America. I believe in America.
Written: Jul 24 '04
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It was about 25 miles outside Barstow, as we were cruising at 75 north on I-15 that Duende suddenly took it in his head to start serenading us with selected passages from the cheap, hardcore, mail-order gay sex novel he had brought with him.
Eggs, who was driving winced in visible discomfort as Duende launched into a particularly lurid section, ripe with depraved homosexual perversity and base behavior. I was nursing my third beer of the morning, and there was no way I had either the inclination or motivation to rouse myself from my very comfortable inertia to stop him, other than to increase the volume of the car's stereo, hoping to just drown Duende's staccato monotone in a sea of mariachi.
We had picked up the car that morning from the local National Car Rental establishment, as none of us wanted to subject our own cars to the sort of stress and potential damage of a trip to Las Vegas. The lot was, as you would expect at 8:30 in the morning, empty save for the poor sod behind the counter, and some trained chimp squirting rows of shiny cars with water from a hose. The Lady Monkey had dropped us off, and had sped off as soon as the last of our traveling bags had been removed, without even so much as a shouted goodbye. The less of us and our sordid plans with which she had to contend, the better, and I certainly understood.
I left the two idiots standing by their bags, and entered the small, square, sparsely decorated office and saw a disinterested looking fellow with full cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes that implied a congenital cognitive defect. The small green and white name badge pinned to the faded company polo shirt that served as a uniform read "Usama." Tapping at the desk, I roused him from his stupor and began to negotiate the rental. "Look," I said, not wanting to dally with the pro-forma niceties of society, "I need a dependable vehicle - one that won't sputter or hesitate if there is too much dust in the air-intake, and one that has solid handling. Taking sharp corners at 45 and sudden u-turns may become necessary. Do you understand me? I need something that I can rely on, in case I am in a tight spot, or if I have to leave quickly. No Chevy's!" Usama slowly nodded in the way that told me he had heard what I had said, but either didn't understand or didn't care. Instead, he asked mechanically for my name, and began to call up my information. He sat there, occasionally poking at the keyboard like a lobotomized chicken hoping to win a pellet. Proving the old adage regarding infinite monkeys working at infinite typewriters for infinite years, or perhaps the other old adage that even a stopped clock is correct twice a day, Usama must have finally struck paydirt, because he muttered, "Ah, here you are." His victory celebration was short-lived, however, as he then sat there and stared at the screen for a full minute, with an expression on his face like a hillbilly trying to understand Euclidean geometry. Eventually the characters on the screen must have made some sense to him, because he turned his pendulous head toward me and said, "I'm sorry, we don't have your reservation."
I put down the bag I was holding, and bent over to open it. Usama flinched when he saw me reach inside it with the reflexes of someone who's had a firearm pulled on him once or twice before. The relief that overtook his body when he saw that all I had was a can of Tecate was such that he seemed appreciative that he was watching me drink beer at 8:30 in the morning (right before I was to officially rent a car from him) instead of him looking down the barrel of a gun. I took a long swallow, and decided the best course of action was to play nice. "Usama," I read from his name badge, "that's a loaded name nowadays, isn't it?" He looked at me cautiously, trying to get a measure of me. "You don't have to worry about me," I said easily, "I'm not like the others, I understand." The tension in his body remained, but I could tell he was beginning to relax. "Now, let's try to work something out here, huh? After all, I'd hate to have to involve ... others." I placed a very heavy emphasis on the final word, leaving it open to interpretation, and I could see that it further unnerved Usama.
Pressing my advantage I asked, "What about one of these other cars. Can I just take one of those?" Usama nodded his head and said, "Sure, but you need a reservation."
"Why," I asked, "are all of them already rented?"
"Rented?" He repeated, "Rented? No, they're not rented. Of course they're not rented."
"Then I'll just rent one of those."
"But," he began, "you need ..."
"I know," I calmly said, after another sip, "I need a reservation. Well, why not reserve one for me right now, then rent one to me immediately after."
This seemed to ignite a dim bulb above his head, and he again began to tap at the keyboard before him. A few minutes later, he told me that I had a reservation, and passed me a card on which my official National Car Rental reservation number had been hastily scribbled. He continued to go through the process of recording my personal information and completing the paperwork that would then place a car in my possession. The only words he muttered were when he asked if I wanted insurance at $9.95 per day. "Absolutely" I said, "full coverage. Bumper to bumper and everything in between." Then, lowering my voice to what I hoped would be considered an ominous, but not threatening level I added, "In the land of blind vermin the one-eyed rat is king."
Hastily, Usama handed me the paperwork and motioned outside toward the chimp playing with the hose in the car lot. I picked my bag off the floor, drained the last of my beer (leaving the empty can on the counter between Usama and me), and winked at him as I exited. I walked past Duende and Eggs, gave them the high sign, then proceeded to the monkey and handed him my papers. "I've got a car reserved," I told him, "it's all there, officially approved by the highest levels. No restrictions." He checked the papers, then walked over to a shiny new Matrix.
