|
Guy
Hamilton: Reporter at Large
You may have read some of my
work, or heard about me from my
admirers, or just read the engraved gold plaque above the entrance to
Sayles-Hill. Or perhaps you even attended my
funeral. I'm Guy Hamilton,
Ex-Ace Reporter for The Carletonian.
I'm back: back to tell a grizzly tale of horror and deceit, back to
take literary vengeance on perjurers of justice and goodness, back to
collect $200 for writing this story. And what a story I have to tell.
The faint of heart or black of lung may not want to read on-the tale
I have to tell is not for the faint of heart or the black of lung.
My story begins where it ended-Manila, 1987, in the back of an
ambulance. I had just finished spilling my guts, physically and
figuratively, to a Philippines correspondent of The Carletonian. As my
story ended, I closed my eyes and passed from this world, as far as that
reporter knew. But the place where I actually went was far stranger.
Mystical Philippino drugs, provided to me by a local shaman living in
one of the many junk yards that litter the outskirts of Manila, allowed
me to fake my death. That unsuspecting Carletonian toady never even
suspected that he was being duped. Later that evening, still in the
depths of the drug-induced trance, my body was removed from the morgue
and replaced with the corpse of a dead sailor who had contracted a
terminal case of gonorrhea in one of the many brothels that line the
waterfront.
I awoke the next day in the shaman's battered shanty. He was an old
coot: ornery and mean. But he knew his business and was cheap, only
charging twenty-five dollars and my bootleg concert tape of Something
Fierce.
My escape into anonymity was complete. Although my face was known
throughout the free world, simple disguises allowed me to hide from my
any enemies. I cannot go into detail about my stealthy concealment
techniques, but suffice it to say that a spittoon will hide a great deal
of bone structure.
My next stop, via a shrimp boat cruising the Pacific-Atlantic-Indian
Ocean highways, was Rangoon. Contrary to public opinion, the safest
banking establishments are not in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands, but
in Burma. Here I secreted most of my assets from my many major literary
awards and Domino's Pizza delivery job. There was a lot of money in
these banks, but I was going to need all of it to set me up in hiding.
London
For the next year, I ran a rare books shoppe on Fleet Street in
London. Truly a daring venture, to say the least, being in the midst of
the largest newspaper district in the world, where my name was as common
as Ranch style dressing. But it was a calculated risk. Only in such an
environment could I satisfy my reporter's insatiable appetite for
current affairs; watching the TV news in England is like reading Joyce's
Ulysses-admirable but tedious.
|
Customers of all sorts would wander in off the streets to
peruse my selection of 1920's Westerns. Not many purchases were made,
but that was not what I was there for. One day, just a few weeks ago,
while I was reshelving my stock from the Dewey Decimal classifications
over to the new Library of Congress system, two mysterious gentlemen
made their way to the back of the store, where I was perched. They did
not see me there and felt free to talk. I now quote their exact
conversation:
"I say, what, California, old chap?"
"Right-ho!"
"Jolly good! The twenty-second, then, eh?"
"Just so, old boy."
Then a misshapen packet exchanged hands and they exited my shop.
I puzzled over their dialect. Obviously German, from the Black Forest
region, but these men were obviously terrorists of a sort rarely seen in
the Schwartsvalt.
Suddenly, I had it-they had given me a crucial lead. I knew from my
Alumni announcements (the college is the only institution that has been
able to track me throughout my world travels), that the California
Carleton Alumni Social and Bilking meeting was scheduled for May 23rd,
in San Burdu. And the misshapen packet could only contain one thing; a
Walther PPK assault rifle with folding stock and laser sight. The
"PEZ Candy" label was merely a clever ruse. Trouble was
a-brewin'. Clearly, international terrorists had set their sites on
ultimate Minnesota supremacy. They had discovered the crucial fact that
the French fur traders knew long ago; he who controls Duluth controls
the entire north-eastern corridor of the greater Duluth region.
I left the shop in care of my assistant, Ian Smythers, and made fast
tracks for Gatwick Airport; the terrorists have steered clear of
Heathrow ever since the Veal Parmigiana meal on Flight 43962 in '74. I
staked out the joint for three days and my man finally showed up. I
bought tickets on the same flight and followed him into Los Angeles
after a stopover in Prague.
I wanted to stop him, but still had not figured out how; his mother
had come on the trip with him and I couldn't get anywhere close to him
without bringing shame upon his family. I was also curious to find out
just what his little terrorist game was. So I bided my time and waited
for him to make the first move. And move he did.
The All-Nite Inn, San Burdu, California, May
23rd
Scads of wealthy
Carleton grads working in politically-correct occupations while raising
the next generation of National Merit scholars. A fundraiser's Garden of
Eden. And our little terrorist friend played the part of the Snake.
That afternoon, I assumed many disguises in order to see every facet
of this grand soiree-doorman, window washer, lavatory attendant, and
roving Chiclet salesman. In just a few hours I had the joint cased. I
knew who all the major players were: Lewis, Sturkey, Pumper. They were
all there. I had also made a killing on a deal to ship forty cases of
Cherry Chiclets to a Yippie Quonset hut on the outskirts of Fresno.
|
I
searched throughout the afternoon for the green
complexion of my only lead into this twisted plot throughout the
afternoon. All I could see, however, were the smiling, drugged
expressions of liberal arts graduates-the man I was after had definitely
gone to a State school.
