Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War

by BigCountry75

Jeff 'Rig' Carson has a busy to-do list: Train G&R's new apprentice Naota Nandaba, hunt for Atomsk, prevent a Medical Mechanica incursion from becoming a war, keep an eye out for Haruko, resolve a decades-long family feud, battle his own demons AND keep his sanity, while all of these forces converge on his hometown of Osceola Mills. Knowing FLCL, 50/50 odds on the sanity, at best.

11. Chapter 11

Alright, oh yeah, uh-huh...that's right, I did it! A chapter of substance that didn't take two and a half months for my lazy butt to write! And it is substantial indeed, looking to be the longest yet. Within is A LOT that's gonna get thrown at you, but you're a FLCL fan, so I know you can take it; and then some. Resist, fight the urge to flee this chapter's length, Bite Hard into it and don't let go! Now, over The Top, I'll see you on the other side.

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. . .

"Please. Enter, and be at Peace." The doors of The Grand Temple swung open under their own power, ushering The Head inside. As the doors boomed shut, The Head's eyes took in the lavishly ornate outer colonnaded courtyard; lit through skylights above. Lush carpets of reds and gold softened the stone interior, banners of the same colors were draped around columns and strung as streamers. Priests, festooned in flowing robes of purple, went quietly about their duties, padding along on slippered feet. Assistants and Priests-in-training followed a half-step behind, anxiously awaiting any scraps of wisdom their elder may let fall. Through the hush, The Head could hear the whispering of generations, millennia of dedicated study, pious reflection, the sum of tedious research and profound depths of knowledge. The weight and authority of this accumulated intellect permeated the entirety of The Grand Temple, kept jealously secured within the impenetrable store of its walls.

"Greetings, Head Director." A Monk had found him. The lowest of the Priest's official order, Monks were no longer in training. But to remind them of their place, Monks only dressed in a simple robe, cinched at the waist with rope, and wore no pocketwatch. "I trust you bring with you no ill will?" The Monk and The Head grasped each other's offered right forearms; an ancient tradition hearkening back to the dark days when knives were carried in sleeves. The Head also gave a curt bow, looking up to maintain eye contact. A Priest was always to be looked in the eyes as a sign of sincerity and respect, and not even Monks bowed to anyone outside their order.

"Your trust is well placed Older Brother; I am at Peace." The Head gave the correct answer and was allowed to keep his arm.

"I am pleased to hear it." The Monk smiled and gestured with a grand sweep of his arm. He pointed deeper into the Temple's heart. "Our Father Brown is expecting you. Let's not keep him needlessly waiting."

"Show me the way, if you please." The Head requested, as was polite and expected, even though he had made the same walk countless times. He followed the Monk into a series of hypostyle halls, each filled with pieces of art, works of sciences and engineering, the strange artifacts wrought of alchemy and chemistry, and collected wonders from far-off planets under The Temple's vigilant care. Libraries, workshops and laboratories followed. Cases of print volumes stretched from floor to ceiling, filling the air with the scent of aging paper. Below them, larger archives of digitized books completed the collection. And finally, a rotating blast door that towered to the ceiling. It was impossible to tell its weight or internal workings from here, and The Head would take that information to the grave; after all, Medical Mechanica had built that door, and many like it.

"A moment, Head Director." The Monk turned to a security panel next to the door and laid his face against it. His eyes were now under the scrutiny of a retinal scanner. He also placed his palms onto a set of scanners that began reading the prints on his palms and fingers, but also the map of blood vessels underneath. While finger and palm prints had been replicated with many a clever prosthesis, blood vessel maps had been, so far, impossible to replicate. Finally, an oratory authentication was prompted. The computer listened for tone, inflection, pace, volume and pitch. Hurried, quick, trembling or even loud speech indicated an attempt at forcing a Priest to unlock the door against his will. A clear, calm, and enunciated response was the only one that would suffice.

"I am a Keeper of Order, a Shield of Security, an Architect of Thought. I am a Student of The Red Star." The Monk answered. The floor rumbled as the bolts drew back and the door rotated open to an antechamber. The Head and Monk stepped inside, then waited for the door to rotate back into place. As it returned, it revealed a set of stairs, and the fringe edges of The Priest's most treasured and fiercely guarded possessions: their Great Computers.
A forest of humming machines stretched before him. Bank upon bank of servers, circuits in concert, trillions of bytes of information, countless calculations flowing through fiber optic cables; an endless stream of data all at the speed of light. The Head couldn't see them, but on the other side of the walls were equally immense cooling systems that gulped terawatts of power and millions of gallons of water to keep this trove of information from melting down. But The Head knew the coolant systems were there all the same, Medical Mechanica had built them as well.

An army of technicians swarmed around them as the Monk led The Head though the Computers. Thousands of miles worth of tightly bundled and managed cables were monitored, and parts were replaced at the instant signs of wear emerged. Along the walls, another group managed the lines of code, constantly updating and refining the Great Computer's functioning. The Head knew of other rooms where information that had been brought into the Computers was processed. Camera feeds, microphones, sensors and inputs from other, smaller Temples across the galaxy. In the other rooms this information was reviewed, analyzed, dissected, discussed and debated. Ever more rooms housed inputs for putting information back into the system, to pose questions, run simulations, or issue edicts of guidance to the other Temples, managing bodies, Medical Mechanica, or the people at large; the Templevisions and Temple Papers only two tools of many at their disposal. And The Head knew all of this, and much more, because, as proud implementors of The Will of The Priests, from the terrace outside, to this innermost sanctuary, Medical Mechanica had built it all.

"Director!" Father Brown was waiting for them atop a set of stairs leading into a central set of chambers, surrounded by the Computers. "You are neither early, nor late…" Father Brown referenced his own pocketwatch. Citizens such as a prominent businessman or an official of minor importance, were allowed pocketwatches of bronze case and chain. Operatives, a mysterious and clandestine breed unto their own, carried, well, strange, pocketwatches of their own secretive design in silver cases and upon silver chains. The Head, and other commanding officers of military and civilian walks, carried their pocketwatches in cases of gold with golden chains, symbols of their elite standings. The Priests, lastly but not least, once they had earned them, carried pocketwatches of white, unknown-but-to-them gems that sparkled gleamingly bright, upon a chain of stars that twinkled and shone in even the darkest of night. "But are precisely on time, as always."

"As reliably as the Moons rising and setting, Medical Mechanica, and I, are at your disposal." The Head greeted, extending the same forearm grasp and performing the same bow as before.

"And you will be held to it! Come…" Father Brown opened the door to the first of many rooms. This one was a council chamber, and already populated with other highest-ranking Priests. "There is much to discuss, and we have many questions to ask. My Son…" Father Brown addressed the Monk who had lead The Head to this point. "Await your guest's return here."

"Yes, Father Brown." The Monk closed the door behind Father Brown and The Head. He assumed a post next to the door, closed his eyes and began meditating; witnessed only by the thrumming army of computers, and a hall awash with the Priest's personal Sea of Knowledge.

. . .

If yah asked me, I know you probably weren't gonna, but here's my two-cents anyway, that day was when things really took a dip down the chart. Sure, sure, I've sai things to this effect before, and Haruko's arrival was bad, but that was a typical Rust Belt pothole; that was in July. This was August, and we were taking casualties. Ten men had passed outright, and then one of Mr. Pike's with kidney failure didn't make it. I had known people were going to die from the get-go, there was no avoiding getting around that. I also knew that Overwatch was going to shoulder the brunt of the blame. We were supposed to be on top of this kind of thing. We had brought these workers, and their families too, into a direct line of fire; of course that's compared to the delayed inevitable of a Medical Mechanica takeover. Fight now and maybe die, or do nothing and after living slightly longer, surely die. Pick and choose.

Tommy, George and I had been out in the hinterlands of Mr. Solomon's Mines, working with a delegation of his men and others from the rest of the companies. Most in this group were veterans of the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and some even the new fight against ISIS. They, and their fellow veterans from other companies, were to help us, Overwatch, train the other miners and drillers with lesser or no combat experience. Since they were of a fighting background, many had a lot of their own equipment and were dusting things off. That's where I found myself when Naota called in. I don't think he fully bought the whole 'bulldozer backfiring' excuse, but it was the best lie I could come up with on the spot. What I was really worried about was not my lack of bullshitting prowess. Rather, it was a side-effect of Clyde's. That was the second call I got, right after Naota's. That side-effect had flared up in a nasty rash that was really starting to itch, and had unfortunately manifested itself at Mr. Voyze's.

Tommy pulled into the main depot of Mr. Voyze's mine. A mob had already formed and boy were they some kind of pissed.

"Looks like we got here just in time." I recognized the surrounded building as the mess hall. Coal-dusted and jumpsuited miners were working themselves into a frothy-mouthed frenzy and had started howling for blood.

"We may be too late." Tommy predicted. A body was ejected from the crowd, flailing and wind-milling its limbs before crashing back down onto the rocky yard. It was a member of the mess hall's kitchen staff. He was rail-thin with a stained apron, Croc shoes slipping off his feet (lots of food-prep types and chefs wear them) and had blood flowing from a smashed in nose, flanked by two blackened eyes. He cried out after bouncing off the stones, and I could see he was missing at least three teeth.

"The fuck's going on here?!" Now Mr. Voyze himself was drawn to the scene. He burst from his office, stomping through the mud and puddles, white hair plastered to his head in the sifting mist. "Is this a knitting circle or some…what're YOU doing here?!" He accosted his miners first, then spotted the man on the ground. My focus and worry was more on Mr. Voyze's gait. It wasn't right. He was making short strides on his left leg, and holding his left arm tight to his side, pinning his windbreaker in place.

"G-G-George…" I tapped him on the shoulder, trying to avoid a worse scene. This one was ugly as it was. "G-gu-gun…"

"I see it. Tommy, move!" George and Tommy picked up on it and we three took action. Tommy went between the crowd and the cook, George latched onto Mr. Voyze's arm. I, how I drew this straw I don't know, wound up between Mr. Voyze and the cook.

"Voyze, what're you doing?" George was whispering but I was close enough to hear. "It'd better not be what I think it is."

"Lemme go Carson. That fuck-face over there's killed ten of my guys. That's nine widows and seventeen kids with no husband or father. Now get outta my way."

"You know goddamn well that's not happening. Thomas, Jeff, or I are the ones who get to make that call. We are not having this wanna-be Punisher bullshit. You have more influence over these men than we do, you've gotta be the voice of reason here."

"But they caught him putting…"

"I don't care if they caught him pissin' in God's punch-bowl. If you shoot him, we'll never find out who put him up to it…and then MORE people will die."

"…Fuck it. Fine." Mr. Voyze relented, and his hand came out of his coat pocket empty. "Alright, back it up!" He ordered his men. "That's enough from you, back it up!"

"But, Mr. Voyze…"

"Don't you 'But Mr. Voyze' me Miller! I said, back…up."

"Okay Matchstick-Man, spill it." Tommy stood over the cook. He was sitting in a curled ball, shielding his face from potential blows. "What were you doin' you wasn't s'posed to be doin'?"

"N-nothin'…nothin'!" He whimpered, peeking up at Tommy. "I, I…*hic* didn't do anything!"

"Then why in the blazes fuck are we all here?!" Tommy scolded, gesturing at everyone. "It's not because you put too much pepper in their chili. What did you do?!"

"We caught him with these." One of the miners tossed Tommy a mason jar of what looked like cherry tomatoes; at first glance. "He was putting those into the stew on the buffet line."

