Old School Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Prologue – Live Fire Death

It was a dark and stormy night. Then suddenly, without warning, the weather cleared, and with the breaking clouds it also became less dark. Less dark enough to see a shadowy figure lurking in the charcoal-grey areas not lighted by the light. Working his way through the garden, amongst the cypress, palms, mugworts and life-size marble nudes, he remained a mere whisper in the wilderness, until his path finally forced him out into the open. There, in the not-really-bright-but-adequate light his face could finally be seen, and anyone seeing it would know it was the most recognizable face in undercover-secret-agent-style work, Deep Knight!

With this revelation, another movement happened. So slow yet swift, so stealthy it went unnoticed by anyone without a trained eye, only an agent of Deep Knights caliber could have seen it. But he didn’t, which is actually a clue you should remember for later. Instead, one of the nude marble statues slowly moved his marble buns off the pedestal and into a shadow just high enough to obscure his other side when he turned. It’s said the audience never discovered if he was “wearing” a fig leaf or not, but since many recognized him as being a copy of the Farnese Hercules I assume “not.” Moving through the garden in a deadly game of cat and mouse, fox and hound, Simon and Garfunkel, the two opponents posed for a montage of stills until … a single shot rang out! When the smoke cleared, Agent Knight looked soulfully into the camera, and spitting out a small yet still tasteful driblet of blood that ran halfway down his chin, fell over dead!

The gasp in the audience was audible. Not only was this the first time Deep Knight had been killed in one of his own adventures, it was slightly less than a couple of minutes in and the credits hadn’t even rolled yet. In print he hadn’t even made it to Chapter 1, yet here he was, deceased. For a normal man this would have limited his future in this roll, but Deep Knight was no normal man! Literally millions of super models had found this out the hard way. In a sudden twist, the pale, white, and one would assume fully nude killer reached down and pulled off dead Deep’s face, revealing it to be a mask! Underneath was the face of some dead guy, who is so inconsequential to this story that this is the last you’ll ever hear about him. The killer laughed in a chalk-white sort of way, and reaching up, pulled off his own bleached face to reveal … the tanned visage of a definitely alive Deep Knight!

An instructor wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard walked out of the shadows and said, “Exactly one minute, fifty-two seconds. That's excellent.” Then from afar, faint and lilting yet very loud, came a voice that sounded exactly like Matt Monro singing…

From Russia with love I fly to you
Much wiser than when I opened my fly it’s true
I've travelled the world, gotten burned to learn
I must return for my turn, from Russia with love

I've seen places, faces I’ve tasted too
But oh, they were never as tasty as you
Still my tongue tied, young pride
Would not let me ride on your hide
Until I had to decide

To Russia I flew, and there and then
You suddenly knew, I was bare there again
My running around is through it’s true
I’m tied up by a lady who’s, from Russia with love!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pGfKuPKFmc

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 1 – Chess, a Game of Knights

Evil-yet-chic-looking chessmaster Tov Kronsteen smiled as he toyed with his prey, a white-haired academic-looking dude in glasses and a limp, brown corduroy suit. It was the East Coast Sweet 16 Finals at the Hialeah Park Chess Track, in front of a standing room only crowd that was sitting, transfixed by the drama. He saw a scantily-clad waitress motion for his attention at the edge of the stage, and motioned back for her to approach the chess table with his drink. Taking his root beer float deftly with one hand, he supported its paper doily-like coaster thingie with the other. Risking a brain freeze, he deftly slurped up his soda fountain drink to read the message on the coaster. “End this damned game and join the meeting so we can get home at a decent hour!” it said, cryptically.

Kronsteen smiled some more, and folded the coaster as he threw his float’s glass to the waiting female fans at the edge of the stage, who fought over it. He folded the paper once more, noted its tortilla-chip-like shape, dipped it into some guacamole, and swallowed it.

His opponent, his brows knitted in anguish, made his first move. “Pawn to King’s four,” he blurted out vaguely, moving the diminutive piece and then punching his side of the time clock. The ball was now in Kronsteen’s court.

“King to pawn seven!” Kronsteen announced triumphantly while moving the tall chess piece forward forthrightly. Pushing the boundaries of normal tournament play, he used small explosions knock his opponent’s pieces right and left, clearing a path through to victory. “Checkmate!” he asserted, fixing his gaze on the judges panel while he fingered the holstered Lugar at his hip.

Leaving a rather confused opponent still sitting dazed on stage, he paused only momentarily to repeat his murderous look of mute warning to the judges, who were frantically raising placards with 9s and 10s to confirm his startling win. Tournament chess was never the same again, and although some older players decried the changes, TV viewership skyrocketed. The scary chessmaster strode offstage and up the stairs to where, quite coincidently, SPECTRE was holding its annual stockholder’s meeting. SPECTRE was made up of rich assholes and former agency “assets” who had gone independent or contracted out evil acts part time on evenings and weekends. You know how Satan feels about competition, especially from people who can do it cheaper but still with panache and style - he’s against it in a big way. But if he knew he would take solace in the fact that their meetings weren’t any less boring than ours. In fact, while they were waiting for the chess game to be over and moss to grow, they watched their chairman, Blofeld’s, pet fish perform.

“Siamese fighting fish, fascinating creatures. Brave but of the whole stupid” observed their porcine, bald, wheelchair-bound leader, “Yes they're stupid. Except for the occasional one such as we have here who lets the other two fight. While he waits. Waits until the survivor is so exhausted that he cannot defend himself, and then like SPECTRE... he strikes!”

“I find the parallel... amusing,” purred Rosa Klebb in her signature squeaky baby-doll voice. A former Colonel in SMERSH (Russian Counter Intelligence), Klebb appearance both inspired fear and would not look out of place at a chairwoman’s convention. Short, ugly, built like a Greco-Roman wrestler from the Greek side of the sport, she scared even the professional killers and accountants sitting around the SPECTRE table. To be honest, it was less her looks and more that fact that she was a lesbian, which elicited more fear in crime circles than wanton killing, and some say rightly so.

“Our organization did not arrange for you to come over from the Russians just for amusement, Number 3,”´retorted Blofeld, using her secret clubhouse name. His was Number 2, both because of his pervasive smell, and because references to “number one” were forbidden in Deep Knight Adventures after what happened at that hotel in Moscow. But we’ll have to wait to get into that, as Kronsteen had just made it up the stairway’s 13 steps and through the long lines at the Security checkpoint. Number 2 introduced him to their new member, Number 3, using both his real and code name, “Queen’s Rook 6.”

Colonel Klebb, who was always sucking up to people, especially since she didn’t know what excretory function her own “Number 3” referred to, said, ”I hope Kronsteen's efforts as Director of Planning will continue to be as successful as his chess.”

“They will be,” replied the suave-but-egotistical chessmaster, seating himself.

“We will finish the report on revenues from our American members, and then go on to new business,” directed Number 2 forcefully, “Number 11.”

“Distribution of Red China Viagra in the United States: two million three hundred thousand dollars, collected by Number 9 and myself.”

“Two million three? Our expectations were considerably... higher, Number 11.”

“Competition from herbal alternatives being marketed via e-mails on the internet. Prices are down.”

Blofeld looked across the table angrily, “I anticipated that factor. Are you quite sure all monies have been accounted for by yourself and Number 9?”

“To the penny, Number 2.”

The gravelly-voiced eminence smiled and shook his head. “On the contrary, I have satisfied myself that one of you is clearly guilty of embezzlement. SPECTRE's a dedicated fraternity whose strength lies in the absolute integrity of its members. The culprit is known to me. I have decided on the appropriate action.”

Number 11’s associate, SPECTRE Number 9, was sitting in his plush, high-backed chair, absentmindedly reading his agenda and humming a cheery toon when suddenly manacles appeared at his wrists and ankles, preventing escape or defense. Rosa Klebb walked towards him, smiling, as the chair rotated and the lower shackles moved apart to spread his legs. Abandoning the printed agenda, you could see him start to sweat as Number 3 clicked her heals together, causing the tip of a sharp blade to exit her right shoe's sole at the toe. His sweating became screams as he begged for mercy, “No, no, not me! I’m not even supposed to be in this movie, and neither is this scene! It’s from Thunderball! It’s that damn Deep Knight’s fault, he’s always pulling shit like this!”

But his protests and pleas were to no avail. With a series of roundhouse kicks, Rosa Klebb deftly carved the crotch out of Number 9’s best suit’s pants, unmindful of the damage she was causing to his undershorts and territory below. Then she performed a series of bounding dance steps, her shoe’s toe blade singing and slicing the exposed area to the beat. His screams told the tale, and seemed to go on for hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. Finally, they mercifully subsided, and all present knew Number 9’s folly had been paid for, in full.

“Twelve seconds. One of these days we must invent a faster-working venom,” said Blofeld smugly.

“Venom?” asked Klegg, “I used no venom or poison.”

Blofeld reached down as if to protect his private parts, then looked Colonel Klegg right in the eyes. “Number Three, is your section ready to carry out Kronsteen's directives?”

“Yes, Number 2. The operation will be organized according to Kronsteen's plan. I have selected a suitable girl from the Russian consulate in Istanbul. She's capable, cooperative, and her loyalty to the State and President Putin is beyond question.”

“And you're absolutely sure she believes you're still head of operations for Soviet Intelligence?”

“It is most unlikely she would know I'm now working for SPECTRE. Moscow has kept my defection secret from everyone but a few members of the Presidium. And they were disbanded in 1991, so I don’t think we have much to worry about.”

Blofeld grimaced and stoked his cat, “For your sake, I hope so.”

Kronsteen spoke up, “As an added bonus, at no extra charge, if you follow my plan SPECTRE would probably have the chance of a maybe getting personal revenge for the killing of our operative - Dr. No - because the man the Illuminati will almost certainly might possibly use on a mission of this sort would be - their agent – Deep Knight.”

Blofeld smiled, but it was a creepy smile. “Let his death be a particularly unpleasant and humiliating one. Let there be no failure.”

Kronsteen smiled a smile that even creeped-out his wrong-kind-of-evil-chessmaster’s-slave-master, and said, “I shall put my plan into operations straight away - and there will be no failure.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 2 – Punting Down the Wandle

It was a pleasant summer’s afternoon in Surrey England, and all along the River Wandle fresh-faced boys and girls in punts poled their way to and fro. That’s “punts,” with a “p” (for goodness sakes, get your mind out of the gutter, and that goes for “pole” and “Wandle” too). Their voices could be heard over the birdsongs and munching noise made by the approaching army ants.

“Great sport, this …” said a man dressed for a weekend outing at Wembley.

“What?” retorted the woman, accompanying her inquiry with a loud, reverberant slap.

The man’s voice replied, “Blimey, I said, ‘it's great sport, this punting!’ With a ‘p,’ you silly @#$~&!”

