ISOLATION ROOM LANGLEY, MAY 1981
I, Yon Botendaddy was handcuffed, seated behind a shitty, metal table. The creepy CIA agent was on the other side of the table. He was skinny, about 45 years old, with beady eyes and little round preppie glasses 👓. He wore a suit far too expensive for government service. He was an obvious delicious 😋 repressed homosexual.
A single bare bulb 💡 burned overhead in the drab concrete-block typical secret government room. The room was decorated only with a photograph of the Old Cowboy himself, 🤠 Ronald Wilson Reagan, American. The agent took a long roak off of a Roakanoake Cigarette, a true Virginia cigarette grown in the swamps of coastal Virginia.
”You’ve done a great job for the Navy, P.O. Botendaddy. I’ve seen your so-called record. According to one General Fraunifaisce, you seem to always have the inside info on the shit-covered red commies. Now why would that be? How could some meaningless douchebag, perverted, fat, man-cunt, old-Lady fucker like you be so omniscient?”
Paces around the metal table. Takes a roak off of his Roakanoake and gave me, the Botendaddy a puff. I was still dressed in my sailor’s shipboard Navy Whites Uniform 🥋. I (loan – past participle of leaned) back in my shitty USGO chair. I decided to ask him a simple fräkke.
Sdmd”If I may ask, Mr. Secret Agent Man, what the fuck is this shit? It was supposed to be a debrief. I have to report to the Army, I’m separating from the Navy tomorrow and I have orders for Army Basic at Ft. Knox, then I have to pick a National Guards unit.”
The creepy CIA Stooge stood up. He walked around the table and put his face close to this Botendaddy’s ear 👂. He gave my shitty, greasy, waxy, tasty 😋 yummy 🤤 hairy ear an erotic, disgusting lick 👅 with his long pink Yazzick.
“Should I use your real name, Evgenyi Alexandreiovich Botenscziewski? Aka Botendaddy? You shitty Communist pinko scumbag infiltrator Spy 🕵️♂️. We have the goods on you, fucktard. You wanted to put a giant, turgid, tasty cock into Uncle Sam’s quivering bowel and ejaculate hot, yummy spermatozoa. Here’s the deal. You’re a double agent now. Only two people know about this. Me and George Bush (aka Jorge – pronounced Whore-Gay Busho), President Reagan’s faggy, effeminate, milquetoast VP. He’s still an operative. You and I will meet once a year at a restaurant here in Virginia called ‘The Crazy 😜 Dago 🇮🇹’. And I will drill your hot man-anus for information. Ah the taste of it!“
I shifted in my chair, but I stared right at the agent.
“This is insane. Do I even look 🇷🇺 Russian to you? And who insults Italians like that? You could get whacked!”
“Stand up and turn around.”
Your Botendaddy stood up as ordered and the agent, tremoring with erotic delight, lowered my pants 👖 and man-panties. I was of course concerned about the possibility of red-hot, anus-stretching, sloppy, man-rape. He was using a purple fluorescent bowel flashlight 🔦 To examine my bowel. He carefully inspected my quivering, sweaty anus.
“It’s all I can do right now not to drill you in your glistening anus with my massive, gnarled love-tool. Ah the taste of it! Too bad we are on close-circuit camera. But the Soviet anus-tattoo is not there. So you are not the one we are seeking. Damn. How could we have been wrong? It was down to you and one other shit-covered Bolshevik Stooge?”
The Agent shuddered with repressed orgiastic ecstasy.
“I may have just ejaculated in my manties. Don’t mention this little ‘briefing’ to anyone. I may need to visit with you from time to time.”
He uncuffed me and took a long sensuous roak on his Roakanoake Cigarette.
“So we still meeting next year Agent Q?”
The agent lit a Roakanoake for me.
”June 18, 1982, The Crazy 😜 Dago 🇮🇹 Restaurant. Unless I find you first.”
Greenhound Bus 🚎 Somewhere near Louisville, Kentucky (Pronounced Lou-uh-vull, Ken-Tuck-Eee)
I was still in my Naval Uniform🥋 riding next to a goateed, mustachioed brother. We had been riding together for hours. I learned an important lesson about riding the long-haul bus: 1. You will always get a seat next to a guy who just got out of prison. 2. Always buy his meals so he doesn’t murder you in your sleep.
