Retirement 7

I have finished my ruminations on the evening’s events, so I tell Jake Jake and Antos to drop (Nun)Chuck and me off at Jack’s old place. I realize we are already leaving the city. I also look at the car. Surely, this vehicle has been condemned. There is the distinct odor of old coffee in the air and pistachio nutshells are everywhere. Wrappers from long extinct fast food joints are carpeting the floor. Hey, look at that, I didn’t know candy bars had expiration dates and … 1989? It’s a petrified candy bar. Holy shit! Years from now, some archaeological dig is going to find this vehicle and think that we slept in cars and used petrified candy bars to break open nutshells. Get me the fuck out of here!

Jake Jake is going on about me shooting someone. I deny having shot anyone (and, due to a Smuckering incident, it’s actually true!). He wants to prove me wrong, so he checks my jammed gun to see if it’s been fired. It is a great moment – you know, the kind that should be immortalized in a commercial: nine beers at a New York City pub: $36, starting a fire with a napkin, a lighter and a drink: $3.50, the look on Jake Jake’s face when he realizes you haven’t shot anybody: priceless. He throws the keys to the handcuffs in the back and they land by the back window, slightly out of reach. As I am struggling to get the key and (Nun)Chuck is yelling at me for bumping into him, I think it’s time for a new list: the top three men I want to injure/kill/maim (in this order) – Jake Jake, Cahill, Jack.

I finally manage to get the key. Meanwhile, (Nun)Chuck is working on his cuffs with a shuriken and, while he succeeds, I pull a Jack and drop the key between the seat cushions. (Nun)Chuck offers to help and reaches down for the key. He pulls it out triumphantly, but it is attached to a disgusting dripping chunk of unidentifiable slime that may or may not qualify for biohazardous waste material. I am beyond repulsed. I tell (Nun)Chuck to clean it off, so he wipes it on my pants. Realizing, and totally frustrated by, the fact that in my compulsive world, it is preferable to remain handcuffed rather than have that horrible mass of primordial ooze touch my skin, I head butt (Nun)Chuck. He starts yelling, ‘first you save rife, now you hit me!’ I kick him in the knee as he wipes the key on my shirt. The list: (Nun)Chuck, Jake Jake, Cahill.

Oh my God, I shouldn’t have had that seventh beer. I’m going to be ill. Since the blasted key is now much cleaner than my clothing, (Nun)Chuck frees me. Antos is tired of me yelling about my shirt, so he pulls over and gets a new (in the package) shirt from his trunk and gives it to me. I am actually disgusted enough to change my shirt in the back of the car in front of the three of them. The list: Jake Jake, Jake Jake, Jake Jake.

I now realize we are headed to Roslyn. I’m not terribly keen to go there. I don’t trust Cahill as far as I can spit (and since that is a very unsanitary habit, I don’t spit at all). (Nun)Chuck is saying, ‘you have to go for debliefing.’ Oh no I don’t! I don’t work for these people anymore. I really think I’m the only sane person left around here. At least I have already prepared my mental report, so it goes quickly and Antos drives me home. Fortunately, the front seat is much cleaner, no that’s not the right way to say it, it’s much less nightmarish than the back seat.

(Nun)Chuck heads back to the castle.

Cahill assembles the team for yet another meeting. It is decided that they are all going to Scotland. (Up)Chuck will try and get hired by the Quickening, as it is need of a new security chief due to the recent demise of Cowan Collin. In a stroke of genius and an attempt not to strain the abilities of the team, it is decided that Karin and Stefan will ‘pretend’ that they are German tourists, (Nun)Chuck will be an alternative medicine practitioner, and Jack will be Jack. Claire will remain at the castle for more hazardous flask-filling duty. The plan is to start some shit when the Lucky Lynx organization realizes that Jack is not dead.

The twins awaken in their hotel around noon. After they get some food, they realize that it’s almost two and they haven’t begun to drink yet. They head to the pub across the street in order to rectify the situation. As they are leaving the hotel. Maureen sees none other than Inspector Callaghan giving some kind of lecture. She tries to tell Sean, but he doesn’t know who Callaghan is.

