Oh Man…The WGA is on strike, therefore I’m on strike. It’s August and we recently got back from another fantastic TaiDodgeYu vacation. I was going to blog in a heightened overly clever faux adventure style, but the more I worked on it the more I hated it. So now I am going back over what I wrote and just writing as me. “In my voice.”
I had been off the grid for a couple of days, nursing an injury sustained during an against-all-odds black bag skunk works covert top secret lips-are-sealed-shut-your-mouth-don’t-ask operation in Northern California the week before. Long story short, it was me against the very forces of nature, and if I lost then the very fucking world would be at stake- as usual. I put up a good fight, I played the hand that was dealt me and baby, I was aces, but barely, and at what cost? My broken body was the collateral. Some have called me a rule breaking son-of-a-bitch who will stop at nothing. Others say I exaggerate whenever I blow out my back by merely standing still. I say, “God Dammit, Dodge, you old so-and-so…it’s time to heal.”
But healing would have to ride in the trunk because in the witching hours my hi-tech CPAP machine blipped to life. It was a communique from “Ops Central.” The display that normally tells me whether my nose pillows are properly nestled in my nostrils trilled to a live video feed from the “Director” hailing from an undisclosed location somewhere between here and none of anyone’s business.
“Agent Dodge, your services are desperately needed…again.”
“God Dammit,” I groan, ripping off my nose pillow, my eyes raising like two broken garage doors. “I understand. It’s hard not to need me. Brief away.”
“Agent, as you are well aware, recently a splinter cell of the extremist group formerly known as the GOP has forsaken the appearance of public service and been gnashing their own dicks over the (Q!)uestion about whether aliens are real and whether or not the US government is covering this knowledge up. The Center believes that this group’s oily regard will turn to the northwest…
“You’re not talking about-“
“Big Foot, yes I am. Your mission, should you choose to take it, will be to travel to the Pacific Northwest ahead of this impending character assassination op to ascertain whether or not Big Foot is real. If Big Foot is real, then you must find a way to get it safely out of reach from the cross-eyed gaze of this group’s political insobriety.”
“It’s Zero Four Thirty, Director.”
“Your team assembles at ZERO FIVE HUNDRED.”
“Well, fuck a duck and wish him luck.” I may be a screenwriter by day, but on vacation days, I’m a cock-on, bitchin’ hero. “I’m in.”
“This message will terminate in five seconds.”
“Wait, how have I been having a conversation with a message?!”
“AI, mutherfucker. It’s not only just trying to replace screenwriters…three…two…”
I get up and step away from my CPAP expecting a poof of smoke – but the screen simply reads, “Lost WI-FI CONNECTION.” Practical. Guess that’s destruction enough. And I’m up, rearing to rendezvous with my team.
At 0500 I find myself standing on the sidewalks mustering with my team in hushed greetings, lest we wake the neighbors…oh, I’ve worked with this team before, and I know that if anyone can get the job done, every single one of these SOBs can.
Joining me on this mission are Agent Chase Dodge, specialist in interrogation, psy-ops, and telekinetic torture.
Agent Charlie Dodge is our Master of disguise – every new day brings the promise of new hair color. A few missions ago, Agent Dodge brought on a new member to our team, Agent Leo Sheingate. Leo can assemble and disassemble a lego machine gun in 9.8 seconds and is what I can only describe as a “reptile tamer.” They both are built for mornings.
There’s Specialist Agent George Yu. Driver. Whiskey Bottle Demolition. Agent Joyce Yu is the muscle behind our operation. Sane people don’t fuck with her unless they want to lose their spleen. And that is why there isn’t a 0500 photo of her, or her husband for good measure.
Running Ops support is Agent Piper Yu – an expert in flag-waving and body motion, and Tyler Yu – who recently installed a device on her head that can detect an enemy a mile away.
Of course, no mission would be worth the risk without the help of Agent Tiffany Tai – who we now have to call Judicial Officer Tai. Chief strategist. Logistical lead. She’s got everyone’s six.