As this little drama played out, their punt passed another one beached behind some reeds, where Deep Knight and a rich playgirl named Sylvia Trench (along with Marianas, one of the Trench heiresses) were chilling a bottle of champagne in the warm water and making out. “I couldn't agree with him more,” countered Agent Knight, “except for the ‘p’ part. What about ‘I don’t allow writing about this in my adventures’ don’t people understand?”

Sylvia Trench, her lips burning hot from Deep’s expert technique, smiled and in a throaty voice said, “Mmm, I may even give up golf for it. But not promiscuous sex with insincere men, I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere.”

Deep smiled as he heard the words “promiscuous sex” and “line,” visions of long formations of supermodels dancing in his head. But suddenly, and without warning, he heard a loud “beeping” sound from his car, a classic black 6.5 Litre Bentley 1930 Speed Six Long Chassis Vanden Plas Style Tourer. He untangled his toe from the line holding the champagne, and wrapping a towel around his neck went to answer it.

Sylvia followed him, playfully tugging at his swimsuit, whether to lower it or give him a wedgie is unclear. She also noted that his car looked more like a 1935 Bentley 3.5 Litre Drophead Coupé Park Ward than the earlier, higher-powered model. As he answered the phone he slapped her hand away, protesting, “Ssh! It's the office.”

This rebuff only caused her to double her efforts, especially after Deep described her as an “old case” he was “reviewing.” Deep squirmed and gyrated back and forth, doing what looked like a 60’s dance called the Watusi, and quickly terminated this conversation with a promise to be in the office forthwith. He slammed down the large black handset into the phone’s cradle, just above its rotary dial, so he could admonish his frisky companion, “Sylvia, behave! We'll do this again some other time.”

“Do what? Last time you said that, you went off to Jamaica!” She unbuttoned the shirt Deep was trying to hurriedly button up, and licked his hairy chest from stem to stern. “I haven't seen you for six months!”

“I’m sorry, but loyalty to the forces trying to destroy my country comes before pleasure, even though that pleasure would not only be more intense than you could imagine, but include acts heretofore only seen in command performances before the crown heads of Europe,” he protested. Sylvia grabbed him by the crotch of his trunks, pulled him tight against her, and kissed him squarely on the lips using tremendous suction. Deep realized two things; first that the text would flow better if he narrated this “first person,” and second, he was going to have to take care of Sylvia and the rapidly-growing line of supermodels at the river’s edge if he was to proceed with his adventure. Resigned to my fate, I silently bowed to the heavy burden being a legend placed upon me (see, isn’t it better in the first person, even if it changes mid-paragraph?). After pulling up the top of my spacious Bentley Whatever for privacy, I hauled a conveyor belt out of the trunk (which the English call a “boot”), attached it to the opened passenger’s door, and pulling down my swim trunks, got to work “double time” in the driver’s seat.

A few minutes later I was in M’s office at MI6, chatting with him and some other stuffy old English dudes. I was greeted with the friendship and respect the Illuminati have learned to expect from the English, after all we all slavishly served the same Reptilian shape-shifting Queen. “Come in Agent Knight,” he said beaming, “I see you’ve finally made time to join us, albeit reeking like a streetwalker all tarted-up for a busy Saturday night. Please be seated.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHMOJ5BkGGw

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 3 – Istanbul’s Not Constantinople Anymore

The English have lost their global empire, but not their ability to hold the longest, most boring meetings on the planet. Be thankful I can summarize it quickly. It seems a comely cipher clerk named Tatiana Romanova at the Russian embassy in Istanbul had seen my picture on Facebook and fallen in love. I have to admit the picture was posted due to a silly mistake – I had been experimenting to see if I could take a picture without a flash by using only the light let in by my open zipper, when I hit “send all” by accident. Oops! Anyway, the Brits used their Limey logic to figure that since it looked like a trap, it couldn’t be a trap, which meant it really was a trap, but one that “we” could somehow turn around to become our own trap. At stake was a typewriter-like machine called a “Lektor” (лектор), a sophisticated device that allowed the users to troll any election anywhere at any time. Fake news, chain e-mails, push polls, and subversive spam spewed from the Lektor around the world to the worldwide web. “Big deal,” you might say, but would you still say that if I told you these messages were absolutely, positively untraceable? Or that both the Americans (or, should I say, our two major political parties) and the Illuminati wanted one in the worst sort of way for Christmas? Well, I’m telling you, and I happen to know, because I was that “worst sort of way.”

I had no objection to Turkey, it being Thanksgiving and all, but wanted to know more about what was expected of me. They told me I would be briefed by the Illuminati’s man in Istanbul, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, known to his frat brothers and friends as “Yippie.” If all went well this Romanova chick would debrief me later. I wear boxers, but decided to sacrifice my own comfort for the good of evil forces who would destroy humanity. I did have one question, “Suppose when she meets me in the flesh I, I don't come up to expectations?”

M replied with typical English charm, “Just see that you do. And remember, don’t be a selfish lover. It’s not YOUR flesh that needs to come, but HERS! See Miss Moneypenny on your way out, and tell her you’re in a hurry, so you only have time for a quick one.”

“Quick one” is my middle name, so without much further ado I gave Miss Moneypenny a welcome break from her monotonous day and lifted her spirits. As I sprang up from behind her desk to leave, she recommended the moonlight on the Bosphorus and handed me a photo of Miss Romanova attached to a fake news release about the Clinton Foundation Offices on Lake Huron in North Dakota. “M will want that document back,” she moaned, “Or at least that’s what I thought he said in garbled intercom message I got during our tryst. It’s not that loud and hard to hear when its speaker is covered by your lover’s sweaty feet because he’s using it for traction. But that must be it, M hates Hillary because she wants to replace him with a woman, and spreads stuff like that using Twitter.”

I reached over to return it, but first wrote on the bottom, “From Russia, With Love” and a swoosh. Then I added a small, crude penis drawing in a provocative location (you gotta admit, they’re always funny), and handed it back. I was out the door before she could finish rolling her eyes.

Don’t ask me how (OK, stop, it was a taxi), but I made it to the airport and to Istanbul via BOAC. I was met at the airport by a foreign-looking-but-neat young man in a chauffeur’s uniform. He approached me and said, “Mr. Knight? President and Beloved Supreme Leader Erdoğan sent a car for you, sir.

“Fine,” I replied suspiciously. Not taking chances, the Istanbul Airport was a well-known nest of spies, I used the recognition code immediately. “Can I borrow a match?”

“I use a lighter.”

“It's better still.”

“Until they go wrong.”

“Exactly. Which is why I only use Zippos. They’re amazing, you can run over them with a car, drop them in the toilet, or even bake them in a cake and they still work. Every time. I know the shops at the airport are always expensive, but we’re right here and could get you one …” I trailed off, realizing I had gotten a bit too much into character, and sort of over-extended the recognition signal. Luckily, my contact didn’t seem to mind.

“I'll get the car, sir. By the way, our Beloved Supreme Leader suggested you see him before going to the hotel. Would that be convenient? And knowing you’re new to our strange Eastern ways, let me give you some advice. You're in the Balkans now, Agent Knight. The game is played differently here. Say ‘yes’ to this and anything else our despotic idiot of a President asks.”

“Fine,” I admitted, and got into the back to settle in for a long winter’s nap. Traffic jams on the road from the airport to Istanbul are simply unbelievable.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 4 – Doing It the Wrong Way on the Orient Express

The Turkish President was confused at first, thinking I was somehow an envoy from General Michael Flynn there to help him kidnap Turkish dissident cleric Fethullah Gülen. It didn’t help that I had a letter of introduction from Flynn, or rather his son (his old man wasn’t up to it, having had his memory erased before his Mueller interview – you can never be too careful). I cleared this up, and in the process discovered we had a mutual friend. He had just talked to Vladimir, and told me Putin was pining away for you-know-who, having been given an “it’s either her or me” ultimatum by President Trump. “Yippie” was sympathetic, having sacrificed love for power himself on more than one occasion, but we still mercilessly mocked and demeaned both the Russian dictator and his former-first-lady-girlfriend. I even told him the story about them and the armadillo. We finally settled on what I really wanted to chat about, the Lektor. Unfortunately, President Erdoğan scoffed at my carefully laid out PowerPoint presentation.

“My friend, if you really want my advice, you should spend a few pleasant days with us here in Istanbul, and then ... then, go home. And if you’re ever interviewed by Mueller or either Congressional committee, you never met with me, saw me, or even heard of me.“

“So I gathered from your chauffeur,” I replied, “He's a rather intelligent young man.”

“He should be. He's my son,” explained the Turkish dictator, “All of my key employees are my sons. Blood is the best security in this business.”

“You must have quite an establishment, er, government,” I lied, seeing now why his chauffeur hated him so. Blood may be thicker than water, but getting a crappy job like his while his brothers were Minister of the Interior and the like would thin it real fast. At least it does mine, and I have the lab report to prove it.

“Biggest family payroll in Turkey,” the fool bragged, beaming, “and it’s all paid for by the taxpayers. Just like your Mister Trump.”

I quickly took care of some other business (Satan had expressed an interest in opening a NWO franchise in a Turkish prison), and left to go to my hotel. As luck would have it, Miss Romanova (“Call me Tiana”) had snuck into my hotel bed, naked except for a black ribbon around her neck, and proceeded to ravish me. Or was it me her? Whatever the case, a whole lot of ravishing and reciprocal motion went on.

After a first night where we tore at each other in a suite so riddled with listening devices you could feel them as lumps in the mattress, we took to meeting at Istanbul landmarks. Tiana’s Russian-accented screams echoed in the halls of the Hagia Sophia, Sultan Ahmet’s Blue Mosque, Topkapı Palace, and yes, even over the Bosphorus in the moonlight. What can I say, she thought I was the world’s greatest lover, god’s gift to women, the ultimate steady boyfriend. I try not to brag, but it’s nice to be appreciated for those things you do really well. I was feeling great, and even put some comic zingers into the tapes of our conversations to embarrass M back in jolly old London. For example, about that time when M and I were in a Tokyo geisha house and he ate too much poisonous blowfish (fugu) liver, turning beet red and swelling in all the extremities. And I mean all, no matter what the girls did, they couldn’t get it down, and after 4 hours we had to take him to the emergency room. They literally bled his you-know-what using traditional methods, filming it for the medical journals. And him without clean underwear! You should be able to find it with a Google video search for “stiffy” and “exploding leeches.”

