* * *
Back in the Wal-Mart parking lot, the kid’s gone missing. I sure as hell ain’t wasting gas driving around looking for him. So I park the ‘bago and hit the ‘nard Bag. He knows how to knock.
Not three winks later, I hear a rattle at the door. I slip out of the Bag and look out the window. Who in the hell is that?
Before I identify the visitor, I hear two big rips coming from the cab. And it ain’t comin’ from me this time. I look to see two big SWAT-lookin’ guys shovel themselves through the plastic sheets. Damn it all to hell, my windows are busted again.
Then the knocking visitor lets himself in with a kick. The door hits the floor. I run to the bathroom and fortify my position. Door shut, ass on toilet. Releasing that indigestion is my only line of defense. I’m like a rabid skunk.
I hear footsteps outside the bathroom door. They inspect every corner of the ‘bago before honing in on my position.
“I take it you guys aren’t here to cut a swell, are you? Or did you gal-damn apes already get a mitten?” I say.
There’s a pause. I can hear them thinking. My unnerving taunts are worthy of any medieval battlefield. Then one of them says, “You’re not going to cut anything. You’re going to come out right now.”
“I’d have to be full as a tick to do that. I don’t even know who you are,” I say.
Another pause. They know not to mess with a badger like me. “Just come out,” one of them says.
“Who are you?”
“The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”
“The ol’ ATF. The party planning committee itself.”
“We are authorized to kick down that door. But you can make it easy on yourself if you come out now.”
I’m done in the bathroom anyway, so I decide to come out. “If you fruit bats want to start shootin’, I advise you I ain’t heeled. Not much fun in that, is there?” I say.
There are five of them outside the bathroom. Each one is dressed like a walking tank. They’ve got flashlights attached to the muzzles of their tactical shotguns. I see the lights and feel the stare of the muzzles. A quick glance out the window shows me 10 more just like ‘em.
This is serious.
“What can I do for you fine gents?” I say and raise my hands in the air. A good badger knows when to fight, when to dig a hole and how not to get shot.
One of the brutes shoves me against the bathroom door. The pervert puts his hands all over me. He pulls out the roll of TUMS and an unopened box of cold pills.
“You mind explaining these?” he says.
“You’re standing next to the bathroom. I think you know what the TUMS were for,” I say.
“No, these,” he says. His hand rattles the box of cold pills.
“Those? I bought those tonight. If you’re looking for counterfeit drugs, you’re probably on the right track. It’s got pseudoephedrine in it. Sounds like a scam to me.”
“Stop messing around. We know what you did,” he says.
I ain’t sure where all this is going. “Know about what?”
“A minor paid you to buy an ingredient used to make methamphetamine,” he says and twists me around to face him. “That’s illegal.”
I can smell the ChapStick on the guy. Cherry. Odd. Most SWAT guys I know won’t goose up on sheen lip care. The glare is too risky. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Sir, there’s nothing funny about pseudoephedrine. Meth is a terrible drug,” he says.
I’ll be dipped, this really is a gal-damn sting. That kid was nothing more than flannel-mouthed bait. But I know my rights. Back in the Obscenities Division, they armed us with the latest in legal advice. From the talk radio I’ve listened to, nothing has changed since then.
Time to put on my lawyering hat. “Am I under arrest?” I say.
“Yes.”
“On what grounds?”
“Buying pseudoephedrine for a minor.”
“Did you confirm that I actually gave this minor the pseudoephedrine? It was unopened in my pocket, after all.”
The ape pauses. He cracks his neck. “No.”
“Interesting. You said this minor paid me. How much?”
“He fixed the paint job on your RV.’
“Did you know he was the one who originally vandalized my RV? He owed it to me to fix it,” I say.
The other apes in the room are getting antsy. I sense they’re tired of holding those shotguns. Probably want to shoot or take a break.
“We were aware of that. We caught him in the act. He repaid his debt to society by participating in this sting,” he says.
Amazing. Absolutely amazing. The cops find out who painted on the ‘bago, and they don’t even tell me about it. My tax dollars at work. “You guys are a real piece of work. You catch a kid vandalizing property, then come back to the property and beat it to hell. Really makes a lot of sense.”
I stare at the ape. I can feel his brain melting. But he’s not quite done cooking.
He says, “Sir, there’s a War on Drugs going on. And…”
“And that little mudsill badgered me into getting the pseudoephedrine. I said no over and over. But then he said he’d fix my RV if I got it for him. I had no idea I was doing something illegal.”
“That young man is a patriot. He’s helping his country win the War on Drugs,” he says.
“So the end justifies the means? The key element of your sting commits entrapment, and you think that’s OK?” I say. All of this sounds pretty pinko to me.
“Entrapment doesn’t matter. This is the War on Drugs,” he says.
I’m not getting through to this fruit bat. I have a feeling we’ll connect on this next question. “How much did this little raid cost?”
“That’s confidential.”
“No, it isn’t. The Randall Act of 1993 specifically states you can tell me. You don’t have to worry about losing your job,” I say. Actually, there is no Randall Act. I made that up. But with how many drug laws there are on the books, these apes probably don’t know that.
“Fine. Tonight’s sting cost $4.7 million. It’s part of a nationwide operation,” he says.
“Well, congratulations. You took $7 of pseudoephedrine off the streets. You trashed an old man’s RV. And you let some punk kid get away with vandalism,” I say.
“Most stings net much larger yields,” he says.
“Really? Because even I know meth is out. Cheap heroin and prescription drugs are where it’s at now.”
“Congress approved the funds for the operation last year. We are mandated to use the money to fight meth. We have to wait for approval for other operations.”
“You guys are hammers when you need to be screwdrivers. It’s simple. Take out the big movers and shakers, the top POSs. Don’t hang out in Wal-Mart parking lots harassing Winnebago enthusiasts. The federal government can’t spend less than a million dollars on anything. It ain’t worth it to harass decent people,” I say.
“What are you trying to do, solve the War on Drugs?” he says.
“That’s what I do. Solve things. And when you do take down a real piece of shit, tell people. They want these miscreants to hit the pavement as much as you do,” I say.
I can feel the conversation shifting. They know the game is up. Well played, Maynard. You’re a real thoroughbred badger.
The apes step outside. I see them talking to each other, then on their radios. After a while, the one ape comes back inside.
“We consulted with our superiors. It appears we’ve targeted the wrong person,” he says.
I pop a victory TUMS. The cool, minty flavor sends a chill over my body. Feels good in the hot RV. “That’s all fine and dandy. But you still wrecked the hell out of the ‘bago. I don’t want you to fix it personally, on account of the last time I had someone fix it. But I wouldn’t mind some monetary compensation,” I say.
“That is acceptable. The operation has budgeted $500,000 for repairs,” he says.
Hot damn, tha
t’s a new ‘bago. I ain’t gonna turn that down. “That will be sufficient,” I say.
“A courier will deliver the payment in the morning. Have a good night, sir,” he says.
The apes leave me to the mess. I give my knees a break in the ‘nard Bag. I dream of a new ‘bago, of commanding the highways in a gasoline-chugging fortress. I imagine top-of-the-line features. Dual built-in deep fryers – one for meats and one for cheeses. Escalators connecting the main and upper floors. A 100-gallon septic system. Heated toilet seats.