Booze Heals-at the bar I
The trio sat in a secluded booth in a quiet section of the bar. It was Monday night, and off Football season, so they had some privacy and quiet.
"And, that's when the helicopter crashed into the mansion?" Claire asked as she sipped her Stout.
"No, that was much later." Hobbes explained.
"So, how did the pig get killed?
"No you're getting ahead of me here. I thought you wanted to hear this."
"I do, but I'm confused."
"Me too. It all happened so fast. Then again, it felt like it took place in slow motion!"
"You know, this started out like every other case we've ever worked on. Monday Morning Briefing . . .
* * * * * * * * * Flashback to the Briefing
It was the Monday Morning Briefing, just like any other boring, achingly dull Monday Morning Briefing. Monday. Morning. But anything but BRIEF.
Darien was bored and slouched in the hard chair in the Official's office. His long leg was draped casually over the arm of the chair. His eyes were directed at a bird that was flitting around outside the window and he was clicking his teeth with his thumbnail.
Hobbes was trying to pay attention enough for the two of them, since Darien was off in his daydreams while the Official gave them the details of their upcoming assignment. Sometimes he hated being the "good one".
"It will be like a vacation. A working vacation." the Official added quickly. "You'll be on the Island of Idyll in the Caribbean. It's an exclusive private island and you'll be working at one of the mansions belonging to Stephen J. Steele."
Hobbes asked. "We'll be investigating Stephen J. Steele? That Stephen J. Steele?
"Yes, THAT Stephen J Steele. Ambassador. Businessman. International Policy maker, renowned Brain Surgeon and Fashion Designer. And, his wealth is believed to exceed the wealth of Bill Gates by approximately 10 fold. He has his fingers in every pie, gentlemen, including the US Government.
"And, no, he's not the subject of this investigation. He has asked us to come in and check some of his people.
"Our lead from National Agency for Toxic Substances Institute says there could be any number of activities being run out of the Steele compound. The operation may entail any or all of the following: Drug Running, Classified Information Clearinghouse, Arms Deals, Smart Bombs, and Mail Fraud. I want you two to infiltrate, verify and disrupt operations to the best of your abilities.
"NATSI". Darien chuckled, reminding Hobbes of Beavis or Butthead. He didn't know which one."
"I beg your pardon, Fawkes." asked the Official dryly.
"The acronym for our new parent agency of the week Tat da da daah!" He pounded his knee in a mock drum roll, "NATSI. Sounds like NAZI."
"Very clever, Fawkes. And, it's awfully nice of you to join our little conversation.
"Eberts? Details, please."
"Well, yes, sir." Eberts was pleased to be asked to participate.
"This situation is hot, gentlemen."
"Ooo, Eberts! How hot?" jibed Darien, with mock interest. Hobbes suppressed a tight lipped smile.
"Very hot." Eberts continued, not picking up on Darien's sarcasm. "It will require great discretion, the kid glove treatment, and a most delicate hand. You must perform your duties under complete cover. Your presence must never be detected.
"As you are aware, Mr. Steele's is very powerful and his influence even stems to our own Agency. In any case, no knowledge of your identities or your connection to this Agency must ever be found."
"Fawkes, can you repeat anything that's been said in this meeting?" barked The Official.
"Why, yes I can, as a matter of fact. There's this ga-jillionaire whose people might be up to their silver spoons in some low down dirty dealings. But said ga-jillionaire also has his agile meat hooks in every carcass on the planet and lots of clout to kick our collective asses back to the Cretaceous Era.
"With me so far?" But, before they could answer he went on while their mouths still hung open.
"You want us to work our wizardry and presumably my glandular juju" he held up his tattoo, "and torpedo that which threatens our national security. But best of all, you want us to make double sure their people never find any trace of our handy work and get back here to your doorstep and cut into your pension fund."
Hobbes' eyebrows went up. "Good Fawkes. You get a cookie." he said while he thought "Kid's smarter than he looks."
The Official looked disgusted, and slapped some folders on his desk. As long as he was getting it down, the glib sonnofa.
"Hobbes!" the official snapped. "Do you have any questions?"
"No sir. Fawkes' explanation was quite clear." He answered sincerely.
"If I weren't sending you on an important mission, I'd be locking you both in irons! Now get out of here and do this thing."
"Sir? I'm sorry. What did I do?" asked Hobbes with genuine confusion. Well, nothing, but hey, it was guilt by association, the very association that was foisted upon both of them by the agency itself.
"Don't say another word, Hobbes!" snapped the Official. "GO!"
They didn't have to be told twice. Well, maybe they did.
