Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

Mark Flyer had hitched his reputation invisibly on good fortune’s coattails most of his life. Until his recent defection from the MUTTS, the fabric of infallibility fit him like a tailored suit. But even he knew that his seam of stealth started to fray at some point on tonight’s expedition. He had planned to meet Wint by 3:00 A.M. in the vicinity of an abandoned mineshaft in northern New Jersey. From here, the men aimed to disseminate the DVD’s contents to the public from an unfiltered interface. Wint set up the makeshift tech lab two days beforehand amidst the beveled landscape known as Cow Belly.

  Up until now, Mark’s progress remained unimpeded along the back roads leading toward and through Pennsylvania’s state line. Experience should’ve told him that when things seemed too calm, a shit storm most likely loomed on the horizon. Within five minutes after merging onto Route 46 into the township of Mine Hill, the whirling lights of at least four police cars lit up in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. The number of squad cars in pursuit of him verified that this wasn’t just an ordinary traffic stop. Mark was being chased, and he had no intention of passively submitting to those who wanted him in custody.

  Had this been an off-road track, the smart money would’ve been placed on Mark’s odds of averting the authorities in his Jeep. But on unblemished blacktop, the Wrangler’s engine simply didn’t house the muscle to outmaneuver these sleek cruisers. Within seconds, the swirling blue and red lights encompassed the Jeep, causing Mark to search in vain for an alternate pathway. His bid to escape was feeble at best. In a moment of desperation, he swerved the vehicle across a two lanes of traffic and careened into a neighboring schoolyard. The rain-sodden earth quickly turned into more foe than friend. The Jeep’s wheel sputtered in the grass and rendered it immobile as the police closed in on all sides. Sometimes the smart money turned out to be a dunce.

  Regrets, like unsettled debts, tallied up into detriments in the long run. Right now, Mark figured he’d sprint to the nearest wood line and test his marathon prowess on the sloping terrain that the township’s old iron mines left behind. But minus the stamina to outpace five fleet-footed do-gooders, Mark soon found no other recourse but to surrender. But some of the overzealous policemen, who probably hadn’t seen this much action since T.J. Hooker got cancelled, decided now was as good as opportunity as any to tryout their newly funded Tasers.

  Although Mark had submissively held up his hands, he suspected that the officers had already received their orders. “Don’t move!” one of them screamed. It was of course mandatory for anyone in law enforcement to shout such a command, even when standing within two feet of an alleged perpetrator. Mark stood as motionless as a manikin, but inconvenient technicalities were routinely altered in the paperwork phase of unjustified arrests. The officers’ trigger fingers itched as if they were infected with poison ivy. Mark already assessed what was coming next.

  “I suppose this is where I say, ‘Don’t tase me, bro’?” he joked.

  Officer Kerry, who recently transferred from a college campus in Florida, never paid much attention to irony during his literature courses. Without cracking a smile, he fired a single charge from his Taser, hitting his target in the chest. Mark subsequently toppled to the ground like a wet bag of cement.

  “I got him,” Kerry congratulated himself. “Look at him quiver. He’s out cold.”

  “Hooty will be pleased,” said another cop. “We’ll let him handle this from here.”

  When Mark finally regained consciousness, he expected to be staring up into the fluorescent glare of hospital lights or a jail cell. Instead, he opened his eyes to focus on a macaw’s intrusive gaze. It took him a few moments to realize that he had been kidnapped and detained in the back of a plush automobile, with his ankles and wrists bound in enough duct tape to clog a leak. Nepo stared at him as if his face was a bed of unused newspaper cage liner. Molek’s imposing voice prevented things from getting too messy.

  “Comfy?” the podgy hippie chortled.

  “Where am I?” Mark asked.

  “You don’t even want to venture a guess?” Molek welcomed Nepo back onto his bent knees in the car’s front seat. As formerly instructed, Hics was already pacing around outside the Caddy, attempting to hold his breath in short intervals.

  “The mobile Ministry of Love?” Mark said, mockingly.

  “Oh, you always were the witty one, weren’t you, Mr. Flyer?”

  “At least since 1984.”

  Molek’s amusement, of course, was as short-lived as any villain who guffawed when coordinating terror. He allowed Nepo to get adjusted on his lap. The macaw nestled up on his fleshy thighs like a cat and hissed in Mark’s general direction.

