The guys all relaxed—mostly, anyway—so I had gained a little reprieve from an all out bar fight.
“Good, now if you would please follow me, we can go talk like civilized gentleman,” I said, as I leveraged their friend back onto his feet and used a hold called a California come-along to guide him away from the nerds’ table.
His friends followed, and, once we were well away, I released my grip on the frat asshole leader.
“I know those two don’t look like much, but the reality is that I just saved you from the biggest mistake of your young lives. Sure, they’re sitting there playing Dungeons and Dragons, but that’s the way they unwind after a tour.”
“A tour of what?”
“A tour of duty. This two are Army Special Forces just back from Afghanistan.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, I’m deadly serious, and I shouldn’t be telling you this, but between them they have more kills than Chris Kyle.”
“The SEAL sniper?”
“Yeah.
“Bullshit. No fucking Special Forces play Dungeons and Dragons.”
“It seems weird, but the Army therapist has them do it in order to help them revert back to their civilian lives—you know—a taste of childhood innocence to ease the heart and mind.”
All of the frat asshole took a moment to look at the nerds to see they appeared to have completely forgotten the encounter and gone right back into playing their game. This actually added credibilty to my story, because rational people would have probably left the scene.
“I don’t know,” the lead asshole said, after a moment, so he appeared to need more convincing.
“Have you seen the movie The Three Amigos?” I asked.
“No.”
“Well, in it, three idiots go into a bar and are mistaken for three badasses. Then, later, when the real badasses go in, they are mistaken for the idiots, and they kill everyone in the bar. Well, those two non-assuming guys over there are actually the badasses in this scenario.”
“So, who are you?”
“The guy trying to keep them out of trouble until their next deployment,” I said, as I pulled out a Department of Defense ID I occasionally used while in town.
The guys all looked at it and appeared to believe my story.
“So, in the spirit of détente, I’m going to give you a hundred dollars to go drink somewhere else.”
“Dude, I’m not entirely believing your story, but I’m going to take your money, because it’ll buy a shit-ton of beer.”
“Exactly, now enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
The frat assholes went on their way, and I returned to the nerds’ table, and they looked up at me curiously.
“Hello, nerds. The name’s Finn, Tag Finn, and I believe we more or less work together.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around the office. I’m Justin Beeber, and this is Doug Griffith,” the one on the left said.
“Nice to meet you, boys.”
“Dude, what did you say to those guys to get them to leave?” Beeber asked.
“Did you ever see the movie The Three Amigos?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I told them you were like the three guys who went into the bar after the amigos.”
“Had they even seen the movie?” Doug asked.
“No, but they got the point. Plus, I gave them a hundred bucks to go fuck off, and beer money goes a long way with frat assholes.”
“Cool move.”
“Yeah, but honestly now—what the hell made you guys come here to play D&D?” I asked.
“Dude, isn’t it obvious?”
“No” I responded, legitimately curious.
“The chicks!” they both said, at the same time.
“But—you’re playing D&D.”
“Exactly!” Beeber said.
I shook my head, as I realized they really didn’t understand that their D&D playing was the most effective form of birth control they would ever use—because no woman in this place would ever go near them. Oh well, I decided to forego any attempt at female companionship and instead decided I was going to get to know the kindly, though surprisingly oblivious, nerds.”
“So, nerds, I have a sixteenth level Ranger I haven’t been able to play in years.”
“Where’s your character sheet?” Doug asked.
“I have it in PDF form on my iPhone.”
“Sweet, Beeber has a wizard, and I have a sorcerer, and we could totally use a better melee character in our team.”
I sat down, and we managed to complete a fairly large section of their dungeon and had a pretty darn fun evening of beer and battle. By midnight, however, it was about time to call it quits.
“Well, fuckers, we’ll have to do this again,” I said.
“Yeah, we worked well together as a team,” Beeber said.
“Too bad it isn’t like this at work,” I responded.
I saw that Doug was thinking, and a moment later he looked at us with growing enthusiasm.
“You know, I’ve often thought that there was too much of a separation between intelligence gathering, analysis, and the action wing. If they were one unit, they could act more quickly on intel and be a hell of a lot more effective.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“So, let’s become the Three Amigos in real life,” Beeber said.
“I’m in,” I said, as I held up my glass to toast.
“Me too,” Doug said, holding up his glass.
“Me three,” Beeber said, also holding up his glass..
“To the Three Amigos,” I said, as we clinked glasses.
Everyone smiled and finished their beer, and, in the glowing aftermath of the moment, I had a rather sad revelation about my earlier actions in the evening.
“So, fellow Amigos, now that we’re a team, is there any chance of you partially reimbursing for the hundred I gave to the frat boys?”
Back to the present, Outrigger Canoe Club, Oahu, Hawaii.
“So, Finn saving your asses at that bar is how the three amigos came to be?”
“Yeah, though we might have been able to take those frat assholes.”
“I think Finn saved you from a night in the emergency room, so thanks, Finn for keeping my Beebs safe from harm,” Rachel said.
