RM1

The following is a manuscript reportedly written by a CIA officer named John Alejandro King, a.k.a. ‘The Covert Comic’. Little is known about King, other than that he is apparently a male intelligence official who may recently have been the subject of disciplinary action by the CIA as a result of events surrounding attempts by one or more companies to publish his literary works.

This manuscript consists of diary entries containing descriptions of occurrences and musings by King regarding topics ranging from CIA covert operations, to the meaning of life and the universe, to the real nature of the book publishing industry. As for how this document was obtained, that information must for the moment remain undisseminated.

Literary agents interested in inquiring about the possibility of publishing John Alejandro King’s writings are advised not to bother to contact the author via his website.

Monday 25 November 2002

It's not the illusion of reality that need persist, only the illusion of persistence.

Some book company offered to publish my writing today. As happens frequently, I was in my cubicle attending to an intelligence task when I got a call from a major publishing firm in New York (I’m talking seriously major - if I told you who it was you probably wouldn’t believe me).

They made the usual promises: advances, royalties, movie rights, a long-term commitment.

… And as I always do, I politely deflected the discussion. You know, so as to decline without making them feel rejected.

See, here’s the thing: I’m a CIA intelligence officer. More to the point, I’m a vital, life-affirming, heterosexual male CIA intelligence officer. I’m in good physical shape, considered acceptable in appearance, I’m friendly and a fun conversationalist, I’m an honorable person … and I also happen to write. And for whatever reason, when publishing companies see my writing on the Internet and learn about me, the simple truth is, they get interested. Really interested. In fact, it’s frankly amazing how forward these companies can be when conveying their interest in publishing your humble writer and spook.

But like I said, I turn them all down. It’s not that I’m not flattered, and even to a certain extent tempted (of course). It’s just that I can’t in good faith and conscience agree to their propositions, because the fact of the matter is … real men don’t get published.

Tuesday 26 November 2002

The buck stops here, then I throw it in the trash.

Some guy reportedly tried to sneak into CIA Headquarters this morning. Security immediately spotted him as an impostor, because he looked like his badge photo.

Wednesday 27 November 2002

Inspirational Secret of the Week

It’s OK to frequently quote that famous saying: 'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result,' as long as you don’t expect anything to change as a result of doing this.

Thursday 28 November 2002

They say you may as well fall flat on your face as lean over too far backward. So I assume it’s acceptable to alternate on different days.

Always keep drugs out of the reach of children. And for maximum entertainment, keep them just out of reach.

Friday 29 November 2002

Executive Intelligence Summary

Secret 82.2195. Remember: when you leak a secret, the secret leaks you.

I got your manuscript right here ...

Monday 2 December 2002

Not only is extremism in the defense of liberty no vice, under certain circumstances it may be tax deductible!

This morning my boss called me into her office. As happens on occasion, she was dissatisfied with one of the characteristic modes in which my DNA expresses itself.

"What’s wrong, boss?” I said. “Is it the particular manner in which my cytoplasm surrounds the vacuoles of my cell walls?"

"No,” she said, “I think you’ve fixed that problem.

… For now, anyway."

"Actually,” she continued, “The only issue I wanted to raise to your attention is that you’re indenting the columns in your status reporting too far to the right."

… Oh sure. Like I have some kind of choice in the way my genetic base pairs are ordered.

Tuesday 3 December 2002

My brain and I have an understanding: I don't ask it what it's doing, and it doesn't ask me what I'm doing.

Typical themes in CIA human intelligence collection include money, sex, personal betrayal, and lust for power.

... And those are just the things you need to requisition a good laptop.

Wednesday 4 December 2002

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Can a dog still have its day after it’s been spayed or neutered? Or does being spayed or neutered count as its day?

Thursday 5 December 2002

I’m not saying this is a legitimate reason to major in astrophysics, but the fact is, once you attain light speed it’s basically goodbye college loan officers, forever.

Got an e-mail from another publishing firm today. The company is called Varon Publishers Inc., and they’re located right here in Northern Virginia, a few miles south of Washington DC. Apparently they specialize in publication of titles on intelligence and paramilitary-related subject matter; they think my work is ‘highly attractive,’ and that I’m ‘just perfect for their needs’ (where have I heard that before …). They also claim to have worked movie deals with influential production companies – their e-mail said they’ve turned several books by current and former CIA officers into multi-million dollar action films. Clearly, Varon Publishers wanted to impress me with their interest in ‘macho’ literary genres.

