SENDING ANGENT: WIRETAP

RECEIVING AGENT: TEXAS TOASTER

SUBJECT: DUDE, YOU MADE THE BRIEFING

MESSAGE BODY

Toast-check out The Commander’s latest briefing. Looks like the General is picking up your tab tonight.

-Tap

Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that despite the clear and immutable guidelines I established previously, there continue to be disputes over the music selection throughout the complex.  I would like to remind all of you that you are only permitted to listen to music at my discretion. While my first inclination was to ban the music outright, your colleague, War Cudgel, argued music would motivate you minions and increase our nefarious productivity levels. As a result, I relented and allowed one stereo to be installed in every department. At first, War Cudgel’s predictions appeared to be accurate. Productivity increased. In fact the rise was so great, that I awarded War Cudgel a bonus for his clever suggestion, but soon disagreements began to arise. In a few weeks, it seemed that reports of arguments, physical alterations, and even mild poisonings overran my desk. While I do encourage you to hone your combat and skullduggery skills, I would greatly prefer that said skills be turned towards the United Peace Force, and not each other. Seeking to maintain the increased productivity while maintaining some order, I, as you recall, established strict guidelines detailing what music can be played in what sector of the complex and in some specific cases, at what volume.  This appeared to work briefly, but now it seems that discipline has broken down, leading to more altercations, so once again, I will remind you of the rules regarding music.

First, since this is where by far the most incidents of music fueled violence have occurred, the music played in the exercise facilities must be a collection of up-tempo music spanning a wide selection of genres played loud enough to drown out the grunts and yells of the Thunder Bruisers during their daily weight training regimen.

Classical music is to be played in both the science facility and in the strategic planning offices as it is reported to aid in higher-level thinking.

Heavy Metal and Rap are to be given equal time in the vehicle hanger. Advocates for both genres of music tell me that this is agreeable because they believe that their preferred selections are the only songs they can hear over their pneumatic tools and metal cutting implements, while the other selections are so far from music that they might as well be more shop noise. So far, this split has worked perfectly. We should all look to the minions of the vehicle hangar as examples of how to manage musical disagreements.

Accounting may only listen to adult contemporary and smooth jazz until they have successfully complete three consecutive error free budget reports, when they will be allowed to select their own music. With each error I find in their work, I will increase both the volume of music and percentage of Kenny G.

The HR department has developed a lottery system for deciding who will select the music for the day. If the winner has no opinion, then the lottery goes for another round. While I believe this system to be fair, I am concerned that the lottery proceedings have become too elaborate and have ordered the department to dispose of the stage, bonus wheel, and chicken and to return to the names in a box system they started with.

Christian Rock is to be played in the prison cells at all time as a reminder to the prisoners that they have indeed been forsaken.

Country Western is banned in all parts of the complex.  This is a safety precaution.  If the UPF were ever to breach our defenses, the last thing we would need is for that insane American UPF agent with the flamethrower, ludicrously oversized cowboy, and proclivity towards mindless heroics to be inspired by the songs of Toby Keith—as catchy as they might be—and decide that he will not be satisfied until he has reduced the entire complex to a pile of ash and molten steel.

Regardless of what music is playing at the time, whenever I enter a room, it must cease and be replaced by “The Supreme Commander’s March.” I went to a good deal of trouble to capture John Williams and even greater trouble to make him compose something that did not sound like the latest revision of the Star Wars soundtrack and by God, I am going to have it played.

Finally, know that this is your final warning.  If further problems arise, then I will eliminate all music, save “The Supreme Commander’s March,” from the complex and will have War Cudgel killed. That is all, gentlemen, good day.

“My suit,” Our Hero replied, directing the words more towards his feet than his mother.

“That thing? Dennis, it’s nearly two sizes two big for you.”

“Yes, but it conceals,” Our Hero paused. Even though his mother had previously uncovered his secret identity, he was still wary about discussing the specifics crime fighting activities. The less she knew, he had decided, the safer for both of them.

