There was something terribly wrong with the assassination attempt on my life, and it bugged me a lot when I thought about it later. It was a hasty job, for sure, and I couldn’t decide if it was really an assassination or just an intimidation attempt. The problem was that it all happened too fast—almost in the blink of an eye—and the other car was gone before I knew it. I didn’t even manage to see what make or model it was. However, if Tanaka was behind it, his thugs would have probably killed me! I had been an open target the entire time, and it made no sense they would let me off the hook so easily. So, maybe it wasn’t him then, but who was it?

One thing was sure: it wasn’t Boris. Larry and Bob weren’t with us anymore, so the only one left was Kurvallo. But why would he want me dead? In any case, the attempt backed up my assumption that he and Tanaka weren’t on good terms anymore, and they were becoming nervous about each other and about my snooping, too. It also increased my worries about Lara’s disappearance and her sister’s fate.

After my attackers were gone, I got to my feet and looked around, trembling. I saw no witnesses on the street, and even if someone had heard the gunshots or seen something from their window at home, I really doubted they would want to share their experience with me, let alone talk to the police. That’s why I quickly stepped into the Ford and moved it away from the flower shop, parking it around the corner at the next intersection. By the way, I didn’t want to involve the cops either. There was no point because they couldn’t help me in this situation, and they would just waste my time by making me write pointless statements.

The funny thing was my car didn’t even suffer as much damage as I thought. In the commotion, it felt like the end of the world, but actually, only the side window was broken, and everything else was okay. The vehicle didn’t need repair because I could definitely go without the glass in this heat. I carefully removed its shreds from the car door pocket and the floor and then cautiously walked away, turning my head around like a frightened meerkat. I ran to my building and dashed up the staircase to my apartment. Thank god, nobody waited for me there with five bottles of whiskey and a blue plastic bucket.

I spent a really terrible night with countless nightmares, which I couldn’t even remember very well, and the following morning, I woke up more exhausted and nervous than ever. Since I had no coffee left after the weird “party” I arranged for myself about two weeks ago, I had to get my shit together and drop over to the convenience store, using the opportunity to check on the current ambiance in my neighborhood and grab a bunch of newspapers to read later. Everything looked perfectly fine on the streets, and weirdly enough, people weren’t rioting after my assassination attempt. Obviously, the big, cold world didn’t care about me a bit!

Back in my apartment, I locked the front door, made enough coffee to overdose myself a couple of times over, and grabbed an issue of my paparazzo friend’s newspaper. As it turned out, his material was out in the open now, but since it was written too late and the typesetting was already done, they printed it as a breaking news supplement, which they simply tucked between the other pages. It looked unconvincing—much like the loose amendment of Jefferson from my dream a few nights ago.

As for the material itself, it was a typical yellow press job. It focused mainly on the scandalous aspects of the story and, of course, on my picture. My friend—Zachary Carpenter was his name as it turned out—really tried to give it a pinch of investigative journalism, but it was clear that the evidential part was rather weak. In return, the visual part was bright and sparkling, and my photo of an unknown whore sticking a huge dildo deep into the ass of the potential US President looked totally engaging and authentic. As a result, my karate friend turned into a celebrity overnight, and it was all thanks to me.

After finishing the supplement, I also checked the other newspapers, but they had nothing on the story because it was exclusive. So I turned on the radio instead and tuned to the news. Most stations had already picked up on the scandal, and the political landscape quaked with weird details about John Kurvallo—the extravagant DEA chief.

First, I learned that the guy’s mansion, located close to the state border, was built on a plot that remained uncharted after the chaos during and following the Civil War. Due to that, it was unclear under what jurisdiction it fell, and by the way, various officials from neighboring states confirmed just that.

It was also said that on the ranch, strange and unthinkable things had been happening for years, like: shooting hardcore porn movies in an improvised studio behind the house; manufacturing synthetic drugs; developing biological weapons in a secret laboratory; and that slavery was still in place there despite the Thirteenth Amendment being in effect everywhere else in the country. There were also rumors that compasses didn’t show north in the area due to specific magnetic field abnormalities; there was an entire network of underground tunnels, which the Illuminati used to destabilize the world order in secret; and even that the aliens had arranged headquarters for themselves in the guest house after they secretly conquered the Earth without anyone noticing.