"Rig, think fast." Tommy lobbed the jar to me. I cracked it open, immediately seeing they weren't tomatoes. They were various shades from green to dark pink, all with a hard pin point on one end, and the socket of where they'd attached to their host on the other. I cut one in half with my knife and held it to my nose, getting just the smallest whiff. As soon as those fumes touched my nostrils, my sinuses caught fire and it took several hard sneezes to clear them out. "Well?"

"It's…ha-ha-ha…HAH-CHOOO! It's, sniff, it's Jack-in-the-Pulpit!"

"Nothin', huh?!" Tommy roared, scaring the cook into rolling sideways. He started to crawl away from everyone, towards the parking lot. "Jack-in-the-Pulpit?! I outta force-feed you the whole jar. Where'd you get it?"

"I don't know! I didn't know it was poison! Please…don't hurt me anymore!"

"C'mon man, don't make me be a jackass…" Tommy sighed, hooking a boot under the cook to flip him over. "This day is already bad enough for you, me, and everyone else. Don't try to make it worse."

"I swear, I swear! I just, found them, like right there! I, I didn't know!" The cook's eyes were darting around, flitting between Tommy, the miners, me, Mr. Voyze, Tommy, George, then the miners again. "You, you believe me, Mister Voyze? Look what the other guys did to me!" There were no words from Mr. Voyze.

"I can't take this anywhere; not right here anyway." Tommy was losing his patience, but with our audience, there wasn't much he could do. The whole scene was terribly surreal, I wasn't sure how something this new to me should be processed. To my let, a seething glare from Mr. Voyze and unease from George. To my front, Tommy's exasperation, and on the ground petrified, paralytic terror. And to my right, a wall of vengeful, furious anger.

"Voyze, I didn't get up this morning to be a Gestapo officer." George said. "What do you wanna do, do you wanna call the cops?"

"…No…" Mr. Voyze made his way over to the cook. "Conwell…you're fired. Immediately. Get your maggot sopping ass away from my mine. If ANY of us catch you, we're gonna put you in a rock crusher feet first." The cook, Conwell, trembled as he stood, a frail leaf in Mr. Voyze's whirlwind.

"S-sir…I, I don't…" Conwell began to stammer some sort of apology.

"Hey! You heard the man!" Someone ordered…holy shit, was that me? "Get the fuck on outta here 'fore we throw you out!" At my outburst, I had to blow off some of the pressure I'd been feeling the whole time, Conwell found his feet. He jumped into his car, dug two holes in the mud and threw up two roostertails in hauling himself out through the front gate.

"Rig!" Tommy barked, not taking his eyes off the fleeing car. "Hop to!"

"I'm on it." I ran to Tommy's truck, let down the tailgate, and dragged the Ought-Too from the tarp we'd hidden it under. I started up and gave chase. If this Conwell was following the Generic Henchman Handbook, he was surely calling Clyde, or was making a beeline right for him. Hopefully, this henchman's screw-up could help us put the kibosh on Clyde's game. I wasn't even really concerned with catching Clyde with a barrel full of Jack-in-the-Pulpit berries, or a bushel of Suicide Tree fruits. I just wanted to make sure people stopped getting hurt.

. . .

"Oh fuck, of fuck yes! Oh FUCK YES! That's right, take it you fuckin' bitch! You love it, don't you, fuckin' slut?! Disgusting, slutty trash!" Clyde grunted, sweat beading across his brow, flushed veins pounding. This was incredible, such a depraved whore, all to himself in her pathetic, lusty abandon. Her flesh reddened as flails snapped and hands slapped, wild screams and moans were muffled by a tightly cinched gag, breasts heaved and passion grew as Clyde readily drank it all in, sucking down every…single…eyeful. The pace quickened, Clyde's breath shortened to gulping rasps, she was just as close as he was…almost! This was it! Almost! Almost!...

FIRE UP THAT LOUD! ANOTHER ROUND OF SHOTS!...TURN DOWN FOR WHAT?!

Clyde's phone rang, killing the mood instantly in a blast of Lil' Jon. Swearing, he paused the video and bookmarked it for later, took off his headphones, and answered.

"This had better be fuckin' important!"

"Oh Christ, oh Christ, they were gonna kill me, I just know it! I'm screwed, so-so-so screwed…"

"Whoa, whoa! Who's this?"

"It…it's me. Conwell."

"Didn't I tell you to never call me?" Clyde slumped in his chair, bringing up his email as the notification alarm chimed. Another subscription notice. Didn't he already pay for the Premium Unlimited membership? Fuckin' Brazzers…

"L-look, I know, but things've kinda, sorta gone sideways, and I need to meet up. Are you home?"

"Like hell you're coming to my house." Clyde thought he'd made it abundantly clear he didn't want anyone remotely involved with Carl, or his…associates, hanging around. "I'll meet you at the McDonalds, fifteen minutes. You're lucky I'm hungry anyway, or I wouldn't bother."

"Okay, okay. I'll be there!" Conwell promised and Clyde killed the call. What a day. He just wanted to get one good afternoon wank in without one of Carl's shit-for-brains friends calling him to hold their hand. And now this…cripes. Well, everything downstairs had been fed, watered and their lights adjusted, so it wasn't like he had anything else to do anyway. Grumbling and cursing Conwell's name, family, car, dog, girlfriend, and even his stupid haircut, Clyde pulled up his shorts, jammed his feet into his shoes and headed for the door. His computer was busy torrenting the latest season of "Oni ChiChi: Un-cut and Uncensored", so he would just leave it to run. Hopefully it would be finished when he got back.

"And it's raining again…could it not, just once?" He whined and locked the trailer door. As he got into his car, his initial anger at Conwell subsided and was replaced with worry. What was Conwell so upset about he'd risk calling? Why did he sound so panicked? Could someone have blown his cover, the operation itself? Did one of Cole's fellow Patrolmen break ranks, was there a mole, a traitor, someone sabotaging their sabotage? Clyde felt the worry now become a panic attack coupled with a yawning pit in his gut as ever worsening scenarios appeared to him. An overwhelming urge to sate his unease with edible comfort manifested. From his well-stocked center console, he extracted a snack cake, tore the wrapper with his teeth and swallowed the cake in two bites. Peace, a bud of warmth as his stomach began processing the cake…and he was okay. For now. Nervous breakdown: averted. He pulled onto the main road and began navigating Philipsburg's many one-way streets.

Everything had been going so well. He thought of the news reports, the hospitalizations, the horrible, weakened states that strong, virile men had been reduced to…and felt his spirits lighten a little. He recalled the state of worry in town as people wondered if the main water supply would be targeted, or the stores or restaurants, and his attitude turned a slighter shade towards sunny. Perhaps he was overreacting, this was nothing. Needless worry on his part. Either way, he wasn't too concerned now that he had calmed down. If it was nothing, he cut Conwell loose and life went on. If it was something, he'd send Conwell packing to the Moshannon Valley Correctional Center, for Cole's amusement; and life would go on. And, as his stomach rumbled and clamored for something more filling than cake, it was actually a real treat for Clyde. Getting to torment someone in person was always better than any video on the internet.

. . .

Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…Bvvvvv…

"Yyyyy'eelllloo! This's the one, the only, Galaxy-wide renowned Haruko Haruhara! To what do I owe the…"

"Don' be tryin' my patience woman!" A vaguely Rig-like sounding demon commanded through the phone. "Where's Naota?!"

"Here." Naota tucked his phone between his cheek and shoulder. "We're just about to call you, Clyde's on the move; in a ninety-eight Grand Prix. He's in a hurry too."

"Not surprised. Put me on speaker." Rig must have been on the move too. Naota could hear whistling wind and the Ought-Too's growling in the background.

"You're on."

"'Kay you two. Clyde, despite what your first impressions may indicate, is not on his way to volunteer at the Salvation Army. He's most likely meetin' with another guy named Conwell; former cook of Mister Voyze's."

"Former? Meaning…?" Haruko picked up the choice of words.

"Jest fired a few minutes ago. He may be…" There was a screeching of tires, a blaring horn, and someone shouting 'Goddamn hooligan!'

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh…jest lost one of my nine lives. I'm okay. Anyway, Conwell's a real string-bean of a guy, sandy hair, kinda meth-y looking, wearing an apron and Crocs. He'll be real easy to find, got a busted nose and two black eyes. Now, I'll bet a can of Copenhagen he's goin' straight for Clyde. We need their conversation observed and recorded."

"Can do. Anything we need to know going in?" Clyde had pulled off into the McDonald's parking lot. Naota followed, parking across the lot near Sarina's; the same spot where Craig had held stakeout.

"Besides don't get seen or caught? Well…there's two things…"

"What's that?" A dinged and muddy sedan pulled up and the driver ran into the restaurant. He had a balled-up apron in his hand.

"Clyde's known to be ah right cruel bastard…and you're gonna see him eat." Rig gave them his warnings. "Best of luck, call me when it's over."

. . .

Originally, I had planned to meet with Naota and Haruko when Conwell arrived at Clyde's. But when they told me Clyde was on the move, I had an idea. It was something that could get me in serious trouble. Overwatch has rules for a reason, same's any other organization. I was still on shaky ground after my handling of Haruko's arrival, and this would be a blatant no-no. I thought about calling George or Tommy, but there wasn't time. I believed they would understand with the circumstances considered. There had nearly been an extrajudicial lynching, people we were responsible for had been poisoned, and those un-poisoned were getting scared. Already trust in their fellow workers was fracturing. This was, I think, Clyde's main goal: demoralize and split our forces with infighting and witch hunts for traitors and infiltrators in our ranks. Ten killed, now eleven, was eleven too many, and if this wasn't nipped in the bud, many more would follow. Not necessarily by poison though.

For once, I was glad it was raining. Everyone in Water Street Mobile Homes was inside and out of the weather. That meant no prying or even inadvertent eyes were on me as I circled Clyde's trailer. I hid the Ought-Too behind a small shed at the end of his driveway; covering it with my poncho. One, to conceal it. Two, to keep it dry. You don't want to jump ass and crotch first onto a soaked dirt bike. With another once-over, the neighborhood was clear. There were no signs of Clyde, Conwell, their cars, or that famous G&R Ford toolbox truck. Still, this had to be done quickly.

From one of the Ought-Too's toolboxes, I fetched two wide-bladed flat screwdrivers and a rag. The rag was to reduce the amount and size of marks I was about to make. Clyde's trailer door, built of cheap tin sheet, boasted only one lock on the handle. It was obviously not set well in the frame with any precision. In fact, when I grabbed the door handle, I could shift the door an inch left or right in its frame. Perfect.

The first screwdriver was jammed between the door and its frame, the rag between the frame and the screwdriver. With my left hand, I levered the door away from the lock side of the frame, exposing the bolt. With the second screwdriver, I began pushing the bolt back into the door; while still leaning on the first screwdriver. A little more…a little more…Cr-Crack! The lock's bolt popped back and the door swung open. Sure, I could've picked the lock instead of forcing the door, but this method was preferable in the interest of time; if not as sophisticated. Now that I was inside, I closed and latched the door behind me. I assumed I had no more than ten minutes. I'd have to be efficient.

. . .

McDonalds was experiencing unusually slow traffic for late afternoon, so picking Conwell and Clyde out from the tiny crowd was easy. A dividing wall split the seating area, and the man obviously Conwell sat by himself on one side. He had no food, only a small cup of water and a wad of napkins he used to dab at his crooked, swollen nose. Clyde was in line to order. Naota and Haruko secured a booth on the other side of the wall, doing their utmost to avoid the eyes of either subject. Through small, decorative holes cut into the wall, Naota could see Clyde's back. Okay, all was going well. He opened his phone and brought up the audio recording tool. All he would have to do would be press 'Record.'

