Alacrán, The Honey Badger
Copyright © 2014 Bobby W. Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
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International Standard Book Number: 9781483520650
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Deciding how best to introduce this book was the most difficult part of the project. The story was already written for me in the form of a dispassionate diary. All I had to do was organize it, mix in some environmental trappings, sarcasm, a few jokes, send it to a proofreader and, with luck, I could pay the rent. On the way to the bank, an unamusing thing happened. I hadn't gotten through Chapter One before the truth hit me like a runaway Toyota. So I started leaving out what I didn't like and ended up with a few pages of environmental trappings, sarcasm, and some jokes. Bottom line: Cinderella did get her prince, but he started running with the wrong crowd, and she had to pay the price. Then, of course, Americans voted their fears and greed and elected and reelected Pinocchio. Still, I found the courage to continue after meeting up with five other travelers on the Yellow Brick Road. Sadly for all of us, it turned out there is no wizard, just Father Time, Mother Nature, and the NSA/CSS. There is arguably no better description of human nature than Katherine Dunn's quote in her distinctive book, Geek Love, "The truth is always an insult or a joke, lies are generally tastier. We love them. The nature of lies is to please. Truth has no concern for anyone's comfort."
Bobby W. Miller
Sometimes writers get lucky and a book or screenplay writes itself. Then there are times the literary gods test a writer's resolve. This was one of those times for Chris Moses, a Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer and world-class mountain climber. Moses looked a little like everyone but reminded you of no one in particular; he was as memorable as a sneeze. If he were not gay, he deserved an Academy Award because he had the bent wrist and prissy walk down perfectly. While most of Moses's straight peers considered him gay, he couldn't have been admired more. When he asked a question such as, "How's your day going?" he would stop and wait for your answer. The expressions that flitted across his face as he listened would let you know he was genuinely interested in hearing what you had to say.
Moses had worked on this book project for two years, and cutting through the red tape had been like wading through quicksand. But his hopes were high today; he believed he'd finally caught a break when he found a handwritten note slipped under his door, which read: "You can find Alacrán (Resident 27) at Chestnut Ridge, a retirement home."
Moses didn't know who had passed this information on to him or why, and he wasn't going to worry about it. People do things for their own reasons, and seldom is the reason given, the real reason. While he didn't know Alacrán's true identity; he knew the man was an assassin, born curmudgeon, and impavid. Moses thought, This guy would fit right in with the nuns at my old high school. But no one had accused this Alacrán of not having a sense of humor. Some had even died laughing. Sadly enough, he was to be the centerpiece of the new book. Like Moses, this Alacrán, a.k.a. Resident 27, was also sincere, but their similarities stopped there.
Chestnut Ridge was a quaint retreat located along the beautiful Shenandoah River, which starts northeast of Front Royal, Virginia. There are retirement homes throughout North America, but Chestnut Ridge is the only one handling the care and feeding of retired "ghosts," as they're called. These ghosts are kept in a manner fit for a prince from their date of hire until their death, be it natural or otherwise.
The powers that be at ACNE Publishing Company followed a singular, unwritten rule for dealing with humanity: Money will influence the actions of an official or other person in charge of a public duty. They filled cheap brown envelopes with cash and delivered them to so-called "scissors" who were people with the connections needed to cut through the red tape. Still, it had taken Moses six months to get the necessary papers allowing him access to Resident 27. Causing Moses to speculate that the "scissor" business had been acquired by the Sears Holding Corporation or outsourced to Bangladesh.
Someone somewhere may have known Resident 27's real name and where he had come from. If so, Moses hadn't been able to unearth them, and had remarked to a colleague that this Alacrán should write a deadbeat dad self-help book. When your subject has as many faces and aliases as he has fingers and toes, things don't exactly speed along. But if Klaatu and Gort or some Romulans didn't show up from a distant galaxy, Moses would finally get to meet Resident 27 who—if the word of mouth meant anything—was second only to Giacomo Casanova, an Italian adventurer, when it came to womanizing. Yet, not a single female had registered a complaint; but then he was an assassin.
