Yes, yours truly was fortunate enough to have Jeff Goldstein make him one of his squad of guest-bloggers at Protein Wisdom while Jeff house hunts, and writes a screenplay.
red pills found behind the sofa cushions, guestblogging . . .
The 'dillo thought it was a good idea. Would loosen me up, he said, take the edge off. Not everyday a man gets a guestblogging gig in the big leagues, and there's no shame in a little GlaxoSmithKline courage from time to time, he told me. He was sympathetic, ingratiating, even -- but I sensed behind all his friendliness there was something he wanted. From time to time, he looked nervously over his shoulder -- or what passes for a shoulder in the genus Dasypus -- as if he were half expecting someone or some thing to be there. But when I called him on it he said it was just paranoia -- an unfortunate side effect of nostrums not properly peer-reviewed by GSK's stodgy, old-school clinicians, who were naturally wary of derivatives of the N arachidonoyl 2 hydroxyethylamide family. Perfectly safe, the 'dillo reassured me, provided I was in the company of people I trusted.
Jeff being away, we were in the living room, whose furniture had been somewhat abruptly pushed against the wall. The stereo was blasting the B side of In The Court of the Crimson King at decibel levels more than sufficient to deafen the most resolute Taliban operative. A green baize table had been prepared, and we sat down at it, the 'dillo wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of decrepit cutoff cargo pants, and a green eyeshade. He was smoking what appeared to me to be a Hoyo de Monterrey Petit Robusto, but that was conjecture on my part, as he did not offer me one. We were joined by the Sea Monkey King, for whom the selection of music was either a tribute from the 'dillo, or a none-too-subtle form of mockery. I wasn't certain of which, as it was all I could do to keep the Jack Daniels in my field of vision, and in my unsteady hands as it periodically transited from the felt to my lips, seemingly of its own accord.
The 'dillo was all glib chatter and insincere smiles as he shuffled the deck in his almost human paws, flashing the cards between them. He had spent a month in a hotel room, he told us, with a Reno croupier who moonlighted as a thousand-dollar-a-night call girl, holding her in the throes of passion, and then, when that wore thin, at gunpoint until she had taught him everything she knew: riffles, weaves, Mongeans, Faros, and overhands.
"Just deal," said the Sea Monkey King. He then looked at me and said the only words he would utter in my direction the entire evening. "You can't believe a single word he says."
We played a few warm-up hands -- Texas Hold 'Em, as none of us were in a state of mind for anything more complicated. The 'dillo then insisted we play for both cash and clothing, with which I felt more than a little uncomfortable, but as the Sea Monkey King had merely rolled his eyes and said "Fine" I felt I had no choice but to go along. The 'dillo promptly lost the first hand, overbidding jacks and tens, while the Sea Monkey King held three eights. Stripping off his Hawaiian shirt, the dillo revealed, along with a number of strange, interlaced scars on his chest and torso, that he was carrying -- a beat up Kahr K9 in a Galco Miami Classic rig.
Without saying a word, the Sea Monkey King pulled a K-bar from an ankle sheath and laid it on the table next to him. The expression on his red face was one of sadness -- but also of palpable disgust. Or so I imagined it, for who can read the emotions of Artemia nyos with any degree of certitude?
"Hey, guys, this is just a friendly game, right?" I asked.
The 'dillo smiled. He then asked me if I had ever "been in the shit." Because, he said, pointing at his scars, he had been. Facing reds of all kinds, all around the globe, probably before I was even born. He asked to see my scars. Thinking it might defuse the situation, I rolled up a pant leg to show him the dime-sized hole where, in my youth, I had left a piece of my calf on a barbed-wire fence on a training range at Grafenwoehr.
But this made the 'dillo sad, and more than a little maudlin. I had to understand, he said, where he was coming from. Black ops in the 80s on five different continents, missions of such deep deniability that even his private line to Director Casey couldn't save him if the principalities and powers within the Company who opposed him decided to step on his airhose, as they did, from time to time, staking out their turf, preparing for the Apocalypse that would follow the old man's demise. He was loyal, he did his job, and now he was just cut loose, turned out with the garbage.
"Spare us," said the Sea Monkey King. "We've all seen First Blood, and the truth is, you mainly rode a desk, stateside. Fetched coffee for us at Langley when we came back shot up and they put us on a desk to read diplomatic mail from Kirghizstan while we got our lives back in order. So spare us the cheap theatrics, Gielgud, and deal the fucking cards."
At that point, the 'dillo drew.
But nothing came of it, as we were all knocked to the ground. An expolsion, an acrid whiff of smoke, and 8 million candela of pure retina-burning fury filled the Denver apartment. I lay on the floor, face down, spread-eagled, with not a muscle twitching.
"Enough," said a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
I turned my head the few millimeters I dared and saw the hem of a dark blue pea coat.
Developing . . .