“You a good man, sailor Botendaddy, you bought me like six meals. Why don’t you let me pay 💰 you some of my parole money 💴 Young Blee.”
I looked over at the frightening scarred, muscular, paroled killer. He was listening through his one earphone from his transistor radio 📻 to some serious funk.
“No man, you need a clean start. I’m getting a clean start too. Keep your scratch, baby, Brave new world 🌍 Blay.”
“Brave new world 🌎 Sailor.”
A 32-Part ghetto handshake was exchanged. I handed him two packs of righteous squares.
I got off the bus 🚌 at the gates of Ft. Knox, America’s Armor Center. There was no security at the unmanned cobweb-covered Guard posts.
Your Botendaddy walked along Eisenhower Boulevard. I was carrying my Navy duffel bags 💼. It was hot and humid and green in Kentucky. I walked up to an empty barracks. I reported into the First Sergeant and rendered the hand salute. The First Sergeant looked over the packet.
“Top, US Navy, been out of Balboa.”
“You’re early, Chief. USN, huh? Been down in the jungles of Central America, huh? Report is tomorrow at 0400. I’ll get you in-processed today. You ready to be an Army Private? Grab a bunk upstairs, but let’s go roak a Jemmel 🐪 Ciga’araat first. I was a sailor from 60-64, USS TJ, then I joined the Army, they sent me right back to Vietnam. I missed the Navy, but I couldn’t stay in with my rating.”
Your Botendaddy handed over his Top Secret SCI caveat orders. The Top shows Botendaddy his TSSCI caveat VI ID. They go outside and roak Jemmels.
”Any good whorehouses in town, Top? I need them old, really old at least 55.”
Takes a long roak off a Jemmel 🐫.
”My D.I.’s are gonna kick your fucking ass, just stay cool 😎 do what they say and shut the fuck up. Then when you get a break, we’ll go into Louisville and bang some aged Quiff. I must say… It’s good to have another tar around, these Army guys are too much. They only want to fuck the young hookers. I’ll go north of 70 if I can find one.”
Said the Top.
”70. That’s some damn good aged quiff. Ah the smell of it. I was banging an old Korean broad. I’m still madly in love with her but she met some old Jewish guy with a huge 🐓 at some retirement home and off she went.”
Your Botendaddy headed up the green wooden stairs into the empty barracks. I unpacked my gear and put a lock on a locker.
A voice behind me said:
”Zsdrastvoitsiya moyumiliy drugi! It is Ochin horror-show to hear your native Russian again, is it not Evgenyi Alexandreiovich? The lyrical language of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky! Not this shitty decadent soulless western gibberish!”
The speaker 🔊 was a corporal with a DI’s uniform.
”You have come far Komraide Kommisar! It has been many years since I saw you in Vladivostok, Grigory Dimitrovich!”
Sowiejt 🇷🇺 Russian hugs 🤗 are exchanged.
“You must follow the script. Let those Kapitalist stooges at Langley think you are a double agent! I am a DI here. I will to be hard on you.“
Said Corporal ‘Smith’.
The two Sowiejt agents roaked Zigarovich Russian Cigaretu in silence. Botendaddy was deep undercover and would have to stay there a long time. Botendaddy was no double agent. He was a triple agent. He was in Vladivostok but he was never born in Russia 🇷🇺. He was a plant.
Basic proceeded as expected. The DI’s made fun of the Botendaddy for being a shitty Sailor. My nickname was Popeye.
I went through BRM, aka Basic rifle marksmanship, bivouac, tank range, the usual. I did well on the APFT, but they ran me too much and I had dual groin pulls.
The DI’s did not like me at all. I had to lay low and slack a little bit.
I always got KP. Made a couple of friends. Then I got leave for weekend four: mid-Basic. They handed me $362.24 in cash 💵.
I went straight into Louisville in search of the elusive big fat blonde 63 year-old German hooker.
I arrived at Madame Fluornoy’s Psychedelic Love 💕 Shack. It was not air-conditioned, but was cooled by powerful standing fans possibly stolen from Ft. Knox.
