Where Dummies Dare—Part Three


Okay, it’s been awhile since I finished Part Two, now I have to figure out where I left off.


Thirty minutes later: No shit, I rudely left you all dangling there with Bob’s death and didn’t explain anything to you. I’m sorry; it must be due to the fact that I was traumatized by the event and subsequently suffered from a severe case of writer’s block. Either that or perhaps it was because I made two additional fact-finding trips back to Rio in rapid succession and was partying too much to put pen to paper. Yeah, now that I reflect on it, I was definitely traumatized!

In a therapeutic attempt to relieve my mental anguish, I traveled back to Rio in January to jog my memory and release the stress so I could accurately recall and record last October’s events. Right now, I’m sitting next to a Brazilian professional basketball player that I screwed yesterday and I’m having a difficult time writing about it. Maybe I should take her back to my apartment for another R$300 slugfest, but then again, maybe I shouldn’t.


She’s into angry and painful sex, two things I never quite equated with the act of making love. Christ, yesterday I almost gave her what I call a “Strawberry Shortcake,” which is similar in nature to “Dirty Sanchez.” Actually, it involves slapping the woman silly and giving her a bloody nose. Then you make her give you a BJ and cum all over her face. As the two body fluids mix, it reminds me of strawberry shortcake. But enough of this nonsense, now back to my story.

If the truth be known, yesterday during our second interlude this trip, I hauled off and smacked her squarely across the face. You’re probably asking yourself why I would do such a thing to a beautiful six-foot three-inch woman. Because a millisecond before hitting her, she walloped me across the left cheek as she was sitting astride me. It was purely a reflex reaction on my part that produced totally unintended results. With a stunned look on her rapidly reddening face, she smiled and said, “I like, more, more.”


Holy shit, I’m fucking a Mike Tyson or Rocky Balboa wannabe; now, what the fuck do I do? Oh shit, what do I nickname this bitch, Tyson or Rocky? Oh yeah, she white, so Rocky it is. After I smacked Rocky’s face she rolled over, got up on her knees and presented her beautiful round bottom to me and asked me to spank her hard. After about 15 minutes, I was totally exhausted with two sore and swollen hands.


I got up out of bed and headed towards the bathroom to plunge my hands into a sink full of cold water when all of a sudden Rocky grabs me from behind under both arms, picks me up off the floor and hurls me on to the bed. I land on my back and she spreads my legs apart. Upon rereading what I just wrote, I imagine you all are undoubtedly anticipating something either wonderful or disastrous to follow. Rather than keep you in suspense, I’ll let you in on a little secret -- it didn’t go well at all. You’re probably wondering what could possibly go wrong. That’s exactly what I was thinking right up to the moment it happened.


Before I go any further, you all have to take into consideration two very important facts. First, I haven’t worked out since 1989 and secondly, she is a professional basketball player with a total arm span greater than Shaquille O’Neal’s. Put those two factors together and you can imagine what she did with my legs. I looked and felt like a cheerleader doing splits. Oh, the pain! She had a hold of each leg around each ankle and as she was spreading them, I was able to raise both off the bed in a contorted “V” position.


Unfortunately that simple move on my part played right into her four advantages: height (6’3”), weight (74 kg), arm span (huge), and, last but not least, gravity. As she plunged downward from a relatively high position, her hands slid down from my ankles to my calves dramatically increasing her leverage and my pain to the point of almost passing out. I heard a few interesting popping sounds and felt something like taut rubber bands snapping in my groin, and then strangely, the pain rapidly subsided as she started doing erotic things with her tongue down there.


Oddly, I vaguely remembering thinking, “I can grow to like this,” and then I exploded all over my chest, fortunately, just missing my face. I wish I could write about exactly what she was doing down there but my total attention was concentrated on trying to avoid becoming a human version of the “chicken wishbone effect,” if you know what I mean. Then, with a truly sadistic look on her face, she licked up every last bit of me and swallowed. Oh my God, I think I’m falling in love again. Rocky, I love you; oh Rocky baby, I love you!!


Obrigado senorita, for helping me overcome my writer’s block! Now where the fuck did I leave off?


Oh yeah, it’s Monday morning and Don’s lost his first customer. I’ve been there before having experienced the tragic loss of “Dirty Harry” only six months prior. I’m confident my assistance will be invaluable to him while winding his way through the bureaucratic maze he’s sure to encounter. After several minutes, Don arrives at his office and informs us that the apartment has been sealed by the landlord and that he needs to call the police and US Consulate, informing them of Bob’s death. As he starts dialing the phone, I get Ken aside and tell him to call an ambulance because when Harry died there was one on the scene outside of the Princess Copacabana Hotel. “I think we’ll let the police handle that,” he sarcastically replied.