Four rights do make up for three wrongs, at least in this instance. Even though Moses had made three wrong turns, he was now in sight of his goal. He was relieved on finally arriving at the huge wrought iron gates with Chestnut Ridge in them. He thought, Beats me how they can hide these places in plain sight. Moses wouldn't have admitted it in forty years, but he had a terrible sense of direction and was forever getting lost.
The wind was picking up and the sky was turning a battleship gray. The clouds suggested impending saturation, unfolding umbrellas, and people holding newspapers over their heads. Silly as it was, these clouds in a mysterious way reminded Moses of Rockville, his hometown. Most towns in the area had been named after a person, with a suffix added on: Glenndale, Mercerburg. Rockville had been named for the prevalence of rock outcroppings in the area. The area was known for its wide, meandering caverns in which people had found themselves lost. Between the two, "Rockville" sounded better than "Cavetown", so the name stuck.
It was still ten minutes until the appointed time, but Moses, not wanting to get caught out in a sudden downpour, raced across the parking lot to the main entrance. The manicured lawn wrapped around the one-of-a-kind structure. The sharply pitched roof bespoke of country estates and excesses of fortune long out of style. He was pleasantly surprised; the entrance surely would have met with the Cornelius Vanderbilt family's approval. Speaking to no one, Moses said, "I'm impressed already, Chestnut Ridge. Even a wee resemblance to Biltmore is noticeable."
Slowing his pace to a shuffle, he had almost reached the doorbell that was set off to one side of the huge double doors when a voice behind him asked, "Sir, may I help you?" Had Moses not known better, he'd have sworn the booming voice was God's. This was by no means a new experience for Moses. When you visit top-secret facilities, your mind halfway expects these badges to appear without warning, but your nervous system doesn't remember or evaluate—it reacts.
Moses stepped out of one of his soft Bally loafers and almost dropped his two tablets when he whirled around to see who had jolted his nervous system into a critical situation mode. "Yikes!" he huffed. "Do you security types do stuff like that for grins? Do I look as if I need help?"
This security type, who had a face as exciting as skim milk and a physique like Lou Ferrigno, asked, "Sir, may I see your pass?"
Having been to other top-secret facilities, Moses knew he had options: He could either comply with the request or enjoy a ninja choke takedown and a strip search.
When the security type confirmed with his higher power that Moses had authorization to enter the facility, his demeanor changed, becoming more like a smiling doorman than a menacing security guard.
Looking at his watch, Moses was pleased to learn he was right on time. However, to Moses's disappointment, the clearance papers only allowed him limited access. This meant a staff member, on mutually agreed dates and times, would meet him in the guest reception area and lead him to a small private meeting room.
To his surprise, Resident 27 was already waiting in the little room when Moses was ushered in. Moses extended his hand, saying, "It's nice to meet someone who respects the agreed-upon time. I'm usually kept waiting."
Resident 27 ignored the handshake offer. "We both know why you are kept waiting. A person is a fool to invite a journalist into their life. You glory hounds make a living off the heartaches and mistakes of others. The only difference between you and me is you kill them slowly, with words that have been manipulated to entertain your clientele."
Resident 27 paused to give Moses a chance to counter. He studied him with the eye of a professional assessing the weaknesses of his target. When he was satisfied no counter was coming, he continued, "I've been told you are interested in hearing about some of my adventures. If you want the story, sit down and keep your mouth shut."
Resident 27 was either having a bad day or being intentionally negative. What an asshole, Moses thought. He had long since learned an outsider could think what they pleased about those in places like Chestnut Ridge, but only the brave hearts like the late Steve Irwin, who intentionally provoked black mambas and inland taipans, dared express those types of feelings here, and Moses was no Steve Irwin. When he was a senior in high school, a mouse had crawled into bed with him. A fight ensued, and even though Moses outweighed the mouse by 160 pounds, it was Moses who had to be taken to an emergency room. He had either forgotten or didn't care his bedroom was on the second floor, and right under his bedroom window was a rose garden. Nevertheless, Moses was now in the presence of a man who would increase the boundaries of his comfort zone.
