We Don't Exist's Journal|
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Below are the 7 most recent journal entries recorded in
We Don't Exist's LiveJournal:
|Monday, May 22nd, 2006|
Where the fuck was the ka-boom?! There was no earth shattering ka-boom! "But, they were shooting at me, Marlena!"
Of course they were shooting at you, darling. You were trying to blow up the bridge before they crossed it. Instead of one car of one well armed car full of bad guys, I got the whole fucking convoy! I swear to God if they send one more fucking amateur to work with me, I'm going to fucking kill him myself and call it not-so-friendly fire. It's a damn good thing Jason snagged the latest BFG from the Blackhole. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here to kick your ass for you!
Guess I should go see who needs help killing things now. Maybe Andrea has something for me to work on.
And where the FUCK did this new touchy-feely shrink come from?!
Here's the sitch.
Prime Minister Manmohan Singh is visiting Kashmir on Wednesday. Five days notice is a bit, shall we say, "forward thinking" for our usual sources, so that might not be relevant. However, security for the Pimmy's trip is already in place. News reports on the outside have buzzwords like "sharpshooters" and "surveillance cameras", but I "oops" bumped in to one of the topsiders, and he wouldn't know a scope from a cardiac compensator. Most of them seem like techies in brand-new security uniforms.
I dug up another little gem, which is that insurgents are getting tracked by their cell usage. The poor bastards aren't quite smart enough to use directional antennas for their satellite phones, and someone's putting a triangulation together from calls as short as ten seconds.
The Hurriyat was supposed to meet with the Pimmy during his trip here, but they've pulled out of the official talks.
Timing on this is suspicious, but might have vanished into background clutter if someone hadn't pointed us at it. I think somebody leaked some technology that was supposed to stay inside The Craft. I'll set out a few duck-blinds, and see if I can make a little news of my own.
|Friday, May 19th, 2006|
A copy of the New York Times, on a San Francisco train. Business section on top, turned to a page with two stories: India, Known for Outsourcing, Expands in Industry
, and Vote in House Seeks to Erase Oil Windfall
A miniature doberman pinscher in the sidecar of a motorcycle circling the Empire State Building, wearing a Boston Red Sox sweater.
Grafitti on the Dhaba restaurant in Boston: "INDIA OUT OF CA$HMIR"
Spanish-language flyer taped to an apartment in Syracuse protesting oil and natural gas pollution by Pemex in Tabasco, Mexico
The trail obviously splits in New York. I would put more credence in the India lead. The Mexico lead looks like a cutout, assuming it's legit. If not, we're going to have to overhaul communications, because we've been compromised. Again.
I'll take a closer look at the India-Kashmir situation. Someone care to check the Mexican oil market?
Journal Entry # 1 for whateverthefuck day it is
We go through staff psychiatrists a lot, around here. Sometimes they last as long as a year before turning in a report that basically describes us all as suicidal psychopaths. And the tests...God, the tests. Color charts and Rorschach inkblot tests and polygraph tests and counseling sessions where you find out that you actually hated your mother. Which you didn't. Until they tell you that you did.
This year's version is Dr. Cooke. Dr. Cooke was educated at the University of Michigan, apparently in "new age bullshit." Dr. Cooke believes I should keep a journal so that I can "capture my feelings as they occur." Here's a feeling then – I feel like a right prat.
Fine then. I'm called Pete Wisdom. You note I said, "called." It's not my real name, but in my line of work real names are a hindrance. What I am is a cleaner. An assassin's assassin. Not the spotless antihero of the James Bond flicks. I'm who gets sent in when the job goes tits-up, and people have to disappear. At least, that's what I was trained to be before I got sent here.
"Here" is a very fashionable office complex in the heart of London, where the organization I work for is located. I'd tell you who they were, if they had a name. But they don't. My mates and I call them "Code Black," just so we have something to refer to them by. It's the place where, if you're working in an espionage shop for a NATO treaty country, you get sent when you've cocked things up so badly that you're a liability anywhere but on suicide missions; you've really pissed off some important, paper-pushing accountant who calls himself an "agency director;" you're so fucking good at what you do that local missions start getting boring, and you start international incidents just for fun; or all three. I'll let you guess which one I am.
Anyway, I work with three other nutjobs – Marlena Braddock, Andrea Smith, and Jason Carlossi. No, of course those aren't their real names. Marlena our face (actually, she's a lot of faces, know what I mean?); Jason has a bigger death wish than I do, as proven by the times he's free-jumped from shit no taller than my stereo cabinet; and Andrea's "ears and a mouth, and a whole suitcase full of unpleasantness." My job on the team is to make sure everyone gets in and gets out alright. Occasionally that means I have to kill a lot of people on our way in or out of a tight spot.
I think it's the fact that I'm fine with that. Dr. Cooke seemed a little put off when he asked me what I usually did after a mission of that kind, and I replied, "sleep like a baby." I give him three more months. Two, if he actually reads these entries.
I guess in the next couple of days, I'll tell you about our last movie night. Andrea seems to think it shows a lighter side of the team. I think it constitutes evidence admissible in a court of law, but what do I know?
Pleasant dreams, Doc.
I'm going to kill him. Really. It's not like I don't know how. I could do it, quite easily, in fact. Especially right now.
I'm going to kill him and give his corpse to those freaks in biochem to play with, and then I'm going to take the sludge that's left and feed it to crocodiles and then I will make shoes
from the crocodiles.
Today has not been a good day.
(restored entry)We played "The Game" tonight, for the first time in ages. Good times.
Pete brought a bottle of bourbon, and I had the usual stash of vodka in my purse. We made it through almost half an hour before we were wasted, which is something of a record, I think. Jason got there first, big surprise. Who's bright idea was it to insist we take a drink whenever something we'd been through poppped up on screen?
"Impersonating a churchman, take a drink, Marlena."
"I was a nun. Huge difference"
"Oh yeah, 'course."
Total sympathy for Jason and the base-jump gone wrong, of course. Pete was pissing and moaning about that bloody rifle on the highway, and Marlena just about laughed up a lung at the "disguise-o-matic". It was around then that security tried to throw us out, but Marlena had a word with them and they left us alone.
"What did you show 'em?" Pete asked between snorting contemptuously at the screen and swigging from the bottle.
"The one that says I'm a former FLOTUS."
"Nice one." Pause. "Hey, you're blonde today."
"Thanks for noticing. Stop hogging the bottle."
There was the inevitable sniggering at the old bomb-in-the-cranium routine. Geeze, who does that anymore?
"Why is Pete staring at that chick's dress?"
"Sure, but he's drinking. I'm not."
"Hey, Pete, is there something you wanna tell - OW!"
It was that kind of night. Like I said, I'm amazed we lasted as long as we did. We usually end up so shitfaced we can't remember the last, oh, hour or so of any action movie we go to. Jason had to carry me back to the car after The Bourne Identity. The Rock was a good one, too, but we got into more trouble afterwards than we did at the theater. Pete says he hardly felt the concussion he got after walking past the old man's office whistling that song about San Francisco, but he's a liar.