“Fuck no, let’s jump start the whole thing and get the ball rolling by getting an ambulance there before the police arrive.” “Wow, that’s one hell of a mixed metaphor,” he replied. Metaphors and analogies have always confused and baffled the shit out of me so I just said, “Yeah, but it works doesn’t it?” Ken immediately excuses himself, walks over to Don and they have a heated discussion during which both continually point in my direction. I thought I heard Don saying something about a well oiled machine and sand, that’s when I knew we were both on the same page. Obviously Don also watches the History Channel (I don’t know how because it’s not on in Brazil) because he’s definitely referring to the little known fact that well oiled locomotives in the late 1800’s carried a contraption that deposited sand on the tracks to increase traction. Yup, that’s me, the fucking sand that will give this group some traction and bring things to a swift conclusion.


Right about that time Harry, I mean Wally Cox, comes into the office after hearing the tragic news. He heard it so fast the Brazilians must’ve put it on the Garota Net to spread the word quickly. Regardless of how he heard about it, here he was in Don’s office to lend us some help. I’m still waiting anxiously for Ken to call a fucking ambulance when Don picks up the phone and calls the local Tourista Policia in Leblon and then the consulate in Centro. The Tourista police said they would meet Don at the apartment in the next half-hour and the consulate told him to come into their offices the following day with Bob’s passport.


While Don’s dialing for dollars (that’s an old Wall Street term indicating getting business done) Wally Cox is on the other phone calling one of Bob’s dear friends who will call Bob’s mother and inform her of his passing. Wally then calls Bob’s brother and breaks the bad news to him. From what I understand, at approximately 1:00 a.m. Rio time, Wally was finally able to get a hold of his daughter and inform her. I don’t know what Wally Cox does for a living, but if you heard them on the phone with the family, you would swear he was a priest or minister. The compassion in his voice was phenomenal and I know each person he spoke with appreciated his concern for their feelings.


Don and Ken, in an attempt to lighten up the moment, joked about what it would be like if I called them to let them know about Bob’s passing. Don said it would go something like this: “Hello, Bob died in Rio.” Click. I’m certainly not that insensitive and Ken realized that so he said my conversation would probably go like this: “Hi, I met Bob four days ago and, unfortunately, he died yesterday. What’s the weather like in Phoenix?” Click. Ken said that I once told him that I always believe in a “little Smalltalk” before hanging up to let the person on the other end know that you really care about them. Yeah, Ken’s choice is about what I would say now that I think about it.


Wally Cox, Ken and I walk Don back to the apartment and wait for the police. Within moments they arrive and Don and the landlord go up to the apartment with them. We see the lights go on and watch them milling around through the windows. After several moments, two of the police come to the window and I wave at them. Both give me a dirty look as they bring their cell phones up to their ears to make phone calls. Clearly the police use Claro, one of the worst cell phone providers in Brazil. By the way, I prefer TIM, just in case you were wondering.


Having a Claro phone is analogous to taking an old transistor AM radio into a building to listen to it. Simply put, once it’s behind a wall it doesn’t work at all. As I continue to wave at the hot female cop, Ken slaps my hand and tells me to stop waving. “Why, she’s really hot,” I screeched at him. “Do you want to get arrested and spent some quality time in a Brazilian jail?” He replied. “She wouldn’t arrest me, would she?” I asked. “Shit Jag, if I was her, I’d arrest you the moment I laid my eyes on you,” he stated. I stop waving immediately.


After a while Don came down and I suggest we walk about 50 feet over to the nearest bar/café to relax our nerves. Three quick shots of Scotch and we’re all feeling somewhat relaxed. Don told us that the cops found a list of 12 names next to Bob’s bed along with two other lists indicating which girls his travel companions had been with during their vacation. Oops, that clever cover story of going to Rio to see Sugarloaf and Corcovado was busted wide open. Now, how the fuck do I get a hold of that list, I wondered. Oh well, I imagine the officers have seen a lot worse than what they were finding in Bob’s apartment.


As I was pondering that set of circumstances, I was also wondering when the ambulance would arrive on the scene to assist the police. You may wonder why I have such a fixation with that vehicle; well, I’ll tell you why. When “Dirty Harry” bit the dust last March, the ambulance that was on the scene was manned by two of the most beautiful Brazilian woman I have ever seen. In other words, I wanted another opportunity to meet them. I know it’s sick, but you have to take advantage of every situation you can. Shit, if you saw the two of them, you’d push someone into oncoming traffic just to get another look at them, so don’t blame me for my thoughts and actions.


