The Crooked Thing | The rolls of duty: The very uncollected stories about the Not So Special Agent Salmon Wild
The very uncollected stories about the Not So Special Agent Salmon Wild
The Crooked Thing
For five hours straight (straight!) agent Wild played with his toplap and got no luck.
“I am a pretty pretty little girl.”
“I like to travel.”
“Where is my big white (or black) knight?”
“I want to explore.”
“I am curious.”
“I am a pretty pretty little boy.”
“I need someone to teach me what the big boys do.”
And still no luck. Just some pervert came up on line, one-eyed pirate in Napoleon’s hat.
“What are you, a girl, a boy or hermaphrodite?”, he inquired obnoxiously.
“I am a girl”, decided agent White.
“You are crooked. And nasty!” After the pirate came up with his diagnosis he disappeared forever.
“Why am I so unlucky, mused agent Wild; maybe I really am crooked…”
And he was. That what the bureau psychiatrist told him, because his mother was pulling his leg too much. That’s how he became crooked at his toplap.
“Maybe I should become a girl, he contemplated deeply. This crooked thing is too ugly anyway.”
And suddenly he felt excited.
“This is my inner girl”, he guessed. And suddenly the epiphany descended upon him.
“I am a transgender”, he realized. “Big-trance-fat-chance-gender”.
And now everything fell into place.
“They will transform me from not so special into the regular, and then into the trans-special agent. I will be a trans-made man. It is a trance-formation time now. They will trance-appoint me a director one day and I will trance-rule America!”
The not so special agent Wild started to feel a little dizzy, like really going into a trance. Now, when he found out who he really was, he did not need to play with his crooked toplap. He disassembled and transformed it into a Stingray device.
He decided to spy on his girlfriend Marsha Bilderbrandt. She was not a not so special agent like himself but she was somewhat special to his heart and his crooked thing. And much to his surprise agent Wild detected some strange noises coming from Marsha’s bedroom via his Stingray device.
“Ah, Marsha screamed and panted, ah! Ah! Ah!” She was having sex.
“How strange, thought agent Wild, Marsha is having sex! And without me! But with whom?!”
Blood flushed into his big round square jawed face, his heart was pounding and pumping like the overworked motor, his arms and legs were turning in waves from cotton into wool, into steel and back into cotton. He punched the clock, slammed his supervisor over the head with his toplap-Stingray and ran out to the street.
“FBI!” announced agent Wild at Marsha’s door; loudly and with the self-assured sense of righteousness that only the FBI agents have, especially during the important operations. “Open that damn door or I will blow your brains out!”
His gun was ready and pointing at the door. It was not crooked, it was a top gun.
“Oh, it’s you, darling”, Marsha said, opening the door. “What’s the matter, what happened?”
She was wrapped in a colorful beach towel and was quite red in her face and upper body. Hiding behind her was something shady and hurly-burly and also very hairy. This something was also wrapped in a towel but white and short one.
“And what’s that?!” exclaimed agent Wild pointing to the hurly-burly thing which started to swirl around, grimacing and making strange unintelligible sounds under the penetrating gaze of agent Wild.
“Oh, it’s just a plumber, darling. I called him to fix my shower head”, said Marsha, trying to lift her hair by blowing up at it towards her forehead and pulling up her towel.
“Just a plumber”, repeated after her agent Wild, incredulously and ironically. You didn’t have to call some plumber to fix your shower head, you have me for that!”
“But you are so busy, darling, with your G-things, just like all of you, G-men. I didn’t want to bother you with some small and tiny shower head, you are good for big jobs. It’s just some little, good for nothing plumber, he doesn’t even speak English and I am not even sure if he has a license. Betsy recommended him, she said, “he’s g-o-o-o-d”…
“No eeglis, no lices…” confirmed the hurly-burly thing jumping into his dirty jeans and waiving a screwdriver, just in case. “Agua, agua, mucho agua…” He tried to explain his need for a towel.
“Well, anyway, he has to go now, he needs some parts. Right, Jose?” said Marsha regretfully.
“Gazkit, gazkit”, nodded “the plumber” somewhat mysteriously.
“What?! What casket?! For whom?!” Agent Wild got suspicious.
“Gaskit”, repeated the hurly-burly, giggling and making a diagram with his fingers: two in a ring and the index one inside. “Oh, Dios”, he screamed, apparently sincerely disappointed with agent Wild’s lack of understanding and jumped out the door, cursing and murmuring.
“Relax, darling, I am with you, your good old Marsha…” She embraced him tenderly.
“I don’t know if I can trust you”, said agent Wild. He still felt suspicious. It probably was a professional thing.
“I need to talk to you, Marsha. I think I want to be a girl.”
“You think, you think. What is there to think about? You think too much. Look at me: I am a girl and I never think about this. I take it as it is, as it comes and as it goes…”
“You don’t understand, Marsha”, it is a transgender thing, it’s deep… It’s almost spiritual…”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get over it… We all go through our phases. I wanted to be a boy too at times. It’s natural. It’s like self-searching. And then you are under a lot of stress. It is not easy to pretend on line seven hours a day. Maybe you’ve got a post-traumatic stress disorder. Many people have it. Like, Betsy, after she broke up, she started to eat all the time and to mingle with all sort of garbage, like plumbers, movie men and hell knows what. What if you try some Prozac? It helped her a lot.”
“No Marsha, you still don’t get it. It is deeper. It is a career thing. I could become a trans-special agent one day. It’s like a life calling. We have to part, Marsha. We grew apart.”
“To part?! What are you talking about? It’s impossible!”
“Because… I’ve got accustomed to your face…”
“Hmm”, said agent Wild and looked at himself in the mirror. It was the same fat, broad jawed and small eyed face, but it was something romantic and touchingly melancholy about it.
“I’ve got accustomed to your voice…”
Agent Wild could relate to this: he had a nice, pleasant melodic baritone of a voice and sang karaoke better than any one in his class.
“I’ve got accustomed to us going out on Fridays and having a fun.”
Yeah, he liked it too.
“Let us sleep on this, darling and we will discuss it in the morning.”
“No, Marsha; it is crooked and ugly, and I want to get rid of it!”
“It might be a little crooked but it’s not that ugly, and the main thing is that it is mine. Mine! And I need no dirty plumbers.”
Marsha was resolute and that did it. They slept on it and had wonderful sex, deep and passionate.
The next morning, when agent Wild showed up in the office, his supervisor, with his head bandaged and his fists clenched, declared in a staccato voice, constricted with a hundred years of asthmatic rage: “Fired! Outta here! Good for nothing psychopathic pervert! Put your gun on the table!”
That’s how agent Wild got transferred to a counterintelligence division with the demotion in rank to a sub-special agent. His next desk buddy Pinchas Stern, after passing through a sex change transition, was promoted to a preparatory para-special agent and appointed a head of zoophilia department with sub-specialty in goats and sheep . And such is life. It’s never fair. Not for a straight white man in our days.