RegurgiFactor
RegurgiFactor
{all spelling intentional}
(short fictional soyree)
[i][b]It was the most successful operation I ever did ...[/i][/b]
"I never liked them either," said Agent6.
Qilk raised an eyebrow. "On my last assignment, we called the most potent additive 'agent-6.' This is getting really confusing."
Agent6 smiled. That's why he used the PsuedoHymn, or name with assorted subliminal suggestions to sing concepts, program thoughts, and thereby subtly erase background. It's an old trick he learned while working for the CYA.
"Help me out here," said Agent6, while pointing to cases of pharmaceuticals, handing a box-cutter to Qilk.
Qilk and Agent6 busied themselves opening cases stolen from a pharmaceutical supply warehouse a few years prior. They weren't involved in that RegurgiFactor operation, riskier tasks left to empressed criminals. Those with higher skills, such as Qilk and Agent6, stayed away from dime-store robberies and shoot-outs.
"Just empty the contents of these six-cases into the pot."
Qilk started to carefully unwrap safety wrappers.
"Forget that. Like this," said Agent6. He used an electric reciprocating-saw and quickly crunched six bottles at a time, the pills spilling out, plastic debris included. "It's not our dope. What do we care, eh?" he quipped, with a wink.
Qilk laughed. It took awhile, but eventually all the bottles were empty. "Hell, sometimes we just melted it, but I thought I'd be extra-careful, seeing as this is our first ArguMint."
Agent6 looked up, quizzickly, wondering if Qilk knew about SoyGreenCrackSacks. If so, he probably had an off-shore account, too.
"Those I don't like, get 'agent-5.' Those I like, get 'agent-6.' It's pretty simple."
Qilk smirked. "That's the exact opposite numbering of the substances we added on my last assign-"
"I know," Agent6 interrupted, reinforcing his PsuedoHymn. Social-engineering projects like these need lots of 'covering.'
Agent6 and Qilk, adorned their regular missionary clothing, after having finished the first of many laborious tasks in hydroponic Potzac farming.
====================================
"You're never going to believe me if I told you," said Mr. Kenricks, monitoring the situation over technology untold. It was a Predator, in the sun, invisible from the ground, with high-res imagery in visible, infrared, and other ranges that could literally 'see' through any structure; plus, sound-pickups that could hear a whisper through 30-feet of bedrock, or, bank-vaults, which were uploaded to a satellite in geo-sync orbit, then downloaded and processed through a CENCOM data-center, before being displayed on an old, outdated desktop PC in a crappy, used-trailer with dirty windows, in plain sight, but unknowable.
Miss Hilton lit a cigar, blowing smoke-rings while smearing the mud from her boots in a swirl on the floor of the filthy trailer. Her clothes were fitting for farm-work, landscape labor or a day in the garden, growing Potzac.
"I honestly thought they worked for us -- maybe DEA -- I had to be sure."
Mr. Kenricks typed a few commands before returning his attention to the 'covergirl' of a different flavor. "After this, you'll be re-assigned, 'outing' yourself, to testify before a Joint Congressional Task Force, and, as approved by the Senate Intelligence Committee Hearing on Domestic Terrorism. Blame someone else, like everybody else. There's no going back."
The previous typed commands were executed. Mr. Kenricks took the cover off the PC and swapped the hard-drive, now dysfunctional, and slipped the original into the large pockets of his coveralls to be incinerated later. Somewhere overhead, a Predator, silently hidden in the sun, focused on 'other matters,' while he and the 'covergirl' shared a beer in plastic cups.
"I have too much honor and integrity for that," Miss Hilton replied, flicking ashes on the desk and throwing her empty cup on the floor. Nothing 'angry' about it. Real covergirls do things 'different,' that's all, naturally. "I'll blame myself, promote you, and testify exactly how the country got crossed."
Mr. Kenricks, not his real name, got a sudden case of tingles, head-spinning with so much to think about, eyes opened widely.
Mission Accomplished.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
THE END
Copyright62-06CLW
[size=2][i]NOT FOR PUBLIC DISCLOSURE DRMS-06-1423[/SIZE][/I]
{all spelling intentional}
(short fictional soyree)
[i][b]It was the most successful operation I ever did ...[/i][/b]
"I never liked them either," said Agent6.