Naturally, more serious programs steered clear of such ridiculous allegations and speculations, and they just stuck to the rumors that the DEA’s chief was almost broke, badly addicted to drugs, and suffered from a rare form of schizophrenia, which made him believe he was immortal. According to various reports, his illness has been the main reason why Kurvallo has behaved so erratically in public and in the media lately.

Of course, some stations were still dedicated to good old-fashioned journalism, and they tried to reveal Kurvallo’s personality instead. They followed his life from his poor childhood in one of Montgomery’s black suburbs to his sudden rush and rapid advancement in the hierarchy of the local Ku Klux Klan organization and his subsequent entry into mainstream politics when he donated sperm and helped the longtime childless speaker of the House—Jack Horner Jackson—have a son. This act was a determining moment in his career and secured him the position of DEA chief.

NCBSC radio also reminded the public of his extreme intolerance toward people with different opinions and mindsets, which he often demonstrated on various occasions, as well as his scandalous comments on Democrats’ idea of legalizing gay sex nationwide. In his fury, Kurvallo said his opponents were “empty-headed twats who had mummified balls and underdeveloped dicks gaining erection in a reverse fashion—up their fat asses.” Naturally, half of the words in this pretty ornate description were censored with beeps, making it all one giant beep and almost impossible for the listeners to understand what he actually said.

The Texan Neo-Socialist Party, on the other hand, took the opposite approach and raised his persona to the heights of a great visionary who wanted to solve the crippling social inequality in the country by nationalizing oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. According to the party, their revenues should be used to support poor and jobless people in the form of coupons for prostitutes and alcohol, and by doing that, the authorities would suppress the racial tension on American streets and revive the ideals of the withering hippy movement from the late sixties and seventies. TNSP also said they firmly stood behind Kurvallo’s candidacy for president and claimed that ninety-seven percent of all Americans supported him too, but his colleagues in the FBI and CIA, who envied his success, exerted heavy pressure on the media to smear his campaign.

About an hour later, with my head hurting from all the blabbering, I turned off the radio and stepped onto the balcony to check the weather. I hadn’t listened to so much politics in all the years of my life combined. Down on the street, everything still looked peaceful, and obviously, my assassination wasn’t going to enter the news as it seemed. The sun had already beaten a few temperature records, making the cars along the curbs melt quietly, but I thought it wasn’t enough for me. I yawned tiredly and decided to give the sun a second chance, stepping back into the living room and trying to put my life in order while settling on a plan for the upcoming days.

Overall, I had no exceptional or exciting ideas, as it turned out. The wisest move was probably to wait until the participants in this twisted criminal scheme killed each other, but I didn’t think I had time for that. Waiting didn’t actually work to my or my client’s advantage. On the other hand, though, it really didn’t seem like I had a client now, so maybe it didn’t matter. Besides, the chances of finding Sonya alive were already very slim.

Unfortunately, I knew I wouldn’t give up. Things had never worked like that for Mellrow—the grown-up catcher in the rye. The savior of the world was stubborn, like a dog with a bone, and he would persist regardless of the price. He would continuously pursue other people’s goals and protect anybody’s interests except his own until the end because there were still such fools in the world! There was one small, tiny problem, however—money. He had none!

Honestly, I still secretly expected Lara would suddenly turn up with my magical pants and their magical pockets and shower me with petrodollars. I had to believe that because I clearly couldn’t find clients in the free market economy, so my Cheyenne financial donor was my only hope to save my ass. Otherwise, I would just have to buy a ticket for the first flight to Guadeloupe and live in a straw hut, gathering coconuts for the rest of my life.

A couple of minutes later, still feeling very angry and disappointed by everything that was happening to me, I looked around my living room, which was messier than the bums’ slum near Eternity, making up my mind that, for once, I would take care of my own interests first. I decided to clean up the house, and even though I suddenly realized my telephone didn’t work anymore, probably because they had finally cut it off for overdue bills, that didn’t distract me enough from my goal. While keeping my positive attitude, I fooled around for only an hour more—give or take—and then buckled down and got to work.