“What about me?” Doug asked.
“And you too,” she said.
“So, how long has it been since you’ve all gotten together?” Violet asked.
“Five years,” Doug said.
“That’s actually kind of sad,” Rachel responded.
“Well, until now, Doug’s been afraid to fly.”
“Not any more. I have a new mistress, and her name is Lorazepam!”
“How do you know your drug is a she?”
“Because she’s smart, sensitive, and highly effective.”
“So, she’s a typical woman,” Rachel said.
“Yep, and thanks to her, the world is now my oyster.”
Dinner arrived, and we enjoyed a lovely Hawaiian evening out on the Hau Terrace, where we were gently buffeted by the sea breeze that made the surrounding tiki torches cast a flickering ambience over the faces of the people at our table. I was eating the same chicken dish as before, but the others had all gone with fish, as we were in the middle of the ocean, and they thought it only made sense to eat locally. When we finished dinner, we left the Outrigger and headed up the H3 to reach the parking lot of our resort then spent a good five minutes searching for a space large enough to fit the Suburban. With the behemoth safely squeezed between two white Toyota Corollas, we checked Doug in to his room, so that he could change into some shorts and join the rest of us in my room. Once there, he went over the police report then asked about the other events—namely the death of Rudy and our little death race with the Toyota four by four earlier today. Satisfied that he had a decent picture of the situation, I made us a pitcher of dark and stormies, and we all adjourned to the beach, where I thought it was only proper that Doug at last dip
his feet into the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean. With drinks in hand, we all walked down to the water and stood in the gentle surf, and Doug smiled from ear to ear as he held up his glass.
“I know this toast is probably getting old, but I have to say it. To the Three Amigos!” he said.
“Five Amigos,” Rachel countered.
“Indeed, to the Five Amigos.”
We all clinked glasses and sipped our drinks under a warm star filled night, and enjoyed the sound of the gentle waves rolling up onto the sand. Hawaii truly was a magical place, and it was amazing to think that we were all together in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on the most remote island in the world. We eventually finished our drinks and went to get refills before taking up residence on the nearby beach furniture, where Doug, after spending an inordinately long amount of time lost in thought, was the first to break the silence.
“So, I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened thus far, and, honestly, it has me a bit freaked out.”
“Well yeah, because its fucking freaky.”
“And terrifying. Who in the hell fucks with the current vice president and potential next president of the United States. The people or person who goes after someone like Matheson has to be extremely powerful and capable. The logistics of running an operation like this would take money, expertise, and, more importantly, experience, so we’ve got one hell of a job ahead of us if we’re going to take these fuckers down.”
“Yeah, which is why it’s so nice to have the dream team back together.”
“We always said that together we could move mountains,” Beeber proclaimed proudly.
“Yeah, but we were usually drunk,” I added.
“Like now,” Violet said.
A noise came from behind us, and I turned around to see several figures walking down to the beach, and, considering my luck as of late, I started to wish I had packed some heat. That is, until I recognized the voices. It was Corn, Lux, Jessica, John, and of course his Secret Service detail.
“Ahoy, strangers,” I said.
“Thanks for the invite, Finn,” John said.
“Sorry, I figured someone of your stature only frequented beach parties in the Hamptons.”
“No, I’m pretty much down with any beach where they have alcohol. Who are your friends?”
“How rude of me, Sasquatch—this is Doug Griffith, Justin Beeber, Rachel Stephenson, and you of course already know Violet.”
“Nice to finally meet you all. This is my wife to be Jessica Thurman, and this hefty piece of man is Cornelius Wallace, or as we call him—Corn. Beside him is his better more beautiful half—Lux Vonde.”
“And for the record, I dated her first but sadly humped her second,” I said.
“Oh, Finn, seriously?” Lux said.
“I don’t believe in secrets.”
“Oh, then should I recount to our current company a certain event that took place in the ladies room at the luau?” she asked.
“OK, I officially apologize and have instated a gag order on any further revelations concerning me, Lux, or Corn.”
“Wait, what happened at the luau?” Beeber asked.
“Nothing.”
Thankfully, Doug, looking a bit shocked, interjected by stepping forward.
“Wait a minute! Your Corn is Cornelius Wallace? Deputy Director of the CIA and therefore, in a roundabout way, my boss?” Doug asked.
“Yep.”
“Goddammit, Finn! Why the fuck didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Don’t worry, Doug, I won’t hold it against you that you know Finn,” Corn said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No calling me sir. Call me Corn. We’re about the same age, and more importantly we’re in Hawaii and over four thousand miles from Langley for fuck’s sake.”
“Corn it is.”
“What are you drinking?” John asked.
“Dark and stormies. You?”
“Same.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“And drink alike, apparently.”
A hotel employee materialized out of the darkness and spoke quietly with Sandra.
“What is it?” John asked.
“The hotel wants to know if you would like a beach bonfire.”
“Yes, he does,” I interrupted.