The trio sat in a secluded booth in a quiet section of the bar. It was Monday night, and off Football season, so they had some privacy and quiet.
"And, that's when the helicopter crashed into the mansion?" Claire asked as she sipped her Stout.
"No, that was much later." Hobbes explained.
"So, how did the pig get killed?
"No you're getting ahead of me here. I thought you wanted to hear this."
"I do, but I'm confused."
"Me too. It all happened so fast. Then again, it felt like it took place in slow motion!"
"You know, this started out like every other case we've ever worked on. Monday Morning Briefing . . .
* * * * * * * * * Flashback to the Briefing
It was the Monday Morning Briefing, just like any other boring, achingly dull Monday Morning Briefing. Monday. Morning. But anything but BRIEF.
Darien was bored and slouched in the hard chair in the Official's office. His long leg was draped casually over the arm of the chair. His eyes were directed at a bird that was flitting around outside the window and he was clicking his teeth with his thumbnail.
Hobbes was trying to pay attention enough for the two of them, since Darien was off in his daydreams while the Official gave them the details of their upcoming assignment. Sometimes he hated being the "good one".
"It will be like a vacation. A working vacation." the Official added quickly. "You'll be on the Island of Idyll in the Caribbean. It's an exclusive private island and you'll be working at one of the mansions belonging to Stephen J. Steele."
Hobbes asked. "We'll be investigating Stephen J. Steele? That Stephen J. Steele?
"Yes, THAT Stephen J Steele. Ambassador. Businessman. International Policy maker, renowned Brain Surgeon and Fashion Designer. And, his wealth is believed to exceed the wealth of Bill Gates by approximately 10 fold. He has his fingers in every pie, gentlemen, including the US Government.
"And, no, he's not the subject of this investigation. He has asked us to come in and check some of his people.
"Our lead from National Agency for Toxic Substances Institute says there could be any number of activities being run out of the Steele compound. The operation may entail any or all of the following: Drug Running, Classified Information Clearinghouse, Arms Deals, Smart Bombs, and Mail Fraud. I want you two to infiltrate, verify and disrupt operations to the best of your abilities.
"NATSI". Darien chuckled, reminding Hobbes of Beavis or Butthead. He didn't know which one."
"I beg your pardon, Fawkes." asked the Official dryly.
"The acronym for our new parent agency of the week Tat da da daah!" He pounded his knee in a mock drum roll, "NATSI. Sounds like NAZI."
"Very clever, Fawkes. And, it's awfully nice of you to join our little conversation.
"Eberts? Details, please."
"Well, yes, sir." Eberts was pleased to be asked to participate.
"This situation is hot, gentlemen."
"Ooo, Eberts! How hot?" jibed Darien, with mock interest. Hobbes suppressed a tight lipped smile.
"Very hot." Eberts continued, not picking up on Darien's sarcasm. "It will require great discretion, the kid glove treatment, and a most delicate hand. You must perform your duties under complete cover. Your presence must never be detected.
"As you are aware, Mr. Steele's is very powerful and his influence even stems to our own Agency. In any case, no knowledge of your identities or your connection to this Agency must ever be found."
"Fawkes, can you repeat anything that's been said in this meeting?" barked The Official.
"Why, yes I can, as a matter of fact. There's this ga-jillionaire whose people might be up to their silver spoons in some low down dirty dealings. But said ga-jillionaire also has his agile meat hooks in every carcass on the planet and lots of clout to kick our collective asses back to the Cretaceous Era.
"With me so far?" But, before they could answer he went on while their mouths still hung open.
"You want us to work our wizardry and presumably my glandular juju" he held up his tattoo, "and torpedo that which threatens our national security. But best of all, you want us to make double sure their people never find any trace of our handy work and get back here to your doorstep and cut into your pension fund."
Hobbes' eyebrows went up. "Good Fawkes. You get a cookie." he said while he thought "Kid's smarter than he looks."
The Official looked disgusted, and slapped some folders on his desk. As long as he was getting it down, the glib sonnofa.
"Hobbes!" the official snapped. "Do you have any questions?"
"No sir. Fawkes' explanation was quite clear." He answered sincerely.
"If I weren't sending you on an important mission, I'd be locking you both in irons! Now get out of here and do this thing."
"Sir? I'm sorry. What did I do?" asked Hobbes with genuine confusion. Well, nothing, but hey, it was guilt by association, the very association that was foisted upon both of them by the agency itself.
"Don't say another word, Hobbes!" snapped the Official. "GO!"
They didn't have to be told twice. Well, maybe they did.