Charles
Scott was my roommate at Wabash College in Illinois . We were the best of pals. After graduation in 1991, he enlisted in the
Air Force and intended to pursue a career with the FBI, and I followed my dream
to be a CIA agent. We kept in touch over
the years, and I even spent a few holidays with Charles and his family. He was a typical family man, a loving wife
and young daughter. Charles and Tracey
Scott wed back in 1992. I was the best
man. His daughter, Brenda, recently
celebrated her eleventh birthday.
During his
downtime, Charles resided with his wife and kid in his hometown, Danvers , Massachusetts New England town when we were in college. I had a chance to enjoy the Danvers experience first hand a few times
since 1990. Charles always took me to
his watering hole, Ducky’s Pub.
It was NFL
playoff season. I thought I could find
Charles at Ducky’s watching his beloved New England Patriots on one of the flat
screen televisions. I was correct. He was at the bar drinking a bottle of
Heineken. I sat next to him and ordered
a Grey Goose vodka and Red Bull cocktail.
Charles did a double take when he noticed me.
“Holy
hell! Victor, is that you?” Charles
spoke with a heavy New England accent.
I nodded
and signaled to a booth where we could sit and have more privacy. When we sat down, I said, “Let me guess, you
thought I was dead, right?”
“Fuckin’
eh. We at the FBI even investigated that
fire you supposedly died in, but we did not discover any foul play. What’s the deal? Did the CIA fake your death for a special
mission or something? We do that at the
Bureau sometimes.”
“Not
quite. They actually sent an agent to
eliminate me.”
“What the
hell did you do to deserve that?”
“I didn’t
do anything. My boss’ wife came on to
me. I couldn’t help myself, Chuck.”
“Well, you
did help yourself, just like you helped yourself to our dean’s fiancé way back
when we were in school. You almost got
expelled.”
“These
dashing good looks are a curse.”
“So, what
have you been up to lately?”
“Jack
shit. I’ve been trying to keep a low key
and be discrete. I don’t want Paul to
find out I’m still breathing.”
“I
understand, but what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“This kid
named Dewaun from Okeechobee I saw on MTV said something that blew my
mind. He gave me an idea.”
“Go on.”
“With you
help, we can start a private spy firm.”
“What?”
“Like
private eyes, man. A lot of agencies have
sanctions which don’t allow them to carry out certain missions. I know that the untouchable missions in the
CIA are dubbed black missions.”
“At the
FBI, we put cases lake that in our Z-Files.”
“Exactly,
and I’m sure Interpol, ISR, and the UN are the same. Imagine if we started a private firm that
they could contract to handle their dirty work.
We’d be soldiers of fortune and offer assistance to the highest bidders
when a plain old private eye won’t do.”
“I don’t
know, Victor.”
“What do
you mean, Chuck? We’ve got the knowledge
and expertise. We can find people to
recruit and train as well.”
“Maybe, but
this reminds me a lot of the ill-fated S.M.U.R.F.S. and the Grey Rangers’
fiasco.”
“Yeah, but
those guys were amateurs and poorly trained militias. We won’t be insane vigilantes, Chuck.”
“How do you
plan on competing with high-profile private investigators and agencies with
almost limitless resources. You’ll need
an edge.”
“I knew
you’d say that. A few days after I faked
my death in Japan ,
I was able to gain access to some privileged information from Imagine
Enterprises. Have you ever heard of
biological artificial intelligence?”
“Of
course. Who could forget the story of
ol’ Dr. Monkey’s Brain?”
“Right, Dr.
Malcolm Brain was one of the pioneers of biological artificial intelligence, a
real genius. Still, people laughed at
him when he said it might be possible to tap into unused potential energy of
the brain. He thought his concept could
harness brain impulses of paraplegics to power robotic prosthetics.”
“I
remember. That was back in 1995. People thought he was a mad scientist who
wanted to build cyborgs. The media
slaughtered him after a fire destroyed his lab in ’97. He kept saying, ‘The monkey’s brain did it’.”
