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October 05, 2005
Volume 7, Issue 5
You're a secret agent in a foreign land, and the enemy is hot on your trail. You have no money, your only contact is dead, and you don't speak the language. Where do you go from here?
D: Operative Word
The insurgent, the special operative, the undercover agent has become the very essence of modern day warfare; the surgical strike instead of the carpet bombing of yore. I'm here to get Sonny out of this god-forsaken country and I've used the last of my cash on a taxi that's dropped me off in the slums of the city. My Arabic is perfect and without discernable accent, I can kill a man in a hundred different ways and blend my appearance in with the locals and yet here I am, isolated, unable to communicate in French. Damn these cheese-eating surrender monkeys.
Ted: Run for the Border
Fucking Americans. Si, si. I know this is a debrief and I should be calm. I know I should have been able to blend in with the migrants. Why couldn't I? Because all they cared about was getting more greenbacks to send home, dammit! No sense of pride, no national fervor, not interested in returning the land to Mexico. When Jefe got killed, I knew this mission was a complete failure. I got paid for working the fields, yes. But it wasn't enough to pay for printing the handbills. I LET INS deport me. They sure as hell weren't looking.
Laurence - Among The Bronx
The cab drops me off at Yankee Stadium.
Bob flew up earlier to get the tickets. He's also covering for everything else.
I look around, and that's when I see his flaming corpse hanging from the lamp post, still wearing his Sox cap.
Before the mob can lynch me, I take off my jersey and cap, waving them around while shouting and grunting.
Someone from the crowd grabs them, tosses them on the bonfire, and says "Ammost goddim, bruddah!"
I spend the evening hunting with the tribe before slipping into an Irish pub for a way back to Boston... civilization!