Variant Exchange

by Fox J Wilde

  “Where the hell are our tunes?” Archangel responded indignantly.

  “Oh, goodness me,” the wizened old Metatron responded, motioning at one of his guards. “Captain, would you please?” The soldier responded quickly by walking over to a set of speakers and pushing a button.

  “So, you’ve been to school for a year or two, and you know you’ve seen it all...”

  “Dead Kennedys?” Archangel asked.

  “Oh, I learned my lesson. I’m not letting you force me to listen to the Ramones again. I’m so sick of that happy-go-lucky crap, I could shit myself.”

  “Happy-go-lucky…are you…” Archangel yelled, “You can’t possibly be serious!”

  “Yes! Happy-go-lucky crap!” the response came, “I’ll concede that they came before; but they didn’t come first, so I don’t have to like them!”

  “That makes no sense! Who doesn’t like the Ramones?!”

  “Me, that’s who! The Clash; the Buzzcocks; the Subhumans; those are punk bands! As for the Ramones…”

  “Don’t you say it!” Archangel interrupted as he seethed with rage, “Don’t you dare say it! Or I swear I’ll…”

  “I wasn’t going to say they aren’t punk, you jackanapes. They just don’t represent anything!”

  “That’s the fucking point!” Archangel flailed his arms angrily, “Oh, what, now you are going to say that the British movement represented something?!”

  “Yes!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Oh, I get it. They represent the venerable institution of nothing.” Archangel spat, “How very virtuous!”

  “Oh, and I suppose The Ramones stood for a version of nothing that was somehow more meaningful?” Metatron argued, red-faced, “Face it! Malcolm McLaren perfected something that the Ramones couldn’t have possibly hoped to grasp! And he defined it!”

  “Of all the uneducated, bigoted hate-speech I’ve heard over the years…” Archangel swore, “Look, you don’t have to like good music if you don’t want to. But don’t you dare speak ill of them!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m not...” Metatron placated, “I wouldn’t speak ill. I just…”

  “You called them ‘happy-go-lucky crap’! Wars have been fought for far less!”

  “Okay, I can see that I might have…”

  “Just wars, old man! Entirely justified wars!”

  “All that I’m saying is that they lacked vision!”

  “Oh, here you are, all high and mighty, talking about how the Brits had the vision to represent ‘nothing’! But when I say that the Ramones stood for the exact same futureless-ness without needing a clothing store to help them do it, you…”

  “Oh, come now! What did the Ramones really do? Protest hippy music by wearing leather jackets and shooting heroin?!

  “Well, seeing as how McLaren basically took those two things and decided to make a band entirely out of them…”

  “Perfect a band out of them, you mean!” Metatron corrected. “Complete with actual lyrics!”

  “That the band didn’t even write!”

  “At least they were conscientious!”

  “Oh, fine! If your British punk scene was so much purer than the scene it all started from, then how do you explain the New Wave movement? That was…”

  “Well, where was it all supposed to go?! They had reached critical mass; it wasn’t something that could last forever!”

  “They didn’t have to welcome it’s death!”

  “’Welcoming death’ is the point!” the older Metatron seethed, “You either kill your scene yourself, so that it lives forever in the state that it died in, or you let the Establishment march right in with a bunch of mindless, pretty ‘scene followers’ and let them delude it into a mindless cash grab! …which is precisely what the synthesizer did, by my reckoning! …of all the godless horrors: punk rock dance music!”

  “It sounds like your trying to lump my punks in with all of that! We would have never allowed that. Not the Ramones, not Iggy, not Richard Hell, no one.”

  “Nonsense! Your entire scene came from Andy Worhol! The man built a career off of the artistic equivalent of someone else’s stamp collection! I’m surprised he didn’t shoot an eight-hour video of a drag queen holding a single button on a synthesizer, while main-lining for eight hours straight, all while a few of your leather-clad, junkie malcontents throw a rock concert in their girlfriends’ clothing…in front of their boyfriends’ boyfriends!”

  “Oh, now you’ve crossed the line!” Archangel shouted, slamming his hands down on the table. “Don’t confuse your poor understanding of art with our anthology of musical excellence!”

  “And don’t confuse what you started with what I’ll finish!” Metatron slammed back.

  “The hell are you going to do about it?”

  “Murder you where you stand!”

  “I’ll bury you, old man!” Archangel yelled.

  “You and what army?!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

  “I’m fettered by good taste, that’s what’s wrong with me!” Metatron screamed back.

  For a second, the two paused and composed themselves, smoothing out their clothing and clenching their hands in an irritated fashion. Neither wanted to be the first to treat with the other; especially after such dire insults had been levied. But the night must progress on, and so Archangel was the first to proverbially doff his hat.

  “I’m not calling you Grandfather, so don’t ask.”

  “You had better not. I’m already too old. I’m not letting you make me any older than I already am.”

  “You’re only a full fifteen years older than me.” Archangel said plainly.

  “Ah yes, such a young man.” Metatron sneered. “How long does it take for you to pee?”

