Read the Writing on the Wall before It’s Too Late Because the Janitor Cleans the Restroom Tomorrow

Inspector was whizzing down the highway at 55 mph. 55 mph is no speed to take a whiz but when you have to go. The CD player wailed. It felt like he was in the recording studio during the original session. If he really had been in the studio he would have realized that one lone musician, one take at a time, had performed all the music.

There was no real music anymore. The last live music sighting had been four years ago in the Florida Keys. Two guitar players in Marathon, a harmonica player in Big Pine key, and an auto harpist on Stock Island all simultaneously began performing the same tune. A deputy sheriff named Sawyer shot each one of them for playing in different Keys.

Inspector was in a wall of sound when the CD player stopped. A blue flame shot from the dash and spit the disc onto the floorboard. A warning light blinked on the console, “The onboard computer will not enable Celine Dion Does Blue Grass. Please insert a more tasteful program.”

Inspector thought, “This is what happens when you buy a Modus Operandi with the standard stock computer chip.”

His client was waiting for him at the office. Capt. Buford introduced himself, “Capt. Buford, Intelligence.”

“How do you do,” said Inspector. “Insp. Inspector, Negligence. Let’s go on up to my office.” They waded through the parked cars in the garage and walked up the stairs to his office.

He brushed away a spider web off the lock. “It’s a secret detection device. If the web was disturbed, then I know someone has been in my office. Every time I leave, Spyder, my adroit arachnid, spins a web over the lock."

“How does he know where to spin the web?” asked Capt. Buford.

“I positioned a dead fly decal over the lock and that’s all it took,” said Inspector. “He thinks he’s got a great location.”

They entered the office. Inspector paced over to the desk and blew off the dust. Capt. Buford asked, “Is that another detection device for your desk?”  

“No, not really,” said Inspector. “It’s just mostly dust.”

Capt. Buford said, “I represent the Intelligence Department of our country. It’s not what you can do for me, Inspector. It’s what you can do for your country.”

Inspector replied, “I just run a small detective agency here over this transmission repair shop. I don’t even have a fulltime secretary. I’m not set up to handle that many clients. I’m not even sure I could handle all the people in Tampa, much less the whole country.”   

“Calm yourself,” said Capt. Buford. “You will only deal with me."

“All right. I’m willing to help,” said Inspector. “But why did you pick me?”

Capt. Buford said, “Your name was selected from our famous computer, the DataBetterGetter. You were selected from literally tens of names. According to the DBG you have the exact qualifications to tackle this problem.

“What qualifications?”

Capt. Buford said, “The DBG took into account that your detective license is valid. From all points of view your previous work has shown us no logical frame of reference from which you work. This makes you particularly adept at working within our government bureaucracy.

We expect that your investigative systems will interface beautifully with our systems. In other words, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing either.

The last reason that you were selected is that you are consistently the lowest bidder on every government bid we have ever sent to you. We still can’t believe that you found that security leak in the Pentagon last year and still stayed within your bid of $33.00.

Who would have ever thought that your mandatory question and answer session with all those Pentagon Generals, one by one, being tossed into that feral Ferret pit would have worked so well?”

Inspector smiled, “You know we did that all in one weekend. I got the Ferrets back to the pet store on Monday morning. I always thought I made out on that one. I got the Ferrets on the special ‘Take a Pet Home for the Weekend to See If You Like It’ deal.

I told them Monday that they hadn’t worked out. Got all my deposit back except for the damage fee. A Ferret broke a fang on a General’s medal.”

“Don’t apologize for making a profit,” said Capt. Buford. “That’s our capitalistic form of government in action. You earned every bit of that profit and your government earned every bit of the tax on that profit.”

Inspector asked, “Whatever happened to those Generals?  

“They were replaced. We have thousands of Generals standing by just for something like that to happen. This problem, however, is far more serious than a leak in the Pentagon. The problem is Sweden.”    