“No one
believed him, and biological A.I. suffered serious setbacks, especially when
the phenom of the World Wide Web became mainstream at the turn of the
century. All the computer programmers
capable of designing a brain powered computer chip lost interest in Brain’s
research and shifted their focus to cash in on the internet boom.”
“Don’t
long-story this shit, Victor. I’m
missing half the fucking fourth quarter already.”
“Oh, excuse me, Chuck. I’m sorry, Chuck. I didn’t mean to babble on, Chuck. I forgot about your precious Pats,
Chuck. It’s the fucking fourth quarter,
Chuck.” My mock New England accent was
impressive.
“You’re a
fuckin’ asshole sometimes, Vick,” Chuck said and pretended he was more pissed
of than he actually was.
Charles
knew I was just fucking with him. We
stood up and stepped back to the bar where we could see his precious New
England Patriots on the big screen. We
ordered a pitcher of brew and watched the rest of the game. The home team was victorious, so that put
Charles in a good mood. We ordered
another pitcher and returned to your booth.
“How ‘bout
those Pats!” Charles beamed as we settled back into our seats.
“Yeah, the
pulled it out. Big whoop,” I joked. “Back to the story. Imagine Enterprises is trying to use Brain’s
technology in a cellular phone.”
“Like Rosie
Jetson, robot phone? Damn them.”
“More like
a super computer in a cell phone with A.I. powered by a human brain.”
“That
sounds like some Frankenstein shit, Victor.”
“Yeah, I
thought the same thing at first too.
It’s not a dead human’s brain though.
It’s got something to do with a computer chip implanted in the brain
that is powered by impulses, or something like that.”
“That’s
some heavy stuff.”
“The techs
at I.E. have been using Brain’s research to develop their first living
prototype, a cell phone with A.I. and capabilities far beyond any super
computer on Earth, The First Living Imagine Prototype. The project has stalled because Brain never
completed his research.”
“I know all
about F.L.I.P., Victor. I see where you’re
going with this, and I don’t like it.”
“Crazy ol’
Malcolm ‘Monkey’s’ Brain, I should I say crazy ol’ Harold Butts.”
“Ha ha ha,”
Charles laughed. “Harry Monkey’s Butts. Ha, he begged us a thousand times to change
his witness protection alias. The prick
even threatened to us for deformation until we reminded him that we were
responsible for protecting his sorry ass.”
“Even for a
snitch, he’s one dastardly bastard. I’ve
heard he’s a high-maintenance head case.
I don’t know how you guys put up with him.”
“Do you
think he has any clue of what the Japs are doing with his research?”
“You guys
made Malcolm Brain vanish off the face of the Earth after his eye witness
testimony sent Benny Banks’ baby boy Teddy up the river in ’98.”
“The wrong
place at the proverbially wrong time type of scenario.”
“Exactly,
now Imagine Enterprises is on the cusp of developing a new ground breaking type
of A.I. with Brain’s research, and he won’t get any of the credit.”
“That kind
of shit would devastate him if he ever found out, Victor.”
“Which is
why it’ll be so damn fun to burst his bubble.”
“Oh, hell
no. No, no, no! I know what you’re thinking, and it’s a
horrible idea.”
“You do get
my logic though, right Chuck?”
“No shit I
get your logic. I always get your
twisted ass logic. It’s just my
responsibility as the reasonable one to articulate the risks and such in all
your hair-brained schemes, Victor.”
“It’s more
like a crazy Monkey Brain scheme.”
“Very
funny. Did you stay up all night
thinking up that one?”
“Not
exactly, but I know you’re intrigued by all this. The F.L.I.P. will give us the edge we need.”
“Let’s
assume this is crazy enough to work.
Let’s assume putting the squeeze on Harry Butts, while he’s in federal
witness protection mind you, is a good idea.
What makes you think he’ll go along with this crazy shit.”
“Here’s the
simple answer, money.”
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