“Oh, your not planning on wearing that silly costume, are you?”

Our Hero began to say, “The city might need me,” but his mother had already begun wailing, “You haven’t been listening to me! That must be it! Otherwise, the only other explanation is that you actually want me to die of shame.” She began to pace around Our Hero’s living room, alternating between throwing her hands in the air and rubbing her temples. “Why would you wish that kind of thing on your own mother? I treated you well as a child.  I gave you everything you wanted and now you try to shame me into the grave.” She stopped and faced Our Hero, “What if I spoiled you?” She returned to her pacing. “Did I give too much?  All those comic books! Had I known they would lead to this, I never would have bought them. They just seemed so innocent at the time.”

“I won’t wear my uniform tonight!” Our Hero shouts, louder than he had intended.

Our Hero’s mother smiled and said, “There, I knew I raised you well.” She marched over to a pair of canvas tote bags she had set by the door when she entered the apartment and took out   a white button down shirt and a dark gray sweater that Our Hero correctly guessed would be very itchy. “Now,” she said, offering the clothing to him, “Why don’t you try these on?”

Our Hero took the items and retreated to his bedroom to change.  He thought about wearing his costume in spite of his promise to his mother, but this plan was thwarted by his mother’s uncanny ability to find clothes cut so close to Our Hero’s physique that one might suspect she had them tailored.

When Our Hero emerged from his room, his mother said, “Now don’t you look handsome?”  She had placed a chair in front of the apartment door and settled down with a crossword puzzle. She remained there, occasionally asking Our Hero for help with the puzzle, until it was time for him to leave to meet his date. Then she returned the chair to its original position and stood next to the door until Our Hero stepped over the threshold. She followed him out of the apartment, closing the door behind her, and onto the street. Apparently confident that Our Hero would not rush back into the apartment and don his costume the moment she drove away, she said, “Now have a good time, and call me tomorrow to tell me how it went.” Then she turned her head to the side and tilted her cheek towards Our Hero, indicating that he should kiss it.

Our Hero kissed her cheek and said, “I will,” before turning and walking the fifteen blocks—Our Hero’s mother had also banned him from driving the Justice Car, even though Our Hero would never consider driving the Justice Car in civilian attire—to the designated meeting point, where he continues to wait for his date.  He looks at his watch. She is fifteen minutes late. By the slack standards of the city, she is still technically on time, as one never knows what surprises traffic and public transportation hold for one’s journey. Our Hero scans the crowd around him again and thinks for a moment that he has spotted her when he sees a young woman wearing the coat, hat, scarf and gloves his mother had described. Our Hero looks down for a moment and prepares to greet the woman, quickly deciding that he would use “hello” instead of “hi” or “hey.”  He thinks about saying, “greetings,” but remembers that “greetings” was Mr. Justice’s preferred salutation and that might upset his mother. Hello it would be. With the correct opening line selected, Our Hero looks up in time to see the woman turn to the right and begin to walk away. Startled by this sudden change in direction, Our Hero studies the woman more closely, and notices that he had failed to notice her hair color when he first saw her. The woman he saw is blonde and therefore not the one he is looking for. If he were on duty, this would be a major mistake. Clothes can be changed easily, but hair color requires more work and is therefore more important. Thankfully, he is not on duty, which means Our Hero can let the mistake pass.

Our Hero scans the crowd again, checks his watch and begins to wonder how long he should wait.

SUBJECT: Transcript of a speech delivered by The Supreme Commander during his weekly staff meeting, outlining his latest plan.

Gentlemen, once again, we have been thwarted in our attempts to conquer the world by the infernal meddling of the United Peace Force. Once again, we have been driven back into seclusion to regroup and rearm.  This I’m afraid has become part of a predictable and all too humiliating pattern: I devise an ingenious plan, we begin preparations and when the time comes, we execute, only to have our machinations crushed shortly after being set in motion.  On our more fortunate days, we come within minutes, sometimes seconds, of victory before a multi-national strike force intervenes.  For too long we have fought on the losing side of this war, but now I say enough! No more shall we suffer the all encompassing shame of defeat, for I, your Supreme Commander, have crafted a plan so foolproof, so imaginatively clever, so staggeringly brilliant, that it is sure to succeed.