This medium-sized man called 27 was dressed in an eggshell-white linen suit, with a lavender shirt and silk tie that complemented his olive complexion. He was seventy-three, but his chiseled jaw and well-formed bone structure gave him the look of a much younger man. 27 was an average height with a full head of dark brown hair, deep green eyes, and peculiarly small ears. When he spoke, he was as Southern as grits. From the look of him, he was still in perfect health. Moses's first impression of 27 was a lot closer than he could have imagined. 27 struck Moses as being an old honey badger that still had a good set of teeth and claws. He was sure a human likeness would come to him, but it would have to be after he had forced this carnivorous glutton out of his consciousness.
While the meeting room where Moses would interview Resident 27 was small, there were two comfortable chairs placed on opposite sides of an elegant Canoa coffee table. A machine dispensing juices, water, and coffee hummed in the corner. Close by, there was a door marked Restroom. In a single gesture, 27 took a sip of water, turned, and pointed at the machine, saying, "You are welcome to enjoy the amenities. Might as well. You helped pay for them."
Turning back towards Moses, 27 stopped midway and stared at an oil painting of Payne Stewart embracing Phil Mickelson at Pinehurst as one might gaze at a picture of a departed friend. This particular oil painting was in this room because Resident 27 had purchased it and donated it to Chestnut Ridge.
Noticing 27's attention, Moses also set his sights on the painting of Stewart and Mickelson. He remembered the exact moment he had first heard of Stewart's death. Oddly enough, he was playing golf with his three friends Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and had just quit for the day. He jumped at the sound of 27's voice.
With a look on his face like he'd found a roach in his soup, Resident 27 said, "Moses, did you fart?"
Moses said, "No."
The old man said, "I didn't think so, I hadn't smelled anything, but at my age you have to make these checks every now and then to know if things are working."
Moses, with a grin in the making, started to say something, but Resident 27 cut him off. "There is always inequality in life. Some of us get to ride the crest to the shore. Others, well, they either misjudge the entry point or the great whites get them. I chose this vocation because it's based on meritocracy. It's truly a system founded on demonstrated achievement. Until my misanthrope aptitudes were given consideration, I had always been a penultimate contender. Unlike all other animals, humans trade instinct for uncertainty and truth for lies before they can tie their own shoes. I put that knowledge to good use and have enjoyed a lifestyle fit for a prince. When I stop talking, it will be to catch my breath, refresh my drink, or go water the flowers.
"Okay, Moses. What is your first question?"
"Well… I suspect your name and where you were born might be as good a place to start as any. It's difficult addressing a person using a number." Moses already knew Resident 27's code name was Alacrán. He was fishing for the real name.
"Give me a break, Moses. Is that the best you can do? They told me you were one of those Pulitzer Prize winners. Who was the competition that year? Sarah Palin? The Bills, Teds, and Bobs are like sand on a beach, but how many 27's do you know? Allow me to sum things up for you: Familiarity weakens respect for the human species. When I accepted an offer of employment I couldn't refuse, I was told, in time, I would come to loathe humankind. I didn't believe it possible, but before my first anniversary with the Family, I could relate to the French novelist Andre Malruax when he said, 'What is Man? A miserable little pile of secrets.'"
Moses was a professional with a wall full of awards and citations, but Resident 27 had the learned ability to piss off a dead rat. Moses angrily said, "Did they also tell you the only thing I know about you is you're a belligerent old grouch they call 27?"
The old man didn't exactly laugh out loud, but he did crack a grin. "Would you believe I'm Louis Armstrong, born on July 4th, 1900, in New Orleans?"
"No, but if it works for you, it works for me, Louis."
"Moses, unlike the late Christopher Hitchens, who said, 'Is it too modern to notice that there is nothing [in the ten commandments] about the protection of children from cruelty, nothing about rape, nothing about slavery, and nothing about genocide? Or is it too exactingly "in context" to notice that some of these very offenses are about to be positively recommended?' I don't try to discourage Christianity as Hitchens did. The Christians today are no different than those living when the earth was flat, and they objected to burning a bit of incense, not to the emperor, but to the emperor's genius. Why? Easy question. The emperor was worshiping the wrong god. I say, let these Christians have their god, they've paid an astronomical price for him. Christianity is the goose that laid the golden egg as far as politicians, career military, saboteurs, assassins, and the clergy are concerned." Resident 27 took a sip of juice, then asked, "Spent any time in Europe, especially England, Moses?"