I wrote back and told the people at Varon Publishers that I was honored by their kind words, but couldn’t meet with them any time soon owing to my work schedule. I resisted the urge to respond to their rather machista overture by letting them in on the secret, the secret that … real men don’t get published.

Friday 6 December 2002

Executive Intelligence Summary

If I don’t love something, is it still OK to set it free?

Monday 9 December 2002

When we reflect on the fact that we only use 10% of our brains, I bet that temporarily pushes us up to at least around 10.2%.

Best-selling authors don’t care if you read their book, as long as you buy it.

Worst-selling authors don’t care if you buy their book, as long as you read it.

Real male authors are pretty sure they know what a book is, and they’re pretty sure their real book is in their pants.

Tuesday 10 December 2002

America now has more televisions than people. I told you we never should have given televisions the vote.

Yet another offer of publication today. This one, however, was a little different: a Gay publishing company!

Actually, you might be surprised how often this kind of thing happens to us guys who are ‘real’. I mean, on one hand you’d think a Gay or Lesbian publisher would be the last one to take an interest in my writing – you know, given that I’m most decidedly heterosexual, work at CIA, etc. Yet, take an interest they regularly do. I suspect it’s the ruggedly virile, yet simultaneously humorous and self-effacing (and in its own way passionate) character of my writing that attracts publishing agents of multiple genres. Again, not saying my writing is great or even special – but there are publishers out there who do like it. And the fact is that some of these publishers are Gay.

As for the company in question, I saw no need to respond rudely to their proposal. I simply told them I wasn’t seeking publication at this time, but that I appreciated being considered.

And I wasn’t lying, either. True, if I was looking to get published, writing for a Gay or Lesbian readership probably wouldn’t be my first choice, but it’s not like I have anything in particular against this or that literary market.

No, it isn’t a matter of not wanting to be published by one or another kind of company. It’s about not wanting to be published at all. Because being real isn’t about being published. And for the most part, being published isn’t about being real.

Wednesday 11 December 2002

Inspirational Secret of the Week

After I’m dead, I’d rather have people ask why my body wasn’t preserved cryogenically, than why it was.

Thursday 12 December 2002

Who will personally train the personal trainers?

Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose. Which is why I prefer the word ‘freedom’ – it saves time and effort!

Friday 13 December 2002

Executive Intelligence Summary

God does not play dice with the universe - He plays Russian roulette.

Monday 16 December 2002

Secret 413.53. Better to think you’re a CIA officer when you aren't one, than think you aren’t a CIA officer when you are.

I knew a guy who got published.

Let’s just say he won’t have to worry about his condom breaking any time soon.

Hey, I’m as willing to have my manuscript scrutinized as the next fellow. It’s just that, by the time a writer’s work has been edited for proper style, voice, pacing, and ‘internal conflicts,’ he can hardly be surprised if there’s no manuscript left at all.

Tuesday 17 December 2002

Memory is not a painter - memory is a minimum wage department store employee with a price tag gun.

Then again, if your right hand did know what your left hand was doing, wouldn’t that be kind of creepy?

Wednesday 18 December 2002

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Never fish for compliments. Lob dynamite in the water.

Thursday 19 December 2002

Secret 107.34. One person’s ‘poet and activist’ is another person’s ‘author and consultant.’

Ben Franklin said: “What pays for one vice would raise two children."

I say: to raise two children you need at least one vice.

Friday 20 December 2002

Executive Intelligence Summary

‘None of us is as smart as all of us?’ Isn't that the whole problem?

Monday 23 December 2002

Stop the war machine! (I want to jump on!)

Secret 1118.95. Classified research demonstrates conclusively that breakfast-time coups are the most important coup of the day.

Tuesday 24 December 2002

If I ever visit the Taj Mahal, I hope it defies description like everyone says, because that way I won't have to try to describe it to anybody.

You'd be amazed how many CIA National Intelligence Estimates contain the word 'caulking.'

… At least I was amazed, especially when I did a search of the database and found out I was the author of every single one of them.

Wednesday 25 December 2002

Inspirational Secret of the Week

There's no substitute for hard work, but there's plenty of work for a hard substitute.