This plan, gentlemen, can be summed up in one word, squirrels. Yes, you have heard me correctly, my loyal minions, squirrels. I have recently engaged the services of one Dr. Alverez, a renowned and, fortunately, avaricious expert in the field of animal behavior.  Dr. Alvarez assures me that give enough time and resources, he can deliver an army of whatever animal I choose.  And I have chosen squirrels.

Now, I imagine some of you are wondering why I would choose such a lowly and non-threatening creature.  Why not choose gorillas? Or tigers? Why not get clever and teach the gorillas to ride the tigers? Surely a cavalry made up of tiger mounted gorillas would be a truly formidable force, perhaps even invincible. I assure you that this has indeed crossed my mind, but the gorilla tiger army presents a few ultimately, unsolvable problems.  First, and most important, a proper army would require many thousands of soldiers, though with animals of abundant ferocity, this number could be reduced to mere hundreds.  Even so, I fear that finding gorillas in sufficient quantity would prove difficult, as well as exceedingly costly. Even if I were, by some fortuitous circumstance, able to acquire the animals in sufficient quantities, I would then be left with the quandary of where to house the beasts. And I would require that the animals be properly cared for, as I would need them to be in top physical condition and find animal cruelty so distasteful.  The second major problem is stealth, or rather, lack there of.  I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that it would be rather difficult for a gorilla riding a tiger to move about a major metropolitan area inconspicuously. Within minutes of deploying such a force, both the media and the authorities would be alerted.  While I’m confident that the tigers and gorillas could dispatch any interference with ease, I fear that the delay would allow our target time to prepare for out arrival or retreat, thereby wasting thousands of hours of preparation. No, I fear that an army of gorillas and tigers is simply unfeasible.

Now squirrels, however, do not present so many difficulties.  First, they are abundant and can be acquired cheaply.  If we spread out our collection efforts around the country, we could easily build an army of formidable size and strength without arousing the suspicions of the UPF.  Given squirrels’ reputation of being a nuisance among those who have taken up bird watching or gardening, we might even turn a small profit by collecting them under the guise of a pest control company. Also, due to their compact size, it would be possible to house the entire army in one or two warehouses.   Dr. Alverez has also informed me that the cost of care and feeding of squirrels is nominal.

The true advantage of squirrels though, is in their stealth.  You see, since squirrels are ubiquitous on this continent, most people, even the ever-vigilant security personnel who have proven to be troublesome in the past, hardly notice them.  Our army could travel silently through the city, infiltrating even the most tightly secured bases.  Imagine the possibilities for our standard abduction missions.  Normally, we would spend months observing our target, arranging for one of our men to join the security detail, and preparing an assault, only to be thwarted at the last minute. With squirrels, the prep time is greatly reduced, as is the risk to our people.  I estimate that a pack of twelve highly trained squirrels could easily dispatch a security detail, as they are very quick and have extremely sharp teeth. Once the security detail has been dispatched, the squirrels could then drive the target towards a designated spot where our retrieval crews will be waiting in disguise.  I predict that our preparation times will be reduced by seventy-five percent and that our rate of success will greatly increase.

Gentlemen, our day of victory draws near. Soon your hard work, and sacrifice shall be rewarded and you shall reap the spoils of our global domination.  Until that day, keep up with your duties and watch for squirrels. We will soon be launching a bonus program for the delivery of live squirrels. H.R. is still finalizing the details. They have been overwhelmed ever since the last UPF raid destroyed our servers.  Until next time gentlemen, that is all, good day.

ESTIMATED THREAT LEVEL: 0-1

SUGGESTED ACTION:  Continue to monitor development of the program in case it produces technology worth acquiring, or we need to thwart a plan to secure our budget.