"This is car," he said in the sort of butchered English taught in some bombed-out schoolhouse in Grozny. The chimp was in his late twenties, and just dripped of immigrant. He had a long, thin nose, misshapen ears, crooked teeth, and his hair looked as if it had been gnawed by rabid wolverines. The only thing that looked domestic about him was his clothing, and that had been provided by the company. His name badge read "Govno" and it was his duty to proudly display the car, and take me on a visual inspection of the exterior, carefully noting any and all dents and dings, for insurance purposes. "Never mind all that," I said brushing him off, "we have insurance. Full coverage, do you understand? Any damage has already been paid for. In fact," I added confidentially, "it would be probably be better if we completely destroyed it. That way we could obliterate any and all evidence and you can collect the insurance." I held out my hand for the keys to complete the transaction that would place this car in my full and legal possession, but Govno seemed strangely hesitant. He seemed a bit troubled by my tossing out the possibility of massive destruction to the brand new car as easily and carelessly as I did, so I tried to put him at ease. I pulled out my wallet and showed him several credit cards saying, "See this? I have massive credit, complete trust from every major financial institution in this country. Do you think they give this to just anyone? Look, gold cards, platinum cards ... the works. Nothing to fear, nothing at all."
The sight of the stamped plastic seemed to somewhat relax his unease, until Duende opened our cooler to re-arrange the contents and Govno saw nearly a case of beer within the ice. He again became very agitated, and assumed the look of someone about to phone the authorities. Eggs, seeing Govno's consternation, sidled up to him and cooed, "Don't worry about that, it's not what it seems. You can trust me, I'm your friend" while Duende, staring threateningly at Govno, slowly closed the cooler. Govno looked very nervous. "You will drive careful this car?" he asked, in a tone more hopeful than certain. "Sure we will" I reassured him. Duende, adopting an official voice and posture that belied his "Viva Las Vegas" tee shirt featuring a fat, sequined Elvis in mid gyration, pointed at me and said, "This man is a representative of the city - an elected official responsible for making laws and setting policy. He is part of the government, and very important." He then pointed at himself and said, "I am a teacher. Do you understand? People trust me with their children. And this man," now jerking his thumb toward Eggs, "is a respected doctor - a neurosurgeon who just last week successfully transplanted a Baboon's head on a human baby." Govno's eyes got wide, and he began to lick his lips spasmodically. "Don't worry," Eggs said with just the right touch of false modesty and nonchalance, "it wasn't an American baby." By now Govno was visibly disturbed and wanted nothing more than to see us leave, but was apparently conflicted by his sense of duty and responsibility to his employer. As he stood there, eyes darting between the three of us and the new car of which we had just assumed possession, I took him by the forearm and led him away, for privacy.
"Listen," I began, "I can tell you are on our side – a good American. I am telling you this so you know. I am working with a special unit. I can't tell you what we do, or who we are, but you read the papers, and you know that the world is a dangerous place. I help make sure that we - good Americans like you and me - stay safe." I looked around as if checking for prying ears, then, tilting my head in the direction of the small office I continued, "I need you to do me a favor. You have to keep an eye on that one in there. This place has been under surveillance for some time. You know about the Oklahoma City thing? A couple of savage lunatics rented a car and filled it with explosives. I can't say more, but we are counting on you to do your duty as a citizen. Good man."
Govno was completely unsettled by this whole incident, and he looked as if he wanted to run away and cry. I clapped him on the shoulder and went to join Duende and Eggs in loading the car. Govno stood there, afraid to move. Once we had finished, I went back to him and lightly took the keys from his right hand, replacing them with a very cold beer. As I turned to leave, I said over my shoulder, "I'll be contacting you in a few days, and I'll be expecting a full report. I am trusting you to not let me down."
With that, I got behind the wheel of the car, started it up, and gave Govno a couple of lighthearted honks before gunning the engine, and speeding out of the lot, tires squealing as we left. In the rear-view mirror I saw Govno stare at us slack-jawed, as if he'd been pithed, obviously overwhelmed by the thought that not only were a pack of alcoholic misanthropes, with nothing but mayhem and destruction on their minds, working with the government, but that he had just been conscripted into some sort of cloak-and-dagger operation.
Three days later I returned the car to the lot. Usama was again behind the counter, and it looked as if he never moved. I handed the keys to him, and looked around for Govno, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Hey," I asked as Usama processed the return, "where's the guy who was out here a few days ago?" Usama looked at me with his droopy eyes and after a moment answered, "I don't know. He quit the same day you rented this car - only a few minutes after." I asked why, and Usama just shrugged his shoulders. "How do you like that," I said, "you just can't tell with these foreigners."
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This is the first of two parts of the Excellent & Excruciating Write Off, sponsored by slarter and CaptainD.
For more information, contact either of these swine, or stop by here.
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What product did you purchase or try to purchase? Just wanted to rent a car.
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About the Author
Member: Fez Monkey
Location: Somewhere west of Ellay, near a beach
Reviews written: 110
Trusted by: 137 members
About Me: Me? I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk.
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