God damn it, the police reseal the apartment and depart without the fucking ambulance showing up. I look at Ken and figure that since he’s pissed me off today, I can throw him under a bus as it speeds by, thereby bringing out the hot ambulance babes. Fortunately, I quickly dismiss that thought when I realize that we need his help too. Man, this they couldn’t get any worse. First I get waved off by the hot cop and then I don’t get to meet the hot babes with the ambulance, that’s when I realize that Bob’s really gone and suddenly my troubles seem terribly insignificant in comparison.

Don gets Wally Cox and Ken aside to discuss something and when I approach they immediately clam up. “What are you guys planning?” I ask. Don tells me that they plan to meet tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. to discuss the next steps they need to take. “Where are you meeting?” “At The Office, you know, the restaurant down the street,” is his sincere reply. “Great, I’ll see you then,” I tell them as I go back to the apartment to rejoin MBL to relieve my pain and grief. I know she can’t wait to hear me say, “Honey, I’m home!”


During my morning walk the next day, I spot Don, Ken and Wally Cox sitting at Alcazar in an animated conversation. As I approach, I sense them all tense up a little. “Hi guys, what are you doing?” Don explains that they moved the meeting up to nine o’clock and changed the location to accommodate a change in everybody’s schedule. “Why didn’t you call me?” I inquired. “You don’t have a cell phone with you, do you?” Don inquired. “No, but you could have called MBL’s phone,” I told him. “What good would that have done, you’re not in the apartment with her, are you?” he replied. I had to admit it; he had a valid point there so I let it slide. “How do you want me to help?” Suddenly all three of them went absolutely rigid, almost like statues as they furiously looked at each other by just moving their eyes. They looked surprisingly like a group of ventriloquist’s dummies rapidly moving their eyes back and forth. I don’t know why I brought that up, but that’s exactly what they looked like – a group of dummies.


After a few minutes of silence, Don finally broke the ice and said that I would be the most help to them by staying in his shop and coordinating communications. “But don’t each of you guys have a cell phone to talk to each other with – why do you need me to be at the office?” I asked. “You’ll be our command center to control and coordinate everything,” Don replied. “Yeah, I can do that,” was all I needed to say to bring a relieved look to Don’s face. Wally and Ken also relaxed a little.


The next topic discussed was very delicate or, in other words, right up my alley. Don broached the topic with Wally, because both of them would be doing most of the legwork. “You know this is Latin America and sometimes we will need to “grease the skids” so to speak,” Don commented. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “Well Jag, we might have to facilitate things a little to keep things moving smoothly and I think Wally should be our point man on this,” was his concise reply.


“Are we talking about bribes here because if we are, I should handle it, my background makes me the perfect bagman,” I confidently reply. Everyone tensed up and remained silent for a moment and then Don spoke. “Look Jag, I’ve read all your reports and know that Gecko, Jorge and Fernando have repeated ripped you off at the beach. Christ, I’ve even watched these third grade educated Brazilians make you hemorrhage Reais daily so why should we let you handle this important part of getting Bob’s remains back to the States? Do I need to mention that incident with the little old lady falling down again? How about the kid who helped you with your phone card, do I need to go on?”


Oh fuck, this argument was going down the toilet fast and then I remembered the perfect retort. “Because I look like I have money; I’ll even wear a monogrammed shirt and my blue blazer when we go meet with them,” I replied. “Why in God’s name do we want someone who looks like he’s financially stable handling bribes--that will only make them ask for more money, which we don’t have,” Don said with disdain dripping from each and every word. “Okay, you guys handle it your way, but if you run into trouble don’t hesitate to call me.”


As I left them at Alcazar, I knew they were confident in my ability to man the Command Center, despite the fact that they didn’t want me as their “facilitator.” If they only knew how deceptive I really am, they would give me the job in a second. When I open the door to our apartment, notice I said “our apartment,” I gently shouted out, “Hey, Bubble Lips, I’m home and I want to make love to you.” She must have really missed me and wanted me right away because I could swear I heard her moan, “Oh, NOW,NOW,” but I could have been mistaken.


Fortunately for me she wasn’t into her usual twenty minutes of foreplay, so I got right to work. Within minutes, I was lying there bathed in sweat and fully satisfied. She’s such a great woman, isn’t she? She propped herself up on one elbow and asked, “When are you going to the beach?” Isn’t she wonderful, look at how she wants me to maintain my George Hamilton like tan, not to mention the fact that she knows Fernando appreciates having me around because we’re such good friends? Oh shit after rereading that sentence about George Hamilton’s tan, I don’t want any of you to get the impression that I look anything like him. Actually, I look more like Scott Hamilton, the diminutive 1984 Olympic Figure Ice Skating Champion. Hey, no jokes about that, understood! After all, I’m opening my heart to you guys so no fucking jokes.


