I let my impulses get the best of me in the form of a crinkled twenty dollar bill and the breasts of a large black woman who let me play with her pussy for two minutes. Rodney, her pimp, does not approve of such under the table transactions between her ho’s and customers. Of course, I didn’t know this, but he claims I should have since I frequently pay for this particular woman but I swear on my mother’s grave I never tried paying her anything less than the solid $100 we’ve grown accustomed to prefacing our late-night carnal sex sessions. Bless you Rodney, I would’ve done the same damn thing if someone was getting their finger stinky under my nose.
This lead to something I hesitate to admit to–getting my ass beat. I was roughed up something fierce. They made sure not to break any bones, those fine gentleman who tied me to a restaurant kitchen counter and pressed lit cigarettes into my stomach and slammed slivers of wood into my nail beds. I know this all sounds excessive, but these guys have ties with the Zetas in Mexico and this punishment seems like foreplay. Any disruption to their tightly regulated operations are met with grave consequences. Perhaps the only reason I was not dumped into an unmarked grave somewhere off the interstate is because they know too many people I know who would be vastly upset if something were to happen to me. I’m not that important, but I’m here in America for a very specific task, and were that task to be compromised by thugs from a Mexican cartel, well, that would be like one of the President’s own Secret Service agents shooting him in the head.
I walked away with some burns and bruised nail beds that shot streaks of pain throughout my arms that kept me up that night so I went back to the uppers and opted out of sleeping in favor of further studying my military manuals on intelligence collection. I had met with [withheld] before this whole incident and it all went well which lead to my celebration with Sabrina and her twenty-dollar pussy.
Anyway, the meeting took place at a cafe in a very busy section of downtown surrounded by office parks and independently-owned shops of all forms and flavors: Liquor, guns, burgers, porno, cupcakes, fashion, photography, books, and films. It was a cornucopia of American culture, and in the heart of it men were rebuilding their terror networks.
I sat across from the clean-shaven man in a baseball cap, jeans, and a sweatshirt who looked not the least bit nervous, a stark counter to my erratic state from too much liquor and adderrall. We established new dead drop locations for this city and several backups in the city to the north. He explained what I was to do in the event of his death, as he was now my new superior. I was growing increasingly excited by the idea of our mission, but restless because of the status of our cell: Sleeper. For the uninitiated, a sleeper agent is an operative placed in the target location who is not to immediately undertake the mission but to wait until it is activated. I have been in this city for three months as a sleeper. Some of my counterparts who are involved in highly-specialized aspects of our mission have been here almost two years. Before the September 11 attacks, sleeper agents were placed in America and took flight lessons for thirteen months while also conducting counterintelligence transcontinental flights to prepare for their mission.
My being here three months can mean I am either very close to activation, or just in the beginnings of it. I am still receiving training, mainly as an intelligence officer, yet I was lead to believe I would receive explosives training in a few days. I will know for sure when I pick up the message. Until then, I have been given more money and my wounds are starting to feel better so I think it’s time to indulge in the gluttonous American culture and refill my medication.