Thursday 26 December 2002

Not only does a casual stroll through the lunatic asylum show that faith doesn’t prove anything, it’s a heck of a lot of fun!

If a mountain lion killed and ate me because it was starving, I guess I could accept this. But if a mountain lion killed and ate me just to get the bad taste out of its mouth from some fat, smelly guy it had eaten earlier, I expect I’d be pretty angry (not at the mountain lion, but at that guy).

Friday 27 December 2002

Executive Intelligence Summary

The Covert Comic: not just another CIA standup comedian - the other CIA standup comedian.

Monday 30 December 2002

Secret 1,127,175.4. Statistically speaking, 'superhuman' is anything above average.

Around a month after I first launched my web site and started getting several million hits an hour on it, a publishing agent contacted me to introduce herself and invite me to ‘query about being represented.’ She claimed to be head over heels in love with my literary concept, my writing style, my entire body of work. No doubt about it, she said, my writing was a keeper, a once in a lifetime thing.

I resolved to go slowly. In a polite yet friendly way I let her know that I was flattered by her positive review and wanted to get to know more about her, to see what kind of author-agent relationship we might develop.

Her response was to turn up the heat big time; every day she sent new e-mails about wanting to ‘proof my manuscript, word for word’ and ‘scan every inch of my back matter.’ I remember her remarking that she could ‘write me a blurb I’d never forget.’

Finally, after months of ever increasing correspondence, I decided to take her up on her offer. I dutifully wrote her a formal inquiry, referring to her original e-mail and asking what steps would be needed for her to become my literary agent.

Honest to God, the same day she wrote back with the following message: “Sorry, but I’m not accepting clients at this time.”

I never heard from her again.

Had she suddenly found another writer she preferred over me? Or did she mistakenly identify my e-mail as a solicitation from someone she didn’t know?

Or did my submitting a formal inquiry scare her off?

… Or then again, did she simply exercise every literary agent’s prerogative to change her mind?

Whatever her motivation (and your humble writer can’t rule out the possibility that her motivation might have been none other than the following), this particular literary agent helped me appreciate, in about as visceral a way as possible, that … real men don’t get published.

Tuesday 31 December 2002

How can we be certain there are no stupid questions on other planets?

Secret 130.48. As long as it doesn't solve anything, violence is totally acceptable.

Wednesday 1 January 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Better to be asked what drug you're on, than what drug you're off.

Thursday 2 January 2003

Secret 1930. All gratification is instant by definition.

Forget what the bumper sticker says, go ahead and feel free to mess with Texas.

I mean, it's not like the Federal Government is going to let Texas do anything bad to you.

Friday 3 January 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around inebriated.

Monday 6 January 2003

Is it better never to have been published, than to have gone out of print?

At CIA we’ve been shaken by reports of on-the-job drinking by intelligence officers.

... Though fortunately we haven’t been stirred.

Tuesday 7 January 2003

I've never had a problem with rejection. On the contrary, I've always been able to reject stuff any time I want.

Something tells me being class clown in clown school sounds funnier than it really is.

Wednesday 8 January 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Show me a culture with no word for ‘awe,’ and I’ll show you a people who have never had their tonsils examined.

Thursday 9 January 2003

Secret 5,101,095.5. A stalker does to a celebrity what the celebrity's media company did to the stalker first.

I don’t doubt that getting there is half the fun. What I want to know is, how much fun is being there?

Friday 10 January 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

The statement 'Think outside the box' does not constitute permission to leave it.

Monday 13 January 2003

If I trip and fall in a CIA conference room while giving a top secret intelligence briefing, and everybody in the room is under State Department cover, do I make a sound?

A literary agent contacted me today to ask if I was interested in working as a ghost writer for a client of hers.

Imagine: your humble spook ghost writing!

Talk about your unmixed metaphor. (By the way, I politely turned her up.)

Tuesday 14 January 2003

The best thing about viewing a letterbox version of a film is seeing so much less of it.

Secret 618190.1. As long as you’re already down there bowing, is there any reason not to scrape?

Wednesday 15 January 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

I threw my cup away when I saw a child drinking from his hands at the trough.

… I mean, who wants to drink from a trough after some filthy kid sticks his grubby little hands in it?

