Delicious Tacos - Finally, Some Good News

What exactly, she said, and he said Homeland Security, then picked up the phone and said it again.

After 9/11 the public-facing counterterrorism efforts of various agencies had merged under the rubric of the Department of Homeland Security. DHS had rerouted tiplines for the CIA and NSA, and FBI liked to transfer their cranks in too. But mostly it was the US Post Office, Office of the Inspector General. Elderly callers. Someone tampering with their mailbox. Someone living in their mailbox. The mailbox was a demon. Oh so you’re like James Bond, she said.

The phone said hello? He said yes, Homeland Security again while he typed

…Kind of…

with his thumbs. He’d thought of himself more like Felix Leiter when he pursued a career in federal law enforcement. But she wouldn’t know it. James Bond was a pathetic plea for relevance from the British, who were more like George Smiley. Or not even. One of his other crusty colleagues. Whichever one was gay. Homeland Security?

How can I help you sir.

Is this a different guy?

Yes sir, it looks like you’ve been transferred here from FBI?

Jesus Christ, OK– I just need to report this to somebody.

If this an emergency please hang up and dial 911 for your local poli–

Who is this?

This is the Department of Homeland Security, sir. Mouse hovering over red. Mentally challenged caller.

Listen I need to report a serious nuclear threat. OK, he said. That sounds hot, she said. Go on.

Approximately one mile south of the Palawan Seashore Resort in a mangrove forest there’s a Filipino ISIS operation. They’re using a girl to get lonely guys to give them information on military officials. They’re coordinating with Somali terrorists based in California to get access to American nuclear weapons. They’re going to reroute them to attack major population centers. I know this because I gave them consumer credit card data tracked at the individual level–

You were involved in this, sir? he said, and typed Haha it’s not that sexy. Then erased it, not wanting to say any variant of sex too early.

I don’t want to talk about my involvement, said the crank on the phone. I need you to know that there is going to be a blackmail effort against the… against high ranking nuclear security officials.

This was credible. A shell company run by the Chinese government had recently purchased Grindr. Grindr was a smartphone app to help men have raw anal sex in toilet stalls. Idea being that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and/or a Federal Reserve Board Member liked to meet in mall bathrooms with 18 year old black boys. Not check ID. The idea for Tinder had been stolen from Grindr. It didn’t work, because of women. U still there, she said. I’m getting bored

It has to do with national security, he typed. Mousing over Yellow. Can you tell me what kind of data you provided? Do you have a government clearance?

They don’t need that– it’s every credit card purchase. That sounds boring, she said. Do u like t? What is it exactly?

Jesus Christ bitch– is this fucking Linkedin? he typed, and erased it.

The elderly never dreamed that they were finding gold coins in the mailbox. That the mailbox was a beautiful nymph. As you got old your mind dried out into a thing that could only fear and suffer, he was learning. Until all you could do was yell at people on the phone.

His job had not resulted in a single arrest. Terror busts didn’t come from incall business. They came from FBI agents asking mentally challenged men if they’d like to participate in terror plots. Arresting them when they said yes. He had job security. Room for growth. He earned a pension. It could start paying out in 35 years. Why won’t u tell me, she said.

Never message a white woman with bright color hair, he remembered. Green means polyamorous. Pink means transsexual game designer. Blue means Type II bipolar disorder but even they can’t talk about anything but your fucking job. What if this guy’s right. Well how could I leave all this behind.

All right thank you for the call sir, he said. Please be assured that DHS takes these reports seriously, and your claims will be fully investigated. He went to unmatch the caller and hit the Fuck You Button on the girl before he realized he was turned around.

I did the right thing. What are the odds they find me. Whatever– I called them. I reported it. I used a burner phone. What will they get me for– corporate espionage?

I have to go back to work

I have to go back to work.

There’s a merger but I won’t even get fired.

Maybe they’ll hire another cute girl. So every pig in the office doesn’t have to get horny for poor Marcy fucking Pendergrass.

He had a dream about a dying seal in a black ocean with his mother’s face. At 4AM he woke up when his computer speakers blasted a Windows notification. Cheerful chimes. A mandatory update had auto-installed. It had enhanced opportunities to make in-app purchases with one click. Erased his Documents folder. His unfinished book.

He searched for support live chat. Waited for the chat window. Typed. Your fucking mandatory update erased my files–

Agent–

Live agent–

LIVE AGENT

Did you mean: I’d like to purchase a new Surface Pro , it said.

In the morning he fished around in his trunk. He’d remembered something.

The now filthy tent tarp covered everything. It was twisted around his old maps and tire jack and half empty 10w40 motor oil bottles. Finally he got it clear. A package of athletic socks from his mother. A genuine Nike product. Red, white and blue in a distorted argyle pattern meant to look “technological”. The label said: Hyper Elite Disrupter .

His toes were swollen like tree fungus. Smelled like a mildewy basement. The snug new fabric felt like his feet were being dried with a young Japanese maiden’s hair.

He parked the car on the road by the old fence that said CUNT. Climbed up through the spindly black mustard until he could see the concrete platform with the rust color bunker doors over the hilltop. Concrete stairs down the hill. An old rail made of rusty pipes. He walked slowly. Half crouched. It made him hear helicopters from a Vietnam war movie. He kept his hands far from his pockets. But no one was looking.

When he got to the hatch he ducked down and banged on it. The sound startled sparrows.

No one answered for a minute. Then–

WHO GOES THERE. Kent’s voice, echoing up the chute.

It’s me. He said. I’m opening the hatch.

The hinges sounded like a witch squealing over baby meat. Hard to see down the ladder in the dark but he could make out Kent, pointing the Bushmaster.

Hey man– I come in peace.

Kent half lowered the gun. What can I do for you, he said. He sounded like he was talking across a long swimming pool.

Marcy, are you in there?

No one here but me, said Kent.

Where did she go?

I don’t owe you an explanation about anything, said Kent. We’ve seen what kind of person you are. You won’t last out there and you wouldn’t last in here.

OK man. Listen– you, and she, if you’re here, have to get out of here. They’re coming.

Coming? Who? Go where? “They” are wherever you’re going to–

OK you don’t have to come. Where’s Marcy.

You’re not taking anything that’s in here.

It’s not safe here, Kent. She’s not safe.

Safer here then out there.

Let’s ask her about that–

She doesn’t want to see you, said Kent.

She can tell me that herself.

You better get out of here, said Kent. Before I start seeing you as a threat.