"I'll be right back." Haruko announced and got up from the table. Assuming she had to use the restroom, they had been in the truck since noon, he only said 'Uh-huh' and kept watching Clyde.

'What the hell's she doing?!' His blood pressure spiked through the roof as Haruko stepped into line at the next register. While Naota's body locked up in disbelieving panic, Haruko read the menu, shifting her hips from side-to-side; most surely humming one of her favorite songs. 'Is she nuts? Okay, stupid question. What, what do I do? What can I do? Dammit, does she have ANY common sense?' And then, when he thought he couldn't get any more worked up, Clyde saw her. After giving her entire form three look-overs, longingly and lecherously (so Naota thought) Clyde began licking his lips.

Annoyance at Haruko's flippant attitude bled into…what was this…jealousy? Whatever it was, it cruelly needled at Naota's patience. He wasn't really jealous for her, it was that disgusting, leering grin that made him want to borrow the wrench Rig had fought the Scorpion with, and use it to smack Clyde full across the face. She wasn't in her Bunny uniform by any means, just a jumpsuit with the top half down and tied at the waist, a sleeveless G&R shirt and hat, with a pair of blacked-out welding goggles on top, and a pair of steel-toes at the bottom. So…not runway fashion. But how Clyde looked at her just made his blood boil. This wasn't Craig's wink of playful flirtation. Clyde was a grunting, snuffling and drooling bear eyeballing a rabbit like it was his next meal. While this "rabbit" was more of a Nittany Lion that could tie Clyde into knots, that didn't serve to make Naota feel any less furious about the whole affair.

Finally Haruko returned with a small bag and two pops. Clyde was still in line. His order must have been much larger than Haruko's, and Naota remembered the second half of Rig's warning.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He hissed, leaned over the table so she could hear. "Did you not hear Rig tell us to avoid being seen?"
"Oh, will you, just quit?" She sighed, digging into the bag. "My G&R logos are all covered with grease, and my hat is covered by my goggles. He didn't see the logos, so don't worry."

"But how many other women with pink hair have you seen around here? You kinda stick out. And, didn't you see how he was looking at you?"

"You saw that?" She stopped rummaging in the bag. "Naota…you're…you're not…jealous, of me, are you?" She asked in that husky tone, jittering his spine and reddening his ears.

"…No. It was, just really creepy. He was looking at you like he was going to eat you."

"Hmmm…if you say so…jealousy, so Un-Naota like." She quietly laughed and tossed him two paper-wrapped burgers, set aside two of her own, and slid over one of the pops.

"What's this?" Was she, had she actually done something nice for him? Stranger days and stranger times.

"It's dinner, since we may not get another chance. Here he comes, shut up and eat." She ordered and before eating, he started the phone recording. Clyde sat down with a heavy 'ooof' and clatter of a laden tray.

"Hey, fingers off!" Clyde barked and Naota heard Conwell jump back in his seat.

"S-sorry, I thought, well, that's just…Y'know, a lot of food an' all…" Conwell tried to justify reaching for one of Clyde's burgers.

"Fuck outta here, me buying you food." Clyde said and began working on his food. Through a hole, Naota could see two large fries, two chicken sandwiches, two double-burgers, two ten-piece boxes of nuggets, a small stack of the miniature apple and cherry pies, a large pop, and what looked like a large milkshake; and Clyde was already eating something else besides all that. "Crunch-schmutchhh-growwnmmm…Shko, whatsch the rea-shown for…haa-ommm…yew callin' me?" Clyde asked as he chomped, chewed and inhaled his first burger. "I shee yer face-shh's all fucked up. OM…sh's'pecially yer noshe."

"Yeah, it, uh, it is." Conwell stammered, nervously tapping his now empty cup on the table. "I don't think the break's too bad. It was a light punch, more've a pop really…"

"Here, lemme see…" Clyde said. There was a stomach puckering CR-ACK! And Conwell moaning through tightly gritted teeth. Clyde had set Conwell's broken nose. "There, all better."

"You could've warned me."

"Hey, 'least I don't have to look at that crooked beak of yours. So, what happened?"

"O, okay. So, I did the first jar like you'd told me to, right? But, I think you got something wrong, b-because, well, ten guys got really, like really sick; and this morning there was talk they'd died. But, I was already doing the second jar, just this afternoon, right before I called; truly was!"

"And you got caught?"

"Well, look at me! They beat the tar outta me Clyde! You set my nose, but I'm missing five teeth; I've got a wad of napkins in my mouth right now. See?"

"Uhg, put that mess away, I'm eatin' here." Conwell must have opened his mouth and showed Clyde the empty sockets of two missing molars, a premolar, a canine and an incisor. "Important thing I wanna know ish…ooammm…did you finith the job?"

"C-Clyde, I don't mean to, to change, y'know, change topics, but…you do see me, right? I can't go home like this. My mom, my girl, they'll throw a fit. That and my one eye's kinda blurry too…I think I should see a doctor or something."

"Is that a yes, or a no? Just spare me the whining and say no. God, you are pathetic." Clyde shifted his bulk, creaking the seat, and continued eating.

"Ssssorrry.."

"Oh, don't be fuckin' sorry. You have any idea how hard it is, how long it takes, to breed, seed and grow a Jack-in-the-Pulpit that's as deadly as the ones I gave you? Ten times as lethal they were, and you obviously don't know how much fucking work went into them, because you pissed them away by being so damn stupid. Where does Carl find you dumbasses, that can't be trusted to do one simple thing?"

"Look, Clyde, I know I, I know I screwed up…but there's something you outta know, or at least your cop brother." Conwell's voice dropped to a whisper, Naota hoped his phone would pick it up, especially when it cause Clyde to stop eating.

"What…is it?"

"When I got beat up, there were these three guys that showed up. I don't believe they're cops, but they got 'tween me, the other guys, and Mister Voyze, and got 'em to back off me. Maybe something for you to look at, I mean, I dunno, it was just, weird. I mean, I'm glad they showed up an' all. But it was strange…"

"What was?"

"How those three guys acted. They were kinda, like, interrogating me? I say kinda because they went easy, and let me go. But it was weird, they were more like…detectives, instead of just some bystanders."

"What did they look like?" Naota could see Clyde had put his burger down. His attention had been fully captured.

"Welllll…I didn't look too much at all of 'em. There was one I got a real good look at. He was, he was 'bout…thirty, I'd say. Kinda-tall, ish? Had a heavy five o'clock shadow, this neon green shirt…oh! He had this real big wallet chain too!"

"Did you catch a name?"

"Uhmmm…Terry…Tim, Timothy…Terrence…T…T-uhmm…Tom…Tommy!"

"Ee-ack! Hack-hack-hack! Uhgg, hack! WHO?" Clyde had choked on a swig of his pop. "Thirty, about five-ten, five o'clock, wallet chain, neon green shirt, and…Tommy?"

"Uh-huh?"

"The other two. One was an older guy, sixty-ish, white hair, really shiny teeth, glasses?"

"Hmmm…yyyeaaahhh. That's right." This could not be good. Naota didn't consider himself a detective or spy of any high degree. But he'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind to know this could not be good.

"Last one was younger. Sixteen. 'Bout five-ten, wiry build, maybe some fuzz on his face, probably wore really tall boots?"

"Motocross boots by the looks of 'em I'd say, yeah."

"And did all three have really curly hair?"

"Yah know, th-they all did. Really, uh, stuck out in the back, from under their hats. Do, do you know 'em?"

"Sunova bitch…son…of…a…bitch." Naota could just hear Clyde muttering. He double-checked to make sure the phone was still working.

"H-hey Clyde? Not to be a drag, but, either way, my face's still messed up. That 'n', I didn't really sign on for killing people. I mean, I worked with the guys, and they were okay, y'know? I just, I just thought the stuff you gave me was gonna give 'em the runs or something. I didn't want to be killing anybody."

"What're you tryin' to say…something you want, or what? Look, Carl and I hired you to follow directions, get bothered by your conscience."

"I'm really, really, really sorry, but I can't do this anymore. It's, it's, it's too, just too much. I don't get your beef with these guys. I'm sure there's a reason, maybe even a good one, but I'm done. And I can't go to jail or anything, my girl's gonna be starting her senior year of high school and is already a month along, and I wanna do right y'know, and be there and stuff, but, but if I'm in a jail cell…"

"Then why did you even take my offer if you know you've got a kid coming? Are you as dumb as your pull-out game is weak?"

"'Cause you said you'd pay really well, and like I said, I didn' think, well I guess I should've asked some more questions…"

"Yah think?" Clyde heaved a wheezing sigh. "So, again. Is there a point you're trying to get at here besides the fact you've got cold feet on me and are reneging?"

"W-well, I was hoping for, y'know, the, the-uhm, rest of the money. S-seein's I'm unemployed now, 'fore Mister Voyze'd have paid to get my teeth fixed. I don't really have much money to start with, we've been saving for the baby, which's why I agreed to the job, and like I said, I can't go home like this. Oh, why didn't you tell me that stuff was lethal?"

"You never asked. I thought you knew."

"If I'd known, we wouldn't be sitting here. I'm not a killer, well, I guess I…just, I never wanted this. Oh God please help me…"

"Okay, now you're starting to ruin my appetite." Clyde's pop cup clacked down on the table. Through one of the decorative holes, Naota caught a glimpse of Clyde's face. He didn't appear too off his meal, now shoveling handfuls of fries into a wood chipper maw; its lips, wiggling chins and chipmunk cheeks smeared with mustard, ketchup and a greasy fry oil sheen. "You ain't getting so much's a penny from me. I don't pay welchers."

"C'mon, please! I'm beggin' yah Clyde!" Naota couldn't see Conwell, but if he had to guess, he'd say the man was on the verge of crying. "I've got rent, car payments on that P.O.S. that're more than it's worth, I'm two months behind on my credit card…"

"You want it that bad? You're really beggin' me? Okay…" Naota heard Clyde's skeezy chuckling, followed by a series of hiccuping burps. "Okay, then get on the floor and beg for it good 'n' proper."

"W-what?" Naota felt his stomach tighten as Conwell grasped what Clyde demanded of him. He looked across the table to see Haruko didn't appear too pleased either. Her brow was furrowed, and mouth drawn into a tight frown. Although she couldn't see through the wall, she was starting where Clyde's voice was coming from, with a disgusted wrinkle to her nose. "On the floor?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? I like a good show. Go on, I've got all day. We'll keep at this until you get it right."

"Oooo…kay…" Conwell's seat creaked as he slid off and placed his hands and knees on the tile. "Clyde…could, could you please pay me the rest of the money?"

"OH…puh-leaze! You can do much better than that!" Clyde chortled. "Here, repeat after me: My name is Conwell."

"M-my name is Conwell…"

"Louder, let's everyone hear it! Hey everyone! Conwell's got something to say!" Clyde called on the entire patronage to listen in. "My name is…"

"…My…My name is Conwell."

"And I like to diddle cute, little, nubile high school girls!"

"Oh fuck no, this's too much…"

"Do it for your kid…for your girlfriend. Or maybe I'll just call Cole right now."

"And I like to diddle cute, little, nubile high school girls!"

"They sure do love my itty-bitty needle-dick, yes sir!...Well, go on."

"They sure do love my itty-bitty needle-dick, yes sir!" Now people were visibly uncomfortable. Some were doing their best to ignore the depraved 'Simon Says', some had taken their food outside or left. One had even gotten his phone out and was filming the spectacle. Naota knew getting his blood pressure this high, this often, wasn't good for him, but he raged against himself and everyone else in the building. For his life, he couldn't say a word. But was NO ONE going to say anything?! Were they just going to pretend this wasn't happening and hope it went away on its own? And Clyde still wasn't done.