“Honey, I can’t go to the beach, I have to handle Don’s Command Center.” “What Command Center?” “Well, you won’t understand it, but I have to be at Don’s shop all day to help them handle everything surrounding Bob’s death,” was my short and concise answer. “Go shower and go there soon,” was all she needed to say to get me moving. Clearly, she appreciates the importance of my new position; why else would she want me to leave?


It’s now approximately 10:30 AM and as I approach the shop, I see Don and Wally rapidly walking down the street towards Copacabana Ave. Obviously they’re on their way to someplace important, otherwise they wouldn’t hurry like that. I tell Ken that I’m ready to take over and he grudgingly gets up to let me sit in front of the computer. Ken’s a great guy, but I sense he’s a little envious of my new position because he’s starting to scowl at me. I bet you’re also getting that feeling too, aren’t you? Regardless of his hurt feelings, I’m going to have to tell him just what General Alexander Haig told the country when President Reagan was shot, “I’m in charge here.” Shit, if it could work for him, it could work for me, couldn’t it.

I got Ken aside within minutes and said, “I’m in charge here.” For some odd reason it didn’t work as well for me as it did for Gen. Haig because Ken immediately ran out of the shop and got on his cell phone. While he was having an animated conversation with whomever he was talking to, I was busily turning Don’s shop into my own version of CTU, you know the Counter Terrorism Unit on “24.” It wasn’t as high tech as CTU because we had only one computer and two telephones, but I was transforming Don’s shop into a model for streamlined efficiency.


About five minutes later as I was drawing up a new floor plan, which called for widening his shop about two feet, Don suddenly called on the hotline. Ken just sat there and gave me one of those big shit eating “Cheshire Cat” grins of his while I was talking with Don. What does he know that I don’t, I wondered. Ah, probably nothing, he’s just jealous. What Don said next stunned me, absolutely stunned me! “We’re making the Command Center Mobile and you’re in charge of doing it. Have Ken give you the extra cell phone.” Imagine that, Don’s finally smartened up and now I’m like a fucking SWAT team--fast, mobile and whatever else makes SWAT so fucking good.


“Okay, where do you want me to set up the Mobile Command Center?” I crisply replied. “Set up on Hooker Beach, right in front of the Rio Othon Palace,” was his strange command. “Repeat that,” I asked. All he said was two words, “Hooker Beach.” I assumed he chose that spot for its great phone reception and easy accessibility or something like that, so who was I to argue with him. “Roger that.” After I got off the phone, I looked Ken straight in the eyes and told him my Command Center was going Mobile because he was interfering with my important work. He just smiled that shit eating grin of his as I packed up all my stuff. You know what I mean, my knife, spitfire spray, reporter’s notebook, new cell phone, etc. He’s sooo fucking jealous of me going “mobile,” but that’s the breaks my friend.


As I approach our apartment building I call Don’s cell phone. “Hi Don, it’s Jag, just wanted to let you know that I was going into my apartment building to get changed for the beach and you won’t be able to reach me for a few minutes because the phone doesn’t work inside.” He must have been in the middle of an important meeting with some fucking Brazilian official because I heard him tell Wally that the guy he was talking to was a “fucking idiot.” Boy, those guys must be going through hell; I can’t wait to debrief them tonight.


When I enter the apartment, MBL is surprised to see me back so soon and asks me if I was fired. “I’m the boss, they can’t fire me,” I told her. Then I explained to her that I convinced Don to make the Command Center a mobile entity and that I was setting up my operation on the beach in front of the Rio Othon Palace. “You mean on Hooker Beach,” she replied through her laughter. “This is not a laughing matter; I’m an integral part of this whole project,” I replied as I was pulling up my bathing suit. I leaned over and gently kissed her good-bye on those huge sexy lips while I’m copping a feel of her lovely ample breasts. Oh God, they feel so good! For a brief moment I almost hopped back into bed with her, but then remembered that I had more important things to do. Don’t obligations just piss you off? Oh well, I know these guys won’t succeed without me so I better get back on the job.


When I leave the building, I phone Don one more time and it’s obvious to me that his meeting isn’t going well because he sounds like he’s in a bad mood. “Hi Don, Jag here, I just left the apartment and I’m headed for the beach. Call me if you need anything.” I heard him yelling at somebody, probably that Brazilian official again, and then I heard him tell Wally that the guy is a “complete dumbfuck.” Boy, that meeting must be going down the chutes, I bet they wish they had me there to add the “sand,” if you know what I mean. Oh well, I gave them the chance to take me along for my expertise and look at where it’s gotten them—having to deal with some asshole. Will they ever learn?