Oh yeah, between these encounters there was a gun battle with ugly Bulgarians, choose-who-marries-the-chief’s-son sex with two Gypsy virgins, a limpet mine on the President’s wall, punting with him in the sewers to a secret periscope, a quick bombing of the Russian Embassy, and a smash and grab to get the Lektor. Which led us to where we are now, Tiana and I leaving the Orient via the Orient Express. I crossed my fingers and hoped no one would notice our error, but when you’re on the run from the KGB, SMERSH, SPECTRE, and INTERPOL, you gotta improvise. At least we were getting out of Turkey rapidly. No offense, but with Turkey you start to get tired of it night after night, and soon ache for a change.

As many of you who have traveled on trains know, the “rhythm of the rails” stimulates certain activities’ also-rhythmic motions. Taking advantage, we carnally click-clicked our way west while waiting to meet the contact who would help us get off the train before we crossed the border. Unfortunately, this happened right before the train was stopped by, and then frozen into, a snowdrift in the mountains near the mouth of a tunnel. Then, to add to this annoyance, our contact was killed mysteriously in the night, and a fastidious Belgian detective who happened to be in the same sleeper car was put on the case. Since I’m the one who killed him (he got red wine with fish, which I considered suspicious – you can never be too careful), this was not a good development. I swore if I got out of this predicament, I would write to the railroad’s president asking that they clearly identify detectives who ride in first class as a service to the many free-spending criminals who frequent this famous line.

Well, it turned out that all 12 other people in the car had reason to kill my contact, which muddied the waters so much that in the end the little mustache-curling Belgie told the police some cock-and-bull story about the Mafia. But who cares, as long as I was in the clear. Using a stalled flower truck as cover, Tania and I got off the train as planned, and then into a motor boat. Our destination was Venice, city of champion-swimmer streetwalkers, and on free soil, or as close as you come to soil in that rapidly-sinking tourist trap. We had a Very pistol, some flares, a cool captain’s hat with gold braid, and charts that showed us to be near Istria. There was plenty of fuel and with a bit of luck we'll be there by morning, just in time to get a whiff of Venice’s famous low tide.

To be continued…

[Burnaby49]

What a disgusting salacious video. I had to watch it twice to confirm what I was seeing. I may need a third viewing. The producer made a hearfelt plea for assistance that a man of your vast background in fleeting female acquaintances should be easily able to answer. No doubt she's in your card index;

Another montage of favorite Turkish dancers, set to the classic Four Lads recording of the song. As usual, several of the dancers are anonymous (can ANYONE identify the beautiful dancer who I've put at the beginning and end?) By now, you'll recognize Kumsal, Yildizay, Gigi Dilsah, Samira Demir, Asena, Ozlem, Nuran Sultan, Yagmur and, of course Didem.

[Deep Knight]

What a disgusting salacious video. I had to watch it twice to confirm what I was seeing. I may need a third viewing. The producer made a hearfelt plea for assistance that a man of your vast background in fleeting female acquaintances should be easily able to answer. No doubt she's in your card index;

Another montage of favorite Turkish dancers, set to the classic Four Lads recording of the song. As usual, several of the dancers are anonymous (can ANYONE identify the beautiful dancer who I've put at the beginning and end?) By now, you'll recognize Kumsal, Yildizay, Gigi Dilsah, Samira Demir, Asena, Ozlem, Nuran Sultan, Yagmur and, of course Didem.

What do they mean "...and, of course Didem?" Didem was so strung-out on fame and having her ego stroked that she became a real problem to both promoters and her manager there for a while. You can only be a "no show" so many times before they turn on you. The real craziness came when she insisted on being called "The Artist Formally Known as Didem," shaved her head, and got those tattoos. Whoever wrote this should thank their lucky stars they got a normal-looking Didem on film.

As for "the beautiful dancer ... at the beginning and end," it's Senator Ted Cruz's wife Heidi. This was not doubt what then-candidate Trump meant when he threatened to "spill the beans" on her. Of course, if Trump had used the dance sequences to badmouth her instead of this unflattering shot (she was trying real hard not to laugh at a joke Amy Schumer had made at her husband's expense), the results of the primaries would have almost certainly been different.

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 5 – Victory over Sodomy at Sea

Blofeld, Number 2 in more than name only, looked angrily at Rosa Klebb and Tov Kronsteen, weighing his words before he spoke. “Three men were found dead on the train at Trieste. One of them was Grant, the guy whose picture’s on the $50. What have you to say, Number Queen’s Rook 6?

The chessmaster measured his words carefully, but didn’t weight them like his boss, knowing that shifting blame would not be taken well. “He was Klebb's choice. Her people failed.”

Colonel Klebb had that character flaw, seen in all women whose biological behaviors are counter to social norms, of taking being stabbed in the back poorly. But she was rubber, and he was glue, “It was your plan! They followed it implicitly!”

“Impossible,” retorted Kronsteen, “It was perfect.”

“Except for one thing,” corrected the deviant double agent, “They were dealing with Deep Knight.”

“Who is Deep Knight,” the chess-playing sociopath sneered, “compared with Kronsteen?”

“Exactly. What have you to say to that, Number 3?” Blofeld asked rhetorically, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. “Deep Knight is still alive and the Lektor is not yet in our possession. I've negotiated with the Russians for its return; we've agreed on a price. And SPECTRE ALWAYS delivers what it promises. Our entire organization survives upon the keeping of those promises...” He turned to Klebb. “I warned you, we do NOT tolerate failure, Number 3. You know the penalty.”

Rosa Klebb replied numbly, expecting at the very least to be devoured by piranha fish or golden grotto sharks. “Yes, Number 2.”

“Our rules are very simple, if you fail...” Blofeld motioned to a man with another toe blade identical to Klebb’s (same shoe style too, a brown loafer), who kicked Kronsteen with the poisoned point right in the nuts. He slowly collapsed to the floor as the toxin did its hideous work, wisps of smoke coming from his crotch.

“Ten seconds. Damn, they really did invent a faster-working venom. Too bad I had them eliminated for incompetence. Number 3!”

Rosa Klebb, gratified to be alive but still wondering what body function “Number 3” referred to and if they were snickering about it behind her back, snapped to attention and responded, “Yes, sir!”

“I do not wish to have to tell the Russians that there will be another delay.”

“There will be no delay, Number 2. There's still time for number 2, er, I mean, for us to do a number 2 without delay, er, do IT and a Number 2, er ...”

Leaving Colonel Klebb where she stood, stumbling over a seriously-poor choice of words, the camera suddenly shifted back to my getaway boat. Seeing this, I put on the captain’s hat, pulled down my pants, and braced for action. Tiana, disoriented from the intensity of the pleasure she got just being near me, asked, ”Which way are we going?”

“The shortest route, which is between those two mountains, and straight along the coast. Of course it would work better if there wasn’t dry land blocking that way, but no one said this trip was going to be easy…” It was then I noticed the boats coming up fast on our stern, the one in the lead having a man, also with a flashy captain’s hat but with his pants pulled up, standing on its deck speaking into a bullhorn.

“Ahoy, Agent Knight!” he shouted, “Heave to, heave to!”

Well, if anyone was going to do any heaving, it was going to be him not me. I had taken Dramamine, and had one of those new-age wrist bands that presses on an anti-nausea pressure point or something. Anyway, it works, but our pursuer was apparently not convinced.

“You're trapped, Agent Knight. You cannot escape!” Not knowing how to intimidate a man like me who laughs at danger, he decided to escalate the tension. This only added to my mirth, and I chuckled as I listened to him bark sonically-distorted commands through the bullhorn.

“Rifle grenade, prepare to fire! … Give them a warning shot. … Forward machine gun, fire! ... You're firing too close. … SPECTRE Red, SPECTRE Green, you're firing too close!” The man with the bullhorn started waving his non-bullhorn-holding hand up and down frantically, “You're trying to stop them, not to sink them! The most important thing is we not damage the Lektor! You are all expendable, but IT IS NOT!”

The henchmen on the other boats, SPECTRE Green and Red, as well as his own, stopped firing and looked at him with incredulity. It seemed foolhardy to not shoot at me or my boat, since I was obviously aiming directly at them and usually hitting my mark. Suddenly, as if all coming to the same decision at once, they turned and started shooting the guy with the bullhorn. I not only applauded this development, it gave me time to dump a bevy of fuel-filled barrels astern, which I perforated with some well-placed gunshots. Taking a Very pistol, which civilized people call a flare gun, I set the spreading fuel afire, roasting and toasting my remaining pursuers like marshmallows who gotten too close to the flames. Their horrifying screams filled the air and pierced my fragile psyche like a knife. I’m sure they annoyed Tiana too. I set the controls to “autopilot,” and cracked open the champagne. Nothing like alcohol to unwind after a long and stressful day at work!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 6 – The Dark Web

Firmly ensconced in the bridal suit in the Holiday Inn facing Piazza San Marco (St. Mark’s Square to normal people), I opened the Lektor and examined it. It seemed funny that so many men had died over such a deceptively simple device. It looked like a notebook, but could be opened from one side to reveal a TV screen and keys arranged like a typewriter. You turned it on, waited for it to “boot up” with this annoying arrow going around and around, then using a rather clumsy touch pad muscled your way into the World Wide Web. Oh, by the way, did I mention the “without leaving footprints or traces of any kind” part? I decided to kick the tires and take it out for a spin.

I had an embarrassing digital photo showing two powerful politicians having sex with sheep at a ranch out west (don’t ask how I got it, I start sneezing just thinking about it), which I downloaded into the machine. Then, using dropdown menus, I photo-shopped out the sheep’s faces and replaced them with those of Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus. Wanting a less-rural setting (to avoid any cultural empathy), I made it appear they were at a street café in Paris instead of sagebrush-covered hills. Then I put it onto Facebook, and through them hundreds of thousands of Americans’ smartphones, ready to be viewed while they were having that first cup of coffee in the morning. And no one can trace where it came from. Am I evil or what?

I was so engrossed in my work that I failed to notice an ugly maid who was aimlessly dusting the room. But a keen sixth sense kicked in when I noticed the look of horror on Tiana’s face, a look that could only be from the memory of a physical encounter so distasteful it could only be with another woman. And what woman would have had the power to force her into such a disgusting act? Colonel Rosa Klebb, that’s who!

Patting myself on my own back for being so clever, I turned and confronted the feather-duster-wielding fiend. “Number 3, I presume, or should I say Rosa Klebb, formally HR Manager at SMERSH, now a double agent for SPECTRE! By the way, just so you know before you die, ‘number 3’ is urban slang for boogers and snot!”

Instead of confirming my brilliant deduction, the ugly maid lashed out at me with her unusually-small hands, going for my naughty bits. But I was too fast for her, and besides, I had taken the precaution of returning to Kevlar boxers, briefs no longer being necessary for the story line. We sparred for a while, using chairs, her vacuum cleaner, and the small, fold-out ironing board in the closet. Finally I tired of toying with this todger-dodger, and looked towards Tiana again to make sure she would be watching my bloody coup de grâce. Women like that sort of thing, you know. They say they don’t, but it gets them unbelievably… Suddenly, Tiana interrupted my train of thought when I noticed she was motioning frantically and screaming, “That’s not Colonel Klebb!”