  “It seems that my birdie doesn’t appreciate defectors,” Molek said.

  “Fortunately, I care more about the dump I took yesterday than I do for your New World parrot,” Mark returned. By this time, Mark was fully aware of his predicament. He noticed his hands were knotted together to the point where his circulation was compromised.

  “Untie me,” he said. Of course, Mark’s reflexive command was met with yet another capricious chuckle from his captor.

  “In time, I will accommodate you,” Molek assured. “But for now, I think I’ll get more cooperation from you while you’re sitting here in limbo.”

  Mark elected not to squander any energy by trying to squirm out of the coiled tape. In real life, duct tape held firmer than most relationships. Instead, he leaned his body casually against the car’s backseat with the intention of becoming more pigheaded than a wild boar.

  “So what lured you out of the redwoods of California, Hooty? Are they having another Woodstock celebration?”

  “Your humor is dull, Mr. Flyer. But, for the record, I in fact attended the original Woodstock festival in August of 69.”

  “At least I know why you consider me a bore. Pigs like mud.”

  “I sense that you’re going to be hard to handle.”

  “You should’ve stayed in the Grove. You’re not getting any information out of me. Consider Operation FIDO euthanized.”

  “I’ve always admired you rebellious nature. It’s a virtue that made you such an impressive agent. However, sometimes a man unwillingly permits his virtue to become his vice. I hate to be the wicked messenger, but I anticipated such insubordination before I caught up with you tonight.”

  “You can do whatever you want to me,” Mark said. “It’s not going to stop anything.”

  “I’ve already had you searched, as well as your Jeep. We can avoid a lot of unnecessary manipulation if you fess up right now. Where is your newest assistant bringing the beagle and what have you done with the disc?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Hooty.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Molek then gestured for Mark to inspect his right hand. In addition to the tape entwined on his wrists, Mark perceived a round piece of gauze and Band-Aid affixed to the flesh between his thumb and index finger. Both of them knew the implications of this superficial wound.

  “You’ve chipped me,” Mark gasped.

  “Personally, no. I don’t partake in even the simplest of surgeries,” Molek said. “But the officers who brought you here have been trained by their superiors to comply with my orders precisely.”

  “Pull it out! Pull it out now, you moron!”

  “You’re bringing back such conjugal memories. My ex-wife used to say those exact words to me when we were in bed together.”

  “Maybe she didn’t like sleeping with a stoner the size of a boulder.”

  “Sticks and stones, Mr. Flyer. Sticks and stones.”

  “More like Skull and Bones. Your chips won’t work on me! I guarantee it.”

  “Are we negotiating now? I seem to detect a hint of urgency in your voice.”

  Mark wrestled with his restraints mechanically, but this was simply an instinct for survival on his behalf. He knew he was more screwed than a horde of prostitutes at a bargain-rate brothel. Molek continued to stroke his macaw’s feathers, tracing alp
habetical letters on her back. Nepo sometimes liked to guess the shapes he drew.

  “You’ll never be able to control me,” Mark said. “My mind is too strong. It’s as clamped as a steel trap.”

  “Well, I’ll confess that our methods may not be as intrusive as O’Brien’s in Room 101, but I’m so pleased with the Agency’s progress thus far. After implantation into the host, the RFID V microchip takes about 30 minutes before it fully assimilates with your central nervous system. Henceforth, I will sway all of your thoughts and actions. In other words, you will become my proverbial bitch with a simple twist of fate.”

  “Let me go, Molek. There’s still time for you to do the smart thing. They’re pulling your strings. In the end, you’re just another puppet like me. When they’re done using you, they’ll get rid of you and your prattling parrot.”

  Nepo squawked again at Mark, even going as far to take a phantom swipe at his face with her talon. “You’re making this very personal,” warned the macaw. “Are you so intent on winning that you’re willing to die to save the life of a mangy dog?”

  Mark didn’t flinch upon hearing the talking bird. He realized that Molek had harvested the power of the Class V transponders shortly after hacking into his computer.

  “If you’re looking for a stool pigeon, you’ve rattled the wrong cage,” Mark said.

  “Such gusto for a man in your predicament,” Nepo cawed. “Did you really think that you’d be able to elude us? No one escapes from the Agency.”