Thursday 16 January 2003

They say the reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the conduct of a single hour. I say: who the hell can do something for a whole hour?!

When Thoreau said, "Our lives are frittered away by detail,” I hope he wasn’t talking about potato fritters, because I love those things.

Friday 17 January 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

Secret 1572. In the intelligence agency of the blind, the man with √-1 eyes is Director.

Monday 20 January 2003

If you die while waging jihad, you shall be rewarded with 72 virgins in the afterlife.

… That’s you, plus six dozen adolescent girls, for the rest of eternity. Truly, Allah's justice is great.

What is it about being published that renders an author, otherwise possessing the usual compliment of male physiology, tendencies, and outlook, something other than a real man?

Is it the inevitable chopping up of his manuscript, nay, even the complete emasculation of his central concept, by an ‘editor’?

Or is it the way the writer submits to having his body of work ‘reviewed’ by ‘critics’ … much like a fashion model sashaying down a catwalk?

Or then again, is it something even more fundamental: the fact that guys with something real to say have usually signed an oath not to tell it to publishers?

One thing I can neither confirm nor deny: I’ve never been ashamed to admit that I self-post my writings on my web site; in fact, I’ll confess right here and now that I like to pretend I’m getting published in the New Yorker whenever I’m ‘doing it’.

Tuesday 21 January 2003

I want to take a course to learn how to stop juggling.

Secret 7.1.1. You can’t get a Slurpee in Europe. But you can get a Sleuropeé.

Wednesday 22 January 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

That famous quote: 'Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people’ – is it OK if I ask who said this?

Thursday 23 January 2003

Why are they called ‘sideburns’ and not, say, ‘doofus handles?’

A saxophone is unique in that it perfectly mimics the sound its player would make if I could get my hands on him.

Friday 24 January 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

The real F-word is ‘future’.

Preparing not to get published recently.

Monday 27 January 2003

The CIA Certainty Principle: You can be ignorant of a foreign organization’s plans and intentions, or you can fail to influence that organization’s plans and intentions, but not both.

Drove to rural Kentucky this weekend, where I witnessed a Civil War reenactment.

… At least I assume it was a Civil War reenactment.

Tuesday 28 January 2003

Let’s be honest: only God can create jobs.

Those inflatable female dolls they sell in sex shops: I assume their mouths are open like that to simulate the woman constantly talking.

Wednesday 29 January 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

If it weren't for Zen, there would still be peeling potatoes, but there wouldn't be 'just' peeling potatoes.

Thursday 30 January 2003

A do-it-yourself manual begs the question of whether anybody should be doing it at all.

When Marcel Marceau said, “Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?”, I assume he wasn’t all that moved at the time.

Friday 31 January 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

If it ain’t broke, can we please stop talking about it?

Monday 3 February 2003

Secret 47.81925. Never judge a cover by its sleeve.

Oh what the hell, why not admit it: sometimes I wish to God I was published.

Not only that, but I can both confirm and not not not deny that every now and then I feel a deep yearning to see my writing made into commercially successful feature length films.

And when you think about it, why wouldn’t a real man want these things? I mean, to be loved by like-minded readers, to leave an enduring legacy to the literary world: no doubt writers who are vain and unmanly desire these, but is to desire these necessarily to be unmanly and vain?

In my opinion, for an upright, down-to-earth kind of guy to frankly acknowledge these sorts of inner wants, far from being non-masculine, is actually a big part of true manhood, and as such constitutes an important factor in assuring that guy has no chance of getting published whatsoever.

Tuesday 4 February 2003

This morning I saw a fish without a bicycle, and you know, it did kind of remind me of a woman without a man!

Thanks to his medication, my bipolar brother is now basically a zombie.

Which makes me feel kind of guilty in a way; because when we were kids I used to pray every night to have a zombie for a brother.

Wednesday 5 February 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Secret 21.91721. In order to make zoos more like jungles, you must make jungles even more like zoos.

Thursday 6 February 2003

Secret 10.2491. In an alternate universe, Star Trek isn’t real.

If A loves B, and B loves C, how can it be a love triangle unless C also loves A?

Friday 7 February 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

‘Failure to understand reality is not reality’s fault?’ How do you figure?

Can’t publish this.

Monday 10 February 2003

Secret 749.187. Never attribute to conspiracy that which can be explained by a deeper, more sinister conspiracy.