When he is halfway down the street, he hears someone calling to him from behind.  “Excuse me,” a male voice says, “Sir, excuse me.” Our Hero turns around and sees a middle-aged man dressed in khaki shorts and green polo shirt. He is sweating rather heavily and his face is red.  Our Hero wonders if this man is suffering from some kind of cardiac distress, and chastises himself for not reviewing his CPR and first aid training materials before leaving the house. He tries to remember the basics as he sprints towards the man.  There was a song, he had read, that provided the perfect rhythm for chest compressions.  Our Hero remembers it was a disco song, a hit. “Dancing Queen?” No, he remembers that the title was appropriate given the circumstance in which one would be performing CPR. “I Will Survive?” Again, no, why would the one performing CPR worry about his own survival? Our Hero furrows his brow. He must remember the song soon.  He will reach the man in a few short steps at which time he will be too busy assessing the situation to sort through the greatest hits of the disco era.

As Our Hero comes to a stop, the man inhales deeply and holds it for a couple of seconds before exhaling through slightly pursed lips, as if he were extinguishing the candles on a birthday cake. The vast majority of air hits Our Hero in the face.  He can tell that the man has recently consumed a hot dog, or possibly a bologna sandwich and topped with onions.  Our Hero takes a step back and is momentarily disoriented.

“So you noticed me?” The man says, his breathing now stable.  “I’ve been chasing you two blocks!”

“I see,” Our Hero says calmly though he finds the discovery of a gap in his constant, all encompassing vigilance disturbing. Had this distressed citizen not been ambulatory, he might not have ever come into Our Hero’s awareness. For the second time in as many minutes Our Hero has found a lapse in his preparedness. He makes a note to undertake vigorous training as soon as he returns to his apartment.  In the meantime, he has a citizen to assist.

“How may I be of assistance?” Our Hero asks.

“Assistance!” The man laughs as he shakes his head, “God, you’re in character and everything. I knew this place had period actors, but I haven’t heard anything about heroes. So, which one are you?”

“Which what?”

“Which Hero?” The man shouts with a level of excitement that makes Our Hero smile. “You must be one of the new ones.  I’d recognize you if you were one of the classics.”

“I’m Mr. Justice,” Our Hero says as he places his fists on his hips and raises his chin.  While he holds the pose, he thinks, this man knows of other heroes?

“Fantastic,” says the man, mimicking Our Hero’s stance momentarily, still laughing a little. “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you take a picture with my family?”

Our Hero ponders this request. It would throw off the timing of his rounds, and would be a breach of protocol, but this man had run for two blocks, potentially risking his life for a snapshot. Providing one was the least that Our Hero could do.  Also, it would give Our Hero an opportunity to learn more of these other heroes.  “I would be honored sir,” he says while bowing slightly.

“Great,” the man says, “They’re over by the statue of Washington.” He turns and begins walking back towards his family.  Our Hero follows after him for a few strides before catching up.  “My name is George, by the way,” says the man, while offering a sweaty hand to Our Hero.

“A pleasure meeting you,” Our Hero says shaking the man’s hand, thankful that he chose to wear the Gauntlets of Justice despite the warm weather.  Then, thinking of no other way to broach the subject, says, “You know of other heroes?”

“Oh sure,” says George, “I used to be a real comic fan.  When I was a kid, I used to spend hours in my room reading comics.”

“Ah,” Our Hero says, somewhat disappointed, though part of him remembers his own days spent in his room with comic books, “So did I.”

“I tried to get my son into them,” George says, apparently not hearing Our Hero, “but he’s only interested in video games and truly terrible music, but maybe if he meets a real super hero, he’ll change his mind. Maybe I can pick up a few of your books for the ride home to get him started. So what are you, Marvel or DC?”

“Neither, I’m a real hero.”

“Oh, I gotcha. Gotta stay in character.” George winks. “I’ll play along. I’m sure they’ll know at the comic shop anyway.”