"But what I really love most is being Clyde's Butt-Boy!"

"What? Oh come on…"

"Ahem!"

"But what I really love most is being Clyde's Butt-Boy!"

"Oh my goodness Conwell, we're in public!" Clyde giggled in feigned embarrassment. Naota caught another glimpse of his face, and forever regretted it. Clyde looked like some feral, starving beast, normally squinted eyes wide in his excitement. There was a light, a glow to them, but it had none of a Carson's adventure, cleverness, or friendly mystery. This light was merely the reflection of light off black holes, empty tunnels devoid of life and soul; just greedy blackness swallowing brightness. When not talking, his tongue ran continuously over his lips and teeth, breaths coming in a mix of deep growls and nasal sniffs when he jammed a bit more food into his face. Muscles in his cheeks and lips twitched and jumped, trying to hide a gloating smile and contain mouthfuls of food at the same time. His eyes not only kept a watch on Conwell, but darted around to the other customers to make sure they were watching. He wanted everyone to see, to listen to him belittle and humiliate someone obviously at his mercy, making Conwell say whatever sick fantasies popped into his head. Maybe, Naota thought, if he could get one of the fry oil vats, he could pour it boiling hot down Clyde's throat…that might shut him up.

"Clyde is training me to be his pet Butt-Boy, all day, every day."

"Clyde is training me to be his pet Butt-Boy, all day, every day."

"And my favorite part is when Clyde puts…" Clyde ratcheted his game up a notch, but was denied the satisfaction of finishing his next sentence. Someone had finally gotten the manager.

"HEY! What's going on here?!" The manager came stomping from around the counter, and must have recognized Clyde. "KAUFFMAN. Didn't I ban you already?!"

"This's none of your business Rick, so back the fuck out!"

"Like hell I will! This's my restaurant, so it IS my business. Now waddle your cottage cheese ass outta here before I kick it out!" Rick threatened, his baritone voice filling every corner of the restaurant.

"Whoa, hey…hey, whoa. Let's, let's just cooool our jets here Rick." Either Naota's ears had just broken somehow, or Clyde was pulling a full one-eighty in attitude. "I was just, you know. We were having some fun, Conwell and I. It's just a prank, just a prank bro!" Naota risked a look through a hole in the wall. Clyde's face had also flipped. His head was burrowed down into his shoulders, eyes narrowed and dark again, mouth pursed into a fidgeting frown, and oil-speckled lips stuck defiantly out in a hog-like pout.

"I'm giving you one warning. Get your bitch-ass on the move ricky-tick, or I'm gonna have some pranks with you!" Rick gave Clyde a moment's pause to begin complying. "NOW."

"Fuck you, you can't make…OWWW-OWW-OWWW-OWWW!" With Clyde's bleating and the sound of struggling bodies, Naota had to lean around the wall to see. Rick, a short yet powerfully built man that looked like he wrestled bears for fun, had dragged Clyde from his seat, then twisted his right arm behind his back to where his palm almost was on his own shoulder, and was marching him to the door. Rick used Clyde to push the door open, then with a mighty heave, ejected him face-first in an arc over the drive-through lane and into the parking lot.

"And stay out! You wanna cause trouble, start that shit over at Burger King!"

"Cole's gonna hear about this!" Clyde blubbered as he got up to a knee and stopped to gasp for air. "And Carl and Caleb too!"

"Blow it out your ear and see if I care!" Rick took a heavy step towards Clyde, fists raised. Clyde, moving faster than Naota had ever seen or thought possible, scrambled for his car. "What a paper tiger…strong to the weak, weak to the strong…" Rick muttered as he closed the door. "Hey, it's Conwell, right? Are you okay? Let me look at your eye…"

"Naota, time to go." Haruko jostled him from his surreal daze. Did that just really transpire, the sudden turning of the tables? Had Clyde gone from a sneering tyrant to a sniveling coward in the same breath because of a McDonald's manager? How someone that nasty for crudeness' sake could just fold… "Yo! Look alive!"

"Yeah, sorry." He tossed his trash as they left, and turned back to see Rick sitting with a huddled over and shamelessly bawling Conwell. "Do you think we should…I dunno, do, say something?"

"No time, and not our job anyway." They got into the truck and followed Clyde onto the main road. He was headed back into town, passing to the right of the town's guardian: an M4 Sherman tank at the Veteran's Memorial. "Why? You don't actually feel sorry for that guy?"

"I kinda do, kinda don't. Sure, he royally and totally screwed up; but he didn't know or really mean what he was doing. I can only imagine what's going through his head, having a kid must have really messed with what he is and isn't willing to do. Desperate people do desperate things, you know? What really bugs me is that nobody said anything; until Clyde took it way, WAY too far. What does it take to get someone off their ass and say 'enough is enough'? Do they just not care or what?"

. . .

"Y'know, it's funny you mention that." Haruko quietly said, listening to Naota blow off shaky nerves. "Those're the kind of people Medical Mechanica like to see in a planet. Ones that won't stand up for even little things, people that don't say anything."

"You mean, like, passive types? I guess that makes sense. Would make it easier to take over…"

"That's for sure." She was remembering a place that felt like a lifetime ago, and light years removed.

"But still! No one has even the slightest empathy for that Conwell guy, at all?" Hmmm…empathy. That word stirred something in her mind. It was bitter, unpleasant, and terribly sad.

"Naota, be careful with that word." She warned. They had stopped at a light, so he could look over at her.

"Why's that?"

"Because. An excess of empathy is a sin, and a crime. Don't sympathize with people who'll hurt you for money, for sport, or because it gets them off. Some people are only asking you to help them up, so they can get you in their striking range. And, if you're really that desperate for some moral feel-goody, self-congratulation, you deserve every, single, knife you get stuck with."

"W-ow." Naota blinked several times, stunned as he digested her words. "That's really…dark. Really, really dark. Where'd that come from?"

"Nowhere. I'm just pissed off is all." Half of that was true. "It just, it bugs me that you're so quick to feel sorry for that guy, Conwell. He's a stupid schmuck with poor judgement, that did some really stupid shit, that is gonna have a kid, another stupid schmuck with poor judgement that'll do more stupid shit, and have stupid kids of its own. Then, before you know it, your planet will be completely full of Conwell's; full of under-evolved, mouth-breathing morons. And you are gullible enough to feel sorry for, and try to empathize with them, when they're the reason Medical Mechanica is doing so well, because they're counting on planets being full of stupid, mouth-breathing idiots, too fascinated with pointless bullshit to realize their brains have already been Ironed." She finished her miniature rant, a pent up piece of bile she'd been letting fester for years. Immediately she began cursing herself for letting that blurb slip out. Where did it come from, was she losing her edge? Did Clyde's display at the restaurant get to her…no, that wasn't it; she'd seen and been part of much worse. Maybe she'd been hanging around with Natoa too much. There was always the danger of getting too comfortable with someone. Hopefully, he wouldn't read too far into her words.

"Alright, that does it. You're banned from McDonalds too."

"What?! Why's that? And aren't you listening to me?"

"I am listening, but there's not much I can really do about it; right now anyway. And you're banned because their food seems to make you grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual."

"Hey, you started it; with your empty-headed, feels-train bound for Conwell-town."

"Well, that's part of being human, being able to sympathize and understand where someone's coming from. It's how we get along, sometimes. What, you wouldn't have any sympathy for a waylaid, fellow…uh…whatever you are, y'know, person from your home planet?"

"No, not really no." She was lying to both of them. Him because it was just habitual now, herself to feel just a little better. "I haven't felt sorry for anyone in a looonnnnngggg time." That part was true. It made things easier when you stopped caring.

"Damn Haruko…" Naota said as the light changed and he gave her one last, hard look. "What the hell happened to you?"

. . .

We're gonna take a short break from our regularly scheduled programming here on the Fooly-Cooly-Channel for a quick poll! In your opinion, did Clyde Kauffman's trailer look like A: an immaculate, orderly, O.C.D. wet dream…or B: a god-awful, fundament-oozing, dumpster behind that sketchy looking Ole' Country Buffet, disaster? If you chose A, you obviously haven't been payin' 'ttention at all; an' I don't like you, and you won't go far.

Holy Christ on a Cracker, the place was a mess. If that trailer wasn't a cry for help, I can't begin to fathom what is. Pyramids of pop and energy drink cans, mounds of trash bags and empty drink boxes, a moldy and fuming sink filled with dirty dishes, and all the other empty spaces cluttered top to bottom with the most random and useless collection of junk. To my front-right was the kitchen, a biohazard, quarantine zone. Left was a hallway that lead to the bedroom and bathroom, not really what I was looking for. Immediately right was the living room, and it was the most cluttered. In its center was a sagging couch, a TV surrounded by cables and video games, and behind the couch in the corner…a gaming PC battlestation. Target acquired.

By the combined powers of God, Allah, Buddha, Shiva, and even The Flying Spaghetti Monster lending a…noodle?...not only was the computer unlocked, it was actively running. I sat down and brought up Clyde's default browser. He wasn't using TOR; that was going to make this infinitely easier. I dialed Josh's personal number, if he wasn't near his station, his phone was always on him.

"Wazzz apppp?!" He answered in unusually good cheer. "We just got the Scorpion to walk five whole steps! Is that awesome or what?!"

"Coolest thing since canned beer. Hey, I have a device that needs stuck with an Ice Pick; and I need it done five minutes ago."

"Gimme a sec'." Happy Josh shifted to Business Josh and began booting his system. Since we'd gotten a copy of Craig's phone, I'd taken to carrying a portable hard drive with me; just in case yah know? If we could uncover the cops' surveillance network from a phone, who knew what else a Kauffman family electronic device might turn up. I plugged it into the tower and started a copy of everything Clyde had; from Admin files to that Pinball game. Now, before we get too deep into this, you're probably wondering what an Ice Pick is. Sit on down, we'll try to muddle through it together.

Ice Pick (Patent Pending) is an Earth-Overwatch developed tool we use to spy on, and take control of, computers . It was so named because ice picks are often used as stabbing weapons because they're incredibly sharp and leave a small, hard to detect wound. This version stabs computers, acting as a Malware S.T.D. for your computer; just without the rashes, creams or little comb. It can be sent in two ways. One is through a direct attack of sorts, kicking down the door so-to-speak. The second is the way most attacks are done: phishing. Send your target an email that appears to be a trusted source (Amazon, Ebay, Barnes and Noble, Grannies with Trannies dot com, whatever syncs up with your target) loaded with your handy-dandy Ice Pick, and hope they're dumb enough to click on it. That opens the malware file, letting it burrow into the computer and start running programs in the background. Your computer is always running something, even when you're just admiring it longingly and lovingly from across the living room. Ice Pick's first order of business is to shut down your anti-virus tools and block you from anti-virus websites for good measure. We don't want Mr. Mcafee gettin' any wise ideas…

Next, it will start running a keylogger. The idea of a keylogger is to get between an input on the keyboard and it being displayed on the monitor, and make a record of it. Ice Pick uses what's called a kernel driver keylogger, reading the inputs as they pass through all the filters needed to convert a physical keypunch to an electrical signal, down into a computer language signal, figure out where to send that signal, then reverse the process to display the input on your screen. So even if passwords and login information is character protected, those little dots or stars that show up instead of letters and numbers, we can still read everything being typed. Since it is a kernel driver keylogger, it looks just like the rest of your computer, and is thus much harder to detect and get rid of.