When I get to the beach, my dear friend Fernando is anxiously waiting for me. I choose the perfect spot for my Mobile Command Center and tell Fernando to set up two of those fucking folding chairs and an umbrella, which they call a parasol. That’s so fucking gay, isn’t it? Unfortunately, if you ask for an umbrella they look at you like you’re stupid or something, so they force you to call the damn thing a “parasol.” I hate fucking Portuguese!


Anyway, I set up my center and immediately call Don. ‘Hi Don, this is Jag.” Click. Hey Fernando, move the fucking parasol, it’s interfering with my cell phone reception. After it’s removed, I dial Don one more time. “Hi Don.” Click. How strange, it must be all the fucking aluminum tubular beach chairs that are messing up my phone reception. It has to be that because when I look at the phone it shows that my signal strength is off the chart—four fucking bars. God damn it, there must be at least 500 chairs on the beach, and each one is fucking up my Mobile Command Center.


That’s when I decided to run a test of my communications center. I immediately called MBL and surprisingly she answered her phone on the first ring. That’s a good sign; at least it works over short distances. I give her Don’s number and ask her to call him right away to let him know I’m all set up on the beach. That’s when my communications with her were instantaneously severed too. I tried to call back but couldn’t get through to her. Her phone just rang and rang and rang. Oh well, I guess Ken will come over and get me if anything important happens. Shit, I’d call him but for some unknown reason he didn’t want to give me his phone number. Guess I’ll have to work on my tan till MBL shows up. Hey Fernando, get me a Skol, pronto!


Shortly after setting up my operation, Felix saunters over to the beach and makes some snide comment about a “Mobile Command Center.” “Where the fuck did you hear about that?” I asked. “Ken told me all about it when I stopped by their shop.” What else did he tell you?” “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” was all he said with a straight face.” “Good, because he’s jealous of my new position,” I replied. “Yeah, whatever you say Jag, whatever you say.” “Thanks Felix for supporting me!” For some strange reason as soon as I said that, Felix excused himself and ran down to the water’s edge; probably to ponder Bob’s death and his own mortality. I could see his back heaving up and down; ah poor Felix, he must be crying because I know he couldn’t be laughing about anything, could he?

I send Fernando down to comfort Felix because I can’t vacate the Command Center, but within moments he returns and pantomimes someone by holding his stomach. “Is he sick,” I inquire with compassion in my voice. Fernando shakes his head from side to side and makes a laughing sound. “No, no,” I rub my eyes indicating crying, but Fernando once again laughs at me. Fucking Felix is laughing, but what’s so funny! For the rest of the afternoon Felix wouldn’t tell me what was so funny and that just pissed me off more. When MBL joined us and saw the other beach chair set up with a notebook, pen and cell phone at the ready, she started laughing too. Fuck you Felix and fuck you Fernando. You, Miss Bubble Lips will get fucked as soon as we get home! See how this whole episode has traumatized me!

VERY GOOD READING jAG- FELIX

;) That's as close as has been invented to represent a "shit eating grin" in type. Actually, I guess if I could insert "therightway"'s signature in there somewhere, that would be as close as you could get in type to a "shit eating grin..."

By the way, Jag, I want you to know that as our recon man there in the states, you are by far the most important man in the operation. We need a command and control center there in the Bush land. You are doing far better service for us there than you could possibly do here. Please await further instructions in your present position.

;) (Shit eating grin)

( ; ) MBL's shit eating grin....he he!

Sandman,

Hey good buddy, where the hell are you? I'm going back to Rio for Carnival, wish you were there.

Jag

More, Jag, MORE (please).

And whence such brevity?--Oh, that's right, you only covered about two hours' events.

I am in Angeles City in the P.I. righ now enjoying tiny little Flips....Hope you have a good time at Carnival. Just be a little more carefulf than your normal self. Lots of shit happens during Carnaval and you do have a rather big bulls eye on that monogramed shirt you wear!

CYA buddy!

Tchau

Hunterman,

Shit, it only took me nine single spaced type written pages to cover a total of 26 hours.

"Brevity" is my nickname!!!

I have one question for you my friend. Did you like part three?

Jag

Hi Jag

I'm back from Thailand (although down with the flu) and have just read part three. I thought you were giving up the good life for married bliss with a blond, or was that an alternative reality thing (I’m watching Star Trek)? Did I miss something? The report was as great but remember it’s important to stretch before playing professional basketball even in the S&M league.