Looking more closely, my keen eyes locked onto her golden-orange hair. It wasn’t Rosa Klebb after all, it was President Trump! Funny that I hadn’t noticed earlier, I mean, the hair color and style are kind of a dead giveaway. But that didn’t matter now, I had to keep The Donald away from The Lektor, or Illuminati-fixed elections would go the way of the skateboard! Still, it might be a bad move to kill him, being out of the loop in Turkey for a few days I had no idea if his and Satan’s friendship was “on” or “off” and you know how the Big Guy is about losing his few friends.

Seeing my indecision, he grabbed for the Lektor, but his small hands and a well-placed banana peel foiled him once more! As he slipped, tripped and tumbled his way into becoming a lump on the floor, I threw a rug over him. Quickly, my hands moving like fire, I replaced the Lektor with an Etch-A-Sketch Tiana and I had been drawing penises on during breakfast (they were hilariously funny). I let the cross-dressing POTUS have a clear path to the door as he finally found his way out from under the rug, and scooping up the Etch-A-Sketch as I had hoped, he disappeared in a flash from the hotel room. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone run away as fast as he did before or since, it was truly amazing. Too bad political enemies would call it “fleeing in fear” which could look weak, especially with him in the French maid’s uniform, or he could use it to show the voting public his fitness and stamina. The adversarial atmosphere around Washington these days really burns me up.

I knew Tiana had been shocked by all this violence, so I added a little levity by saying, “He got his kicks.” It was out of my mouth before I realized I was getting way ahead of the actual plot. She looked at me funny, so I offered to sooth her nerves with some sexual healing, but she stopped me and confessed. She hadn’t been doing this because she was actually crazy for me, or a sense of duty to Mother Russia, but for Rosa Klebb - with whom she had fallen hopelessly in love! It turned out that the depraved commie Colonel could fulfill economic and carnal needs that we heterosexual capitalists could not. Sure, I was disappointed, but since I was going to either cut her loose or have her killed soon anyway, I graciously wished her the best of luck. Finding the Colonel would be hard, she was likely hiding in the deepest, darkest hole she could find after her failure at scuttling us at sea. Hiding from the wrath of Number 2 of course, which, like a turd hanging over her head, could fall at any moment. I gave Tiana a twenty for cab fare, and like a ship meeting an iceberg and then sinking, she passed out of my life and into the life of another. Oh well, there were plenty of other fish in the sea, and I still had the Lektor! Still, she had one final question, and I one final favor, to ask.

“One more thing, in that first scene when you kill the guy in the mask that looked like you, why was that? Some sort of allegory to suicide? Because if it is, I just don’t get it, or how it relates to this adventure.”

“Simple,” I replied, crushing my soft hand in hers, “It represented letting go of my Ego to more perfectly express my Id, and you’ve gotta admit I “get my Id on” in my adventures. Really “Id them up” as the kids today say. You, and a trail of waitresses, lady customs inspectors, not to forget supermodels, should be thankful that my Id was, and to this day remains, so unbelievably dominant. And, if you have time, I would appreciate a good review on Trip Advisor.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 7 – For Your Eyes Only

I only made it to Greece before Blofeld caught up with me. You might ask, why did I go from Venice to Greece since it was in the wrong direction? The Illuminati Travel Office, that’s why. Luckily, I had a friend there from my smuggling days, and we had plenty of catching up to do. This involved both heavy Ouzo drinking (filthy stuff, haven’t they discovered beer yet?) and going to visit an obscure and isolated port where my friend was bringing in raw opium hidden in huge rolls of wrapping paper. How this works is beyond me, it seems like incompatible packaging, but I supposed that’s the genius of this method. I would tell you more so you could try it at home, but I didn’t get to see them because Blofeld’s SPECTRE minions jumped us as we were passing the Starbucks window at the end of a commercially-developed pier.

Never let it be said that Deep Knight doesn’t know how to fight for what’s his! I dished it out, but also took it, my Uzi spitting out a river of hot lead and instant death. My friend had lent me one modified to take elephant-gun cartridges (H&H .700 Nitro Express), which gave the little machine pistol quite a kick. The battle was long and hard fought, but Ouzo and Uzis are a wicked mix, and in the end victory was ours! Unfortunately, I had left the Lektor in a locker at the airport, and when we returned it had been broken into and the hacking machine was gone! Blofeld once again! His antics were really starting to chap my hide!

Luckily, we were able to trace his movements from the airport to a small-but-tidy apartment on the Greek island of Lesbos. Lesbosians are known for cleanliness and we found Blofeld had “gone native” and cleaned out everything, except a talking parrot! Surmising that the mimicking bird had overheard their plans, we used a series of mind-altering drugs and tortures to sweat it out of him. You bet “Polly wanted a cracker” after he finally broke! Blofeld and his entourage were hiding out at nearby Saint Cyril’s Monastery, the most secure site in the Eastern Orthodox world! The only access was by a basket that hung from rope and was pulled up by a winch, that is, other than a 300 foot sheer cliff face! And, having left my jet pack on the set of Thunderball, the later was my only way up.

Deep Knight doesn’t know the word “fear,” except when it comes to heights. Still, it was my adventure, and my ass if I couldn’t recover the Lektor, so up I went. Luckily, I had a rope above me (don’t ask me how), with which to scurry up the overhung slope. But this rope was a mixed blessing, especially when a guard at the top of the cliff found it and started to climb down to remove the “pins” that somehow were holding my safety line in place. Once again you’ll have to just trust me about them being there even though it seems most unlikely. Since I was hanging a fatal distance above the ground, these developments started to concern me, and I was just about to take out my cellphone and see if I could call for a skyhook, when…

A pair of vaguely familiar faces popped out a window in the Howard Johnson’s high-rise hotel across from the cliff I was climbing (St. Cyril’s is a BIG tourist attraction, as is the whole island, but for some reason its visitors are almost all women). I squinted my eyes to focus them better, and recognized Tiana Romanova and Rosa Klebb! Both were beaming and obviously happy, which when Klebb did it was kind of creepy. The older lady was holding a shoe, and from the way it stuck into the guard’s chest after she threw it at him, I knew it was her poison-tipped penny loafer! And I finally got to say that “he got his kicks” as his body plunged to the ground. This was acceptable since there were no suitable “shoe throwing” witticisms, and I darted up the remaining part of the cliff to the safety of the enemy’s stronghold.

Securing the basket and the winch, I brought the Slice Girls up to join me, along with a few Greek smugglers who were more than a bit attracted to the homicidal honeys and wanted to hang out with them. For some reason they didn’t go for the safer tourist babes, but to each his own. The resulting fight was fierce yet comic, the cliff edge and long drop providing lots of opportunities for gags. For example, do you know that really-old people often bounce when they hit? It finally came down to just Blofeld and me, mano y mano, serious psycho vs. fun-loving swinger. Not only had he kind of pissed me off by trying to kill me, I owed his demise to Tiana and Rosa to insure their safety. If you knew Deep Knight you would know that even though I didn’t approve of their lesbian lifestyle, theirs was a debt of honor that I would honor. I thought it would be easy, but for some reason Blofled was no-longer wheelchair bound, which by strict tournament rules is cheating. He was holding the Lektor in a death grip when I finally bested him, cleverly positioning this act so that when I seized the code machine and hit him with the cattle prod, he fell a clean 300 feet to his death, along with his cat. And even though he wasn’t really that old, he bounced! Perhaps it had something to do with his iconic bald head.

I heard the helicopter blades behind me, and thought it was Satan coming to give me a lift home in a NWO whirlybird. But I suddenly realized in horror that it was Marine One, the personal shuttle aircraft of President Trump! And there was The Orange Eminence himself, looking out the window with that smirk he gets when he has gas. It appeared bad for your hero, that is to say me, but then again I had more than one trick up my sleeve, and the fat lady hadn’t sung yet!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 8 – For Your Employer Only

Waiting for a deus ex machina, a hope unlooked for, Deep smiled as he heard another set of chopper blades. But it was a “flying tank” Mi-24 Hind attack helicopter, dark green with a large red star, not all black like the Illuminati ships. To add to his consternation, he had fallen back into narrating in the third person again, a problem I could fix midsentence here and now. In the Helicopter was my old friend Putin, pissed as all hell at my having stolen his country’s Lektor, anxious both to get it back, and for a piece of my hide.

Trump started the trash talk first. “That touch pad computer you let me take was interesting, and Melania and I had a good laugh over those drawings, funny, so funny, but it wasn’t the Lektor. I won’t tell you what I’m going to do, that would signal our enemies, but it’s gonna hurt bigly, believe me, yes, believe me. So you better give it to me, right now, or ‘You’re Fired!’”

Putin responded angrily before I could open my mouth. “Lektor is property of Union of Soviet Social… Russian Republic. Stolen by queer lady Colonel for bald guy with cat and must being returned to us! If you give to Trump, I have helicopter gun open fire. Do not test resolve of KGB, er, our democratically-elected government, Agent Knight.”

“I don’t know about it belonging to the Russians,” responded President Trump, ending the phrase with a sniffing noise, “It could be owned by some guy sitting on their bed who weighs 400 pounds, OK?”

Luckily, a third helicopter joined us, just in time to block me from a crossfire of wrath. I breathed even easier when I recognized the markings, or lack of them, as meaning it was an Imperial Illuminati Black Helicopter! Then I saw that Satan was not only on board, but in the pilot’s seat at the stick! Which explains why the aircraft tipped over when he tried to land between the others, sheering off its rotor blades and crumpling. One of the blades missed me by mere inches, although I still got drenched in blood by the back-spray from my Greek smuggler friend. Stunned, yet not that different than normal, Satan extracted himself from the wreckage, and I braced myself for a battle of the titans!

Satan, a big talker when it comes to going toe to toe with the enemy, folded like a cheap suit when push came to shove. He later came up with the alibi that he was concerned about my safety, but at the time it was obvious from the spreading stain on his pants and the puddle at his feet what the true story was. This left it to me, and as both of the remaining contestants leveled their respective helicopter’s bevy of weapons at each other, I came to a snap decision. Holding the Lektor above my head, I threw it away like an old lover, over the nearby cliff. It shattered in a million pieces as it hit the ground 300 feet below, in slow motion, to the delight of the many female onlookers at the Howard Johnson’s.

I turned to Vladimir and said, “That's detente, comrade; You don't have it, I don't have it, and there’s no question the orange-haired guy never even came close to having it.”