Last, it will start taking screenshots. At a minimum, it will do one every ten seconds if the user does anything or not. Ice Pick can also be configured to take screenshots on certain inputs, relying on its keylogger for that information. If you hit the 'Enter' key, screenshot. If you hit the Home Button, screenshot. Click on something with your left mouse button, screenshot. Right click to copy and paste? Screenshot. Tab button, screenshot. Shift, screenshot. Open a new tab in your browser, that's right, you guessed it: Screenshot. Stop and Hammer Time? Screenshot.

One more nice thing, depending on your views of nice I suppose, is that Ice Pick's similar to S.T.D.'s in another way; that it's a gift that keeps on giving. That's right, it's contagious. It can, and has been used to, infect other computers on its immediate network, or any that share an internet connection. Really, all an internet connection is, is just two computers sending and receiving information with each other. Ice Pick can attach itself to a packet and get sent out unknown to either users. These infected computers can be used to create a network of "zombie" computers, called a botnet. The most common use for a botnet is to act as a proxy, shielding your identity from other users. Botnets can also use their combined computers to execute DDOS attacks (Directed Denial of Service), a favorite weapon of those guys in the Guy Fawkes masks. So, that's Ice Pick in my layman's terms, I haven't had a chance to fully research it yet. But hey, not bad for the creators, the guys stationed at Overwatch's Romanian Office. Oh, those Romanians.

"Are you set up?"

"Yessir. Give me firing coordinates."

"Send standard message for a Gmail user to…oh come on…" Clyde must have been checking his email when Conwell called because he'd left that open as well; along with his active torrents. Huh, what's 'Oni Chi-Chi: Uncensored and Uncut?' Add that to the look-up list for later, I guess. "Send message to…goddamn it…to Boner-Slinger69, at Gmail dot com."

"Snnrkktt! Pfffft, what?!" Josh had probably seen worse. "I've seen worse, but that's still funny." See? "Now, before I send this…who does it belong to, and does George or Tommy know?"

"You already know who it belongs to, take a wild guess. The IP address is...twenty-three, one-ninety-three, twenty-two, forty-five."

"A Mister Clyde Ryan Kauffman, Number Six, Water Street Mobile Homes." Josh already had back-tracked the IP address I'd given him, and cross-referenced it with the one associated with Boner-Slinger69 (To this day, I still can't say it with a straight face.) "Actually, if you'll give me a second…" P-pip! The computer's webcam app popped up, with Josh's smug face and cigarette smoke filling its screen. "Hello-Oh shit, you're ACTUALLY there?!"

"How'd you get in?!" I hadn't given him any information besides Clyde's email and IP.

"Used Google's Gmail IP backtracking to find Clyde's email IP, and cross-referenced it with the one you gave me to nail down the location as Water Street. Then I went to Water Street's website, found their internet provider and looked up what server the company uses. Went to the server, drove a truck through the open ports Water Street has left open in their security, took remote access as administrator of the network, and used that to access all devices on the network. Water Street's only using Wi-Fi Protected Access security, which is god-awful, so a dictionary attack guessed their encryption key in about ten seconds. I'm currently looking at seventy-seven different devices, from smartphones to the desktop you're sitting at. So, so, so much porn right now, on most of them anyway. Question though, what the hell are you doing there?!"

"Josh, I ain't got time for this. Send it, or hell, just attach Ice Pick remotely." I had hung up my phone, no point in using it when Josh was right there on the webcam.

"You haven't told George or Tommy, have you?" He wasn't letting that go. "I dunno if I wanna be part of this. I've got enough black marks on my record already; especially after the Two-thousand-and-eight Blackout…"

"That was you?"

"Don't change the subject. Look, if George or Tommy haven't signed off…we can really end up in hot water. I can't just Ice Pick every computer we come across. The more a tool of ours gets used, the better look people can have at it and more they can learn to defend against it."

"Josh, eleven guys are dead because we didn't act fast enough!" I raged, unfairly at Josh. It wasn't his fault, it was his responsibility to make sure he had a commanding officer's authorization. While I technically outrank him, he was in perfect standing to not budge on his insistence George or Tommy signed off on this. "And more will follow unless we get this shut down now. I'll…I'll take full responsibility; if anything bad comes of this. But I only have maybe three minutes, at best." I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, it had to be Naota. Clyde was gonna be back any second and I still had to put everything perfectly back as it had been, wipe my prints, relock the door and get out of Water Street unseen.

"Ahhhggg…fuck me Rig, I still don't know…"

"Okay, how about this? What if Clyde's been communicating with City Hall, the Mayors, the County Clerk's Office, hell, even the Sheriff and State Patrol? We could use his computer as a springboard to access the rest of their networks."

"We are so gonna be court martialed for this…fuck it. Installing, and also sending through Gmail; just to make sure it takes." Josh looked down to type. "And…bam! You've been hit by, you've been struck by a smooth criminal…with an Ice Pick!" I knew Josh wouldn't be able to resist a chance to access our local government and police networks.

"Thanks a million Josh, I owe you ALL the beers." I put the computer back as I found it, rearranging the chair and used the rag from the door to wipe everything I'd touched.

"Pleasure's all mine. I'll be standing by for Ice Pick's first data packet. In the meantime, you'd better think of something funny, witty AND clever to say to George and Tommy."

"Will do, thanks again. See you at the shop." I said and Josh signed off, closing the webcam and severing his connection with Water Street's network. Now he was waiting for Ice Pick to start sending him screenshots and whatever other information he had told it to look for. I gave one last look around for anything blatantly illegal. No meth bubblin' on the stove, no bombs in the sink, no kilos of coke on the coffee table, and no RPG's or machine guns in the hallway. There was a bag of organic potting soil next to a hallway closet…very strange, but not illegal. I took a mental note of it just the same. If I had more time I'd have looked into it, but at least we'd gotten our foot in our enemy's door. It would have to do.

. . .

Folding down his newspaper, The Man in Black watched Clyde's car speed away. In the back corner booth he had heard the entire conversation between Clyde and Conwell, power trip and all.

'Such a…vile, young man. Feeding on pain like that.' The Man shook his head in disgust. Reaching under his sunglasses, he rubbed tired and frustrated eyes. 'But it's still too early to call, and he has executed orders flawlessly, and to the letter. Oh, what to do, what to do with you Clyde Kauffman?'

"Here's your food sir." The girl brought The Man's tray to his table. "Enjoy!"

"Thank you, I hope I will." The Man looked down at the single item on his tray. The menu called it a "Big Mac", and it came in a cardboard box; of all things. Very odd. Out of curiosity, The Man thought he'd order and try one. After all, Clyde had eaten two himself with great gusto, and it was the first on the menu; so it couldn't be that bad. He opened the little box and picked the burger up, giving it a suspicious examination. Seeing it looked fairly harmless, he brought it to his mouth and bit down. The Man in Black promptly gagged and nearly vomited. He threw the burger and its box away, and left McDonalds. Heading into town and looking for a bar, he resolved to stick to bourbon.

. . .

Clyde stopped just shy of the tool shed at the end of his driveway, stomping the brake pedal to the floor. For a moment, he just sat, fuming and filling with boiling rage. That fuckin', goddamn Rick! That nosy shit-stain couldn't mind his own business, the hell was his deal?! And SO WHAT if he'd been told to leave before? The mouth-breather on burger assembly apparently didn't understand the meaning of 'extra pickles and onions', and pointing that out surely didn't warrant a permanent ban. Okay, he may have raised his voice, a little more than appropriate…said a few, chosen, select words that had reduced the girl running the register to tears…what? Never heard of customer feedback?

Rick was going to get his alright, and everyone else at that McDonalds too! He swore it, cursed it, willed and grudged it, letting a writhing ball of biled up anger grow in his stomach; filling him more than any cake. Rick had humiliated him one time too many. Now it was a matter of how to do it…

In a foul mood, Clyde slammed his car door, jerked open his trailer's door, slammed it closed, and after getting an energy drink from the fridge, slammed it too for good measure. He stomped to his computer, the torrent was finished, so he saved the file and closed the client. He never bothered to seed his torrents; a waste of bandwidth. New email?

"Brazzers dot com…account management, urgent?" He clicked. "…We believe someone tried to illicitly access your account…click here to confirm your identity and account info…well shit, that's not good." He clicked the link and waited for it to load the page, only to get a "Broken Link" error. Huh. That's weird. He'd reset his Brazzers account info, but not before sending a scathing email to their management, berating them for not fixing their shitty automated links. But even before that, he had to provide Cole with an update. While he typed, unbeknownst to him, his computer had been stabbed with now two Ice Picks. With its defenses mortally wounded, it began bleeding a stream of precious information.

. . .

"Jesus, I know Clyde can be a real pain-monger sometimes, but this's ridiculous." Rig said as he listened to the recording from McDonalds. He had met with Naota and Haruko at the Centre Bearings parking lot; one of G&R's suppliers. The store was just down Water Street from the mobile home park, so they would know if Clyde tried to leave again during their meeting. Dusk was upon them now, and the coming dark hid their parking lot rendezvous. "But that pretty much seals it. He's definitely behind the poisonings."

"So what now?" Naota asked as Rig copied the sound file to his own phone to have a duplicate. "Do we go right now and have a sit-down like Craig? We don't really have much in ways of leverage, like Craig's girlfriends, but people are dying…so we can't do nothing."

"But we still don't know how Clyde's getting or making his poisons, getting them to his people, how many of them there are…" Haruko added, reminding everyone she had once upon a time been an officer of the G.S.P.B. Disavowed or not, he investigative training had not diminished. "There's no good in taking him down if there's still other guys out there like Conwell; they'd still be capable of doing damage."

"I'd had the same thought Mizz Haruko, great minds do think alike." Rig agreed. The copy complete, he disconnected and returned Naota's phone. Thinking and chewing at the tobacco plug in his lip, he spat and turned to Naota. "How do you wanna go 'bout this? You've been watching Clyde all this time; y'all might know him better'n I do now."

"Well, he mentioned how he was growing Jack-in-the-Pulpit, and the other ones he's been using are pretty exotic…" Naota thought over their newest batches of information. The bloodwork from that days poisonings had come back, and Rig had all the guilty parties transcribed in his notebook. His list of substances contained:

-Suicide Tree: A now repeat offender.

-Foxglove: Irregular heartbeat, digestive distress, heart failure.

-Poison Hemlock: Stomach pain and vomiting, slow yet steady paralysis of the nervous system; used to kill Socrates.

-Mountain Laurel: Found everywhere in Pennsylvania, causing swelling of the throat, vomiting, cardiac arrest, gastrointestinal hemorrhaging and ulcers.

-Rhododendron: Another Pennsylvanian native. While rarely fatal, it wreaks havoc with nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, and occasionally coma.

-Death Cap Mushrooms: The usual diarrhea and vomiting, but also hypotension and tachycardia in early stages. Later stages manifest as jaundice, liver and/or kidney failure, bleeding and/or swelling of the brain, and, of course, cardiac arrest.

-Currently Unknown: Caused dilated pupils, blurred vision, headaches, hallucinations (which explains why several of Monsieur Chartier's workers were convinced they were seeing dragons), delirium and convulsions.

"…So first, I'd say we figure out where he's getting this stuff, then how he gets it where it needs to go, and who those people are, and that'll be more than enough to go on."

"Hell man, it's like someone trained you how to do this." Rig kidded with a Carson Flash across his eyes, but in a blink it was gone. "So y'all gonna come home for tonight, what's the plan?"

"Since we haven't seen Clyde do much during the day, we're gonna stay out and see if he's nocturnal."

"Yep, it's just gonna be the two of us…" Haruko purred from her side of the truck. "Allll alone…allll night."