They are enjoying their pints when in walks a forty-four Magnum accompanied by Inspector Callaghan. He tells them to hit the deck. Since Maureen knows of his reputation, she does. Sean is confused, but follows suit. The twins are protesting that they are clean (as per the agreement with Jake Jake and courtesy of the hotel shower). The floor, however, is not. I am sooooo happy I am not there. Those idiots probably didn't even notice that the ground is covered in a thin layer of goo that is probably more spit than alcohol. The inspector throws a paper in between them that probably listed their wants and warrants, but they couldn’t get a good look at it (probably because their cheeks were stuck to the filthy floor). Once again, the unhappy McBobseys find themselves in police custody.

When Jake Jake comes in, they ask about the paper they signed. He tells them that they are okay if their dirty deeds are done by assignment, but they can’t walk into a police station and shoot the captain. Sadly, they discard that plan (just kidding). The twins are still confused as the where their killing of two cops at McSorley’s falls, but they think it better not to ask.

Apparently, Jake Jake is less than thrilled with their failure to check in. They explain that he and Antos were not in front of the bar anymore for them to check in with, but Jake Jake is not the most reasonable Fed I know.

They are told to go to Scotland – somewhere between Glasgow and Edinburgh, memorize a phone number and check in with it every six hours. Their attempts to negotiate the whole every-six-hour-thing to a more reasonable interval fail. Hmmph. Amateurs!

Trevor Thyne Hardwick, of the SPOATS, is looking for Paris, the city not the agent. Okay, a little background might be necessary. Apparently, he had been contracted by the Mafia to kill Jack (since they don’t believe that he’s dead) and/or Paris. Not that that’s why he’s looking for her. He did report the contact to his superiors. Since Paris was identified as being in the area by a traffic stop, he is told to find her.

He follows a very faint trail and ends up at a hotel at which Paris had stayed. Thinking himself very clever, he dials 1471 (the British equivalent of *69) and gets the last number called, some lab. He heads over there and makes inquiries about an attractive brunette. The stunned staff at the Sperm Lab tries to convince him that he’s in the wrong place.

His insistence that he needs to find this woman leads to the staff calling the police and an embarrassed Trevor Thyne finally admits that he may have come here prematurely (haha).

When I awaken and my head is clear, I go to the ISIS office to call Cahill. He gets on the phone and starts thanking me for a job well done in helping the less experienced agents out last night. Flattery is not Cahill’s forte and I am not wearing my hip waders, so I tell him to cut the shit. Then he tells me that Jake Jake reported that I was very cooperative. Okay, now I know that he’s full of shit. I tell him how unlikely I think that is. He infers that Jake Jake might be in the area of Scotland. Oh my God, they’re sending Jack to Scotland! I ask him if I can talk to Jack. He tells me no and claims that Jack is having a mud bath therapy treatment. What??? I can't believe he even said that with a straight face. I demand to talk to Jack and he tells me no. You know, I don’t give a grapefruit about their rules and regulations. I want to talk to my significant other. Cahill is giving me some line about how I don’t work for them and am no longer entitled to their protection and benefits. Yeah? Then how come they have gotten me out of several sticky situations (not the least of which was Antos's back seat) in the last few days? He lowers his voice to mean-ominous-Cahill tones and tells me he can’t tell me anything and hangs up.

The ISIS employee gets a little upset at the way I am cursing and banging the phone on the desk.

I return to the apartment and pack. I will fly to France and drive up to Scotland. Unfortunately, my alias ID burned up in an Upstate New York deputy’s car. I know, I’ll use one of the blank passports in the safe. Oh no. Jack had that stolen back. Fuck it. There’s no time to search for someone reputable that will make papers good enough to pass in today’s heightened state of alert (that Diamond doesn’t know). For all I know, Jack is in Scotland right now getting shot at.

Having arrived and settled into their various accomodations, the team goes about their business. (Up)Chuck goes to the Quickening in search of work. He speaks with the man in charge. It becomes apparent that this man is not usually in charge, but all of the other bigwigs are off doing something else.

(Up)Chuck waits outside all night, but never sees any of them return to the club.

Karin and Stefan, equipped with a cam corder and a German to Scottish-English dictionary, are successfully pretending to be German tourists, while developing their language skills (um, that would be the language of love).