President Putin laughed, turned and got back into his helicopter. At least it sounded like a laugh, with Vladimir you’re never sure. President Trump was much less gracious, calling me a “looser” and my boss “Crooked Satan” before he left in a huff.

“You fool!” said Satan to me critically after they were out of sight, “You should have let me negotiate longer. I’m a great deal maker, I make the best deals, not Trump, and I’m sure I could have at least gotten one third custody of the Lektor with holidays and at least one day on the weekends, but now we have nothing! Zilch, bupkis, diddly squat…”

I ignored The Evil One’s whining and complaining and reached into my pants. Grabbing firmly, I pulled it all the way out and lifted it for everyone to see. Satan’s expression changed from a frown to a smile, and I knew I had earned my salary for that week. I’m talking about the Lektor, of course (what did I say earlier about getting that mind out of the gutter?).

“But how did you do that? When did you have time? How in the world could you have fit it there without it being noticed?” The questions flew like confetti made from hanging chads, but a gentleman has to have more than one secret if he is to remain mysterious, so I just smiled. Not that Satan actually cared, he was too busy hugging and kissing the Lektor (despite its smell, summer rock climbing can cause you to work up a real sweat) to notice my lack of response. He did, however, let me know that he had been thinking of me.

“We won’t give this to those idiots at MI6,” he observed, “no matter what I promised them in an earlier chapter. It won’t be easy, but you can stop by on your way home and explain it to them.” Ah yes, The Prince of Darkness, the gift that keeps on giving.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCjc_OllHdE

From Russia With Love
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 9 – M

After stops in Lomé Togo, Los Angeles California, and Louisville Kentucky, I finally got the Illuminati Travel Office to successfully fly me to London, which I believe was the only remaining city starting with “LO” that had a major international airport. Their efficiency amazes me. I was almost wiped out from jet lag as I drug my sorry ass through the chilly winter’s fog to MI6 to give some cock and bull story to M and the boys. But what I found certainly wasn’t “the boys.”

In my absence, Hillary had successfully replaced the old, stodgy “M” with a woman of the same name! Say what you will about her, Hillary is spy savvy enough to have listening devices in high-security installations all over the world. She no doubt knew where those damaging leaks were coming from, and took her sweet revenge. I just hope she wasn’t listening when I was last here, I perhaps may have slightly embellished some of my stories about her just a bit, you know, like substituting a different species in here or there to spice them up. I decided to worry about that later, especially since I realized that I was alone in an office with a sexually-frustrated femme fatale (all British ladies are, it’s part of their culture), and you and I both know where such plot devices have tended to stray in the past. I’m the first to admit it hasn’t always been pretty.

I’m ashamed to say that we were both right. Even though she kind of looked like a younger Judi Dench (some say Peter Lorre, contemplating a crime), she was the kind of she-wolf who could make a man like me regret my reputation. After all, who am I to be the unwitting plaything of a whip-wielding wildcat known to her underlings as the “Evil Queen of Numbers?” The “Year of the Cat” my ass, more like the cat of nine tails! But never let it be said I know how to throw in the towel; despite the obstacles and pain I rose to the occasion and kept up the Illuminati’s end of the bargain. And, yes, every step of the way I did it “by the numbers,” starting with first base. The new M even gave me a “double O” designation as my “safe word,” although subsequent events showed that she misunderstood this basic concept. I must have done OK, because afterwards she awarded me an M.B.E (Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, the same one the Beatles got). Sure she was upset that MI6 wasn’t getting the Lektor and Satan was, and even made some noise about burning down Hell, like they did the White House in the War of 1812! But M worked her frustrations out on me while whistling “In the Hall of the Mountain King” instead. Ouch!

My getting-more-serious-by-the-hour jet lag, the effect of the flogging, and the adrenochrome injections she used to revive me, made a layover in London imperative. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth II didn’t find out I was in town, or I would have never gotten any sleep. A good friend of The Pindars from back on the Reptilian home planet, like them she’ll use any excuse to party in ways that make rock and roll bands look restrained. I did, however, get a chance to visit the British Museum before my flight out (which I booked myself using my own money, enough was enough). There, amongst the Elgin Marbles, I did what the British had done to the Parthenon in the early nineteenth century to several prominent members of Parliament. As a gentleman and American I can’t say who, but I do remember they were all sex-kitten Tories if that helps. I believe the museum and government officially consider it “conservation,” although others, including I hope the girls, have a different opinion. It was a “by chance,” “spur of the moment,” “afternoon delight” thing, and as you know, there’s nothing like the classics for inspiration. As we say in the Illuminati, “O sibili si ergo, fortibus es in ero. O nobili, demis trux, si husinem, causen dux.” (1)

Vladimir is so happy-go-lucky he doesn’t know how to hold a grudge, except when it comes to journalists and the ladies in Pussy Riot, so we weathered that storm. Hillary must not have been listening when I was at MI6 earlier (either that or she thought my embellishments only added to her reputation), and I dodged that bullet too. Tiana and Rosa got married and run a vegan juice bar in Greenwich Village (if you stop by, tell them “Deep sent you”). Satan is clueless as usual, but as long as The Prince of Darkness is happy spreading rumors (or rumours in the UK) and photo-shopped pictures, it’s all good. The only loose end was President Trump, which isn't a big surprise. The poor guy just can’t seem to catch a break when it comes to my writings. He had worked really hard to get Marine One to Greece (they had to haul it over by ship, didn’t have the range to fly across the Atlantic) and leaving with nothing he felt cheated. Well, welcome to the real world of fiction, buster. Sure it feels OK to win, but you end up losing sometimes too, and have to learn to take BOTH with grace and style. You notice I said “you” and not “me,” after all, I am Deep Knight, master of time and space, initiate into The School of Mysteries, and as the author, able to make things end up the way I like ‘em.

So when you see strange fake-news stories in the future, ones that make you scratch your head and go “Wha?” think of me and all the crap I had to go through to keep our secret society both in the game and independent, accountable only to Satan, The Reptilian Overlords, The Queen, The Five Families, The Council of The Twelve, The Knights Templar, The Masons, The Black Pope, Slenderman, and don’t forget over 14 million soul-selling stockholders. Well, perhaps “only” wasn’t the right word to use there, but you get the idea. This story is also a testament to my dedication (no snickering). Neither blistering heat nor snow nor dark of night kept me from my appointed rounds, and what business of yours is it if a few of those rounds involved impossibly-large groups of willing supermodels? Leave me alone and let me end this damn adventure before I go postal on you.

The End

Footnote

(1) Ovid, Canis Latinicus, ed. T.E. Weenie, E. Gadds, W.H.D. Ahroo, H.S. Thompson, E.H. Warmingdung, trans. Sir James George Ringo (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), IV.204-205.
“O see Billy
see her go,
forty busses
in a row.
O no Billy,
them is trucks,
see who’s in ‘em,
cows and ducks.”

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Prologue – Crotchless Tiger, Hidden Dragon

It was a bad morning after an even-worse night. Not my first rodeo with Satan and his old frat brothers, but easily the one that resulted in the most fractures, cuts and bruises. I never knew you could buy those huge barrels you see during brewery tours, or that such a modest-sized group could drain one so fast. Someone proposed this drinking game where we watched one the President’s rallies and had to empty our cups every time that … but let’s not get into politics. It was the kind of party where you stumble into the bathroom to relieve your bladder, and the open toilet bowl talks to you, saying, “After they break out the hot flaming Jägermeister shots, you will fall to your knees and worship me, it is your destiny.” And the false porcelain idol was right, if there’s one thing that I know is true, when you’re in a group of drunken men and one does something stupid, we all do it.

But I had a meeting that would affect the fate of the world for decades to come, so I drug myself out of my sickbed and made it into work, munching down Tylenols as if they were peanuts. I’m talking about the Deep State taking off the gloves and openly declaring secret war on the legitimate government. A big step, a decision that would tolerate no muddled thinking, but still one that would require a little “hair of the dog” if my throbbing head was going to get through it. I couldn’t face that Germanic “herbal liquor” this morning or probably ever again, so I had a couple quick shots of sloe gin instead.

Baron Waldorf “Waldo” Astoria DuPont Kennedy Li Onassis Rockefeller Rothschild, Grand Master of The Council of The Twelve, opened the meeting by passing me a wastebasket “just in case.” Still looking a little green, I guess. Then Salvatore “Sonny” Bonanno Colombo Gambino Genovese Lucchese Jr., representative from The Five Families, rose to speak.

“Your solutions are not violent enough for La Costa Nostra,” he growled in an overly-husky Glasgow accent, “we advise more direct action! UN sanctions, embargos, blockades, and a sternly-worded letter is what we would do if we were ‘going to the mattresses.’”

Waldo twisted his red & white striped knit hat around in his fingers in thought, “Going to the mattresses is always a dicey decision, especially when you’re saddled with Deep Knight. Sooner or later anything that can be used for a bed draws a line of supermodels, allowing the enemy to home right in on us. There has to be another way.”

I was insulted, he knew I was married and faithful, and yet still knew the real me too well. I would have had a Slice Girl do a quick trim job on him, one that would leave the rest of the ruling families wondering “where’s Waldo?” But, shifting my thinking from revenge to problem solving, I proposed a compromise.

“I suggest we make a snap decision here today, and then just wing it. Nothing ever goes according to our plans, so why go through all the time and boredom making them? Let’s just go kick some butts, take names, and refill the swamp. Who’s with me?” One minor demon and that blond guy from Marketing raised his hand, but nobody else even gave me an encouraging look. Instead, I looked at a table of faces that could curdle milk.

“That was OK once upon a time, but we need to apply new thinking in business management to evil, and especially to the Deep State,” Waldo explained, contemptuously. “Your ways are old and outdated. Instead, I demand we have a computer with near-human intelligence and a funny voice run this operation instead of so-called ‘Agent Knight.’”

In putting “scare quotes” around my name, by ancient Illuminati law and custom he was calling me out. But, with him being the head of The Council of The Twelve, I couldn’t just kill him here and now. That would both be rude, and make the meeting run too long. I mean, a lot of people here had meetings scheduled cheek-to-jowl, and it always is a good rule to give your colleagues the respect you would like them to give to you. So, I pushed a hidden button under the table and listened to the hissing release of knock-out gas as an oxygen mask dropped down to me, and only me, much like they claim they’ll do on an airline when you lose cabin pressure.

I called the Slice Girls and we posed the anesthetized “review committee” in embarrassing intimate scenes that we could use for blackmail later. For example, Waldo with a middle aged woman in modest “footie” pajamas “doing it” in the missionary position. Not only would the revelation of such mainstream behavior be a stain on his reputation forever, people would always snicker when they saw where we put his iconic red & white striped knit hat. Each unspeakable act was uniquely designed for the individuals being set up, and we didn’t ignore politics. Americans were getting screwed by the Russians, the Russians by the Germans, and the Germans by the French. Oh yeah, and the French were indiscriminately used as “filler” everywhere else, with overdubbed “Pepé Le Pew” accents. Forever after putty in my hands, the reconvened and disheveled oversight committee gave their unanimous approval to my non-plan.