As usual, the things I had to do started multiplying uncontrollably as soon as I began working, and after a few minutes, I already felt like I was in the middle of the ocean during a heavy storm, with huge waves of water violently hitting me in the face and flinging my body to the left and right. This time, I didn’t cave in, though. Just like a little squirrel, assiduous and untiring, I kept ticking off tasks, piling up nuts inside my hollow and shoveling poop outside until I gained such tremendous momentum that somewhere around noon, I hardly restrained myself from walking down to the street and sweeping it all the way to the next intersection.

When I finished everything on my list, I exhaustedly wiped my wet forehead, threw the cleaning tools on the floor, and slumped on the couch, dog-tired. Since I knew there was no chance to watch Tom and Jerry no matter how badly I wanted to, which depressed me, I disappointedly embraced the side cushion to bury my head into it and cry myself to oblivion. That’s how I unexpectedly found the mysterious report I was supposed to give Inspector Greensboro. After bending backward to search for it everywhere, it just fell on the floor when I pulled the cushion.

I glanced at the piece of paper, still not believing my eyes, and reached down to take it. It was really my missing report; there was no mistake! Well, it wasn’t as much of a report as a half-page essay that even a third-grader who had just learned to write would do better, but it didn’t matter. From reading it, I only learned things I already knew, and it was terrible because it meant my investigation so far had been utterly pointless—I had obviously known everything before that! It made me feel like this unfortunate explorer—Bougainville—who always discovered lands someone else had found before him.

Totally depressed, I threw the paper back on the floor without even wondering why I didn’t send it to Greensboro or why I hid it so well from myself. I stood up, still sour and moody but thankful I had already done the cleaning because I wouldn’t have been in the mood to do it now, and since I was too pissed off at myself to stay home, I decided to go out and find a restaurant to eat my anger away. I hadn’t had a proper lunch for weeks because of the endless hanging around in bars, so it was time to take care of my poor stomach.

I quickly hopped into a set of clothes, walked down the stairs, and stepped outside, hurrying toward my car. My old beauty met me with anticipation, and when I turned on the ignition key, she purred happily and enthusiastically rushed forward, expecting new adventures. However, she had to stop just a few minutes later, disappointed because we suddenly reached our final destination, which surprised me too. It was a miserable restaurant, quite conveniently but unimaginatively called “Local Diner”— precisely what I had in mind when I decided to eat. I left the Ford in the parking lot, stepped out of it, and burst into the place, looking for a vacant booth. When I found one, I started turning my head impatiently, searching for someone to fetch me all the food in the world.

Soon, the waitress—an exact but never-smiling replica of Dolly Parton—dragged herself to me and stood at my table without saying anything. She looked like she had just learned about being nothing more than a famous country singer’s clone, and now her life had no meaning. When I started ordering, she wrote everything down in her notepad with an expression of boredom pasted on her face, and every now and then, she stopped to glance at me, surprised that there was more. I asked for roast chicken with green beans, extra-large French fries, a big bowl of iceberg salad, a French baguette, hot sauce, a pint of Bud Light, and an apple pie with maple syrup. When I finished my order, she looked at me again, but this time in the capacity of my personal dietitian, who obviously disapproved of my reckless choice. Since I ignored her opinion completely, she eventually turned around with a pirouette worthy of the most famous prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Theater, and the hem of her dress rode up, revealing the lower part of her nice-looking butt. Then she hurried to the kitchen to kick the chef’s ass and get all the cooking started.

Surprisingly, I didn’t have to wait too long for my food to arrive. After only three minutes, Miss Dolly unexpectedly returned, silently putting a dish of freezing-cold chicken on the table, which also appeared to be still alive because its neck was deeply buried in my green beans, seemingly sniffing at them. She served me my French fries and everything else, too, and when she scrammed, I grabbed the spoon to protect my property, finishing the greedy poultry with a single bang on its headless neck. After that, I buried the weapon into the salad to conceal the traces of my crime, tasted my beer, which was rather thin and tepid, and took the fork to initiate the feasting.

