Sunday, August 15, 2010

Part IV of the Lipton T. Bagg Saga

I did not know what to do without my new old, no, old new, friend. So I did what any red-blooded American boy would do when alone at a bar somewhere in east Texas. I started drinking heavily. Man, that line-dancing shit (while certainly not as hip as hippie twirling) ain't bad when you have several shots of tequila under yer belt (no, I did not wear one of those Texas huge fancy belt buckles! No cowboy boots neither! I wasn't that drunk.)

Whatever time it was that they kicked us all out of the bar I could not tell you if my dog's life depended on it. Nor could I tell you how I managed to make it into some cheap hotel room. All I can tell you is that I was fully-clothed, laying on top of the bed, and hung-over, when the phone rang sometime near almost mid the next day (Sunday).

I tried to ignore it. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. RING RING RING. I cursed at the phone, but that hurt my head too. Finally it stopped. Thank you Dear God!

Then it started ringing again. On and on and on.

I finally rolled over and grabbed it: "WHAT!!!!!!!!!????????" Oh, shit. That was too loud. I almost puked from the pain in my throbbing head.

"Mr. Doe?" Some formal sounding white male, mid-40s I guessed.

"Who the fuck wants to know!?" But softer now, for my head's sake.

"Special Agent Frank Barnes, F.B.I."

"What do you want?" Trying to sound tougher than I really felt.

"We need to talk to you."

Gulp. "What's this about?"

"We think you know. We can't talk over the phone. Meet us in front of your hotel room in fifteen minutes." Click.

I immediately called California. Collect. A sexy sounding oriental female voice answered: "Hello?"

"Why did you call the F.B.I.? And how did they find me?"

"I did not call the F.B.I. Why would I? I not really sure I want Lipton back. I getting used to him being gone." Click.

Adrenalin cursed through my veins. I had never met with the F.B.I. before. I assumed I knew what this was about, but in fact there were a few sordid details in my past that I am certain the F.B.I. would want to ask me about if they knew. Oh, shit! I hope they had not talked to my wife while I was gone. I didn't tell her the details of why I left so suddenly. Maybe she had second thoughts, and concluded that I was a lying dirt bag who had really left her. Well, I am a lying dirt bag, I just didn't want to tell her that I had left work, home, and my very important blogging to track down some dude that I have never met.

I cleaned up, slowly, took a wet wash-cloth to wipe off what looked like dried puke from my pants, used some of that cheap mouthwash that was provided with the room, and walked out my door. The mid-morning hot Texas sun caused me to shut my eyes in pain. Throbbing head. Damn that cheap tequila. Damn me for drinking too much.

When I had finally adjusted to the light so that I could see, I couldn't see nothin. I did not recognize where I was. Didn't know how far I was from the bar and my car. There was a single road that I did not recognize and no traffic on it. I stood there and started to sweat. Some big ass bug flew around my head, again and again.
I stood there melting for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Finally, I started to walk back inside. I don't wait for nobody more than fifteen minutes. Okay, it might have only been 4-5 minutes, but in my condition it seemed longer.
Suddenly, a big black S.U.V. with darkly tinted windows drove up. The back door opened up, and a man dressed in a suit jumped out, grabbed my arm and said "Get in." It wasn't a request. When I hesitated, he showed his badge. I got in.
I might talk tough, but I don't mess with the fibbies. Or any law enforcement. My number one rule--or two, I forget, it's somewhere up near the top of my list--is never mess with a guy who has a badge and a gun.
He kind of pushed me in and got in beside me, then slammed the door. There was another guy already in the back seat, and two more in front. The S.U.V. sped off.
"Heyyyyy, what's going on? I didn't consent to..."
"Shut up Mr. Doe," the man in the front passenger seat turned and said. "This involves a matter of national security. This is top secret. Nothing that we tell you can leave this vehicle. If you tell anyone, ANYONE, anything that occurs in the next few minutes, you could be charged with violating national security laws." He said it in an ominous tone and glared at me as if he was trying to burn what he was saying into my brain.
"Even Wikileaks?" I said to myself. But I dared not voice that joke aloud.
Gulp. I nodded assent. "What's this about?"
"The man that you know as 'Lipton T. Bagg' is not who you think he is. I hate to break it to you but that isn't even his real name."
"No shit!?" Sherlock, I thought but did not add. Even a moron such as myself knew that could not be his real name. He he. Even in my hungover state I hadn't lost my sense of humor. But I did not say the Sherlock part out loud. I wasn't completely stupid.
"He is under cover in order to perform invaluable service to our country, a job that no one else is as uniquely qualified to perform."
"What running away from home, getting drunk, and then crawling out the bathroom window after I've come all the way cross country to track him down and take him back to his wife?" I smirked. I am gullible but I wasn't buying it. "Evidently his wife doesn't think he is performing valuable services. She wanted him back, but now is getting used to having him gone."
"She doesn't know about who he really is."
"Oh, great. What is he, anyway?"
"We could tell you, but then we'd have to kill you." He glared at me, then smiled and all of them started smiling. "Sorry, just a joke." Then deadly serious again. "Top secret. You don't need to know."
"Okayyyyy, so why am I here? Why have you taken me against my wishes? What the hell do you want from me!?"
Suddenly the S.U.V. stopped and the door opened and the agent who had "helped" me into the vehicle got out.
"We only gave you a ride back to your car."
I looked out the open door and there it was. I got out and tried to retain, er regain, my dignity.
"Stop looking for Lipton T. Bagg. Forget that you found him. Don't tell anybody where he is. Forget that you know him."
"Come on, this is B.S. No 'special agent' with unique talents on a 'super duper top secret' assignment runs around getting drunk in shabby run-down bars all over the south." Saying it aloud made it sink in. Really, what were these guys up to? No waaaaaaay Lipton, or whoever he really is, is some special agent undercover.
"I assure you that this is no joke. Mr. Teabagg's getting drunk at seedy bars is not part of the plan. But when you have somebody as special, with such unique gifts and talents and experience, you use him despite his flaws. When he gets used to being drunk for a few days, or weeks, he will get tired of it. He does this often. Then he will get down to business and perform his appointed task with great skill. Then he will return to his wife, and his silly little blogging."
"You know about his blog? 'Viewed from the Right'?" I gave him an incredulus look.
"We know everything about him. And about you. We even know all about those illegal things that 'Gramps' is always doing. And those sordid little details in your past? The ones that you wish we did not know about? Well we know about them. But don't worry, keep your mouth shut, don't tell anybody about what you have seen and heard, and we won't pursue charges against you. Oh, and call Mrs. T. Bagg and tell her not to worry, her husband will be coming home soon."
With that, the agent jumped in, the vehicle sped off, and I was left somewhere in the middle of east Texas, wishing I could delete all the posts that I had already made about the exploits of Lipton T. Bagg.
So if you read this, forget about it. Forget that you've ever visited this blog. Who knows when what's his name will be back, I couldn't say if I wanted to. I swear if any of the readers here say a word about what I have written I will track you down and make your lives miserable. Delete, damn posts, delete! I do not have administrative powers here, so I can't make them go away. Did you read that F.B.I.? I wrote all these articles before you told me not to tell anyone!??
John Doe, er I mean HardRightRudder, er, no, this was somebody else posting under my name. I know nothing. I see nothing.
p.s. A hacker wrote this, not John Doe!

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