A woman from Varon Publishers – that company in Northern Virginia – contacted me today. Her name is Eva. I read her bio on Varon’s web site; talk about some impressive references. Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind writing her back story, if you get the undercurrent to my narrative here.

She invited me to dinner next week. She said she has a unique proposal that she’s sure will meet with my approval, but she wants to present it personally. Though I felt a little hesitant, I decided to accept her invitation.

Got an e-mail this evening from another agent – some guy who says he thinks my work might be suitable for ‘short run’ publishing.

Hey, speak for yourself, pal.

Tuesday 11 February 2003

I could swear I remember hiding a suicide pill in one of my desk drawers at work last year. But when I looked in my desk this morning I couldn’t find it.

... Now I’m thinking maybe I swallowed it last month.

At this point the religiously devout reader may be asking: ‘Wait, isn’t Jesus a real man? And didn’t Jesus get published?’

… Or at least you would be asking this, if you were reading one of my books. If one of my books were somehow to get published.

Jesus once posted on his web site: There is nothing unpublished that shall not be made into a bestseller.

Nor any secret writing that shall not be read in the light.

Wednesday 12 February 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Remember, if everybody else gives 110% effort, and you give 120%, you’re really only giving a little over 109%.

Thursday 13 February 2003

Secret 3051.4121. Never be afraid they won’t get your jokes. Be afraid they will.

There’s a great love song – it’s called Love Song. Maybe you’ve heard it. It features a man and a woman singing words to the effect that love is what we came here for.

Toward the end of the song there’s the sound of children playing and shouting at the beach, while waves roll in and out from the ocean. Have you heard this song? It’s truly deep.

When I was maybe fifteen years old, I was listening to AM radio on the family headphones one evening, and I happened to pick up this song on some distant radio station. I couldn’t tell if the sound of the children playing and shouting at the beach was part of the recording, or interference from another radio frequency.

I remember telling my father that night about hearing this song on the radio; I also remember telling him that I had decided it really didn’t matter whether the effect I had heard was part of the recording, or interference from some other radio frequency, since in either case the effect was excellent.

When I told him this, my father looked at me in silence for a moment. Then he pointed his finger at me, and slowly nodded his head in approval.

Was my father not truly deep?

But as for whether this was really part of my father, or interference from some other radio frequency, I’ve decided it really doesn’t matter, since in either case the effect was excellent.

Friday 14 February 2003

Executive Intelligence Summary

Suck My Book

Suck my book

Does it taste salty?

I wash my book

And shave it frequently

Because I once saw it written

That this makes people

More willing to read

Suck my book

You don’t have to swallow

And yes, I know you know this

… But if you did swallow

What if the writing tasted like

A Pulitzer Prize?

Suck my book

After all, haven’t I already

Got a serious tongue cramp

From gently and caringly licking

Your deep, and very sensitive

Article?

Monday 17 February 2003

You are the Green Zone of my life.

Secret 149,103.1. ‘America’ pronounced backwards still sounds pretty close to ‘America.’

Tuesday 18 February 2003

If the ointment’s any good, what does it matter if there’s a fly in it?

Timothy Leary said: “Think for yourself and question authority.”

The second half of that statement got made into a bumper sticker.

Whatever happened to the first?

Wednesday 19 February 2003

Inspirational Secret of the Week

Actually, even if something killed me, I bet it would make me at least a little bit stronger.

Thursday 20 February 2003

Where doesn't the polygrapher go when he leaves the room?

Had dinner with Eva, the literary agent from Varon Publishers. Talk about attractive – and she was definitely letting her ‘front matter’ show, if you get my publishing industry reference here.

I don’t mind telling you, the above factors (plus more than a little red wine) had your humble intelligence officer seriously questioning my policy of not seeking publication of my writings.

As we drove from the restaurant back to my townhouse in Eva’s car, I felt distinctly light-headed. At one point I remember her talking about helping me write my final draft. The next thing I knew we were parked in the shadows of my driveway; I recall her whispering some literary terms (‘hardcopy’ and ‘trim’). That was my last memory before stumbling into bed and losing consciousness.

It happens to the best of us ...

Friday 21 February 2003

Secret 829172.7. Always wait ‘till they’re looking before making your escape.