  Mark ignored Nepo. His rational was straightforward; he didn’t converse directly with birds. Instead, he centered his aggravation on Molek. “It’s got to end, Hooty. Sooner or later, you’ll understand that your Orwellian ways won’t fly in America.”

  “I like to think of them as Owl-wellian,” Molek snickered. Nepo appreciated this pun. She always shook her head like a maraca when amused. “Mr. Flyer, out of sheer respect for the services you’ve already rendered for our establishment, I’ve kept you alive thus far. I’d rather have you tagged than fall into a league of second-rate conspiracy theorists. Do you wish to be laughed at by anyone of status for the rest of your life?”

  “Someone has to warn the public. I can’t let it continue.”

  “Well, it’s unfortunate that you won’t be making such choices much longer. At least not consciously,” Molek said. He then glanced at his wristwatch. The watch’s big hand was on the owl’s beak. “In ten minutes or so, your mind will become as malleable as wet putty. I’ll sculpt you into the informant I need you to become. And when I no longer require your limited insight, I’ll see to it that you are issued a burial that is befitting of a traitor.”

  “My death won’t prevent anything,” Mark said. “There are others who know about your scheme. Give up while you still can.”

  Molek laughed at Mark’s expense, before addressing his guileful bird. “Are you listening to this delusional fool? He actually still believes he has the upper hand, but I know I have his right hand, and soon his whole brain.”

  “He’s beginning to perturb me,” Nepo responded.

  “Yes. I agree,” Molek said. He then returned his attention to Mark. “These ‘others’, as you’ve called them, will soon meet a similar end as you. Rest assured, Mr. Greene and Dr. Wells will soon know that death doesn’t have any mercy. And the most satisfying aspect of my boast is that you will be largely responsible for their demise.”

  “What did the powers-that-be promise you, Hooty? Do you get to keep petting the pretty bird?”

  “Watch out,” Nepo admonished Mark from the safety of his corpulent companion’s lap. “Or you shall experience firsthand how pernicious I can be.”

  “She’s not as peaceful as a dove. I’d be careful not to insult her as flagrantly as you do me,” Molek said. “We’re not so diabolical. In truth, we want what’s best for the people of our world.”

  “Our world? Interesting phrasing, Hooty, but this planet doesn’t belong to you or anyone else. We belong to it.”

  “Point taken, but someone must act as Earth’s caretakers, and you couldn’t expect such responsibility to be left in the clutches of common troglodytes, correct? We recruit only the boldest and brightest minds to propagate our species, Mr. Flyer. Unfortunately, there isn’t room for proletarians in the echelon where I keep company. So what must we do to ensure that we survive and remain at the top of the food chain?”

  Mark eyes gradually sunk to his wounded hand before he uttered, “Eat your own, I suspect. You want a society of robots, where all original thought and passion is erased.”

  “Well,” Hooty explained. “If we could somehow foster a breed of people that were as grateful as dogs in their dispositions, your midnight getaway wouldn’t have been necessary. But as you’ve already demonstrated, people can’t be trusted. They’ll bite their master’s hand if hungry for recognition. So we must ultimately decide what to do with the masses. Others in history have shown far less humane methods when dealing with undesirables. I believe we’ve come to a compromise that allows most humans to live, albeit within the perimeters that need not concern them.”

  “I’d rather be dead than become your mind slave!”

  “Yes, and there certainly will come a time when that will be arranged, Mr. Flyer. Unfortunately, we can’t salvage everyone. For the sake of the human race, there must be inevitable sacrifices.”

  “Anyone who challenges the system. These people are your greatest threat!”

  “You see how brilliant you are? It’s a shame that you’re so obstinate. We could’ve used a brain like yours within our ranks. But why fret over the way you do the things you do, right? We can only move forward from here.”

  “You call this progress?”

  “We call it change, Mr. Flyer. And those who refuse to adapt to the New World Order will become part of an odd little place in our society.”

  Mark didn’t wish to show desperation, but he sensed his thoughts fading, shifting to a realm where he could no longer construct a logical objection. Soon the cult of personality would’ve seemed like an appropriate solution to independent thought. The man who he was could not exist as he once had before.

  Chapter 20