I rubbed my hands together with evil glee. I had been itching to mix it up with the current administration ever since “The Donald” refused to give me a believable explanation as to why he had shown up in my office wearing lingerie during the Confefé Incident. You gotta admit that this was strange, even by Illuminati standards. Then there was the on-again off-again relationship he had with Satan, which left the rest of us always wondering which way was up. Literally thousands of our valued employees were besides themselves with anger over working overtime on “must have now” conspiracies only to have them canceled at the last minute because we were no longer going to blow up the White House or release anthrax. It was hurting morale, and if it didn’t change we would soon start losing our best employees to violent urban gangs and Wall Street banks. So rather than wait for Satan to grow some backbone (even though you can see his oversized vertebrae clearly under his scarlet skin when he’s shirtless during sacrifices), I decided to seize the bull by the balls and count them before they’re hatched. Call that reckless if you dare, but it was time to choose bold action over common sense!

I delivered a copy of my, er, our “resolution” to The Prince of Darkness personally, so I would be able to confuse him myself if he had any questions. Instead, he was in a good mood, happily whistling Disney show tunes. I shrunk back in horror when he told me why, in seven little words that would forever afterwards make my testicles start to shutter, “My mom is coming for another visit.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter One – Like Married Dear Old Dad

I tried to keep my composure and not show panic at this news, but that’s damn hard to do when you faint and keel over. Still, Satan is clueless enough that giving him a lame excuse about serious security concerns and a minor case of stomach flu satisfied his curiosity. I think he was also genuinely touched that I cared for his family, something that didn’t happen when the care was for one of his daughters. Still, I was steamed. Wasn’t the plan to send her back home to his sister’s place and keep her there through eternity? I might have this wrong, but it seemed that she was here putting my head on the block by pulling down my pants less than a month ago. A bit sooner than a normal person would expect for “eternity,” don’t you think? It turns out that unresolved family issues and Christmas are a bad mixture that can jump up and bite you in the ass, and that ass was not only The Evil One, but if I wasn’t careful, liable to be me too.

I later learned that the Prince of Darkness could no more control his sister than manage the New World Order, and their mother’s emotional/erotic awakening was making her as big a problem in the old country as she had been here. It’s not like the Scarlet Whore of Babylon has any right to complain given her history, but that’s exactly it! Imagine having to stay home with an aging parent and her gentleman friends to “keep a lid on it” instead of going out and getting your freak on yourself. A sure recipe for family squabbles.

I immediately came up with a plan to keep my bootie from becoming a target-rich environment. First of all, I needed to convince Satan that his mother was in danger from whoever was behind her randy behavior last time. No problem there, the man is a classic paranoiac. Then, get him to think that using two very-beefy twin brothers as her security detail was his idea. They were named Heckle and Hyde (their other twin, Jeckle, having sacrificed himself selflessly when he discovered twins were limited to two in number) and had both been stand-ins for “Bane” in that Batman movie. Years of steroid use had made them impotent, so I knew that they would probably be safe from mom’s more salacious urges, and if not have the brawn to fight her off. The two of them together, I mean, I don’t know if there’s a single man alive who could. The other benefit was they were totally, unquestionably, loyal to me, and would gladly sacrifice themselves to keep the old bag away from my pants. I had made their friendship by offering to get them those steroids, and then mixing some dangerous dehydrated witches brews and zombie powders into them to seal the deal. Ever since they have been putty in my hands, and great for maintaining order at our holiday parties. You’d be surprised how many major world leaders need to be thrown out on their behinds when they get a snoot full. The Prince of Darkness agreed and let me brief them on their priorities: #1 Keep that @#$! away from me; #2 Don’t let Satan know about rule #1 or the reason behind it; and #3 Play bodyguard to his bad mama-jama to make Satan think that’s what their real job is. There was no need to panic, and no crisis that can’t be solved by underhanded advanced planning.

You’ll notice I didn’t tell them to keep Satan’s mom from chasing whatever other man caught her fancy. Let the fools get used, discarded, and then reduced by flames to ashes by her vengeful son. Been there, done that, never want to do it again, but what do I care about innocent others? Let them appear to “prove” my “the forces of good targeting her to get to her son” theory, and also calm the fury of her libido “just in case.” When life and death are at stake, I don’t believe in tempting fate.

Now to apply that same abstract-yet-critical thinking to The Deep State Civil War. If we applied pressure, the easiest way to release that pressure would be to poke a hole in their security, creating a leak. And people in government are big on “easiest,” believe me. The former head of the FBI owed me a big favor for disposing of those bodies (it turns out I had a desperate need of them, but didn’t tell him at the time), so I had a word with him. He was more than happy to help, having had a special relationship with you-know-who and being hip on revenge for you-know-what. It’s good to have allies who are blinded with fury in your corner.

Now it was just a matter of waiting patiently to get leaked on. I settled in, knowing I would realize from experience when that warm stream from even a single hole splashed at my feet. In fact, even if I had never had this done before, it would be hard to miss. But miss it I did, and as the day wore I on I realized with a start that all was in vain if there was nothing to leak because the administration was so squeaky clean that the cupboard was bare and the bladder dry. Either that or since the inauguration they had been piling up puncture-proof barricades like squirrels stashing nuts. No offense, but being so long in Washington, you learn the ropes.

A show of force was in order, and we picked an example that would make others stand down and take notice. I mean of course Senator Rand “Randy Boy” Paul, attacked by a next door neighbor easily put under mind control using nearby cell phone towers. But he was too tough a nut to crack, being named after Ayn Rand, an even tougher nut. I know she coined the word "Objectivism" and all, but man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute, just didn’t do it for her when it came to the bedroom. A lot of Russian girls are like that, they say this was the REAL reason behind the October Revolution. As anyone whose ever been to Whole Foods knows, there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. But enough politics, I was zero for two on the day, and needed to get some action going before the week was out.

Kim Jong Double Un raised his ugly (literally) head for a second or two, but I needed something that would be in a language the American People could understand. And what could be dirtier than a fight with Theresa “The Crusher” May? Former professional wrestler and current Prime Minister of the UK (which for some reason is what those stupid English insist on calling Great Britain), she may have been putty in the hands of the right man, but in public she was a steel rod ready to be shoved up somebody’s backside. And that somebody was named Donald Trump.

I sent the President a phony video and dared him to re-tweet it. A video showing the Prime Minister and Islamic jihadists dressed in leather bondage apparel, playing slap and tickle. I chortled in joy thinking how she would politely let our President know that he was treading on rather sensitive toes and should respectfully reconsider. It would be like waving a red flag in front of a bull! Also imagine how he would like being told what to do by a woman who’s not only female, but ten years younger. The only wrinkle was the whole thing about “elites,” to the base anyone with a cultured English accent is at the top of that heap. So even though she led the USA’s staunchest ally, she could easily become the base’s boogieman if I didn’t manage this exactly right.

You don’t get anywhere in life by not taking stupid, ill-advised chances, so I threw fate’s dice as I was crossing the Rubicon which itself crossed the path of a black cat and went under a ladder.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Two – Big, Bad & Deep

I haven’t told you about the arrival of Satan’s mother. I wasn’t trying to keep you in the dark, but being in denial about her visit is a good for me, and the number one way I’ve been keeping down my stress and blood pressure. Also, to tell you the absolute truth, I have been making 100% certain that I’m not anywhere close to anyplace she might be. Prevention is usually much easier than a cure, and this case was no exception.

This doesn’t mean I didn’t know when she got here. Everyone did, especially since it caused an evacuation of our lower levels due to an earthquake scare. I’m not going to exaggerate and tell you this was due to the very bedrock itself rejecting her arrival. That would be silly. It was when Satan first left her alone with his wife, Gladys. I felt the shaking myself and ducked under my desk, but in the end the only damage was to a few souvenirs from earlier cases that fell off the display shelves. That is, if you don’t count the tapestry that got cut by the flying glass shards from the oversized sex toy I used to get a confession in the “Rogue Rosicrucian Affair.” I knew there was no love lost between Gladys and her mother-in-law, but obviously there was something going on I was unaware of. Anyway, even if no details were leaked (yet, just let me pour a few drinks into Gladys at the Xmas party and we’ll see), everybody and his dog knew that something deadly serious was going on behind the scenes.

Satan showed up at our next meeting with poorly-hidden bruises on both sides of his face. Max Factor just doesn’t make anything with good coverage in his “shade” of scarlet red. From the bruising patterns I could tell than a taller and beefier person (Gladys) had worked on his right side, and a shorter, wirier pugilist (Mom) had done up the left. Or, more likely, he had just tried to get between them to break something up. I didn’t envy Satan at that moment (in fact, I never do), but better him than me.

But, believe it or not, Satan’s mother wasn’t my number one worry. By seizing the initiative, I had also set myself up for some serious criticism if my fiendish Deep State non-plan failed. And for all the other side’s much more massive failings, Trump was still in power and I hadn’t installed Mike “Satan’s Doormat” Pence in the highest office (that the public knows about) in the land. It’s not that he seemed to have nine lives and was immune things that would impeach your average man-on-the-street; it’s that Trump was doing it without The Evil One’s help. How is that even possible? I thought we had that market sewn up. And it wasn’t just concern about my career; his getting-away-with-stuff-I-couldn’t was really starting to frost my coconut.

I decided to use the dark arts, and I don’t mean “body Braille,” to put a dent in that armor. In fact, with the right spell, his armor would soon be putty in my hands! I decided to consult with my favorite vile and disgusting witch, Bellatrix Lestrange. She has both an office and boutique at Illuminati Headquarters (in the new retail spaces next to the expanded Food Court). I found her at the latter, putting up signage for a buy-one-get-one-free voodoo sale. She listened to my pitch, but her response wasn’t what I expected.

“Um, we sort of already put curses on him, er, protective ones,” she revealed, sheepishly. “We couldn’t help it, he offered us so much money, and you know that the Illuminati have cut our hours, which has also disqualified us for company-provided health care. The spells might have a few side effects, a tendency towards an orange tint, but they’re absolutely unbreakable. So, sorry, Deep. I know what you mean about him driving you crazy, but I’m not getting any younger and a girl has to look out for herself.”

“If everyone thought like that, the Infernal Regions would go to hell in a handbasket,” I countered, “What ever happened to evil being its own reward?” I could have gone on, but she liked good fight and if I mixed it up with her, the other witches would expect it too and I would never get any peace. So I tucked my tail between my legs (OK, so we did have more of a disagreement after all and she cast a tiny little spell, but it should wear off soon) and left. I was really steamed, so much so that one could even say I was upset, and was journeying to the place where logic no longer held sway over reason.