Our Hero prepares to correct George again, but before he can speak, George suddenly runs over to a scowling woman and a boy who looks to be about twelve. Our Hero deduces, correctly, that these are the rest of George’s family.  The woman brightens up a little after George speaks to her and gestures toward Our Hero.  The boy, however, rolls his eyes and sinks into a deep slouch. George leads them both over to Our Hero. “Eileen, Peter,” He says, “This is Mr. Justice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eileen says before smiling wide and saying, “Mr. Justice.” Peter grunts something that might have been “hey.”  George produces a camera from one of his pockets and begins giving directions.  First, he has Our Hero pose by himself, then with Eileen, then Peter, then both Eileen and Peter, then, after switching camera operators, with George, then George and Peter, then, after another Camera switch, George and Eileen.  Finally, George asks a passing stranger to take a picture of Our Hero George, Eileen and Peter all at once. After instructing the stranger to take one more for good measure, George retrieves his camera and places it back in his pocket. Our Hero relaxes his pose and rubs his cheeks, which have become sore from smiling.

“Thank you very much, “ Says George before taking Our Hero’s hand and placing a folded twenty-dollar bill in it.

Our Hero looks down at the bill and then attempts to give it back. “Sir, I cannot accept this.”

“Of course you can! It’s the least I can do,” George says as he backs away.

“But a hero does not seek financial rewards for his deeds.”

“Right, right, character, I get it.” George takes another step back before turning away. As he walks away with his family, he calls back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Our Hero turns the folded bill over in his hand a couple of times before tucking it into one of his gauntlets.  He decides that he will donate the money to a worthy cause, something that supports public safety, once he has finished his patrol.  Perhaps he will spend some of it on a beverage of some sort.  He has walked quite far for such a warm day and proper hydration is, after all, very important. He resumes his patrol, half jogging to make up for lost time.  As he reaches the spot where George first caught his attention, he suddenly remembers the song for CPR. “Of course!” he says aloud, “Stayin’ Alive!”  A few pedestrians glance his way, but Our Hero does not notice.

I just finished reading Tobias Wolff’s collection of selected stories, Our Story Begins. A Couple of the new stories were a little dull, but over all I enjoyed the collection.

I discovered Wolff a year ago when I started planning my 201 course. The anthology I selected included “The Rich Brother” in it’s chapter on character. Later on, I was flipping through another anthology and found “Bullet in the Brain.” Then ending of both stories stuck with me. I’m still working out exactly what I liked about the endings so much. I think it is because with both stories, I could see the next scene. In the case of “The Rich Brother,” I could see the future relationship of the two brothers almost as clearly as I could see their brief car trip home. With “Bullet in the Brain,” I could take the brief outline of Anders’s life that Wolff provides and flush it out enough to see exactly how two words “they is” lead to the character’s death decades later.

As I read through Our Story Begins, I found stories with more powerful endings than those of the “Bullet in the Brain” and “The Rich Brother.” The last sentence of “Flyboys” made me go back through the story a second time in order to find a subtle subplot that I had missed. After I finished “Desert Breakdown, 1968,” “Soldier’s Joy,” and “The Chain,” I had to put the book down and let the ending resonate (I had the same experience the first time I read Carver’s, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love”). The endings of these stories were so good, that I’m half tempted to read to collection over again (and I would, if my to read shelf wasn’t actually three shelves).

For those of you who now want to read a Wolff story, I found “Hunters in the Snow” online. I’m sure there’s more out there.

Our Hero sits through the top stories. He is not one of them, but Our Hero understands that the building of a new stadium, and the decision to widen a major roadway into the city are both very important issues as they will both create jobs and increase the quality of life for all the city’s citizens. Still, he would have liked to have been the top story. Perhaps if he had had an opportunity to apprehend a purse-snatcher, or a bank robber before the interview, he would have made the top stories. He decides to expand his patrol route to include more banks.