"Give me a second to catch up. If I learn nothing else today, I can attest to the fact you're a multitasker. As to your question, no. Sadly, I haven't had the pleasure of England, 27, but I spent several years in Egypt."
"Family values in America are different than in Europe. Here a congressman, or the director of the FBI, has to slip around to share a bed with his boyfriend.
"These Brits might remind you of Corn Flakes, but dress them up and they'll pass for French tarts. No one throws a black-tie affair like top-shelf Brits. I ended up babysitting a guy named Sir Ralph Lorcan-Smith. He took care of the financial exchanges between the CIA and MI6. There were some veiled threats made on Mr. Lorcan-Smith's life, so I was sent to protect him (if possible).
"Against my advice, the lady of the house threw a party. As expected, the bad boys didn't show. However, a guy named Zacharias and a lady named Mary did, and the Lorcan-Smith family would never be the same again.
"It was to be the most extravagant party ever hosted by the Lorcan-Smith household, which was comprised of Ralph or Ralfie, who was a lawyer for an investment bank, and Teresa or Mother Teresa, as Ralph annoyingly referred to her.
"Then there was the son, Lazarus. I'm betting, Moses, you and Lazarus would have hit it off. Oh, I almost forgot about Sir Winston and Madam Margaret."
"Excuse me, 27. Are you deliberately trying to confuse me?"
"I don't know. Are you confused, Moses?" Without waiting for an answer, Resident 27 took off again. "Teresa was from an aristocratic family, and Daddy was none too pleased when she made off with Ralph, as he had not an ounce of blue blood running through his veins. According to Daddy, he was an incompetent buffoon. However, Ralph was the only male who had shown any interest in Teresa, so unless Daddy wanted his daughter to stay a dowdy spinster, he had no choice but to agree to the nuptials. It had turned out Teresa's father had been wrong about Ralph. He was every bit as snobbish and boring as his manatee-looking wife.
"The other couple that was managing to get by in the Lorcan-Smith's thirty-room mansion, located in the center of 65 acres of gardens, fountains, and statues, was the previously mentioned Sir Winston and Madam Margaret. Unlike Ralph, these two dogs had come with papers. The Shih Tzu breed, despite appearing to be a perfect dog for a couple of elitists, is warm-natured and loving. It's a dog that enjoys down-to-earth conversations.
"The world-renowned chef, Pierre Fontanne, who happened to own the most sought-after catering company in all of Europe, would naturally be charged with the duties of feeding the twenty-plus guests. All of them had never once burped or passed wind in public to Mr. and Mrs. Lorcan-Smith's knowledge. If so, he or she wouldn't have been on the guest list.
"The head of the army of servants told his employers he and the staff were ready, so there wouldn't be any problems. And there wouldn't have been any problems if it hadn't been for three boiled eggs, a pint and a half of Gluek Stite Light Lager, and an invitation ending up some twenty miles from where it was supposed to be.
"A lass from Yorkshire named Jemima, who was said to have the patience of Job, worked for Chef Fontanne. She was pleasant enough, but to say she came with a bit of midriff bulge would have been a gigantic understatement. She hadn't intended to drink the night before the big event, knowing her system as she did, but her mate wanted a drink.
"The human digestive tract doesn't always function on demand, and it was in the car with the twins, Jacob and Esau, who were also on Chef Pierre Fontanne's list to work the big event, that a redo of the Mount Vesuvius eruption happened. Even though the three employees of Fontanne Catering emerged unharmed from the car that was now lodged between two unyielding trees, they'd not make the party.