"Naota and Haruko, out parkin' in the late-late hours, nothin' 'tween 'em c'ept the night!" Rig leaned on the driver's door windowsill, giving them a smug cat-like grin. "Usin' work as an excuse, very clever Nao'. I'll have to use that idea someday…"

"Oh, shut up, both of you. And you!" He glared at Rig. "Don't be encouraging her!"

"Strong with the denial side of the force you are, Master Naota. Yes, yes! Mmmm-hmm-hmm!" Rig stood back from the truck's door before Naota could roll the window up on his head.

"In all seriousness please…"

"In all seriousness, that sounds perfect." Rig agreed, now straddling his Ought-Too and readying to leave. "Same as always though, be careful. If you see or find something really god, lemme know A.S.A.P. Remember, I'm like Schrodinger's cat. I'm both here, and everywhere."

"I'll keep it in mind." Naota promised, and wondered how exactly Rig could do that; be there, and still everywhere. Stranger things…

"Allll-righty then." K-Klack…KrahhUUHHMMMMmmmm…Rig kicked the Ought-Too to life. "See yah tomorrow!" He took off into the evening gloom, turning to use the train tracks that ran from Philipsburg, past Carson property at the foot of the mountain, and to Osceola Mills; Rig's personal backdoor way home. Naota took himself and Haruko back to the trailer park's office, this time using the dumpster to hide most of the truck. An electric blue glow of a computer screen flashed and flickered behind Clyde's shades, he was home alright. So began another round of watching, seeing, and waiting.

. . .

"Rig, if your Uncle finds out, you're dead meat man." Mike underscored the 'no-no' nature of how I'd gotten a copy of everything on Clyde's computer. Regardless of my methods, we were already finding many an interesting file on that external hard drive. First were the collections of toxicology and forensics textbooks. Second were guides on indoor growing of plants, hydroponics, heat lamps, soil rotation, fertilizers; enough to warrant the suspicion of your friendly, neighborhood D.E.A. office. Third were volumes on plant identification, herbology indices, and encyclopedias of deadly plants, and a guide to wild edibles and what to avoid as well. Most telling in my mind were the diagrams and drawings of mining and gaswell water supplies, how the drinking, showers and cleaning systems were all fed, plus designs of HVAC and air circulation systems. All were potential methods for dispersion of particulates. There was also all of the porn. Oh, I didn't mention the porn?

"GAH! God damn!" Josh had kicked himself back from his computer bank, rolling on his chair across the shop floor. "What the actual fuck?!"

"What're you going on about?" Johnny and Mike were still hanging around to help sift through the trove of information I had brought back and Ice Pick was going to send. Johnny got close enough to the screens to look. "GAH! God damn is right!"

"Oh, it can't be…" Mike laughed, but his face too soured. "GAH! God damn doesn't even cover it! Isn't that kind of stuff illegal?!"

"Okay, okay, what's the big deal?" Buncha wimps, let's go on a dive into a /b/ thread together and then we'll talk…

"Rig, I wouldn't do that." Johnny warned.

"Buncha prudes…oh Jesus Harold Fuckin' Christ! What IS that?!" I somehow teleported myself to everyone else on the far side of the shop. I don't know how. While we recovered, Tommy, unannounced in his return, walked into the shop. We didn't get a chance to warn him.

"Mike, what have we discussed about personal use of work computers?" Tommy plopped himself down in Josh's seat and started browsing the files displayed. I risked a second look, and saw Tommy was ignoring the violent image we'd flipped over, and was focusing instead on some text files.

"Mike? Something you wanna tell us?" Johnny asked.

"Hey, let's not get off topic…" Mike tried to brush Tommy's question away.

"We can't leave you unsupervised for ten minutes, can we?"

"Christ, I read ONE, not even all of it, but one Monster Musume fan-fic, and everyone's gotta rag on me about it. I just wanted to see what all the fuss's about."

"Josh, pardon the stupid question…" Tommy interrupted the expose of Mike's browsing habits. "But why is there an Ice Pick running on this machine? I don't remember George authorizing one, and I most certainly didn't."

"Uh…well Tommy, there's a good reason for that…" Josh looked wide-eyed at me. "Right, Rig?"

"Rig…something you wanna tell me?"

"I told Josh to run it, and I also made the copy of everything on that external hard drive you're reading from." Tommy seemed in a decent mood. If honesty is truly the best policy, as they always say, I was hoping my ass wouldn't fry too much.

"Do I need to ask whose computer it is I'm looking at?" The screenshots were starting to come in, the keylogger was tracking away and the auto-copier chugged along. Clyde was typing an email to Cole, informing him of Conwell's exposure and how we, us Carsons, had been witnessed by Conwell. While he typed, his inbox filled with messages. TortureTube, Punish-Teens, Pain INC, Dungeons and Masters…you get the idea. "It could be Craig's, at least the inbox makes it looks that way…but the IP is coming from the Water Street Mobile Homes." Tommy checked Ice Pick's display of information about its status and the target it was working. "And with subscriptions to these hydroponic, herbology, and toxicology sites, plus this data from the hard drive…this has to be Clyde Kauffman's. Now what I want to know is, how did you do it?"

"Well…" I was trying to gauge Tommy's temper level, but that is difficult to do. He looked exhausted, and was using the same monotone reserved for ordering parts. "When Conwell left Mister Voyze's, I figured he…"

"Rig. Just, answer the question please. How, did you gain access, to Clyde's computer?"

"…I broke in while he was meeting Conwell. He'd left a torrent running so his computer was unlocked and open. I brought up his email, gave Josh the address, and Josh used that to break into the computer and gain remote access, all at my direction. During this, I also made a copy of everything on his computer, and then ordered Josh to run the Ice Pick."

"I see. And you didn't contact anyone else?"

"No. I did not."

"Mmm…that's a problem." We were secretly reading over Tommy's shoulder, watching in real time Clyde type. Such is the beauty and power of Ice Pick. "And this's a problem too…"

What Clyde was doing is an oft used trick when you don't want to leave a paper or digital trail in your communications. You'll set up an email account, and give the logon information to the other parties you want to read your messages. But, you'll write the messages and save them to the draft folder, never sending them. Then the other parties will log in, read the draft, edit it, resave it and log out. Then you jump back in, read, edit, and jump back out. Rinse and repeat as much as needed, then delete the draft when you're done. Messages are conveyed almost in real-time and there's no record of them ever existing. It's a clever system, provided someone isn't watching over your shoulder. The conversation was going something like this:

*Heard on the radio about the latest. That's 17 more down, plus the first 30; 6 are gone for good. You're doing very well.*

*Thanks. Getting some of Carl's guys, and Caleb's friends too, hired in really helped. Drug runners and speed freaks really do know their stuff.*

*That they do. Keeps me in work haha. Will have to cut some loose to make an example. Make sure the rest stay in their lane. Everything else ok?*

*Right. There may be a problem.*

*There had better fucking not be.*

*It may be nothing. Conwell fired from Voyze's, cover was blown. He is no longer useful.*

*Too bad. I'll send a patrol to pick him up. Plenty of cots in Moshannon Valley for him.*

*That's not all. Something interesting. Conwell said George, Thomas and Jeff Carson were at Voyze's when he got fired.*

*They have done business and welded projects for him. Most likely coincidence. Unless there is more?*

*Said Carsons 'interrogated' him; were acting more like detectives.*

*Noted. They were already close to the top of our list. Right up with all former military and ex-cops.*

*Figured. Can you do something now? I don't need them nosing around my place. And, should we let Him know? I think He would like to know about the Carsons.*

*No. We can handle the Carsons. They are just too nosy for their own good. My advice to you though. Be patient. Behave yourself. Keep your head down. Behave yourself. Do your job. Behave yourself. Don't get kicked out of McDonalds. AGAIN.*

*You heard about that?*

*Rick called us to report you. This is your last warning. Pull a stunt like this again and I WILL make your life Hell. The MIB will be the least of your problems.*

*Yes Cole.*

*Good. I have to go on patrol. See you Sunday.*

*See yah.*

The email draft conversation ended and the draft itself was permanently deleted. Ice Pick had captured it all though, and was still sending updates. Clyde was now checking his Facebook. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, curdling our stomachs as it went. It was only a matter of when, not if. We were on borrowed time, now that the Megalomaniac Control-Freak of The Free World knew we were involved. Craig, Clyde, Caleb, Carl, Cody and Chris could all be bad dudes in their own ways, but Cole…but Cole had the backing of the Pennsylvania State Patrol. It wasn't the list we were too worried about, we'd figured they were making one. It was knowing that, at any given time, the State Police and their fleet of MRAP's would be paying us a visit.

"Well…" Tommy slumped in the chair, at a loss for words but determined to try. "I'm still very much not happy Rig, and you're gonna have to 'xplain this to your Uncle when he gets in. But, you may have just saved us."

. . .

Haruko was playing with the radio. Back and forth the needle went across the stations, bursts of sound and music broken by crackling static. Her wanting to change the station wasn't too bothersome. It was that she had been doing it for five whole minutes. And yes, he had been counting.

"Ssshhnnnxxxtttt…Try our newest formula, guaranteed ten pounds or your…ssnnnnrracchcckkkttt…We've got to move these refrigerators, we've got to move these color T.V.'s…reeeennnnuunnn…Now it's, guitars, Cadillac's, Hillbilly music..rrrrnnnuaaahhh-shhhh…Well yah git down the fiddle, an' yah git down the bow, kick off yer shoes an'' yah throw 'em on the flo'. Dance in the kitchen 'till the mornin' light, Lou'siana Saturday Night!...cccrrrssshhhh…Oh! Maybelline! Why can't you be true? You done started doin' the things you used to do…ppplluunnrrrsshhhh…"

"Havin' some trouble there? Is that mean, old radio kickin' your ass?"

"What is with this hick-town?!" She snarled with gritted teeth and impatient eyes, cranking on the dial. "Oldies, oldies, classic rock, Country, Gospel, Country, some German polka of all things, and more freakin' Country!"

"Welcome to Central Pennsylvania."

"I thought we'd be close enough to at least pick up one big city."

"Nah, this's it. There's mostly country-western, a few gospel, a few more classic rock stations, one harder rock station who's idea of heavy metal is Metallica, that polka station, which is actually Polish by-the-by…and Oldies. There's one called Beau's Beats Buffet, it's the better of the bunch."

"There had better be something good on here or I'm gonna lose it."

"It's not my truck, so, just don't break anything." He resumed watching Clyde's trailer and the glow behind its window blinds. It was coming up on midnight and still no one had shown themselves. Clyde had emerged once to cram a few envelopes into the outgoing mailbox, but that had been all. A shaft of light shone from the trailer's side, then was cut off again as Clyde walked out with four trash bags stuffed to their limits. It looked like Clyde had put some boxes into the bags and their corners were tearing at the plastic. He made it halfway to the dumpster before one split wide open, dumping the two boxes, pizza crumbs, chicken bones, empty cans and some soppy, liquid mess all over the road.

"Ahhhhh…goddamn it." They could hear his swearing from their vantage point. He lobbed the unbroken bags into the dumpster, then went back for the rest. In the buzzing streetlight's glow, Naota recognized one of the boxes as the same Clyde had gotten from FedEX; biohazard sticker and all. As Clyde carried it, Naota aimed their camera, flicked off the flash, and snapped a picture with the biohazard sticker front and center. Clyde wrapped the box in the ripped bag, tossed them away, and after skirting the mess on the road, went back inside.

"Oh, I got one!" Haruko announced, still fiddling with the radio. "Get a load of this." Smooth jazz began playing, followed by the opening bars of a flowing, passionate song, voiced by a singer of powerful tones.

There, used to be a graying tower, alone on the sea…

You…became the light, on the dark side of me…

Looovvvee! Remained a drug that's the high and not the pill…

But did you know, that when it snows, my eyes become large…

And the light that you shine can be seen!