The eleven o’clock anchors continue to deliver the news. From the top stories, they move on to weather, then sports, followed by a recap of the top stories, then a recap of the weather. Finally, the male anchor looks directly into the camera and says, “Did you know that this city has its own superhero? Coming up after the break, we’ll meet Mr. Justice on this week’s weird and wacky news.”
Our Hero turns off the television. He watches his reflection in the now dark screen. His stomach sinks a little before he is able to regain his heroic composure. Surely the reporter merely misunderstood Our Hero’s role in the city’s fight for justice. Why did he not wait until he had apprehended a criminal before talking to the press? He decides to forgive the station for their error, but resolves to give no further interviews, at least not until he’s been awarded some kind of medal for bravery or given the key to the city. Surely that would prevent him from being mentioned on news of the strange.

Content with his new public relations policy, Our Hero rises from his chair and prepares for bed. He has just hung his costume in the back of his closet when here hears the phone ring in his kitchen. He sprints down the hall and reaches the phone just before the end of the third ring.

“Hello,” Our Hero says.

“Donald?” The Caller says. It is Our Hero’s mother. She does not sound pleased. “Donald, why were you on the news parading around in your pajamas?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in attempt to protect his identity.

“You don’t think I’d recognize you behind some silly mask? For the love of God, you’ve got your father’s nose. What do you think you’re doing, running around, telling people you’re a super hero? People will think you’re a crazy person.”

Our Hero remains silent. He has learned never to battle his mother. As far as he can tell, she has no weaknesses.

“It’s like you want me to die of embarrassment. Why can’t you just get go to law school like your brother?”

“It’s not my calling.”

“Just what is your calling?”

“To protect the innocent,” Our Hero says, as he instinctively places his fists on his hips and strikes his hero pose.

“Oh for the love,” Our Hero’s mother continues to berate him for sometime, leaving only space for Our Hero to say, “yes,” “no,” “I understand,” and “of course not.” Eventually, she makes Our Hero promise to give up his duties. “And throw out that ridiculous costume,” she says before hanging up.

“I will first thing in the morning,” Our Hero manages to say before he hears the click of the phone line disconnecting. He places the receiver back in its cradle and exhales. He has lied to his mother, which disturbs Our Hero. In the back of his head he can feel a pulsing knot of guilt. He sits down at the kitchen table with a dull pencil and a scrap of paper and begins sketching designs for new masks since it has become necessary for him to hide more of his face.

For the second time tonight, Our Hero bursts out of his apartment and ascends the stairs to the street, but instead of dashing to the justice car, he sprints to the bus stop and waits thirty minutes for the next bus. When it arrives, Our Hero leaps on board, drops change from the fanny pack into the fare collector and tells the bus driver, “You must hurry! I’m needed at the fire!”

The bus driver rolls his eyes and says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Your city will be grateful.”

The other passengers do not sit near Our Hero. They glance over their shoulders, but turn away quickly when Our Hero smiles and waves to them. He assumes it is because they are bashful. A mother and her son get on he bus at the 23rd street stop. They sit down in the row in front of Our Hero. After the bus pulls away the boy turns around and asks, “Are you a real superhero?” His mother tells the boy to leave Our Hero alone.

“It’s fine mam,” Our Hero says to the mother, “he’s just curious.” To the boy he says, “Yes, I am a real superhero. I’m Mr. Justice.”

“How come I’ve never heard of you?”

“I’m sure you have. I’m the city’s most famous crime fighter.”

“No,” the boy says, “I would remember that. I remember everything. Are you sure you’re a real super hero?”

“I assure you that I am.”

“If you’re a superhero, why are you riding the bus?”

Our Hero blushes as he tries to think of a response. “That’s enough,” The boys mother says, “leave the man alone.”

The boy turned around and whispered loud enough for Our Hero to hear, “I don’t think he’s a real superhero.”

Our Hero steps off the bus three blocks from the fire and runs the remaining distance. By the time he arrives, the fire fighters have extinguished the blaze and are busy packing up their trucks. No one appears to have been hurt.

If you’re interested in Ron Carlson’s longer works, I would recommend Five Skies.  It’s not as whimsical as the stories above, but it is one my favorite books and currently stands as one of my major influences.