The team climbed into the van and were whisked to the airport. Half the team got some shut eye- hey pal, you take it where you can get it. The other half kept each other awake with wild tales of yesteryear. Who knows if those tales are true. The point is, we all still remember the themes of our high school proms – and they all sucked.
Once we reached the airport we got our usual greeting from TSA. But being a hero myself I can tell you that real recognizes real. I know they only act like screaming, inarticulate, half-witted heels for appearance sake ONLY. I have no doubt that in reality, these officers are cobras with sharpened minds of titanium waiting to strike at a moment’s notice for the safety of the populace. That’s why when one of them screams for me to take my iPad out and another one then screams for me to keep my iPad in my backpack, then another one screams at me to step into the body scanner while J.O. Tai is currently being scanned – only already having screamed at J.O. Tai to hurry up herself with the exasperation of an orangutan trying to open a jar of pickles – I know it’s all just a ruse to lull the enemy into believing that these are nothing but blathering dolts who have no idea what they are doing and therefore can only bray like lobotomized animals. But all I would in response to such an assessment is, “Oh, you really think TSA is clueless? Well, are they, Mr. Enemy? Because I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way. Take that! Karate chop!” By the time I make it through TSA, all I wanted to do is give those brave personnel an emphatic double salute to show them how I feel deep down about their service.
One Bloody Mary and a gaze out the window later, we have landed in Seattle. SEA-TAC ops has given us BMW X models with holographic Nav Display and haptic feedback steering. Those should get the job, indeed. They are worthy machines for a worthy team.
We immediately realized that intel is needed. And there’s no better way to get intel than by visiting where the locals feed their bellies. So we went to Crunch Town. Filipino fast food. The suckers lined up at Jollibee. We crunched a bunch at Crunch Town. Crunch Town afforded us sooo much crunch, and we knew that the next move was crucial. The best place to start a search for Big Foot is Portland.
Portland is just a few amazing playlists away from Seattle. We recoitered at our safe house in the Embassy Suites and decided that the best place to gather solid intel was…a bookstore.
And there’s only one bookstore in town that is worth a damn. Powell’s books. At Powells we found what we were looking for. Hard clues that the locals know of Big Foot. Strong suggestion that we are barking up the right trees. So yes, sure. Big Foot was known and what we found here was proof. But was he real?
Now, for most of our team this is at least the second mission to the Portland area AND Powell bookstore. What was different this time around was a guard in FULL TACTICAL GEAR. I myself have my theories that this was only proof that the information held in this facility was especially vital. But the “official” explanation is that crime is on the rise in Portland and that the homeless population has grown, too.
And it did seem like there are more homeless people- at least on the walking route that we took. And the police I saw were all armed to the hilt and outfitted with tactical gear as well- real aggressive looking bastards with sleeve tattoos and openly smoking cigarettes as if they were about to make some fuckers bleed. But as we were walking to our hotel with bags full of delicious Mediterranean food to eat together as a team, it was clear to me that all this homelessness stuff must be…a cover? Could the homeless people in Portland actually be agents working in the field to protect a secret? A BIG FOOT secret? Any other explanation didn’t make sense to me. Because America is the richest, most powerful, most capable, most compassionate, most boastful country in the world and can literally get anything done if we set our minds to it – just read some history – which means there is no way there could ever be a “homeless” problem. We take care of our own, we wouldn’t let our fellow citizens suffer merely because we don’t know them, and they have problems and don’t have as much money as us and we aren’t forced to take care of them. That’s not the American way! NO! E PLURIBUS UNUM…out of many, ONE…we are all together. It’s written on our money! That’s how much we mean it!
But I can’t lie I was starting to doubt my theory as I was walking along, heading to our hotel for our first night…maybe they weren’t all here to guard a secret. Maybe some really sad shit is going on that nobody has control of.
But then I saw it. Holy shit, I saw it…and my mind flipped inside out.
TO BE CONTINUED…