drinking no matter where you are going or what method of transport you are using. Some strange time dilation occurs, time speeds up in the bar ad slows down outside as you live in beer minutes whilst the world crawls around in sober hours.

He’d been waiting for his ride, waiting for....

The monkey! Where was it?

‘Hey buddy, rip van winky!’ Drawled some old bar fly propping up the bar whilst her tits held down the floor.

He spun groggily on his stool towards her, she was some sort of garish lipstick medusa.

‘Your buddy, hairy ginger guy, grabbed my best black lipstick, fucking creep with his hand in my purse......cock-sucker just bolted into the john.....you two ain’t fags are ya?’

‘What...no....sorry lady....I’ll get you a drink...’ He motioned to the bar-tender, the bar tender wasn’t there.

Suddenly the bathroom door burst open.

CRASH.

Dynamite Bundy stood there, he’d used the black lipstick to make himself look as much like Darkness as inhumanly possible. He hadn’t managed how to fathom scrawling ‘WALK ALONE’ on his chest so instead he’d smeared ‘OOK OOK’ in big black lipstick letters....

Now it must be confessed that we've not been fair to you, the reader. Not only have we been writing most of this just to amuse ourselves, but we've ommitted important details and made important characters disappear at random. And you've allowed this, the entire time. Doesn't it trouble you, that this is all a lie, made with your help? No? You assumed that since it was all a lie to begin with, we were just having trouble keeping the details straight?

You could be right. On the other hand, maybe we're just being true to the nature of the beast. This is a story about the government, and what happens between consenting adults in bars...

Honesty isn't always a virtue.

Let's start with the bartender. He used to be a preacher, before he got religion...

Scene: Inside a private office. The blinds are pulled. The man is counting his money.

"And a penny. That makes 26 cents to my name." He stared at the accusing Sudanese orphan on poster on the wall. "Hope you enjoy your grain. I didn't gain a single night's worth of sleep in return, or even a letter back." That was because the orphan was dead. They both knew this. Still, he sent the money, in the hopes that it helped someone.

"So that leaves me with the question, how do I pay for this wreckless trip to nobody knows where, to hide a man eating monkey and a stranger I've only just met?" He lit a cigarette. Let the ashes fall on an unread newspaper...

*****

In the bar itself, clients walked in and out, helped themselves to the open tap. They all blurred together. Only one stood out, really. He was so very obviously new.

"'I've lost my boys." He said, as if expecting the scene to freeze, and someone to help him. Instead two customers ran for the bathroom. A wet-T shirt contest broke out between two college kids. They were being ironically gay, but it still offended him. No scene of hetrosexual male bonding shouldn't include him.

He cleared his throat.

Someone looked at him.

"I said, I lost my boys."

That someone went back to their drink. "I lost my boys too. Don't see me crying about it. They always took their mother's side anyways."

But there was a woman with too much lipstick, or maybe too much lip staring at him now. She looked like she could swallow him without even trying. "Are you..FBI?"

"No ma'am. I'm FCI...or at least I was, until I walked into these doors. This is a holy place."

She appeared amused. "That's not why it's called The Burning Bush."

"I had no intention of sleeping with you."

She bit back every nasty word. Just for that, she wouldn't tell him about the two faggots he was probably looking for. She wasn't stupid. She knew gays liked monkeys, and monkeys liked them back, and that's why there was AIDS in the world. That, and evolution. Faggots pretending their beastiality was incest too.

There was a crash in the men's room. "Holy mother of... What was that?!" His gun was in his hand.

"What was what?" She said sweetly.

The gunshot silenced her act. Agent Mashed Potato held the gun up high in one arm, then lowered that arm to his lips, and blew away the smoke. The gun was like his microphone, in his hands, it became a vessel for his art. Every eye in the room was his.

"Someone get me a goddamn drink. All that racket is giving me a headache." Another crash in the men's room. The sound of a shattered window. The sound of feet on the pavement. A car alarm. A second car alarm. The sound of a car peeling out of the parking lot at high speed. "Well, what are you waiting for? Do I have to shoot someone?"

*****

"On second thought, I'll drive." Said the man with the monkey. Now's as good a time as any to tell you that his name is usually Jason.

He also answers to Steve.

*****

"Oh, shit." The bartender noticed the ashes on the newspaper, and wiped them out. Then stopped. Stared at the burns. He'd just had an idea, a really good one, until he'd been distracted...

****

Agent Tango kissed Agent Sonnet on the lips, hoping to shut him up. It worked. He looked back at her in awe. Her hand reached down to his waist, brought him in close enough to share a little private space.

"In your eyes, I am remade beautiful. To swim in seas of wicked innocence. The depths in your darkness - "

Shit. "'Welcome my tool'? Don't flatter yourself. You were a mistake. I'm only settling for you until something better comes along." She closed her eyes and imagined Foxtrot's angry eyes.

But Agent Sonnet still insisted on talking. "You don't believe in better." His hands fell beneath her shoulders, sought out her secrets. "You're so tense. Why deny this addiction -"

"'To a dick?' I only dance with you to watch you fall."

His verbal gymnastics were awe inspiring. They tempted her to surrender. He took all her insults, and discarded any that didn't fit his rhyme scheme. So tense/innocence? He could hold a real conversation, in Sonnet form.

So why did this only make her hate him all the more?

"Then let's fall, and see if we cure the sick." He dipped her at the waist, in an obscene embrace. The weight of his body into hers, yet holding her as if she were weightless, so familiar, so many times they had shared this moment. And then they were falling. She gave a shout of surprise. Bit his shoulder at the base of the neck. His blood tasted so sweet. He flinched, just a bit. She knew what he didn't like, knew that she wasn't the only one who couldn't leave.

His biting her back instead of talking only sealed the deal.

***

"I'll bet they're in the broom closet right now." Foxtrot was single minded in the pursuit of evil. Normally, that was a wonderful thing.

"Too small." Charleston frowned as he examined the e-mails. 46 were for penile enlargement. One was a reply back to the sender of the e-mails, with a picture attached. He knew what he would find if he opened it. That didn't stop him from laughing anyways. "8 inches, assholes!" read the caption. "Since you don't seem to think that's big enough, I can only guess you haven't seen enough cocks in your life." There were an amazing 1532 further replies to the same address. "Think of the fumes."

"Then it must be her office."

"Probably." He was only half listening. He was beginning to see a pattern. A wrestling orangutang. An anti-Christ. A reporter with a vendetta against spam e-mailers.

"Can we interrogate the reporter?"

Charleston studied his partner's cherubic face, and wondered if he knew how cute he was. There was a face that couldn't lie. Sure, the interrogation was important, but it was so obvious that Foxtrot just needed to release some anger. "Sure, partner, let's interrogate him together."

*****