  “Unfortunately, far too long.” he replied, sadly, before he turned to the team of GDR Special Forces men and shouted, “Enjoy your youth, Soldiers. Once you hit fifty, getting it up will be the least of your worries.”

  The room erupted in laughter then, with soldiers on both sides of the barn leaning over in great guffaws. In seconds, the tension dissipated from the room like so much steam. The soldiers certainly weren’t friends and perhaps never would be. Yet for the time being, they all bathed in the mutual comradery of loud music and dick jokes.

  “William.” Archangel spoke, offering his hand.

  “Marcus.” Metatron replied, shaking Marcus Collins’ hand.

  “I have a gift for you,” Marcus said, as the two moved over and sat down in opposite chairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with two hand-rolled cigarettes, before saying, “My old room-mate from West Point told me that this will give you a ‘super head-high’. I’m hardly a connoisseur, but he never steered me wrong when mid-terms came up.”

  “Oh my!” William exclaimed excitedly as he grabbed one. “You shouldn’t have! You know, we do try and smuggle in a few every now and then, but those Stasi asses I work with make terrible drug dealers. They have no conception of what constitutes ‘good weed’.”

  “Well, a fringe benefit of being American,” Marcus replied jovially, as he lit his joint, “we have weed that you couldn’t possibly fathom.”

  William lit his cigarette and the conversation paused momentarily, before exploding into a coughing fit. “...my god, Marcus...” William exclaimed through coughs, “This…this is the best you have ever brought.”

  “Even better than the deep purple?” Marcus choked out through coughs of his own.

  “Oh, far better. This…oh, this is…you have got to get me some more of this.”

  “I certainly will if you can get me a channel. My old room-mate is a Brigadier in DC now. I think he has his son growing it for him.”

  “Oh, is that what they’re doing in your capitol
, these days?” William laughed.

  “Honestly, it’s better when they’re stoned.” Marcus sighed, as he took another drag. “Honestly.”

  “Politicians, eh? Can’t live with them; can’t shoot them. In your country, at least.”

  “Maybe I should join the HVA.” Marcus laughed, as he reached over to the pieces on the chess table, and began picking them up, placing them on the board. “So, where were we, when last we played?”

  “Oh, bother. I’ve forgotten…It’s been too long since we picked this game up.”

  “Oh, cut the shit, Will.” Marcus said idly, as he placed a Bishop, “You’ve been studying this game every single day since.”

  “Me?!” William exclaimed. “Why, that would be cheating!”

  “So you are denying it then?”

  “Marcus Collins, I am a man of the highest caliber of honor. To even insinuate that I would...”

  “Oh, just shut up and put your pieces down.” Marcus laughed.

  The two took a few minutes to place their pieces on the board. This game had been going on for nearly as long as the two had been opposing case officers. Even still, as old as the board was, few pieces had been taken by the other. It was a match between masters—men who truly understood the worth of each individual piece and its unique part to play, no matter how humble it might appear. Not a piece would die in vain if either had a thing to say about it.

  “You know,” William began, “I often wonder if this is the longest game of chess ever played in the history of the game.”

  “And the irony is no one will ever know.”

  “We could dial the Guinness people up. We could blow our covers together; come clean about the whole thing; expose our agents and all of our assets and then we could be famous.”

  “You joke...” Marcus said seriously, “But after some of the shit you’ve put me through this time around, it almost sounds like a tempting offer.”

  “Oh, you enjoy it. You’re too good at this to not enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I’ll never admit that.” Marcus smiled as he placed the final piece, a Knight, on the board, “You can infer whatever you wish, but you will never get a solid admission out of me.”

  “You know, that really is your one fatal flaw,” William said seriously. “You are far too good at this.”

  “And your flaw is that you work for the HVA.” Marcus said, staring at the board. “If you worked for an agency that deserved you, you could conquer the world. They honestly hold you back, Will. You’ve managed to keep up with my entire operation almost single-handedly.”

  “I’m not joining your stupid agency. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

  “Oh no, the CIA wouldn’t take you.” Marcus smiled. “We’re an intelligence agency—not an after-school sports program for underprivileged teenagers.”

  “Oh like you are one to talk! This go-round, you have been just as much a bleeding heart as me! That’s the other way I know it’s you—you copy my style.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Will.”

  “Oh, it’s a brilliant plan.” William taunted him, “Always ask yourself, ‘what would William do?’ and you can never go wrong.”

  “Well it works, doesn’t it?” Marcus laughed.

  “It does.” William conceded. “And I’ve copied you on occasion, as well. Your style isn’t as fun as mine, but it’s efficient…and deceptively convoluted. Anytime my agents start acting like raving idiots, or the Soviets get riled up over some bunk-sounding intelligence that they’ve been following forever, I know it’s you.”

  “Oh really.” Marcus said in a bored tone.

  “Fly-fishing techniques, Marcus? Fly-fishing?!”

  “I figured you would like that.”

  “You didn’t even know it was me—and the stink-bug idea worked like charm, by the way, thank you—you could have caused serious damage to your own damn agency if I hadn’t been the one to catch it!”

  “Oh, we have to have our fun, Will. Besides, you are the only person alive who could have saw the operation for what it actually was.”