Baby! I compare to a kiss from a Rose on the Gray…*

"Oh please, fuck no…" Naota reached for the dial. A stinging slap from Haruko knocked his hand away. "For cryin' out loud…"

"What? What's the matter, don't like Seal? You hatin' on my boy Seal, huh Naota?"

"No, that's not, just move your hand…" He tried again and again, and she kept pushing and shoving his hands aside; smirking at each of his failed attempts. Her reflexes were too fast for him to outmaneuver.

"…Now that your Rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the Gray!" Haruko sang, for lack of a better word, along; threatening to wake the entire neighborhood with her caterwauling. "C'mon, lighten up and sing along! There's a round part coming up."

"No thank you." He managed to get past her hands and changed stations to one on commercial break. "Ah. That's better."

"Stick in the mud." She harrumphed, then wrinkled her nose, squinted her eyes and stuck out her tongue too, for good measure. "Hey, where're you going?"

"Over to the dumpster." A thought had occurred to him. He was halfway out his door, looking around for alerted eyes. "Clyde threw something in there with a biohazard sticker on it. Maybe it's important."

"Now you're using your noodle. You'll make a fine G.S.P.B. officer someday."

"If I should be so unlucky, sure." He closed his door and started forward. "Are you coming or not?"

"Like hell. I've been dumpster diving in this adventure once already, and that's plenty. It's your turn, I'll keep watch."

"Thanks. Just, wait in the truck then."

"Have fun." As Naota tip-toed the hundred yards to the dumpster, the radio ended its commercial break.

"…This's Ninety-Eight-Point-Eight, Great Jazz Late. We're going to be serenading you and yours alllll...night...long, but first something from the silver screen. Mister Henry Mancini and The Pink Panther.**"

'And of course she turns it up.' Naota could hear the saxophone wafting his way through the otherwise still night. At least the crickets and frogs were getting a good show. Half of the dumpster was visible in the streetlight…and it was only then he realized he didn't have a flashlight. It couldn't be helped, and the box had to be on top anyway. He hoisted himself onto the rim and and spotted the box, smack dab in the middle. Hey, where else would it be?

'Okay, turn…easy…easy…' The metal, wetted with mist, rain and what he hoped was mud, proved a tenuous hold at best. 'Always maintain three points of contact at all times-OH SHIT!' Back-first he tumbled in, landing so he stared up at the stars, between two foul smelling plastic bags.

'No big deal…we're cool. Just shower twice when you get home, shower in Purell that is…okay…' One step found semi-solid footing on a soggy mattress, the other foot sunk straight up to his hip. Working himself free, he lunged forward, this time face first into what must have been an expired anti-vampire kit; that's the only thing that could reek that strongly of garlic. He looked up to gauge his progress, one more jump ought to do.

"So, do you want me to let you play around for a while, and come back later?"

"What're you doing over here?" Haruko had vacated her post in the truck and now straddled the dumpster's wall; watching him flounder. "Damn it, didn' I tell you to wait in the truck? Oh wow, was that Rig or me just now?"

"I was gonna say…" She smiled, teeth flashing in the dark. "Anyway, Clyde's lights and computer are off. I think he's clocked out for the night."

"That's…hurrff! A relief." He made the last leap to the dumpster wall and she helped him climb back out. "Got it. Let's go where there's more light. I don't have anything stuck on me, do I?"

"Uhhh…" She circled him, giving him a once-over. "Nothin' but that pack of used condoms stuck to your back."

"Is…" He felt his blood freeze and all color drain from his skin. "Is there really?"

"Nah, just a banana peel." She flounced off for the truck. "Or…IS it? I'll let you find out!"

"I ask a serious question…" He threw the banana peel back from whence it came, then looked at the box in his hands. It was the biohazard one alright, addressed to Jack Smith at Number 6. A quick smell from opening the lid was bitter, and reminded him of unripened tomatoes. A wad of receipts was jammed at the bottom, but he didn't dare touch them. It wasn't worth the risk of getting some sort of toxin on his hands.

"Hey, can you call Rig real quick? My hands are full, in my front left pocket." Haruko made the call and put Rig on speaker.

"Yo." Rig answered immediately. "What's up, you two finally comin' up for air?"

"I need you to look something up for me." He ignored Rig's tease. "It's something of Clyde's from the trash."

"Dumpster divin'…you have interestin' ideas of a night on the town…" Rig logged into the office's computer. "Alrighty, go ahead."

"What kind of a plant comes in a biohazard box, has…dark green leaves, and a mix of a very strong, flowery smell and unripened tomatoes? Oh, and is called…lemme see if this's the right receipt." By the streetlight, he could read the receipt on top of the pile. "Atropa belladonna?"

"…Unripe tomatoes…hold up. Atropa…belladonna?"

"Yeah? I don't know plants so…"

"Belladonna's a deadly nightshade. The berries, leaves, stems, trunk, roots an' all, are stupidly poisonous. You're not holding one, are you?!"

"Just the box it came in."

"I think you need to come back to the shop. Now."

. . .

It is said that waiting for something horrible to happen is almost as bad, if not worse than, the actual thing you're waiting for. In a general trend, I agree. Tommy had said George would be back 'any minute' and I would explain myself then. Until that time arrived, I decided the best use of my time would be to see how much dip I could cram into my lip at once. Stress chewin', it's what we're havin' for midnight snack.

"Hey Rig…you, do know, you're not s'posed to do half the can at once, right?" Mike asked as I put my tin away. "I know you've been chewing for two years but…"

"Eh. It's my gum cancer." Haaaauuuuuckkkkkk…th-puh. "'Sides, it's my funeral when George gets home. Might as well chew while I can."

"Ohhh…I don't reckon it'll be as bad as you think..." Johnny was lying to me. May GABS and the FSM bless him for trying. "I mean, these screenshots nail Clyde to the wall, plus whatever Naota and Haruko found in the trash." He did have good points, so I had those goin' for me, which was nice. Naota and Haruko had pulled a dirty secret of Clyde's from the trash, and we could use it to bury him. I hoped they could get back before George did, that might mean less of an ass-chewing. There was a crunch of tires on gravel and an idling engine. It shut down, then the shop door creaked open, and only then did I remember that my luck has never held this long yet.

"Man, I picked the wrong timeline to quit drinkin'…" George shut the door behind him and slumped against it. "What're y'all still doing here? It's zero-dark-thirty, I thought you'd have gone home?" Josh, Mike, Johnny and I stood stock still, while Tommy didn't even look up from the computers. They were waiting for me to say something, and I for them to spare me the trouble. George wasn't going to wait for either.

"Okay, I'll share." He volunteered. "I just got back from the hospital, visiting all the guys that got poisoned. After that, I sat everyone down, Voyze, Welshman, Pike and the rest, to keep them from conducting internal witch hunts for traitors. I also spent an hour on the phone with Agent Griggs, to see about arrangements for the families of the dead. Unfortunately, because the Galactic Government's got its head up its ass, grievance funding in Overwatch is being siphoned by the G.S.P.B., to try and put more officers in the field. Twenty more of the G.S.P.B. just got killed in action. Mostly because they had been put into the field like the G.S.P.B. wants to do more of, put them on active duty before they're ready, and they tried to take on a battalion of Medical Mechanica Marines; all by themselves. SO…someone'd damn well better have some good news for me."

"Uh…okay, well…there's some good news, and some half bad, half good news…" Trying to choke down the lump in my throat was akin to swallerin' a prickly pear. "Good news, Naota, Haruko and I, have all found some pretty hard evidence that Clyde Kauffman's behind the poisonings and is working for M-M."

"That is good. You'll have to fill me in on it all." He didn't sound overtly thrilled. His twisting of the ring on his middle right finger was another bad sign. "The half bad, half good news?"

"The intelligence we acquired…" Okay, yah know what? Let's just rip this band aid off. "I obtained my information through an unauthorized Ice Pick electronic attack after breaking into Clyde Kauffman's residence."

"Wha…!" George started to say something, but forced his mouth shut. Red flowed up from his neck, filled his face and colored his ears. He crossed, uncrossed, then recrossed his arms, and all I could do was stand there like an imbecile and wait for it all to be over. "Office. Now. The rest of you are dismissed. Go home." As I followed George out and around to the office, I could hear Tommy belay the go home order. He said Mike, Josh and Johnny weren't going anywhere and were to stay; they had a hard drive and email accounts to dig through.

"Let's…take a step back for a second, and look at this, from an over-all view." George was too agitated to sit. I was too jittery to be still. So we both stood. "You approach and interact with First Class Space Patrol Officer Haruko Haruhara, despite direct orders to the contrary. You then hire her to work for G&R Fabrication, our front and family business, making her in the loosest technical sense, a part of Overwatch. The fact she has not figured out who we are, I find miraculous. At best, she knows something about us is off. And now. And now, you have broken into a potential enemy agent's house, and ordered our Electronic Warfare Officer to conduct an Ice Pick Malware attack, without authorization from your commanding officer or your Station Chief, or without probable cause. Does that sound about right? Or is there MORE you want to tell me?"

"N-no, that's…'bout right."

"Okay, so we have that established. I'll give you a chance to explain."

"George…whaddyah want me to say? People are dying, and there was precisely fuck-all we could do about it. Shit, I was almost a star witness to a lynching this afternoon! I don't know what Voyze had in his pocket, but it sure's hell wasn't a water spritzer. What do you think that would've done to morale, watching their boss blow some guy's head off? You said yourself they were about to organize a witch hunt. This's Clyde's whole deal, to get us fighting each other and scared of our shadows. All I wanted to do was stop him before another group of guys keels over and the rest rip each other apart lookin' for who-dun-it." I paused to see how I was doing. George didn't interrupt, so I went on. "So when Naota called to say Clyde was leaving his trailer, which was proving to be a rare event, I saw an opportunity to access his computer for relevant information. I also made a quick sweep for any chemicals or poisons stored there."

"Did you find any poisons or chemicals?"

"No, but I…"

"One thing at a time." He took off his glasses, running a hand over his face, drawing circles on tightly shut eyes. Blinking blearily, he looked at me and seemed to have aged an extra decade instantly. "Rig, Jeff…I don't know what to do with you. I'm just, stunned, that someone's smart and promising as you, could so easily do something so reckless and blatantly against the rules. We are given serious leeway, so much it would make a Constitutionalist's head spin, but this is too much."

"Oh, come on! Sure, we don't want to be the Stasi or the KGB, but we sure's hell ain't Boy Scouts either! There's a reason we don't have to stand in line for some bureaucrat busy-body to approve our every action and make us fill out a form when we wanna take a piss. We have to get things done in a timely fashion, and can't afford something as stupid as messed up paperwork. A file clerk at the State Patrol screws up, the wrong house gets no-knocked. We screw up and our entire planet is gone. What would've you had me do, knowing what I did? Have me stand around with my thumb stuck up my ass?"

"I would've had you, at the very least, call Tommy; preferably myself. And I probably would have approved you too, if you had just asked."

"You? Make a snap decision, without thinking about how to kick that particular can down the road first? I'm sure Herr Dahl would attest to your ability to really think on your feet; if he wasn't in stuck in physical therapy right now."

"Don't try to make this about me. I have to live with my mistakes like everyone else. And this isn't just a broken rules issue."

"It isn't?"

"What was your plan if Clyde came back early, he'd forgotten his wallet so he turned around, what then? What if his couriers, or brothers, decided to pay a visit? What if you'd opened that door and there was a dammed Man in Black sittin' on the fucking couch? How would we know if you were in trouble, but couldn't call for help? How, or where, would we know to start looking for you if you'd gotten killed? What then?"