And then, at 6:04 PM, I saw him. He was dressed in a disguise that
would have fooled his mother: black shirt, black jacket, black shoes,
black socks, with a chartreuse nylon pulled over his disfigured
countenance. It was sheer luck that I was able to spot him in the crowd.
I decided to play it cool, just sit back and wait for my panty-clad
target to make his move. Finally, after the band stopped playing
"Josh & the Senators" covers, I saw him slowly make his
way up to the stage.
The band had removed their gear and a makeshift podium was erected.
The trustees in attendance took up their places of honor on the stage
and the quest for donations began in earnest. It started with the usual
pep talks about this year's Freshman class, the recent successes of
Carleton, and a graphic slide show consisting of highlights from the 121
inning Rotblatt game. Eventually, the chairman of the Alumni Board got
up and gave the real hard sales pitch. He waxed nostalgic for over
thirty minutes, going on and on about how swell and special a place
Carleton is. About half way through his spiel, I had to run to the
lavatory where I proceeded to toss up the Turkey Cutlet dinner that had
been flown in from the Burton kitchens.
As I walked back from the bathroom, I saw that the old fart at the
podium was winding down. He had been playing the room like a concert
violin, and I could tell by the glazed, vacant stares of the crowd that
they were ready for the big sales pitch. Reaching down into the
right-front pocket of his Lederhosen, the Alumni Chairman pulled out a
thick wad of $100 bills; and I thought he was just happy to see me. He
waved them mystically in front of the crowd and said, " I
personally am going to give my entire life savings to Carleton!" He
shoved past his wife who was then clawing frantically for the stack of
money and then put the bills into the grasping, grubby little paws of
Ex-President Lewis. Lewis started cackling maniacally and picked his
nose.
Suddenly, my suspect made his move. Pulling his rifle from a
concealed holster under his skirt, he fired a burst of bullets into the
ceiling, ran up to the podium, and wrenched the money out of the hands
of Lewis.
But, as ever, I was ready. I reached into my overcoat and brought out
the only weapon at my disposal, my trusty Nikon FFF-SEX Quad-rotor
dual-laser 5.7 gigapixel ace-reporter's camera with halogen-paladium
cold-fusion flash and trick squirting lens cap. I shouted at the thug,
"Freeze, you terrorist dirt bag!" He spun around and leveled
the Walther at my chest. A look of shock crossed his face as he realized
who he was facing. "You!" he ejaculated. "I thought you
were dead." That was all the time I needed to squeeze off a
full-power flash from the Nikon, blinding him into unconsciousness. Just
for good measures, I grabbed a gun from one of the stunned security
guards and gave him a really good pistol whipping.
|
Ex-President Lewis came down to congratulate me, stopping to pick up
the money that had fallen to the floor during the scuffle. "Thank
you," he moaned. "You're quite a hero."
"No hero sir, just a reporter," I replied.
"What's your name, son?"
"G-." Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I espied a
rapid movement directly in front of me. A shabbily dressed woman was
running out of the room. I gave chase.
Running over the heads of the alumni slowed me up a bit,
but I managed to catch up to her when she stopped at a bubbler for a
drink. She saw me approaching and started to run again, but I had
momentum on my side. I took her down with a slide tackle and gave her a
twister punch to her kidneys to beat her into submission. "Uncle,
uncle," she whined. I pulled her to her feet and made a shocking
discovery. This ugly old crone was actually Denise Vindstrehhet,
Carleton Homecoming Queen of '79 and Nutting House maid during the
Porter and Edwards years. I searched her thoroughly, finding only a Pro
Musica program with some illegible scribblings on it, a pill bottle full
of Iocane powder, and a half-full pack of Cherry Chiclets.
Suddenly, everything clicked into place. My incredible subconscious
ace-reporter's brain had put the whole mad crazy scheme together.
The terrorists were attempting to subvert Carleton Development
activities through overt action and subliminal messages played during
"Common Denominator" and "Gone All Wobbly." Once
Carleton was sitting on a shaky financial foundation, they could easily
move their men in with carefully placed bribes and promises to remodel
the snack bar.
Vindstrehhet's motives were much less obvious. Obviously, she had
meant to kill someone with the Iocane powder. "But who?" you
ask, awestruck. It had to be Ex-President Lewis. Vindstrehhet had lived
in virtual luxury as the maid of Nutting House under Porter and Edwards.
But Lewis, a happily married man, had refused her continual advances,
eventually firing her. She took up a job with the shop for a while,
mowing grass and carrying around a red gas can. I could tell by her
unkept hair and offensive bodily odors that the pressures of the job had
been too much for her. Revenge against Lewis had been her only hope of
regaining her lost sanity. Lewis finally abdicated the presidency,
planning to retire to a smally village outside of Rochester, in the
desperate hope to escape her stalking, but as anyone that saw
Vindstrehhet play the part of Antonio in Love Goes A-Waltzin' knows, she
would pursue him to the end.
A grizzly business, to be sure, but just another example of the
grease that keeps Carleton's cogs turning-the icky, black, yucky, sooty,
grime that usually passes unseen through the daily college routine.
Unseen to all, of course, but me. I'm Guy Hamilton.
|