  “You know, Marcus, that’s how I beat you half the time.” William smiled. “I just look for an operation that’s too well-formulated, and assume it’s you. That, or I look for a perfectly-formulated plan with obvious miscalculations you couldn’t possibly make, and assume your country’s bureaucracy intended to leave me breadcrumbs. Lo and behold, it is. Take for instance, this latest nonsense with Matt York.”

  “Oh, come now!” Marcus replied, shaking his head in disgust. “My hands were tied on that one.”

  “Let me guess! You said, ‘He has to have a drug addiction, or else the GDR will never believe its punk!’, and they said, ‘But how will he pass a urinalysis’?!”

  “No, that’s not...”

  “I knew it. I knew it! With rivals like the Americans, it’s a wonder we even bother with counter-intelligence!”

  “Look, Will, it’s not that...”

  “And the best part is…he’s fucking British! He’s not even your agency’s agent and they still wanted to drug test him!”

  “Oh, like your Stasi goons didn’t fall for it, anyway!” Marcus argued. “They are too inept to look that deep into it. And your HVA agents probably figured that...”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” William interrupted, “that he had ‘spontaneously realized that drug addictions are incompatible with good, homegrown socialist values!’ I had to listen to our deputy director give that speech for nearly two hours trying to convince me. You don’t need to remind me.”

  “It’s interesting that they would take that standpoint on drugs, seeing as how your butt-buddies in the Soviet Union seemed to like them so much at the Olympics.”

  “First off,” William laughed, “look me in the eyes and tell me that America hasn’t used drugs on its athletes.”

  “William.” Marcus smiled as he stared directly into his eyes, “We never used drugs on our athletes.”

  “Second off!” William spat, shooing his assertions away, “The Soviets are far more your people than mine—you benefit more from being at war with those morons than we ever did being subservient to them. You get carte blanche to build as many bombs as you want, and get to swell your chests with fake national pride. In the meantime, we constantly have to explain to everyone that we hate Communism just as much as you…while being subservient to the Communists! Our only saving grace is our border with you. Do you know how much that stings for the director to admit?”

  “He admitted it?”

  “Of course, he didn’t.” William laughed.

  “Well, at least we garnered you some recognition from the UN.” Marcus laughed in return.

  “If you think the Soviets wouldn’t send their tanks rolling through our streets simply to prove a point, you aren’t paying attention to Czechoslovakia. And you haven’t fully grasped the concept of the Brezhnev Doctrine. Take my advice…” William stated with a menacing grin, “…fully grasp it.”

  “You know, I love what you said about fake national pride, because…” Marcus started with a grin.

  “Oh, here we go!” William said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. “I know sending punks across the Wall wearing those god-damned ‘freedom medals’ was a bad idea. I told the director, but...”

  “No, no, no, listen!” Marcus interrupted, flailing his hands as well.

  “He wouldn’t listen!” William said, ignoring him. “But regardless of how stupid the Politburo is, we have a country to be proud of, Marcus! We have a good country, with good people! That should be allowed to flourish! For God sakes, we have a beer, an airline, and a football team!”

  “Frank Zappa did say that this makes you a country.” Marcus admitted.

  “Your god-damned right it does!”

  Both men stared fondly at each other for a few seconds. Th
is meeting had been far too long in coming. They had both done their jobs well, and had both played their hands masterfully. Yet despite the fact that they would never admit it to the other, they had both made a few concessions and mistakes for the other’s benefit simply to end up in this dilapidated barn, in the middle of Germany-nowhere, to continue their game of chess. Now here they finally were: two of the greatest minds the world would never even know existed.

  “It’s good to see you, Will.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Marcus.” William responded fondly. “My wife enjoys your wife’s letters. Goodness, your son married well.”

  “She’s playing Carnegie Hall next month.” Marcus said, swelling with pride. “And Jim just performed his first triple-bypass.”

  “What a smart kid. You’ve done well, Marcus.”

  “And how is Susan?”

  “Susan and Roger just climbed Mount McKinley!” William exclaimed.

  “I had expected they would at some point. She had always expressed a connection to Alaska, of all places. I’m glad Roger is keeping pace.”

  “Well, she had better hurry up and make Roger marry her, or I’ll have to make him disappear.”

  “Ah, young people, eh?” Marcus sighed.

  “No matter how old they get, they’ll always be younger than us.”

  The music blared in the background. This time it had moved on to a strangely juxtaposed montage of MC5 and Black Flag’s Damaged album. While the two stretched in preparation for the diplomacy they knew they had to accomplish, the captain from the GDR’s elite soldier unit made sure to keep the tunes cranking. The soldiers on both sides of the barn kept their discipline, just in case. However, if one were to look hard enough, they might notice a few of the Green Berets’ fingers tapping on their rifles to the beat.

  “So, let’s get to this Hans Schmidt business.” Marcus began.

  “Oh, god, don’t make me do work!” William complained piteously. “This is supposed to be my time to relax!”

  “This is relaxing for us.” Marcus laughed, before relighting his joint and coughing furiously.