Unfortunately, that day wasn’t my day for eating, as it turned out. I had started stuffing my mouth with fries when an old Chevrolet appeared in the parking lot and pulled up next to my car. I glanced at it, and at first, I didn’t see anything unusual, so I continued my work. I launched an attack, threatening to rip open the chicken and eat it, but the slippery bastard escaped my grip, jumping up and punching my nose with its amputated half-leg—probably to take revenge on me for my hostility. I roared angrily and clutched the nuisance behind the wings. I was just sinking my fingers into its flesh, anticipating my glorious victory, when all of a sudden, an entire geyser of stuffing squirted out of the animal’s stupid ass and splashed over my most precious.

I looked down, not believing my eyes, and literally hit the roof with rage. My crotch was all smeared with grease, and my jeans were utterly ruined. The spot was impossible to clean up, and I had to walk around like that until I returned home. Really frustrated, I growled like a terrible beast from prehistoric times, frightening the spoon in the salad so much that it crawled out of its hiding place and tried to run away to the neighboring table. Without paying attention to it, I grabbed the knife, wielding it like an emotionally unstable samurai who had just lost his favorite master, making the chicken see its inevitable end and scream mournfully. Then I spitefully bent over the little bastard, preparing to end its pathetic semi-existence. Unfortunately, that was all I managed to do, and after that, I had to duck sharply, hiding behind the opposite seat.

The bell above the entrance door rang warningly, and the albino guys in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, whom I had lost so many times so far, casually stepped inside. Since they didn’t see me, I ducked even lower, observing them from behind the edge of the seat and wondering what to do next. I really hoped no one would come around to ask me if I was okay and ruin my snooping before I decided on a viable plan.

It was unbelievable luck, indeed! I hadn’t received such an unexpected bonus for a long time, and it made me believe fate didn’t hate me so badly after all! I quickly wondered how to disguise myself better, and for a moment, I was a hair’s breadth away from grabbing the bowl of salad and putting it on my head, spreading its contents over my shoulders. Fortunately, I remembered I wasn’t in the Vietnam jungle and stopped myself right on time before I attracted too much attention instead of avoiding it.

The two canary birds with colorful plumage lazily approached a vacant booth near the door and angrily rearranged the furniture to free up more space for themselves. As I watched them, I could not help but think their asses would get stuck in the seats, and then they would never be able to get out. That’s how big their butts actually were! After a few moments, though, they settled down fine, and when they gave their orders to Dolly, the man suddenly stood up, proving me completely wrong. He obviously wanted to pee because he said something to his partner and quickly waddled toward the toilet. My heart skipped a beat because the situation was even better this way.

I waited another minute and nervously prepared to crawl behind the front line between us, using the furniture to retain the element of surprise. I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was going to stick to the golden rule, “improvise no matter what,” but unfortunately, the waitress beat me to my final destination before I made my first step. Clearly, in this miserable diner, everything was cooked in a blink of an eye, or maybe it had been cooked sometime in the middle of the last week, and now Miss Dolly was serving it in another blink! The latter laboriously pushed a trolley to the table—almost as big as a petroleum tanker—and completely blocked my way to the booth of my Hawaiian friends. Then she started emptying the “hold.”

Oh, my goodness, it was such an unbearable pain to watch everything these weird people had ordered go down on that small table! It was a monumental task like emptying the Titanic, and soon, the pile of food resembled a replica of the Cheops pyramid. I thought the table would eventually crack under its weight, and my lunch, which I had considered abundant so far, suddenly seemed like the dinner of a poor Somali family during their fasting.

Thank god, after a couple of minutes, the unloading was over. Everything was delivered and served, and the waitress finally scrammed, taking the trolley with her, after which I was good to go with my military operation. I was angry I had lost some time, but I could do nothing about it—I had to deal with whatever I had. So I took a deep breath, stood up again, and quickly approached the enemy’s mess, casually slipping into the seat my walrus friend in the toilet was supposed to occupy. He was still lingering there, blissfully unaware of my insidious offensive here.

To my surprise, his girl didn’t bat an eyelid when I sat across the table from her. She didn’t look at me at all, which made me think she hadn’t noticed me. By the way, when I say “girl,” I mean it figuratively. The woman was nearly twice as big as any ordinary girl and clearly ate as much as five of them would. She was so focused—not losing even the smallest piece of food out of sight—that I thought maybe, absorbed in the task, she had taken me for her partner.

