Poetry was my thoughts at night,
My sleepless eyes searching behind star-burst darkness,
Insecure, no matter how tightly bound in solitary comfort
My poetry cried out to the unknown.

Poetry was my thoughts in flight,
My jumbled words failing to express,
Insecure in my voice, lacking the foundation of my pen,
My poetry cried out the painfully familiar.

Poetry is my silence,
Your shapely breast pointed under my kiss,
Held in the strength of my embrace,
My poetry read in my eyes when you look into them.

Tastes like trouble: XI

So it turns out the best plan anyone could come up with was to use me as bait. Personally, I felt it was a horrible fucking idea, but Karen wasn't around to back me up. Apparently it was really to dangerous for her to be around, but me, the guy that probably should be dead, is fine.
I'm not fine, by the way, in fact I am quickly approaching the furthest from fine I have ever been. The furthest being the time I was in the far east and met a gal who turned out to not be a gal at all. That was not a very good time at all.
It was my understanding that I was to go about my business as if I had no protection at all. And I probably wouldn't because they didn't want them to know it was a trap. Really, really, really, lame.

So after being shown how to use a gun, I found myself on the street without a gun. I don't even know why they showed me. I am of the opinion that it was just a mindfuck payback for all the verbal abuse I had put them through. Show me how to defend myself from scary abusive mean Nazi and then take the ability away. When this is all over I am going to get some therapy.

Tastes like trouble: X

Trotter, Gregs, John, Jess, they didn't matter, maybe not even Karen. She would beat me worse than anyone else if she heard me think that. We worked, there was something about out push and pull that just made it all fit nice and snug, like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs or something, the more we pulled at each other the tighter we got. Maybe it was time we officially moved in together. I wondered if my apartment was in worse shape than hers. It probably was.

Gregs or Trotter, I never payed close enough attention to be sure, was leaning on the table yelling into my face. It must have been dehydrated because his spitel never actual hit me, it flung bout his mouth like a crazy dog or something.

Did I miss something? Am I a suspect of something, or... Tman, and ahh Gman, did I offend? Don't worry UIO man over here isn't going to expense the breakfast. Its all good.

“You must be the dumbest college boy I have ever fucking seen. How does a dipshit like you get to be wanted by the largest organized clandestine fascists Nazi motherfucking movements since the 50's?”

You haven't seen the little book have you. John? I gestured like Vanna White to the silent man standing by the door.

“Sir-”

“Get the FUCK out of this room Smith.” I was beginning to think it was Trotter with the foul mouth. It was probably rooted in childhood trauma stemming from his name. As they say, a long time ago our last names were a way of stating our profession. This agent was probably from a long line of leaky assholes.

Smith left the room and Gregs followed him, he came back almost immediately carrying the little book.

“So Shithead, whats so goddamn important about you that Smith out there broke his covert status to save your ass two, three times?”

I blew him.

Trotter hit the desk instead of me. Come on man, the desk isn't giving you the run around! MEEEE. You want MEEEE. The desk is innocent, I'll tell you what you want. Just don't hit the desk. I beg of you.

“Fuck this guy, I'm going to kill him. I am going to fucking kill him.”

Ding* subconsciously a bell rang signaling the end of round one. Gregs tapped him on the shoulder and they moved to the corner of the room an whispered at each other. Gregs came out, Trotter stayed in for a time out.

“Were you telling him the truth?” He held the book up. I dropped my guard.

Yeah, I mean as much as I think there were more subs than the history books say. And that one of them had gold.

“Why weren't the authorities notified?”

Notified of what? That a treasure hunter told his grade school buddy about a buried treasure myth? I donno, maybe it because it turned into my thesis and he hadn't found it yet. I didn't care if it was blood money. Fuck, its either on the bottom of the ocean or not, me flapping my jaw about would one do me harm.

Trotter came out of his corner for round two, “Yeah, keep flapping it and it will get harmed.”

Screw you Hershey. I let one update out on the thing and my life has been trashed and I have been far to close to death for my liking. I have been a sport about the whole thing so far. So you take a hike bring John Smith back in here.

Trotter left after looking to Gregs for confirmation. TKO fifty-two seconds into the second round and I moved up in the rankings.

Tastes like trouble: IX

He closed the little book and looked hard at me. “You know I want to believe you. Something like this could mean a great deal to a lot of people. Even if the gold has already been recovered its likely to lead us to some very bad people.”

That's interesting, I was under the impression that the bad people didn't have it, hence my extreme makeover. I pointed at my eye, the swelling had gone down. I was now sporting a very purple and yellow face. I looked ready for the big game, it was too bad we weren't at the Mertodome.

“There are all kinds of bad people.” My fork had been resting on the edge of the plate. “If you are done, there is someone I want you to meet.”

I shrugged, I could have gone for a slice of pie but my gluttony was usurped by a general sense of guilt. Holocaust gold and murderous Nazi spawn suddenly filled my stomach with stones. I pushed my plate aside and tented my napkin on the plate signaling my unconditional surrender to what remained on the plate. We got up and left, someone other than me payed.

On the street I felt charitable and informed a bum that he was about fourty years to young to have been in Vietnam. As we pulled away I watched as he gave me the bird and change his sign to say Gettysburg. He must have been an art student, I must have missed his point. I am not sure he had a point.

We didn't drive far. Before long we were pulling into an underground parking garage. It was under a nice large plain looking building that had government written all over it. We took an elevator up to the seventh floor. A secretary greeted the UIO and handed me an icepack. I tried to protest telling her the swelling had gone down. It seemed like the place was swarming with UIO men.

“John, they have been waiting for you. Trotter is pissed, Gregs is worried.”

“I have some answers...” John Said and then pointed to me, “He has some answers.”

I shrugged and mouthed its in his little book, the book has the answers, pointing at his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding the icepack to my eye. My nurse took my real nurse to sit down in the lobby. And by my real nurse I mean my girlfriend. Who still happened to be with us, we didn't forget about her or drop her off or anything.... And I guess if the UIO man has a name everybody might as well know that her name is Karen. Karen went to the a waiting room or lobby or someones office or soemthing with the secretary. The secretary doesn't get a name.

John turned as we went into the meeting room. “Jess, can you get me the files off my desk regarding this case?”

Well shit. Ok, the secretary gets a name too. The secretary's name is Jess, and she is getting files off of John's desk.

She replied, “Sure John.”

It was like they were flaunting their identities.