Inspector asked, “What kind of problem canSweden be? I thought they were our friends. Aren’t they the ones that remain neutral on everything? I remember my grandmother saying, ‘Swedes. Bad debaters, good referees.’”

“This has to do with . . . Pornography“, said Capt Buford.

Inspector glanced at his desk drawer where he kept his favorite magazines. The drawer was closed. “Pornography, Capt?”

Capt. Buford said, “For years the Swedes have led the world in pornography exportation. They have formed the coalition of porno-producing nations, OPECER (Organization of Pornography Exporting Countries of Europe and Russia). 

“OPECER has us worried. OPECER is responsible for raising the price of Pornography eight times in the last three years. Everyone feels the crunch but it really hits hard on young teens on fixed allowances.”

Capt. Buford daydreamed, “Inspector, remember those days when we were kids and we would hide those magazines from our mothers?” 

Inspector chuckled and checked the drawer again. “Yes, those were the days all right.”

Capt. Buford said, “We have our best minds on alternative Pornography sources. So far they haven’t come up with anything and the researchers are spending a lot of time in the restroom.”

Inspector asked, “What about all the video recorders and Internet access? Shouldn’t that give OPECER some stiff competition? Wouldn’t it be easy for us to copy the garbage using our American made equipment?”

Capt. Buford replied, “We covered most of the alternatives before we thought about hiring you. OPECER controls all of the world’s slick paper producing companies, which includes the glossy foldout papers. They have all the best software licensed. They really have done their homework. They also own the exclusive rights to the Wackback machine.”  

“What’s the Wackback machine?”

Capt. Buford explained, “The Wackback machine was developed by Dr. Mack Wackback. It’s a computer driven robot that folds a centerfold so that nothing is lost in the crease. Dr. Wackback also patented an electrical optical scanner that selects the most aesthetically pleasing point for the centerfold staple. They are years ahead of us on this one.”

Inspector said, “I never realized just how far we have fallen behind in the filth department. It’s dangerous to be this dependent on foreign imports. I always assumed from the public bathroom walls that there was enough natural talent and resources right here in the good old USA.”

“The sad fact is, said Capt. Buford, “that we’ve just been too busy to bother with it. It was just too easy to buy it from other countries.

The Pilgrims were so busy growing food, fighting winters, and nurturing intolerance, that they didn’t have any time for abomination other than burning witches. Later the Southerners were too busy planting cotton and nurturing slavery to cultivate much of a demand for Porno.

The Western pioneers were too busy covering their wagons, killing Indians, and reclaiming land to have time left for any bunkhouse bawdiness.

Our one shining hope was Mr. Elizur Down. Mr. Down drew wanted posters. He engraved suggestive signboards that were sent to all the sheriff’s offices. Trouble was, the Sheriffs never posted them. They just kept them hidden in their desk drawers.”

Inspector nodded and propped his foot against his desk drawer. “Interesting. Please go on, Capt.”

Capt. Buford continued, “Elizur’s last licentious lithograph was of a buff-bare Annie Oakley, shown riding two horses five feet apart. It gave a whole new meaning to the Wide-Open Prairies. When Elizur died, the blossoming pornography of that era died too. You can see we really don’t have much of a smut heritage.”

“I can see that,” said Inspector. “What do you want me to do?”

Buford replied, “We’d like you to go to Tijuana and escort a Senor’ Pako back into this country. Senor’ Pako is the most famous computer generated image pornographer and bathroom wall artist in this hemisphere. We may be on our way to Porno Self Sufficiency if we can get him to work for our side. Once the Porno crunch is over, we’re certain that prices will return to pre-OPECER levels.”

“Why can’t we just smuggle him in with the rest of the lettuce pickers?” asked the politically incorrect Inspector.

“The OPECER nations are looking for him too. They are certain to recognize him and intercept him at the border”, said Capt Buford.