Jack goes to a bar and sees two people he recognizes as members of the Quickening staff. As luck would have it, they also see him.

(Nun)Chuck is searching the cities of Scotland for some Oriental ties, contacts not the neck accessory, but has little success beyond the Chinese laundry, which had plenty of ties, the neck accessories, but few ties, the contacts.

I have checked into a Falkirk hotel and go to a quiet little bar for a drink. In walks one of Britain’s snootiest, Mitchell. Shit. He sees me. He wants to know why I am there. I get the feeling that, despite his offered condolences, he knows that Jack lives. We spend the evening drinking and not sharing information. Unfortunately, I am verschnookered. Hmm, I may be developing a drinking problem. He drives me home.

The next morning, I realize that Mitchell knows where I am. I retrieve my car and check into a different hotel.

The twins are drinking and checking in at the memorized phone number every six hours, as ordered.

Later that day, (Up)Chuck goes for a meal. As he is enjoying a huge helping of haggis disguised as a hamburger, he notices three men enter. One of them approaches the table. The Russian gentleman sits and engages in a conversation with (Up)Chuck that entails his expressing his distrust of the coincidental arrival of Paris, Jack and (Up)Chuck in Scotland at the same time. (Up)Chuck is truly surprised to learn that, not only is Paris in Scotland, but she went to the offices of the head of Dillion Pharmaceuticals and basically threatened the man. Way to go, Paris! I miss Paris. Must get cell phone soon!

(Up)Chuck explains that he has had a falling out with the ISIS organization and implies that he has control of Jack. You do know how hard I am laughing on that one, right? The Russian tells (Up)Chuck that he needs to have Paris killed as proof of his loyalty. (Up)Chuck asks for time before responding.

When he is alone, (Up)Chuck, realizing that flexing and oliling will not necessarily get this job done, calls Paris’s cell phone and leaves a message. Another great game of telephone tag ensues, culminating with (Up)Chuck, Paris and Jack on a three way call. They formulate a plan to fake Paris’s death. Paris won’t give up her location and tells (Up)Chuck to call when he is ready.

(Up)Chuck then calls the Russian and accepts the contract.

(Up)Chuck contacts Cahill who likes the idea and says he will send Ben Black to help with the details and special effects.

I spend the evening going to a restaurant, then a bar and finally, back to my hotel. As I am luxuriating in a hot bubble bath, I hear someone enter the apartment. Shit, I can’t even bathe in privacy! I jump out and put on my robe as Mitchell enters the bathroom. He leaves so I can finish toweling off.

The only saving grace is the fact that he’s brought beer (drops him way down on the list).

He asks again why I am here and mentions that I am not on some stupid access list. I ask who is on the list. As he is giving me the code names, I hear Messenger. Jack! Mitchell asks if I am surprised that Jack is here. Not really, I was just hoping he had enough sense to quit and not come here. The list: Jack, Cahill, Jake Jake. Mitchell asks if I told Jack to stay home. When I nod, it's Mitchell's turn to laugh. I then tell him that I am fairly upset that, although I know I've been manipulated into being here by Cornball, the Puppet Master, I have come anyway. Mitchell correctly surmises the identity of my tormentor.

Here I am, once again in Scotland, land that I have come to despise. This time might be even worse than the last time. I don't even have the team around me. I am not on their stupid list, so I might have to actually be careful about my behavior. I have no kitchen facilities, so a batch of Sheila's Scottish Surprise is out. I don't have my cell phone, and I find myself missing the geological survey geeks. And there is NOBODY who can make a decent Martiki in this god-forsaken country (with the exception of the elusive Paris).

At least I do have some stuff. I have my own car. I have my gun. I have my extra large bottle of extra strength aspirin. All the blood I lost in recent shootings/explosions has replenished itself. I have my passport (in a death grip).

I lay down and drift off into a disturbed nightmarish world where I am stuck in a filthy car with (Nun)Chuck yelling, ‘you saved my rife,’ Jake Jake holding my smoking gun, Cahill hurling compliments at me, Jack asking another woman to marry him, Mitchell holding a six pack just out of reach, (Up)Chuck oiling and flexing, the twins coming at me with a bread knife. The only thing that saves me from the twins is the fact that their six-hour time limit has expired and they have to stop and check in.