"I know the risks of this job just as well as anyone."

"That's not what I asked. How would we know to start looking for you if you had been killed, but didn't even tell us where you were?"

"…I don't know. Follow the gunshots."

"That's not funny."

"I gotta laugh, or I'm gonna cry."

"See, this's the real problem. You seem to have no sense, no gravity, of this stunt you pulled. We are a unit, and have to work together and keep in contact. There's no lone-wolfing it. And to do that, we have a set of guidelines everyone is held accountable to."

"Have you forgotten we are standing on the edge of war? And I don't have gravity? Please. Besides, there are obviously times for rules and regs, but when people we swore to protect are dying, I will honor that promise before worrying about crossing my T's and dotting my I's."

"So what, screw the rules because it's convenient, because things are a little hectic?"

"No, fuck the rules when that fat-fuck Clyde's killed fifteen people, Craig tried to burn down half the county, Cole is bringing an Orwellian nightmare to life, and we haven't even managed to kill one, JUST ONE, goddamn Medical Mechanica Marine!"

"You know, your father had the EXACT same feelings about rules and authority, and we saw how that turned out; didn't we?!"

. . .

'This can't be good.' Naota parked in their usual spot in front of G&R. As he shut off, the office door was kicked open and strained against its hinges as it banged off the wall. A livid Rig stormed out, followed by an apologizing George.

"Alright, I admit that was uncalled for. Rig, c'mon Rig, let's start over…"

"I said FUCK OFF." Rig mounted his Ought-Too and vanished into the darkness, the tail light narrowing to a pinprick before it too was gone. Everyone from the shop was now outside in the midnight chill, staring at each other.

"Hey Tommy, uhm…well…we found this. It was in Clyde's trash. I was going to give it to Rig, but since he's…not here…" Naota held out the FedEX box and wondered if he should ask, say or do something; if at all. "Be careful not to get any of the stuff on you. Rig said it's really poisonous."

"Hmmm…" Tommy accepted the box, watching the last spot Rig had been visible. "Oh, thank you." He realized he was holding something. "Thank you, Naota and Miss Haruko." He gave a grim smile and was quiet again. Even Haruko was uncharacteristically keeping her opinions to herself. Now George turned and headed back into the office. He was rubbing the back of his neck and mumbling to himself, and slammed the door behind him.

"Is there anything we can do? Tommy?"

"I'm sorry Naota. It's been a very trying day." He closed his eyes, and seemed lost in thought. Opening them, Tommy gave orders. "Mike…please go to the Country Convenience and get sandwiches for yourself, Johnny and Josh. You three have a lot of data to sift through. Pull Canti off the robot to help. See what other avenues open up through Clyde's computer. Naota, Miss Haruko. You've had a long day too, one of you smells, and it's very late. Go and get some sleep, and we'll pick up again in the morning."

"Are you sure? I mean, we can stay and help…" Naota was quick to offer but Tommy waved him off.

"No, you've done enough for today. Please…just…just go home."

. . .

George was sitting behind the desk with the computer. He was staring at the monitor, watching a G&R logo bounce around the screen and slowly twisting his ring. The door creaked open and Tommy entered, quietly latching it behind him. Neither dared to look at the other, so George kept on the screen and Tommy studied the wall-wide map of Pennsylvania. Tick-tack...tick-tock went the clock in the corner, perched atop a filing cabinet. Tack-tick…

"Okay, I guess I'll start." Tommy still stared at the map, George at the computer. "What did you do?"

"Me, what did I do? Your cousin's the one who seems to think he makes the calls around here."

"They why did he look like murder when he left? I've only seen him look like that twice before, and that's when he and his Dad fought. What did you do?"

"…I compared him to his Dad."

"Ahhhggg…fuck-all George. Why didn't you just put his Bronco in a crusher, melt down his guns, drop Back-Breaker in a wood chipper, and blow up his dirt bike?! All of that would've been a softer, kinder 'fuck you' for him. What, were you losing the argument or something?"

"You heard it all, I imagine."

"People in Pittsburgh heard you."

"He just wouldn't listen, he was refusing to see how he was in the wrong. I mean, he didn't deny what he did…"

"But, there's a but there, isn't there? But what? Do you always gotta be right? Do you have any idea what he actually found on Clyde's computer? No, you don't. You're too worried about chain of command and making sure we don't look bad."

"No, it's about minimizing unnecessary risks, and maintaining our anonymity. That's our greatest asset right now, that the M-M Marines up the road have no idea we're here. Rig just rushing into things without our knowing doesn't help that effort at all."

"Judge not, lest ye be judged. If I were you, I'd go to the bathroom behind you, look at my teeth in the mirror and remember my own past, my own history of doing things my way once upon a time."

"That's exactly my point!"

"But you did save everyone else in your squad, did you not?"

"Yes, and I have learned from my mistakes. I don't want him to have to learn the hard way, you know all about that too."

"I have and do, don't get me wrong." Tommy turned to George and lifted up his shirt to his chin. "And I get reminded of it every day, every morning." Starting from a golf-ball sized patch left of his navel, an angry, deep red line ran a jagged zig-zag up Tommy's stomach and chest, stopping just to the side and below of his heart. "Every day this little fucker's trying to kill me, because of a time I improvised on the job. I nearly gave my life for the I.I.B., and it's only by sheer dumb luck I'm above the dirt. But if I had a chance to go back, I'd still transfer to the I.I.B. like I did, and still do what I did a thousand times over."

"I get what you're saying, but Rig's still fairly new to this. He doesn't truly grasp the responsibility we have; be it I.I.B., Overwatch or G.S.P.B. He doesn't think of down the road consequences, side effects…"

"I think he's plenty aware of the consequences and side effects of his job, of being in one of the three Galactic Government's services. He knows that his sisters and brother want nothing to do with us and moved halfway around the planet, and one, OFF the planet. He knows he hasn't seen his mother in three years. He also knows it's partially why there's an empty casket buried behind Gethsemane United Methodist in Morrisdale, with his father's stone above it. I'll bet he's there right now, wondering why he still feels like he can never do anything right."

"And that's why I came down on him. I don't want to carry another empty casket to the Carson family plot. After all, the first one's partly my fault anyway." George propped his elbows on the desk and laid his face in his hands. Not just because he was fatigued to where his eyes stung from sleep lost, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Tommy. "There were a dozen opportunities for me to say something, to step in. But who was I to go against Rig's father, one of Earth's very first G.S.P.B. Officers? That and the excuses I told myself, it wasn't really my business, if I just left it alone, things would work out; my laissez-faire gone bad."

"And you're trying to make up for that by pretending to be a hard-ass? Give it up, the style just ain't you. Gunny Sergeant Hartman you ain't...more like…Jimmy Buffett." At Tommy's comparison, both were able to crack small, sad smiles; and the pressure in the room ebbed to a tolerable level.

"Now you know why I didn't want this job."

"Yeah? Well, now you're stuck in the middle with us, so get used to it and start adapting. You're only a few months behind, can still catch up."

"Which brings us full-circle back to Rig. As an adaptive Station Chief, what'd you have me do? Pat him on the back?"

"Just treat him the same's every other agent, resist the Mother Hen impulse. Hear his entire story and what can be made of it. Then, judge if his actions had been indeed worth the risks."

"I definitely could've framed my point better. Put it as a 'learning from mistakes' moment."

"See? You're catching up already. Always look at the bigger picture. Should he have asked for approval? Probably, yeah. Should he have called us to let us know? At least. Would I have done the same as him? Most likely. And he IS an Overwatch Agent, he'd put up one hell of a fight if something bad happened, we both know it. But, looking at the bigger picture, did Rig, on Clyde's computer, find toxicology, herbology, hydroponics and indoor growing books, emails and receipts for all the poisons used so far, a conversation with Cole insinuating at a county-wide roundup, and a few gigabytes of rape porn and what looks like a snuff film? Without, a fucking doubt."

"Is all that really on Clyde's computer?" George finally was able to look at Tommy. He asked for the list to be repeated. "A snuff film?"

"If it's a fake, it's a really elaborate and involved fake."

"What happened to Clyde?" George shook his head. "I remember, must have been twelve years ago…" He trailed off. "How does someone…Christ Ah-mighty…"

"Doesn't matter how Clyde went off the deep end, and I don't care. We've got bigger problems."

"You're right…about a lot more than I give you due for. C'mon, show me what Rig found."

"Shouldn't we go look for him?"

"Like you said, he's an Overwatch Agent." George then made a point at his own expense. "And I pissed him off. Anyone that tries to mess with him will probably get their face beat in."

"That's my entire point." Tommy explained.

"Fair enough." George conceded. "Let's go then, I really hope he hasn't picked any fights…" They got into Tommy's truck and he took off at All-Ahead-Full. "There's rumors of a Hell's Angels chapter trying to start up somewhere 'round here."

"All the enemies we have, and you're worried about the Hell's Angels?"

"Yah never know…" George was interrupted by Tommy's phone.

"This's Tommy, you're live and on the air."

"Hey Tom. It's me." A subdued and worn-out sounding Rig was on the other end. "Are you and George still at the shop?"

"We're…uh, just up the road a ways." Tommy pulled over to the berm. "Why, what's up? Where are you?"

"I'm ready to come back. I'm on my way, ten, fifteen minutes out."

"Okay, sure thing. Get back here safe…right, see you then."

. . .

---

Songs:

*Kiss from a Rose - Seal

**The Pink Panther - Henry Mancini

Oo-De-Lally... Oo-De-Lally... Golly, what a day... Where to begin?

If I'd had known, I'd have warned you about Clyde. Well, I suppose Rig did a little. I went into this chapter not quite sure how Clyde was going to turn out, but I like (it's very much a love/hate/disgusted relationship) with how his character has turned out. He is a bit more clever than Craig, but quite a scale nastier. I didn't want to make his flaws grossly obvious, as the easiest way is the most cliche. A feeder of pain and suffering though, I humor myself thinking it's more subtle.

Over this past weekend, I visited my alma mater for a football game and to meet up with old roommates; one of whom was a proof-reader and idea-bouncer for my 'Redneck of Roanapur'. The patience of a Buddha, that man. During that three hour drive up, and three hour drive back, I think I have Haruko's past more or less laid out. You may guess that it's not one filled with rainbows, sprinkles, unicorn farts and merry leprechauns...and you would guessed right. I am a listener of an online philosopher that has a bit about empathy, and how letting it get the better of you, is in itself a sin. With the backstory I have brewing for Mizz Haruhara, her outburst about Naota's empathy fits quite well.

Speaking of backstories, the Carson's have one a little more complicated then just what's on the surface. I have seen what being in the military can do to families, with long deployments, painful wounds and other horrible effects such as PTSD. It is a serious matter, warranting respectful discussion. It also seems that being in the service of Overwatch, the Interstellar Immigration Bureau and the Galactic Space Patrol Brotherhood, is no exception. Tommy and George have their own marks they carry, hopefully for Rig's sake he won't follow in his elders footsteps and get out in one piece; physically at the very least.

Alright, enough dark thoughts. I have the Irish Rovers playing in the background, so it's impossible to be such a gloom and doomer. It is my hope that the shorter time frame did not short you on quality, and that you enjoyed this chapter; in both its dark and light moments. If you think poorly of this chapter and I should have worked longer on it, please feel free to mercilessly shred me in the review section. If you enjoyed it, and want more as soon as is prudent, you know what to do.

Thank you all again very much for reading, and since Turkey Day is just a few days away here in the US of A, I wish everyone reading (and even everyone that isn't) a Happy Thanksgiving. May you be gifted more blessings that you can begin to count.