Qilk raised an eyebrow. "On my last assignment, we called the most potent additive 'agent-6.' This is getting really confusing."
Agent6 smiled. That's why he used the PsuedoHymn, or name with assorted subliminal suggestions to sing concepts, program thoughts, and thereby subtly erase background. It's an old trick he learned while working for the CYA.
"Help me out here," said Agent6, while pointing to cases of pharmaceuticals, handing a box-cutter to Qilk.
Qilk and Agent6 busied themselves opening cases stolen from a pharmaceutical supply warehouse a few years prior. They weren't involved in that RegurgiFactor operation, riskier tasks left to empressed criminals. Those with higher skills, such as Qilk and Agent6, stayed away from dime-store robberies and shoot-outs.
"Just empty the contents of these six-cases into the pot."
Qilk started to carefully unwrap safety wrappers.
"Forget that. Like this," said Agent6. He used an electric reciprocating-saw and quickly crunched six bottles at a time, the pills spilling out, plastic debris included. "It's not our dope. What do we care, eh?" he quipped, with a wink.
Qilk laughed. It took awhile, but eventually all the bottles were empty. "Hell, sometimes we just melted it, but I thought I'd be extra-careful, seeing as this is our first ArguMint."
Agent6 looked up, quizzickly, wondering if Qilk knew about SoyGreenCrackSacks. If so, he probably had an off-shore account, too.
"Those I don't like, get 'agent-5.' Those I like, get 'agent-6.' It's pretty simple."
Qilk smirked. "That's the exact opposite numbering of the substances we added on my last assign-"
"I know," Agent6 interrupted, reinforcing his PsuedoHymn. Social-engineering projects like these need lots of 'covering.'
Agent6 and Qilk, adorned their regular missionary clothing, after having finished the first of many laborious tasks in hydroponic Potzac farming.
====================================
"You're never going to believe me if I told you," said Mr. Kenricks, monitoring the situation over technology untold. It was a Predator, in the sun, invisible from the ground, with high-res imagery in visible, infrared, and other ranges that could literally 'see' through any structure; plus, sound-pickups that could hear a whisper through 30-feet of bedrock, or, bank-vaults, which were uploaded to a satellite in geo-sync orbit, then downloaded and processed through a CENCOM data-center, before being displayed on an old, outdated desktop PC in a crappy, used-trailer with dirty windows, in plain sight, but unknowable.
Miss Hilton lit a cigar, blowing smoke-rings while smearing the mud from her boots in a swirl on the floor of the filthy trailer. Her clothes were fitting for farm-work, landscape labor or a day in the garden, growing Potzac.
"I honestly thought they worked for us -- maybe DEA -- I had to be sure."
Mr. Kenricks typed a few commands before returning his attention to the 'covergirl' of a different flavor. "After this, you'll be re-assigned, 'outing' yourself, to testify before a Joint Congressional Task Force, and, as approved by the Senate Intelligence Committee Hearing on Domestic Terrorism. Blame someone else, like everybody else. There's no going back."
The previous typed commands were executed. Mr. Kenricks took the cover off the PC and swapped the hard-drive, now dysfunctional, and slipped the original into the large pockets of his coveralls to be incinerated later. Somewhere overhead, a Predator, silently hidden in the sun, focused on 'other matters,' while he and the 'covergirl' shared a beer in plastic cups.
"I have too much honor and integrity for that," Miss Hilton replied, flicking ashes on the desk and throwing her empty cup on the floor. Nothing 'angry' about it. Real covergirls do things 'different,' that's all, naturally. "I'll blame myself, promote you, and testify exactly how the country got crossed."
Mr. Kenricks, not his real name, got a sudden case of tingles, head-spinning with so much to think about, eyes opened widely.
Mission Accomplished.
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-
THE END
Copyright62-06CLW
[size=2][i]NOT FOR PUBLIC DISCLOSURE DRMS-06-1423[/SIZE][/I]
posted by Clayton Leon Winton | 8:21 AM
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