Woke up this morning feeling hung over, which was strange because it usually takes a lot more than some red wine to get me smashed. With my head pounding and my eyes swiveling around like a couple of rusty turrets, I swung myself out of bed, straggled into the bathroom to take a leak, looked down and …

Oh my God.

Immediately I knew what had happened.

After enduring the humiliation of having to pee sitting down, I carefully and thoroughly wiped, then in a single, enraged motion I leapt from the toilet and grabbed my handheld voice and data unit resting by the headstand of my bed. I quickly looked up the street address of Varon Publishers, then threw the handset against the wall, scarcely noticing as it exploded into several dozen pieces.

Storming over to my closet, I proceeded to outfit myself in camo and sunglasses. Then I stomped down to my basement to get guns. Lots of guns. Scooping up handfuls of ammo and stuffing shotgun shells into various pockets, I strode silently but deliberately out the back door of my townhouse (to avoid detection by neighbors), bounded into my jeep, and burst out of my driveway in a grey-white cloud of vaporized rubber.

In twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds I was in the parking lot of Varon Publishers, Inc. I made a beeline for the main lobby. As my jeep neared the front of the building I jumped the small speed bump and floored it, plowing straight across the well manicured lawn. A couple of stunned onlookers scattered as I slammed my vehicle headlong into the lobby, broken glass cascading down around me like a Niagara Falls honeymoon trip.

A pudgy little security guard (I couldn’t tell if it was male or female) stared at me for a split second, then dove for cover underneath the reception desk. I had no quarrel with security. The sound of muffled shouts and gasps wafted from unseen rooms as I climbed out of my jeep, sauntered over to the elevator, pointed my silver riot gun at the elevator door, and blew it open. Then I stepped in and pressed the double star signifying the executive penthouse floor.

Emerging from the elevator and pausing outside the large glass doors of the CEO’s office, I grabbed the stock of a second riot gun from its holster behind my back, and in the same motion swung it over and cocked it. The pretty admin took one look at me and immediately bolted for destinations unseen; I obliterated the two main glass doors with a shell from each sawed-off, walked into the CEO’s lobby, made a deliberate right turn toward his office, and started taking large wood chips from of his $90,000 oak doors with alternating blasts from each hand.

I have to give credit to that CEO – he saw me coming and went straight for his canister of pepper spray. I casually pointed one shotgun and blew it out of his hands, a couple of his fingers going with it.

The CEO sat upright in his chair, holding his bleeding hand and panting slightly; maybe he was in shock, or perhaps he had figured this might happen. Whatever the case, he wasn’t talking. But I was.

“You published me.”

“We had every right under the Freedom of Information Act,” he said. “Your writing is the property of the US Government, and it’s not classified.”

“My writing is my own. You didn’t read the disclaimer on the web site.”

“Our lawyers believe they can make a judge see differently; if nothing else, we can keep this thing tied up in litigation for years. Meanwhile, your books will all be bestsellers, Mr. King.”

I stepped forward a couple of paces, re-cocked and pointed a riot gun six inches from the CEO’s face.

“Look, Mr. King,” he said, “Let’s be realistic about this. Varon Publishers will pay you top dollar for your work. This stuff is brilliant. Maybe we pushed the envelope a little by taking the steps we did, but we had to publish your writing before someone else got to it.”

Inwardly I had to admire the guy’s guts. Even if it did ultimately prove necessary for me to splatter them all over that $50,000 hardwood desk of his.

“Where are the books?”

“Movie rights, Mr. King – the movie rights alone are worth millions. As CEO of Varon Publishers, I’m in a position to personally guarantee you at least 20%.

I stuck my riot gun in his mouth.

“Where are the books?”

“Mmff frml grp lubbub.”

I pulled out my gun without firing, turned around and walked out.

He called behind me, “I advise you to put down your guns and go home, Mr. King. There’s still time to resolve this matter short of involvement by the authorities.”

“You can’t stop us from publishing your work and making you a world famous author!”

… “You can’t hold back history and your own success as a writer!”

By the time I reached the downstairs lobby, I could hear sirens – I knew Special Weapons and Tactics units would be taking up positions outside the building at any moment, if they hadn’t already.