“At this very moment he is hiding in one of he many churches in Tijuana. We must move on this at once. Our Swedish sources tell us that their scientists are on the verge of another breakthrough. They are secretly experimenting with living sponge material and human muscle tissue. Our people tell us that very soon they will begin exporting a crossbred sponge and muscle. 

Can you imagine the impact and economic squeeze on this country when the Swedes begin exporting the first crossbred, living, completely independent, portable Vajayjay? What about our pet stores? What if they get into BigMart? Can you envision a curious teenage boy in the Albertson’s? CLEAN UP ON AISLE FOUR.”

Inspector looked worried over this news and now had both feet propped up against the desk drawer. “If I accept, when do I leave for Mexico?”

“Your plane leaves in an hour”, said Capt. Buford. “You will be in Tijuana in four hours, in time for Vespers. Check in at the Hotel Los Coma. You will ask for Pako at the hotel bar.  By the way, Pako is just his code name.”

“What’s his real name?”

“His name is Jorge Gonzalez,” said Capt. Buford. “The code name is from a Walt Disney movie. Every Mexican hero in a Disney movie is portrayed as Pako. No one will bother him crossing the border if he reminds the border guards of a Walt Disney movie, though the Mexicans are still mad about Disney’s Alamo interpretation.”

“I’ll take the case.”

Capt Buford said, “Good. You’d better get started. Remember, don’t drink the water.”

“What should I do with it?” asked Inspector.

“Flush it, I think.”

Inspector picked up his pre-paid ticket. The ticket counter clerk announced, “This is a non-stop flight to Tijuanawith no layovers. No layovers because we wait two hours before take off to get the layovers out of the way.”

It was Tampa to Tijuana Airlines, the first generic airline. Inspector was seated in the Male, age 30 to 43, Shoes with Laces Section, Aisle/Window Seat. The plane was so small that an aisle seat was also a window seat.

“Too bad,” he thought. “If I had brought loafers, I could have changed shoes and sat in the Male, age 30 to 43, Wall Street Journal Reading, Window/Aisle Seat.”

He was seated across the aisle from a woman named Bevy. Bevy had two enormous breasts. Actually, it looked like there was a third one coming in but probably not. He tried to help her with her seat belt but she became suspicious and asked that she be allowed to take care of it herself.

The plane took off. There was a contest to see which flight attendant could explain the safety rules first.

Inspector’s attendant ran past at a full gallop, while holding an oxygen mask on her nose, demonstrating what to do in the event of loss of cabin pressure.

He remarked to Bevy, “If we lose cabin pressure, it’s going to be a madhouse with everybody running up the aisle with face masks over their noses. I wonder why we can’t just stay in our seats and use the masks?”

Bevy said, “Because if the plane miraculously survives a crash and there is a Made-For-Television Movie then it’s going to be real boring recreating 147 calmly seated people breathing normally into their air masks.”

The aircraft reached 5,000 feet and the flight attendants had already taken the drink orders. At 10,000 feet all the drinks had been served and peanut snack packs had been tossed at the passengers.

Four hours, two snacks, four drinks, one and a half movies, and six lavatory trips later, the plane landed just outside of Tijuana. The Captain apologized in his best English and promised to get closer to the airport next time.

The passengers disembarked and walked the final half-mile to the airport. The Captain remained with his plane in the cornfield talking to a farmer. Inspector saw the Captain loading large plastic bags of what looked like dark hay of some sort. The pilot handed the farmer a handful of money and shook hands with him.

Evidently the pilot was paying for damages to the field and had also agreed to take the farmer’s bags of hay for him. “What a courteous and friendly country.”

Inspector took a cab. “Please take me to the Hotel Los Coma.”

“Si, Senor,” said the cab driver. They stopped in front of the hotel. Inspector tipped the driver a peso. The cab screeched off and Inspector heard the driver yell “good bye” in a Spanish term he had never heard before, “Honky Gringo."