Call it venting my frustration, call it revenge, call it an infantile tantrum, I called forcing Mike Flynn to plead guilty to lying to the FBI “drawing a line in the metaphor.” Not that it didn’t get a laugh around work, I mean, who HASN’T lied to the FBI? Especially those of us who went to college in the 60’s and 70’s, when lying to the FBI was all the rage and you could smell its sickly-sweet odor in dormitories from Berkeley to Harvard. But in public we pretended it was deadly serious, serious enough to provoke a response from the President. Not that Flynn had THAT kind of relationship with Trump. I’ve known many Marine Corps Generals and relatively few of them were, um, intimate with sitting presidents. Instead they much preferred doing those things with the First Lady, at least during the last few administrations. No, their friendship was built on shared American values and memberships in the same thrill kill cults. And between Flynn and Trump that bond was tight enough to merit an immediate and overwhelming response, which was fine by me as I was tired of waiting around for a chance to write action scenes.

Why would I want this, you ask? And if you don’t ask, you should, because it didn’t make sense to me at first and I’m writing this. The answer is I’m using one of the oldest detecting techniques in literature and cinema: provoking someone to try and kill me, killing them instead, and finding who hired the killer through a matchbook, laundry mark, or other clue left on their body. Then, I use this crack in their foundation to force my way into their holy of holies, their pièce de résistance, in this case the Summer White House, Mar-a-Lago. Works every time, and avoids the drudgery of metal exercise. But had I known what would happen, I would have thought twice about not thinking.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Three – I’m Sorry, I Thought It Was an Ashtray

I phonied up another Tweet and sent it out at an ungodly hour to make it look authentic. Some anti-immigrant nonsense about maple syrup causing the black plague and building a northern wall, the details aren’t important. The fool doubled down when pressed about this, he Tweets so much he doesn’t remember half of them anyway. In fact, it worked so well it was scary. Sure, if I could do this “on demand,” then unlike pickled herring he would soon “be like putty in my hands.” But would that be too much power over putty for one man’s hands to have? And would that power in turn corrupt me, inviting me to take liberties with others’ lives? For example, if I desired an uncooperative woman, could I use this power to compel her to do salacious things against her will, in effect to “be, like, slutty in my hands?” Would this power in turn seduce me into becoming an egotistical monster, thoughtless, cruel, and forever ruining the lives of innocents? One could only hope.

But, even after this level of provocation, nobody tried to assassinate me. This went on for a week, perhaps not a new record, but an unusually long lull, you’ve got to admit. I was beside myself in concern, I was doing everything right and all my fiendish plans were working, but despite everything the man in the Oval Office simply ignored them, and they got lost in the din of newer news.

The other strange lull involved Satan’s mom. I kept in contact with Heckle and Hyde, of course, but after a few hiccups involving her disbelief in the powerful pair’s paucity of potency, things went smoothly. She started to like having “muscle” nearby to emphasize her opinion, especially when she went wandering around Washington DC. Trust me, you don’t want to get into a political or religious discussion with the demonic dowager, something certain Congress members have since learned the hard way. Most importantly, she wasn’t showing up at my home, in my office, or under the bed in the middle of the night. But why wasn't that making me happy? Sure, this was what I wanted, but it actually happening made me nervous. Things that are “too easy” are often like the greased velvet that hides the steel jaws of an alligator trap, fraught with danger. I was proven right after the fall of Rome, of course, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

What to do? Here I was, braced for destruction and homicide, ready to mix it up with the forces of "good," or at least "not-quite-so-evil." Instead, I was spending my time entrenching and sandbagging due to fear of The Grandmother of all Demons. It wasn’t just the psychological torture, I was just plain bored. I hadn’t killed anyone in many chapters, and my trigger finger was getting itchy. Sure I could buy a medicated lotion, but why rely on drugs when nature’s own remedy was handy and in 9 mm and 45 caliber? Finally, in frustration, I decided to construct a literary tableau of horror and butchery beyond anything I had written before. Unfortunately, these plans got rudely interrupted by The Prince of Darkness.

“May Day!” he screamed as a crude form of greeting, “Drop your clocks and grab your shocks, we’re under attack!”

I smiled the smile of one who both knew how to use a machete in the place it does the most good, and where that place was. After two lulls and one hiatus, I was primed for action and excessive bloodletting. It was then I heard the daunting news, it wasn’t the forces of "good," or even the forces of "alright," it was the entire security contingent of a high-end boutique in the Mazza-Gallerie. I would tell you which, but their willingness to pursue a shoplifter to the very mouth of Hell tells me I should probably avoid involving them any further. My wife says you can’t get out of their store for under $5,000, but apparently Satan’s mother found a way. I didn’t wait around to learn the details, I grabbed The Evil One and blurted out, “This is obviously a ruse, the real attack will come when we’ve let our perimeter get perforated. If they out-flank us and catch us with our panties in a bunch, we’re goners. I’ll double back and plug that hole, going alone so as to not tip our hand. Remember, it’s imperative you stay here in safety to lead the counter attack in case I fail. But if nothing beyond legal threats from those guards happens, you’ll know I made it through and victory is ours!”

Satan, eager for action as long as he didn’t get hurt, was overwhelmed by my strategic-sounding bullshit and bade me to return from the battle either carrying my shield, or being carried upon it. This last option was a bit too dramatic for my taste, but since this was all just an excuse to scurry far away from Satan’s mom, who cared? I gave him one of those Roman gladiator “we who are about to die” salutes, and split.

Perhaps this would be a good time to explain my latest transportation crisis. I had originally taken the Deep State job because it came with a parking spot, but that was across town from the New World Order Corporate Campus where Illuminati Headquarters is. And, from bitter experience I knew better than to use a cab or Uber-style service. Sure, my business brings me into contact with some of the lowest and vilest humans on the planet, and that’s just among my coworkers. People in the opposition are said to be even worse, although I’m usually too busy killing them to get to know them. But drivers of the various flavors of taxis that exist today out outdo them all, hands down. Given that evil is our business and only their hobby, that’s a pretty serious indictment.

So, I had HR assign an intern to my section, I arranged for a chauffer’s uniform, and the youngster drives me anywhere I want to go. Since I don’t have a parking spot near my “real” office, my intern simply keeps driving around the block, or uses a 2-hour limit metered space when one opens up (don’t laugh, it happened only last month, and on a weekday too). Sometimes the sly fox even intentionally causes a minor accident, jams nearby cell phone use, and insists the car can’t be moved until the police have completed the traffic investigation. I encourage this sort of out-of-the-box thinking, having a body shop take a few dings out of my bumpers is a whole lot cheaper than downtown parking.

So, fleeing the scene I sent a quick text message to my valued intern (I would tell you his-or-her name, but it escapes me at the moment) who with squealing tires picked me up at the back loading dock, near the Manufacturing Warehouse. I had made it out clean, and was patting myself on the back, when I noticed something was wrong. Then with a start I realized it was the driver’s perfume, a scent I had smelled before. And that smell was National Front in Paris, by Givenchy. There was only one man in the Washington who was man enough to wear that manly fragrance, Steve Bannon!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Four – Putty in My Hands

It turns out that I had neither been far from the President’s mind, nor from death, but at least one of his more-clever strategists knew I was more valuable alive. For one, without me the story pretty much fizzles out, and for another, I knew more than it might seem to those who read my stuff. Waiting until I got careless, and I'm not using that as a polite way of saying “pregnant,” they killed my intern, stuffed him-or-her into the trunk, and waited for the trap to be sprung. And I did the springing, foolishly trusting my instincts and the fail-safe interlocks and backup systems designed to prevent this. At least I think I put those in place, it’s been really hectic at work recently, and then there are the holiday parties.

“Good afternoon, Agent Knight,” smooth, suavely coiffured, and always impeccably-dressed Steve Bannon said, “I hope you weren’t going anywhere important, because we’re arranged for a little detour. You see, we’ve created this new super-secret security force to combat the Deep State, but we needed a crack in your foundation to force our way in. You, Agent Knight, have that crack. Talk now, or prepare to have it probed, and then caulked and plastered over!”

“I’ll never talk,” I confirmed, “I have too much blind loyalty to Satan, a wonderful guy and great boss to work for. Hansom too.”

“Then, torture it is! I’ve been looking forward to this since you Satanists aligned with liberals and then joined the feminist Islamists to start a Maoist insurgency with Mitt Romney!”

The guy was smarter than he looked. Sure, America is infested with Maoists, but we make sure they stay under the radar by acting normally. “Low key” is not only their motto, it’s become a way of life. Long ago we realized that if we went around carrying pictures of Chairman Mao we weren’t going to make it with anyone, anyhow.

The cauliflower-nosed consultant took me to the alt.RNC and when their goons had finished torturing me, (getting nothing, which means that sensitive information must have come from some other source), a woman came by with a clipboard. “If you wouldn’t mind, I have a short survey I would like to you to fill out, although I guess I can do the writing for you, given all your fingers are broken. First, on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being no pain, and 10 being unbearable, excruciating pain, how would you rate today’s pain?”

On one hand I wanted to tell her to “go screw,” but on the other I realized these guys were already upset enough with me, and if I was wise I would dial things back a bit. So I answered her stupid questions, giving a “7” for that first one. They were disappointed, but remember that I have a wider breadth of experience than your normal torture victim, and besides, hollow praise doesn’t help anyone learn. I could have pretended that due to the torment I was putty in their hands, but I had more respect for them than that. Call me sentimental, but I’ve been a lot of years in this business and it’s treated me well enough I don’t mind making some sacrifices for the common good.

As it turns out, this was a good call on my part. It may be hard for your garden-variety lothario to make letter and number answers to multiple-choice questions sound seductive, but few men have the tongue of Deep Knight. I had her pegged as a prissy Polly who had never really gotten dirty, so I emptied the soil from a few houseplants into a bathtub, added her and water, and with some manual mixing before long she was muddy in my hands. No longer nice and clean, she let go and got down and gritty, the potting mixture being somewhat sandy. Afterwards, sharing a cigarette, she betrayed the many binding blood oaths taken by campaign volunteers, and swore eternal allegiance to evil instead. Remember THAT the next time you open your stupid mouth to criticize my methods!

We left together, both dressed in red, white & blue “Uncle Sam on stilts” parade outfits we found in a storage closet. It says volumes about the RNC that this didn’t raise any eyebrows, or cause anyone to question our leaving. The stilts and long, baggy trousers were a huge benefit, they allowed room for me to stuff the sensitive documents we stole into hers, and a freedom of motion I haven’t felt in years in mine.

