Profane Men by Rex Miller Page B

D’Allesandro was fire and ice.
    â€œYeah,” I said, sobering up in spite of my best efforts. “Grave makers.” We looked at each other.
    â€œYeah. But whose?”
    â€œSomethin’ wrong here, mano.” I shook my head. “Somediing very, very wrong.”
    â€œYou believe this shit.”
    â€œFuck no. I don’ even believe this fucked-up country is here. I sure as shit don’t believe this other bogus bullshit.”
    â€œI feel a little tickle back in the seat of my pants — you know, like in the heinie region — feel something tryin’ to sneak up the ole South American pipeline.”
    â€œComin’ up the old choco-lah-tay highway, eh?”
    â€œThat’s the one, dude. The telltale tickle. Somebody’s waitin’ for us to bend over and pick up the soap and —
wham-o!
”
    â€œRight up the poop chute. I know the feeling well.”
    â€œThere’s only one thing you can say about it, I mean, you got to look at the bright side, right?”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œThey ain’t gettin’ no cherry.”

Chapter 8
    â€œHardly any of his assassins survived him for more than three years, or died a natural death.”
    â€” Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus
on the life of Julius Caesar
    We sit, transfixed, as the unblinking eyes of the cobra bore into the souls of every man in the hootch. A talking snake is not a good sign. Some of us in the room may have abused various controlled substances, and word groups enlarge and reduce at will in their attempt to penetrate the chemical data screens.
    â€œ. . . members of this spike team . . . greater risks . . . fullest extent of our military resources . . . every refinement of the combined civilian and military technologies . . . final analysis it will be you . . . carry out this mission.” Mission. The pounding on the door of the mind. Mission slams like steel hammers, admission, emission, remission. “. . . reason . . .” Yes, let us reason together. Reason about the mission. Communication breaks through:
    â€œ. . . situation . . . explained individually . . . Our political leadership cannot afford to let this flagrantly illegal station continue broadcasting, but there cannot be an incident that might compromise us at this time. We can’t be caught with a military unit across the fence, if that indeed is where Toledo Blade takes you. So your spike team . . .” I feel dizziness at “in the execution phase, but, should something go wrong out there . . .” The cobra blinks and I see him swallow as if the snake has ingested a mouse. Very dizzy.
    â€œYour job is to find this base signal and sign it off permanently. Headquarters location: unknown. Transmitters: undetermined. Somewhere in this general area — ” The E-8 points up into the zone and my queasiness increases with the movement of his pointer. “Mobile ops: unknown.” He shrugs. “The station is broadcasting throughout Vietnam and across the border, into Laos and Cambo.”
    The hooded cobra reaches down and activates a tape player and we hear a male voice say, “High-band monitor: Golf sector, Quang Tri Province, 338-MARS.” We hear a snap of static and a smooth, sexy voice fills the room.
    â€œCanadian bitch goddess, age thirty-one, looks much younger, beautiful figure, is quote totally dominant end quote and into serious B&D and S&M, wants to hear from all submissive personalities who are willing to kneel and serve. I am an equal-opportunity employer.” Some laughter. “Send your recent photo and stamps for a quick, hot reply, to Miss Masters, 725 North Courtenay, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. And this is KILL Outlaw Radio!
    â€œLooking for expendable aircraft from ultra-light kites on up? Fast boats? Disposable specialties? Write to us for a giant free catalog today. New China Arms, Box 866, Taipei, Taiwan 110.
    â€œDon’t waste money on fake