Fox Wilde - Variant Exchange - A Punk Rock Spy Fiction Novel

“It sounds like your trying to lump my punks in with all of that! We would have never allowed that. Not the Ramones, not Iggy, not Richard Hell, no one.”

“Nonsense! Your entire scene came from Andy Worhol! The man built a career off of the artistic equivalent of someone else’s stamp collection! I’m surprised he didn’t shoot an eight-hour video of a drag queen holding a single button on a synthesizer, while main-lining for eight hours straight, all while a few of your leather-clad, junkie malcontents throw a rock concert in their girlfriends’ clothing… in front of their boyfriends’ boyfriends!”

“Oh, now you’ve crossed the line!” Archangel shouted, slamming his hands down on the table. “Don’t confuse your poor understanding of art with our anthology of musical excellence!”

“And don’t confuse what you started with what I’ll finish!” Metatron slammed back.

“The hell are you going to do about it?”

“Murder you where you stand!”

“I’ll bury you, old man!” Archangel yelled.

“You and what army?!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fettered by good taste, that’s what’s wrong with me!” Metatron screamed back.

For a second, the two paused and composed themselves, smoothing out their clothing and clenching their hands in an irritated fashion. Neither wanted to be the first to treat with the other; especially after such dire insults had been levied. But the night must progress on, and so Archangel was the first to proverbially doff his hat.

“I’m not calling you Grandfather, so don’t ask.”

“You had better not. I’m already too old. I’m not letting you make me any older than I already am.”

“You’re only a full fifteen years older than me.” Archangel said plainly.

“Ah yes, such a young man.” Metatron sneered. “How long does it take for you to pee?”

“Unfortunately, far too long.” he replied, sadly, before he turned to the team of GDR Special Forces men and shouted, “Enjoy your youth, Soldiers. Once you hit fifty, getting it up will be the least of your worries.”

The room erupted in laughter then, with soldiers on both sides of the barn leaning over in great guffaws. In seconds, the tension dissipated from the room like so much steam. The soldiers certainly weren’t friends and perhaps never would be. Yet for the time being, they all bathed in the mutual comradery of loud music and dick jokes.

“William.” Archangel spoke, offering his hand.

“Marcus.” Metatron replied, shaking Marcus Collins’ hand.

“I have a gift for you,” Marcus said, as the two moved over and sat down in opposite chairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with two hand-rolled cigarettes, before saying, “My old room-mate from West Point told me that this will give you a ‘super head-high’. I’m hardly a connoisseur, but he never steered me wrong when mid-terms came up.”

“Oh my!” William exclaimed excitedly as he grabbed one. “You shouldn’t have! You know, we do try and smuggle in a few every now and then, but those Stasi asses I work with make terrible drug dealers. They have no conception of what constitutes ‘good weed’.”

“Well, a fringe benefit of being American,” Marcus replied jovially, as he lit his joint, “we have weed that you couldn’t possibly fathom.”

William lit his cigarette and the conversation paused momentarily, before exploding into a coughing fit. “…my god, Marcus…” William exclaimed through coughs, “This… this is the best you have ever brought.”

“Even better than the deep purple?” Marcus choked out through coughs of his own.

“Oh, far better. This… oh, this is… you have got to get me some more of this.”

“I certainly will if you can get me a channel. My old room-mate is a Brigadier in DC now. I think he has his son growing it for him.”

“Oh, is that what they’re doing in your capitol, these days?” William laughed.

“Honestly, it’s better when they’re stoned.” Marcus sighed, as he took another drag. “Honestly.”

“Politicians, eh? Can’t live with them; can’t shoot them. In your country, at least.”

“Maybe I should join the HVA.” Marcus laughed, as he reached over to the pieces on the chess table, and began picking them up, placing them on the board. “So, where were we, when last we played?”

“Oh, bother. I’ve forgotten… It’s been too long since we picked this game up.”

“Oh, cut the shit, Will.” Marcus said idly, as he placed a Bishop, “You’ve been studying this game every single day since .”

“Me?!” William exclaimed. “Why, that would be cheating!”

“So you are denying it then?”

“Marcus Collins, I am a man of the highest caliber of honor. To even insinuate that I would…”

“Oh, just shut up and put your pieces down.” Marcus laughed.

The two took a few minutes to place their pieces on the board. This game had been going on for nearly as long as the two had been opposing case officers. Even still, as old as the board was, few pieces had been taken by the other. It was a match between masters—men who truly understood the worth of each individual piece and its unique part to play, no matter how humble it might appear. Not a piece would die in vain if either had a thing to say about it.

“You know,” William began, “I often wonder if this is the longest game of chess ever played in the history of the game.”

“And the irony is no one will ever know.”

“We could dial the Guinness people up. We could blow our covers together; come clean about the whole thing; expose our agents and all of our assets and then we could be famous.”

“You joke…” Marcus said seriously, “But after some of the shit you’ve put me through this time around, it almost sounds like a tempting offer.”

“Oh, you enjoy it. You’re too good at this to not enjoy it.”

“Oh, I’ll never admit that.” Marcus smiled as he placed the final piece, a Knight, on the board, “You can infer whatever you wish, but you will never get a solid admission out of me.”

“You know, that really is your one fatal flaw,” William said seriously. “You are far too good at this.”

“And your flaw is that you work for the HVA.” Marcus said, staring at the board. “If you worked for an agency that deserved you, you could conquer the world. They honestly hold you back, Will. You’ve managed to keep up with my entire operation almost single-handedly.”

“I’m not joining your stupid agency. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

“Oh no, the CIA wouldn’t take you.” Marcus smiled. “We’re an intelligence agency—not an after-school sports program for underprivileged teenagers.”

“Oh like you are one to talk! This go-round, you have been just as much a bleeding heart as me! That’s the other way I know it’s you—you copy my style.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Will.”

“Oh, it’s a brilliant plan.” William taunted him, “Always ask yourself, ‘what would William do?’ and you can never go wrong.”

“Well it works, doesn’t it?” Marcus laughed.

“It does.” William conceded. “And I’ve copied you on occasion, as well. Your style isn’t as fun as mine, but it’s efficient… and deceptively convoluted. Anytime my agents start acting like raving idiots, or the Soviets get riled up over some bunk-sounding intelligence that they’ve been following forever, I know it’s you.”

“Oh really.” Marcus said in a bored tone.

“Fly-fishing techniques, Marcus? Fly-fishing?!”