"Short on help, Chef Fontanne did the only thing he could do. He handed Zacharias a jacket and tie bearing the Fontanne name. It's doubtful anyone knew anything about Zacharias. He had shown up in town one day and, being unable to speak, he used whistling sounds to communicate. When all you can do is whistle, your job options are limited. There's dishwasher, sports referee, or working at a circus. Fontanne had hired him to clean up the kitchen more out of pity than need.
"Teresa had said this was going to be an unforgettable party and, despite everyone's best efforts, she had been right. While Zacharias wasn't going to be the coup de grâce, he would make a major contribution.
"A peach of a lady named Mary, or Nipples to her mates, had had her share of heartaches. She'd lost her virginity to a guy she had never seen before or since. To make matters worse, he had gotten her pregnant. She, being a Christian, had the child out of wedlock; it was a boy who was later killed. After that it was get down and party. She had been eagerly awaiting her invite to a 'pop-up' dinner party for some time. These 'happenings' were all the rage in London. They were dinner parties hosted in private houses, which offered great food and drink, as well as providing an opportunity to meet other people. A friend at work, Jake, had told Nipples about these parties. The deal was the guest would bring a dish in exchange for a night of fun and frivolity laid on by the host. It sounded bang on the money.
"Jake assured her he would sort something out, and she would get her invite soon. So when the invite landed on her doormat, Mary was awash with excitement. It should have been the large gold gates with a mansion in the background on the front of the invitation and the affluent London postcode that gave the game away, but alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing. She had to admit the embossed stationery did seem a bit more opulent than she was expecting, and the invite didn't specifically have her name on it, but she dismissed these giveaway signs that something was amiss.
"To know Mary was to love her, physically speaking. There's no way to be sure, but it's doubtful there was another flat in all of London where the wall behind the bed's headboard was adorned with male 
and female 
symbols, which brought to mind the mission symbols painted on WWII bombers. While they were not segregated, they appeared to be evenly matched. Mary had a face that reminded you of Katherine Hepburn and body like Elizabeth Taylor. In spite of her other attractive features, it was the nipples your eyes locked onto like heat-seeking missiles. It was possible to look away, but without warning, you were staring again at those forever hard, thumb-sized mounts on top of her two firm C-cup breasts.
"The hackney driver had to stop at the gate, and Mary had to produce her invitation with some sort of ID. Finally, after viewing as much of Mary's breast as her top allowed, the guard sent them on their way."
Moses said, "Hate to interrupt, Resident 27, but this is not exactly the part of your duties we're interested in."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Moses. I failed to explain: This is not mi casa es su casa, dipshit. You eat what I put on the table, or you can get your prissy ass out of my house."
"Prissy ass… Never mind. Please continue." Moses said.
"Thank you. As Mary arrived at the Lorcan-Smith's mansion, she was taken aback by a butler type who had accepted her paperwork, when he reached out and gently replaced the silk-like material, which had given way and left the right breast exposed, back in place. Without uttering a word, he escorted her to the library, where his employer, Teresa Lorcan-Smith, was waiting to greet her new guest.
"Mary summed Teresa up as being on the wrong side of 50 and looking every second of it, but she thought, There could be a bit of fun seeing what was under that full evening gown, and when Teresa gave her a welcome-to-the-party hug, Mary whispered something in her ear. Beaming like a child at Christmas, Teresa ushered Mary into the lavish surroundings with a lot of air kissing and a trill of, 'Darling, how wonderful you could make it.' People who had never laid eyes on her before assumed that, since she was at this party, she had to be special because they certainly were.
This was a world Mary had dreamed of living in, and it's possible she had been tailor made for it. She was without the funds to run with this gang of old money, but she had already picked up the scent of a half-dozen or so who would see to it her empty purse was only temporary. Two of those prospects were the host and hostess.
"What Mary didn't know was the Lorcan-Smiths had a few secrets of their own. They had known almost from the first second they laid eyes on her something was wrong, but they quickly agreed their son, Lazarus, needed a wife, if in name only, and beauties like Mary were scarce. But Lazarus's needs had always come second to their wants. They wondered if it were possible their dream had finally been answered, and a beautiful dominatrix had just walked in their door who would serve as Lazarus's wife and their playmate. Teresa had cause to believe their dream had come true. When Teresa had given Mary her welcome-to-the-party hug, Mary had not only sucked her neck, she had whispered, 'I'm going to devour you.'