Ten minutes later, we were all sitting around a lovely fire, and Violet was beside me looking beautiful with her face aglow, and it felt like a proper beach party—something I hadn’t experienced since college.
“What’s the latest, Finn?” John asked.
“Not good. Today alone, our first lead was hit by a car and killed, then we were almost run off a cliff by a fucking Toyota four by four.”
“Sounds like you should avoid cars for a while.”
“Good thinking.”
“I feel like this is all my fault,” Jessica said.
“Definitely not. Whoever is doing this, clearly has Sasquatch in his sights.”
“How do you know it’s a he?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t, but guys are almost always the problem.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Lux said.
“Amen, sister,” Violet added.
“It’s so nice to see you girls bonding,” I said.
“It’s a necessity when the world is full of so many man-whores,” Lux said.
Violet laughed out loud. Wonderful—here it comes.
“I can’t believe you just said that. I started calling Finn a man-whore this morning.”
“I started calling him that about six months ago!”
“Can we request a guitar? I think there’s way too much talking going on,” I said.
Sandra got on her mic, and five minutes later a large man, likely of Hawaiian or Samoan decent, came walking down to the beach, and, under his enormous arm, he was carrying an acoustic guitar.
“Did somebody ask for music?” he asked in pidgin accented English.
“We sure did.”
“Well here I am. Call me Brudda Abe.”
“Cocktail, Brudda Abe?” John asked.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“I think you should.”
“Wait a minute! You’re da vice president!” he said, in total surprise as he looked at John.
“For the moment. Here, have a cocktail, Abe,” John said, as he handed him a glass.
“If you run for president, you got my vote.”
“Thanks, Abe.”
“Any requests?” he asked, picking up his guitar.
“You know any Iz?” I responded.
I was of course referring to Israel “Iz” Ka’ano’i Kamakawiwo’ole, a Hawaiian singer who’s golden voice brought joy to countless millions before his life and career were cut short by his premature demise in 1997.
“Of course. How about Somewhere Over the Rainbow?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Abe started playing his guitar then set into the first verse, and, while not many people could sound as amazing as Iz, Abe came pretty damn close, and he brought the night alive with his magical voice. Violet even reached over and took hold of my hand, which was major progress. Soon, everyone was smiling, and it was strange to look around and see my closest friends from my adult life all in one place at one time. It was just too bad that it had to be under such shitty circumstances. After several songs and multiple cocktails, the girls needed a break to pee, and they trotted off to the beach baño and left us menfolk to ourselves.
“So, Agent Kalili is pretty fucking hot,” Doug said.
“No shit,” John added.
“Anything going on there?” Beeber asked.
“There was, but I kind of fucked it up.”
“She looks very familiar, but I can’t figure out why. I don’t think we crossed paths in Washington, because I would have remembered her,” John said.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.
“Of course, I’m a politician.”
“No seriously, can you actually
keep a secret?”
“Yeah.”
“We both met Violet the night of your bachelor party. She was the blond stripper.”
“Holy shit. The one you hooked up with?”
“Yeah.”
“So, why is she stripping if she’s an FBI agent?”
“Apparently, she did an undercover assignment at a strip club and made so much money that she continued doing it part-time to pay off her house.”
“Good for her. Capitalism at work,” John said.
“Finn, you are one lucky son of a bitch,” Doug said.
“Not really. In this instance, she gave me a taste then closed the kitchen.”
“How did you fuck it up?”
“Well, she told me in no uncertain terms that our working relationship meant nothing more was ever going to happen between us.”
“Don’t you know that’s woman speak for something is definitely going to happen?” John asked.
“Apparently not, and I let alcohol compound my idiocy enough that I got together with another woman the very next night.”
“Sweet Jesus. You’re putting my shenanigans to shame,” John said.
“Yeah, sadly, and now she’s spending all her free time making sure my balls retain their beautiful shade of dark blue.”
“And you didn’t even have to marry her,” Corn said.
We all laughed, but, at that moment, the girls suddenly appeared, and we quickly quieted down.
“So, what were you boys all talking about?” Lux asked.
“Oh you know—the meaning of life and shit like that,” I said.
“So, you were talking about us.”
“Yeah, mostly,” I muttered.
Brudda Abe, as if on cue, carried on singing more songs—some Hawaiian, some not, but all were familiar and crossed over into practically every music genre. The only hiccup of the night was when Beebs got overly excited and asked if Brudda Abe knew Eye of the Tiger. Apparently, Beeber was hoping for a duet, but saner heads prevailed, and he settled back down into just enjoying Abe’s performance. The final song of the night ended with a singalong of the Beach Boys’ Don’t Worry Baby, which seemed oddly apropos of our situation and truly made it feel like a real beach party.
Midnight rolled around, and everyone was thoroughly buzzed, thoroughly tired, and ready to call it a night. Brudda Abe again professed that he would vote for John if he did indeed run for president, which meant this was truly grass roots campaigning at its finest. Everyone said good night, thanked Abe again, and headed off to their respective rooms, leaving Violet and me alone as we set off for my suite.
The Poi Predicament Page 18