“Even the cab drivers are friendly here,” said Inspector. He checked into his room and headed for the hotel lounge. In his best Spanish, “Set em upito, uno Largo coolito drinko, Bubba.”

The bartender said, “What will you have, Honky Gringo?”

Inspector smiled. “You speak good English.”

The bartender said, “Si Amigo. It’s appropriate that one of us should.”

Inspector said, “I’m looking for my friend Pako”

The bartender said, “I’m sorry. All we serve here is Tom Collins, Harvey Wallbanger, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, and Old Grandad, but no My Friend Pako.”

“I’m looking for a man named Pako. Have you seen him?” asked Inspector.

“Not me,” said the bartender. “Ask that guy over there at the table. He just asked me a few minutes ago for a drink called My Friend Inspector."

Inspector approached the table, “Are you Pako?”

“Yes. Are you Inspector?” asked Pako.

“Si,” said Inspector. “My instructions given to me in Tampa say to . . . "   

Pako interrupted, “You from Tampa? Do you know a woman named Juanita Rosalie Concepcion Martinez? She’s about 5’ 1” with black hair. She works in a high school cafeteria in Tampa.”

Inspector said, “No. I don’t think I know her but she won’t be hard to find with that description. As I was saying, the final instructions were sealed in an envelope to be opened on the plane. The plan is to dress you as an illegal American immigrant trying to flee into Mexico. You will be picked up by the Mexican authorities and returned to the United States. There are only two things that you have to do.”

“What do I have to do?” asked Pako. “Tell me. I want to get going. My hands are just itching to draw something lewd.”

Inspector said, “First rub your eyes until they are really bloodshot and red. Second thing is to learn this simple American phrase, ‘Like, totally awesome, Dude.’ Just say that phrase if anyone says anything to you. That’s all you have to say and they’ll throw you right back into the United States. Once you’re on the States side, a chartered plane will fly us to Washington.”
Pako said, “Like, totally awesome, Dude.”

“Perfect,” said Inspector. “Rub your eyes a little more. They’re not red enough.”

Inspector met Pako on the UnitedState’s side of the border. That’s where they ran into trouble. They were scooped up into an old school bus with a water barrel on the bumper. Pako and Inspector spent the next two weeks picking Californialettuce before they could escape.

Inspector smuggled a note out of the migrant farm camp to Capt. Buford. Buford flew a plane out to the lettuce field to rescue them. 

A DeHaviland Twin Otter dropped down onto the lettuce field during the noon five-minute lunch break. Pako and Inspector scampered on board while hundreds of angry illegal workers ran toward the plane. They were mad because the propellers had slashed a giant tossed salad in the lettuce field.

They circled the field and set a course for Washington. Pako looked down at the shredded countryside, “Too bad we don’t have some Thousand Island dressing in the wing tanks.”

They arrived in Washington. Capt. Buford met them, “You’ve done it again. I never thought we’d ever get to see this filthy minded porno peddler here in Washington. We were worried until we got your message. Your note turned up in a Bangladesh fast food restaurant. Capt. Buford turned to Pako, “How do you like our country?”

“Like totally awesome, Dude.” Pako leaned over to whisper to Capt. Buford. The captain seemed pleased. This was all top-secret. Probably a new idea for porno but Inspector wasn’t allowed to hear.

Capt. Buford slipped Inspector an envelope with the agreed upon one hundred dollars and wished him a safe return to Tampa.

Inspector thought, “If I take the bus home instead of the train, I can save most of the hundred dollars as profit.” At the bus ticket counter he purchased a ticket and checked through a six hundred pound trunk.

Inspector eased himself into the comfortable bus seat, deeply breathing in the diesel fumes. The vapors were always better in the back of the bus. He settled back.

“I did it again. I have almost a hundred dollars in profit and a trunk with six hundred copies of the Spanish edition Summer of 2009 National Geographic’s Swimsuit Issue, The Girls of Nairobi.”