“Are you Sculda?” I asked her curtly to inform her about the terrible mistake she was making. My paparazzi friend had told me they were Mully and Sculder, but these weren’t their real names because they wanted to confuse people. Sadly, though, he wasn’t sure how exactly they rearranged them.

“No. I’m Mully,” the woman corrected me coldly, still not taking her eyes off the food. She definitely knew how to keep cool; I should give her that!

“Oh, come on! Cut the crap, please!” I snapped angrily to show her I wasn’t just anybody. “I know you’ve altered your names so nobody could recognize you. If you aren’t Sculda, you’re Mulda then!”

“I’m not Mulda,” she denied quietly.

“Well, you couldn’t be Mulder, right?”

“Right. I couldn’t.”

“Then the only option remaining is that you’re Scully!”

This time, the woman remained silent. She continued eating, but she was digging just a notch slower, which was most likely a sign she was impressed by the grip of my iron-strong logic and my sharp, deductive mind. Seconds later, she regained her usual eating pace.

I examined her briefly. She was definitely no fucking alien! She had extraordinary pale skin, insipid blue eyes, lank blonde hair, and almost white eyebrows, but other than that, she looked all-natural and totally human. Plus, her partner seemed pretty desperate to pee a while ago, so he was probably an earthly creature, too.

“Okay, Scully,” I went on, satisfied to receive the confirmation about her name even though it wasn’t verbal. “I don’t know what you and your buddy over there are doing,” I tossed my head toward the toilet, “but you’re starting to piss me off already. Tell me why you are dragging after me all the time!”

“Are we?” the starving albino asked me, still without turning her eyes to me. She just kept tucking in greedily as if nothing strange was happening. She had already managed to clean up two of the plates, and if her dude in the can lingered there for much longer, he would have to go without lunch. Despite that, the remaining pile on the table was still pretty impressive.

“Of course you are! We’ve met at least three times so far.”

“Can’t we just say our paths have crossed accidentally more than once?”

“No, we can’t do that!” I snapped. “But I guess we can safely agree we’re on the same case here. Or alternatively, we can say you’re trying to steal mine from me. How’s that, huh? I know you work for the FBI!”

The agent suddenly stopped eating. She looked at me for the first time since we started talking, and her expression vaguely resembled respect. Clearly, she had thought I was a little wooden guy with a very long nose, and it was only now that she realized she was actually dealing with the fucking Lord of Logic.

“How did you know we were with the FBI?” She asked me, mildly impressed. “Even my aunt failed to recognize me when she saw me disguised like that!”

“Did she? And what did she say to you?” I ridiculed her. “Aloha, Mully?”

Scully didn’t answer and just kept looking at me. She was totally cool. I doubted there was anything in the world to throw her off balance, and soon, she proved me right by resuming food processing without further comment on my remark. At the same time, I looked around nervously because I expected her partner to appear every minute now. There was still no trace of him, though, so I presumed his progress in the toilet had hit an unexpected snag.

“So what’s really going on here? You must tell me why you’re messing with me, if not for the sake of my case, at least for stopping me from messing with yours!” I kept insisting, with no intention of giving up.

“We’re not messing with you,” my weird stalker said, expressionless. “We’re trying to smoke a man out, but you always get in our way.”

“Oh, just stop this crap! You’re the one who gets in my way! You think I don’t know who you’re after? Is that Kurvallo?”

I received no answer to my question and no eye contact. I could only hear her quiet munching. By the way, she was acting strictly according to the book. Obviously, we were going to play a game here where I would ask questions, and she would ignore me, so I had to be very patient. I hoped that if I was good enough at this, I could distinguish between a silent “yes” and “no” and extract some useful information from her, although I wasn’t very optimistic about it.

“What exactly are you investigating? Is it the bastard’s sick affinity for whores?” I started the game nonetheless.

I got neutral silence.

“Are the girls in his mansion kept there against their will?”

Munching.

“Do you suspect they are being abused?”

Silence.

“Are you under pressure to keep your mouths shut because of Kurvallo’s presidential candidacy?”

Munching.

“Is the CIA director involved too?”

Silence.

“Was Roswell a true story?”

I put in the last one simply because I got tired. As expected, it felt boring to play such a game alone. This time, though, she couldn’t resist answering.