I ignored them and took the stairs down to the basement warehouse. I reached the thick metal doors of the warehouse, slung my riot guns back in their holsters, and took out my 9mm. Two bullets in the lock and I strutted through the door. There was a man standing ten feet inside the doorway, spilled coffee all over his shirt, holding a section of a pallet like he was batting cleanup for the Washington Nationals. For a split second the thought entered my mind: was he really willing to die to protect a bunch of cat books and memoirs by adult survivors of adult survivors? A split second later I had my answer: nope.

As he turned and sprinted toward the rear exit I called after him in a calm, friendly voice, “Where are the Covert Comic books?”

“… Comic books?” He called back, still running, “We don’t make comic books at this facility.”

“The new spy book,” I called out louder, as he continued running. Then I played a hunch as to what the cover might look like, and yelled toward the rapidly receding form: “The one with the guy wearing sunglasses, the guy with no mouth.”

He reached a door at the far end of the warehouse and flung it open. But instead of running outside, he paused and gazed back at me – a look of recognition on his face. “Back corner to the right,” he said; then he stepped through the doorway almost nonchalantly, and disappeared.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “… Sorry about the hassle, fellow non-publishee!”

I could hear the pounding of many running boots on a floor somewhere above me; then I heard muffled shouts. I casually walked over to the corner and saw several huge pallets reaching all the way up to the ceiling, like a veritable Tower of Babel. The pallets had white labels on them. The labels said “Varon Publishers – King: Real Men.”

I stuck my 9mm back in its holster and walked back several meters. From a vest pocket I carefully removed a WP (White Phosphorous) incendiary grenade. I had acquired it during a covert op in Central America many years previously, and had kept it at home in case America ever found herself under attack by a hostile foreign government or a terrorist organization (or possibly a book publisher).

I checked to make sure the front warehouse door was still clear and accessible, then I pulled the pin on the grenade, tossed it into the pallets, and ‘started booking’.

Before I had even made the stairs, the room shook violently. By the time I hit the lobby on a dead sprint, the SWAT boys were dealing with fire exploding from windows all around the basement of Varon Publishers. They didn’t even notice me at first. I leapt into my jeep, slammed on the gas and hurdled the three guys who had been left behind to secure the lobby area. Coming down in several rows of tulips, I bounced hard, hit the accelerator one more time, and shot out of the parking lot with not a soul behind me.

Not getting published recently.

Monday 24 February 2003

You start off your career as an intelligence officer assuming every claim is either true or false. As the years go by, you begin to suspect it's more complicated than that. When at long last you obtain your full clearances, you realize it's not even that complicated.

Boy, am I ever in trouble at work.

Not because of my little episode at Varon Publishers last Friday. On the contrary, it now appears that particular incident will soon officially never have happened. Here are the facts as of this morning: the Agency’s Office of General Counsel, on learning that Varon Publishers Inc. was planning to send out advance copies of my writing without CIA review, obtained a court order to prevent unauthorized publication of classified US Government information.

What classified info, you ask? Remember that joke I posted on my web site last year, the one about caulking? While I’m not at liberty to disclose specifics, it turns out caulking really is mentioned in at least one National Intelligence Estimate.

… I mean, my God people, who knew?!

But not to worry – I’ve removed all content from the caulking joke that could conceivably disclose US intelligence sources or methods (check the joke and you’ll see what I mean). True, I’ll probably end up with an official reprimand in my employee file, but I intend to be an adult male about it and forego any appeal.

Of course, the CIA satellite will need to be fired up and run for one full cycle, you know, to undo dissemination of the classified version of the joke, as well as damages (officially never) inflicted on Varon's physical assets and inventory (not counting all those books of mine I blew up, naturally). And I suppose they’ll want to retroactively restore that CEO’s fingers.

Last, but definitely not least, it'll be necessary to make Eva, the breathtakingly, life-changingly beautiful publishing agent from Varon, stop levitating in public (having read my works deeply and at length over the past several weeks, it appears Eva has undergone a certain transformation and will now have to be ‘rewritten’; but hey, that doesn’t mean she and your humble author can’t compose wonderful new chapters together soon ... if you get my completely non-literary reference here).

It feels good to be a man, a real man, again.

Sorry, can’t write any more at the moment. Gotta get up and go take a leak.

... Standing up, of course.

The Covert Comic.

Publish him ... if you can.