"Lazarus, the son, spent his days sleeping and nights on his knees in front of any male who entered the back stall in the watershed at the King's Pub. Without a doubt, dear Lazarus wouldn't go zany over Mary as everyone else had upon seeing this Michelangelo carving that walked and talked, but whatever mother wanted, mother got. Mary would give him an air of respectability. And there was no question about Mary's ability to attract enough male partners to fulfill his wildest dreams, among other things. If this magnificent creature was what they hoped she was, while Lazarus was being fed his treats, she, Ralph, and her Highness Mary would spend quality time in the secret little room they called the dungeon.
"Normally, Teresa buzzed around her guests like the queen bee she assumed she was. The Dogs, as she called her regular guests—not to their backs, but their faces—delighted in her attention. Teresa had recognized them for what they were and had the courage to tell them so; however, it wouldn't have worked in reverse. As she was steering Mary to a sumptuous Victorian dining room, they had to pass a watershed, and it was then that Teresa took Mary's hand and pulled her into the room. What took place in that room we may never know, but when the two women came out together, they did so as slave and master.
"Ralph, the husband, had seen the two enter the watershed, and a matched pair of T. rexes couldn't have moved him away from the dining room entrance that afforded him an unobstructed view of that room's doorway. As they exited the watershed, a wave from Teresa was all that was needed to set him off. By the time Teresa and Mary entered the dining room, the name cards on the table, if you can call the gigantic thing a table, had been switched, and her Highness Mary would be seated at the end with Ralph and Teresa on her left and right.
"All was now well with the world. Teresa was bubbling over with joy as she rushed into the kitchen to give the last order of the day in hopes of taking orders as soon as she and Ralph could get rid of the Dogs.
"There was only one thirty-eight-second period when Zacharias was left alone in the kitchen. It was during this tiny space of time Teresa walked in and told the man in the catering jacket and tie to feed the dogs the Baklava.
"Sir Winston and Madam Margaret had eaten well since the chauffeur had picked them up at the breeder's home, but this was the first time they had split a £5,000 treat. What was to be a special treat for the Dogs was, in fact, a nice treat for the only real dogs on the property.
"But that didn't matter because as soon as everyone had been gathered into the dining room and were standing behind their designated chairs awaiting the command to sit, the new master at the Lorcan-Smith Estates, her Highness Mary, took her seat and opened her top, exposing two of the most perfect breasts the gods had ever created, and the host and hostess were allowed to nurse, to the shock of everyone watching. But like it or not, they too would get their turn."
"Interesting, 27, but as I tried to explain earlier, this type of material is not exactly what New York is wanting."
"God forbid I disappoint the high and the mighty in New York. Please pass on my heartfelt 'Kiss my Kosher ass' to Mordecai, okay?"
"Mordecai! How do you know Mordecai?"
27 answered some questions and ignored others. "I know what you're looking for, Moses. The problem is the only place you can find material like that is in the minds of guys like John le Carré and Erskine Childers. But, I'll give you as many Kill Bill stories as I can.
"Moses, my trouble has always been the truth. The gods on the Hill will pay you to kill those they're afraid of, or want to rob, but you best do it in some other god's name, not their own. I don't know how to lay out a poem. I'm not even sure what signifies prose as a poem. Hopefully, you'll like this better than the subject of the poem did. Nevertheless, he was kind enough to let me know he had received it."
American Youth
Don't believe the hype. They'll use you like a condom, then toss you aside in the middle of the night.
Mom and Dad, we're not talking about your car. You can't trust the man who wears the star.
The guy who lives in the White House has proven beyond a doubt—when there's trouble, he'll hide out. But never fear. When his babysitters hear the "All clear," they'll rush him from the rear wearing fighting gear. They'll place him among our heroes wearing the red, white, and blue, in hopes his yellow won't show through.
If you're black, brown, or (like me) from the wrong side of town, you're going down. Don't worry, little sister, they have no shame. They'll include you in their war games.
.