“Phew! Roswell!” my undercover friend grunted disparagingly. “The CIA clowns made that up when their budget became too overblown, and they feared they wouldn’t be able to justify it with the USSR anymore!”

I shrugged. It wasn’t too much, but it was still a breakthrough.

“Okay, Scully,” I said sourly and prepared to work my mouth for at least an hour before she gave me the next answer. “I don’t know how much progress you’ve made with your little investigation, but I suspect you’re treading water. Maybe you would have been far more successful if you ate less and worked more. Anyway, if you really want a piece of my mind, Eternity’s your sweet spot. Take my word for it; everything starts there!”

“Who do you think we are?” Scully suddenly raised her head to look at me, annoyed at last. Obviously, I had managed to step on her toes about overeating. “You think we don’t know all that?”

“Well, do you? Did you also know that the club’s owner murdered his suppliers recently, compromising his entire drug business? He did that because of Kurvallo! Were you aware of that?”

She didn’t answer. It seemed she didn’t know it. I was almost sure she knew nothing about Sandra, the Butterfly, or the blackmail attempt either. At the same time, I did not intend to fill her in on my latest findings. I had already given her enough—just to be sure I wouldn’t be caught in the fire if things turned south and the FBI had to step in.

Scully slowly diverted her eyes from mine and returned to eating. However, she was doing it much slower now. She had undoubtedly taken the edge off her hunger and could focus on less urgent matters. As I watched her and the abundant table between us, I felt hungry, too, having the impulse to reach out and help myself with something, but I knew it would be a dangerous gesture. It could easily cost me my hand!

Unfortunately, the agent’s colleague finally turned up at this moment, and I had to vacate his seat. I stood up slowly, and he politely waited until I stepped aside. “Whassup, ma’?” The guy just mooed in his sluggish Texan accent as he passed me without asking me what I was doing there or showing any sign that he recognized me. As soon as his seat was free, his attention immediately focused on the food, as if he was afraid something might be missing, which wouldn’t be surprising, considering his partner’s appetite.

He was a really sloppy bastard, no matter how you looked at it. He had pissed his shorts a bit, but that didn’t stop him from looking disapprovingly at my fly, which was only delicately smeared with grease. On the other hand, though, how could I blame him for such a thing? After all, peeing wasn’t easy while being “successfully” disguised like this in this loose pair of shorts, flapping around his dick like brigantine sails on a windy day.

I gave him a dismissive look as well and turned around to go.

“Can we rely on your discretion?” Scully’s voice unexpectedly caught up with me just a second before I walked away from their table. “We work undercover here and kind of overreach ourselves, bypassing Internal Affairs.”

“Of course, no problem about that. Just be sure I don’t ‘get in your way’ too often!” I looked at her and finger-quoted my last words. Then I quickly headed for the cashier to pay for my unconsumed lunch because I couldn’t stay in the diner anymore after such a stupid conversation. When I did it, I left.

As I walked to my car, I thought about the weird couple I had just met and all the other people who worked for various institutions in this damn country. Half of them were so lazy, and the other half were so lazy and fat that I wondered how any work was even being done. I had nothing against fatties, in fact, but I thought at least FBI agents and cops were supposed to meet some standards. Otherwise, we will have to replace the star on police badges with the ubiquitous donut very soon!

Since I didn’t want to return home yet because I had left only half an hour ago, I hopped into my Ford and drove aimlessly around the streets until, at some point, I found myself at the seaport. I pulled up at the curb, not far from Larry and Bob’s place, and looked at it. There, I saw another confirmation of my unflattering conclusions about public servants. The shack was now wrapped in yellow police tape like a Christmas present, with a bulldozer and construction workers clearing the area. Sitting on the front hood of his cruiser nearby, a two hundred-and-fifty-pound cop watched them—obviously very “tired” of his job—as he ate sunflower seeds and spat shells all around him.

On my part, I watched the officer for a while, too, and then turned the car around, slowly driving back toward my place. Clearly, Greensboro had finally picked up on this case and decided to make a few of his people do something to deserve their wages. It wasn’t actually too much, and it was also a bit too late, but at least he had the decency to take care of his shape and overall appearance, unlike the others. If nothing else, I could give him that.

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