Those documents were the break I needed to break this case before Satan put a brake on my efforts! And you know the Pottery Barn rule, “You break it, you broke it.” With that spirit inspiring me, and an actual Trump supporter to help us translate the papers we stole, I could leave the leg work in others’ hands while I had my hands repaired with titanium pins and put into plaster casts. Not that kind of plaster cast, get your mind out of the gutter, although the ex-groupie nurse doing my hands did make the offer. But I had other concerns; the restrictions caused by my injuries would put a dent in crucial work, not to mention surfing the web for fetish porn sites.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Five – Keep Your Hands Where I Can Feel Them

After a good night’s sleep (not a single interruption to get up to pee or defend myself from some patriot trying to kill me), I had the casts removed and was as good as new. My latest abduction had cost me my car and driver, but Velna came to my rescue by taking the day off so she could shuttle me around. And it wasn’t only that Velna was a good driver, but she was also smart and handy with firearms. For example, instead of endlessly circling the block, she simply drove us to a commercial parking garage and stuck the barrel of her pistol in the attendant’s mouth in lieu of payment. Why don’t I think of these things? Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.

It was also Velna who first smelled the distinctive odor of marijuana as we entered the building. Even though DC has legalized its recreational use, the Illuminati and most NWO divisions have a strict zero-tolerance policy towards any drug use or possession (the only exception being drug smugglers, obviously). It turns out it was wafting up from Hell itself, which meant it must have started as one huge cloud of smoke to be able to overcome their burning brimstone’s sulfur reek. I admit that I was puzzled until I checked in with Heckle and Hyde. They were giggling and didn’t seem to hear half of what I said. In fact, in the middle one of them started humming the bass line from “Sunshine of your Love” really loud. Pressed, they confessed to being high, but insisted that it was from the secondhand smoke generated by Satan’s mom and this giant glass “bong” she bought at a dispensary they happened across while out “clubbing” the night before. Luckily, their steroid use was so egregious that I had much earlier arranged for a “clean urine” source for their mandatory weekly Illuminati pee tests, so their jobs were safe. Still “pot” was dangerous, and I counseled against its use and possible side effects, especially on top of ‘roid rage. I sent down a couple of gas masks.

I apologize for going off topic here, but the story of those gas masks is interesting and may be important later. I normally would have been worried about what the horny Hell-raiser would think when her bodyguards showed up in chemical warfare gear, but dealing with her was like Whac-A-Mole. I didn’t think, I just whacked. It turns out she liked the look, and went with it, “buying” them similar fashion accessories. You know, all manner of leather straps, belts and garters, oversized Bowie knives, bandoliers of bullets, jungle boots, and the like. And when I say “buy” I mean “steal;” at least now I know where Satan gets being so cheap from. If Forbes is to be believed, Satan is one of the world’s richest men, but try and get him to pay for lunch some time. Mom is even worse, and gets away with never paying anything by having both an “innocent forgetful old lady” routine and now-really-scary-looking Heckle and Hyde to fall back on when “Light Fingered Lil’” gets caught.

But all this gossip is keeping my readers from the news they were sitting on the edge of their seat waiting to overhear, the plans of the Anti-Deep-State Spy Synod, known informally as “Antidsss” (pronounced “ant-ee-DIZZZZZ”). Counterweight to Antifa, the Anti-Fascist Alliance, they are best described as being “anti-anti-Fascist” and not actually “Fascist.” Believe me there’s a big difference, although I’m not up enough on the politics to explain why to you. To us in the Deep State, the only thing about them we had to know was that they were poison. Especially after we examined the papers we stole more closely.

Among the documents was a black and white photo of a cargo ship, the Ning Po, out of Shanghai. It was immediately suspicious, I mean, who in the world had access to black and white photographic paper? Even more intriguing was a microdot my men frond on the letter attached to it. Enlarged it said in Japanese, “Photograph taken by female American tourist from coastal vessel. The woman has been liquidated as a routine precaution.”

“Can we see the photograph again?” said the girl I had rescued from the clutches of the RNC only the night before.

“Of course,” I responded suavely, handing her the print, “you only live twice.”

“So they killed an innocent tourist for taking this?” she mused, “Can you make it bigger?”

“Watch that potty mouth,” I countered, “and you obviously haven’t been traveling overseas with groups of obnoxious Americans recently. It’s not what it takes to get local peoples to murder Americans, it’s what it takes to stop them.”

Obviously disappointed (give me a break, my wife Velna was standing right next to me), and pouting, our turncoat newcomer spoke tersely to one of my department’s lackeys. “Check motor vessel Ning Po. Full details. All recent movements, and present whereabouts.”

Our guest was not only acting rudely, saying neither “please” nor “thank you” to the scum working beneath me, but due to “dirty deeds done with Deep” she was also a personal liability. When her usefulness ended, I would let Velna have the fun of killing her, which would not only protect me, but have a certain poetic justice. But that time was not now, and I made a mental note to erase those potting soil videos from both my phone and “the cloud.”

My people have typical government efficiency, so before the week was out we had our answer on that “Chinese” freighter, Ning Po. It was actually a Blackwater Black Ops Watercraft, real name, the USS Academi. I wasn’t surprised, but our opposite number’s defector, still alive, blurted out in shock, “But that ship’s owned by my brother, Erik Prince!”

@#$@! The woman I had seduced to the dark side was “Bouncing” Betsy DeVos, current Secretary of Education and “DeVos the Boss” to millions of so-called schoolchildren!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Six – The Satanic Nurses

Damn! I gotta remember to ask the women I sleep with their names! Years of speed-breeding with supermodels had left me with a lot of bad habits. I mean, when you’ve only got 16.7 seconds for each encounter, you have to cut out some of the pleasantries. You’ve heard of “Wham bam thank you Ma’am?” Abbreviated to “Wham bam,” and on busy nights some supermodels didn’t get any more than a “Wham.” I’m not proud of this and wish it could have been different, but we each have our own crotch to bare.

But back to traitor-to-her-own-family-and-administration Betsy. Not only was she a knowledgeable insider, ready to trade information for being dragged through mud of the right consistency, in a pinch she could also be made out to be a hostage. But my performing certain duties for work was a sensitive subject at home, the line between keeping my job and hanky-panky being a thin one. Life would be so much easier if I wasn’t so attractive, so self-aggrandizing, so infatuating to women. It’s not easy being me. I swallowed hard and did what was needed to be done to do Ms. DeVos and get her cooperation. Even the next day I smelled like garden soil, but subsequent events showed that this sacrifice was worth the musty scent.

Luckily, Satan had his own problems and left me alone the entire time, not even Tweeting me to offer bad advice I was duty-bound to pretend to take. Nobody was foolish enough to leak any details, but circumstantial evidence pointed to continued friction in his family. Gladys has started to insist that Heckle and Hyde be stationed outside their sub-basement penthouse door when she’s home, so I couldn’t get as many details from them, but I assume it has to do with incidents generated by mom’s substance abuse. For example, the boys said there had been a number of deliveries from bakeries all over the city, You don’t have to be a detective to know what brownies, cheesecakes, cannoli, and cheese Danish mean, they literally scream “munchies!” in your ear. Going further down this rabbit hole, imagine how big-bottomed Gladys, famous not only for her love-hate relationship with carbs and fats, but her never-ending diets, would feel about this? Not that her mother-in-law would necessarily consume them in front of her, although knowing those involved I consider that cruelty quite probable, but their simply being in the house would be enough to set her off. Circumstantial evidence, sure, but sometimes the shoe fits so well that when you run it up the flagpole, everyone salutes.

Satan looked rather bleary-eyed as I reported to him the next morning. My plan was intricate yet simple, negotiate a straight trade, DeVos and a 2019 second-round draft pick for Al Franken and an end to Antidsss. Of course, we would send Betsy back as a fully indoctrinated Illuminatus, faithful to Satan, sin, strange sex and sedition. I looked up to get the OK (Satan is over 8 feet tall, more with the horns), and discovered he had fallen asleep. This might be a stretch, but he could have had a rough night due to issues in his family life. I went up to him, dipped a claw into the inkwell of blood he keeps at his desk, and scribbled something that resembled his chicken scratch on the bottom of my authorization. Moments later I was off to kick the conflict up a notch by negotiating for peace.

Don’t ask how I got in touch with them, or the intricate, convoluted meeting arrangements that were born from decades of mistrust and betrayal, but do ask about my pubic hairs. I shaved them, just in case. Then, ready for anything, I spent the next 4 hours driving from phone booth to phone booth (and there are only 2 left in the Washington DC area) to get “further instructions,” until I was face-to-face with Erik Prince, brother of the commodity we were trading, and CEO of Blackwater. Strangely enough, we were on a Seychelles Island in the Indian Ocean, even though I had driven the whole way. A friend of my Russian friend Putin’s also Russian friends, we broke the ice by chatting about their marital failing and general impotency.

The Antidsss thing could have been the deal breaker, but they wanted Franken out badly and as cold-hearted as Prince was, he would have been embarrassed if his sister’s severed head showed up in an inopportune-and-very-public place. As they say, a Prince is only a Prince, but a Ruler is twelve inches, and like his namesake he folded while trying to hook up with a flock of ballet-dancing swans in tutus. I turned “Bouncing” Betsy over to them in an exchange at the Glienicke Bridge across the Havel River in Germany, connecting the Wannsee district of Berlin with the Brandenburg capital Potsdam. We followed ancient protocol on this so-called “Bridge of Spies,” with “DeVos the Boss” on one side, and the entire staff of Antidsss on the other, both moving across slowly at the same speed once the “all clear” was given. To give the right atmosphere, we waited until twilight, when the fog rising from the river gave an earie glowing softness to the harsh automobile headlights. A penetrating chill, trench coats with raised collars, and having commands barked in German also helped give a je ne sais quoi to the proceedings, everybody knows how attention to detail is necessary for an authentic “cold war” atmosphere.

I had been up all night indoctrinating Betsy, so I didn’t hang around for the slaughter of the Antidsss prisoners. I needed a shower and sleep, but not before hosing myself off on the balcony first so I didn’t plug the drain with mud again. A viper in the breast of the Administration, with this double agent we would soon be able to do with deceit what we had failed to do at the ballot box, if you call cashing in by accepting the highest bid “failure.” I only had to wait and see, and my favorite style of waiting was in bed. Asleep that is, my other common in-bed activity involves no waiting what-so-ever and gaps in the action are rare because they’re only permitted when absolutely necessary for plot development. But you knew that already, so let me end this and get some sleep.

To be continued…

[wserra]

Among the documents was a black and white photo of a cargo ship, the Ning Po, out of Shanghai. It was immediately suspicious, I mean, who in the world had access to black and white photographic paper?

SPECTRE, of course. What kind of secret agent are you?