”Hi baby 👶.”
I said to the creole Madame.
”What you need, Devil?”
She replied, eyeing me up and down as she roaked her Louisville Cigarettolo.
”I heard a rumor you have an old German Hooker here.”
”We got older ladies for sure.”
”Listen ma’am I don’t want older than me, I want old. I can spend my money 💰 anywhere but I came to Madame Fluornoy’s for 63 year old pussy, you dig?”
“I’m 63 myself, you big giant white sexy devil man. I’d bend yo’ pasty Johnson boy.”
“Hell, after I fuck that German broad, I’ll pay you triple for a shot at your action Madame Fluornoy, I’m in love 😍 with you already. You make me harder than 1939 and that was a hard year, you hard-bodied Red-bone broad. But if you don’t get me that Old Kraut Broad this instant, I may just fuck you right here, right now.”
“You filthy, big, sweaty, tasty, demonic white devil, you come this way and I will introduce you to the Fräu. Then we’ll see how much Möjö you got left when she wear your azz out.”
PA DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE – 322 EAST CARACAS BOULEVARD, HARRISBURG, COUNTY OF DAUPHIN, ANCIENT FREE AND ACCEPTED COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA JUNE, 1981
A single grey-suited, bespectacled man stood before a room full of secret agricultural agents.
“I am F. Pearson Luzerne, V. Since the time of the beloved Quaker, the Rt. Honorable Wm. Penn, the Pa Department of Agriculture has fought subversion from shitty redskin savages, slimy treasonous British loyalists, filthy bearded 🧔 Confederates, savage bomb-throwing dago Gallianist anarchists, treasonous pinko Marxist Jewes (pronounced Joo-vayze) and doctrinaire, shit-covered, red communist Bolsciewieczks like this so-called Botendaddy. If those shitty pinko traitors at the CIA and FBI won’t do anything about him, then by the Risen Christ, by the power vested in me by the Secret Court of Quarter Sessions sitting at the County of Somerset, per curiam order of 3 September 1917, I do swear a sacred oath, that I will catch that shitty traitor in the act and send him packing back to Vladivostok before you can say Benjamin Franklin!”
Luzerne angrily banged his fist on the dais. The agents, each handcuffed to a briefcase 💼 saluted and filed out into the gloaming rainy mist of shitty streetlights.
Ft. Knox Kentucky, Eisenhower Boulevard, August, 1981 0400 Hours – Double-Time Formation – Day Before Graduation from Basic Training
Botendaddy is Running 🏃 aside the formation in his OD green pants, black boots, white t-shirt calling cadence:
‘I was lying in my bed in a cold, cold sweat.
When I woke up, the sheets were wet
It was the same old dream that I could not ignore
Cause I had it one hundred times before
I was sittin’ in a room that smelled like the plague
With Caspar Weinberger and Old Al Haig
‘said the President can’t see you now he’s ridin’ his horse
So tell us what you came here for
Well I jumped to feet and I started to run
But, I thought I might tell my story, son
I said the Atom Bomb it ain’t no fun
It just gets started and the killing’s done
We got M-16s Machine Guns and more
Won’t you bring back that conventional war
Ronald Wilson Reagan appeared in the door
He said tell me what you came here for
Then I dropped to my knees as I fell to the floor
and said bring back that conventional War!
The hydrogen bomb it ain’t no fun!
It don’t give the refugees time to run!
We got M-16s Machine Guns and more
Won’t you bring back that conventional war!
Then Ronnie stopped and he turned around,
set his ten gallon hat upon the ground
he said M-16’s Machine-guns and More?
Let’s bring back that conventional War!
As the formation progressed on their run, a simple gray 1981 Chrysler LeBaron rolled silently through the gates of Ft. Knox, America’s Armor Center.
Faceless men in gray suits and reflector glasses piloted the shitty planned obsolescence vehicle to a secret building next to the AAFES PX. It was a CIA ‘Special Action Squad’ team.
Mission: Capture or terminate the Botendaddy with extreme prejudice… extreme.
The kill team took positions in soon to be demolished WWII-era wooden barracks. The shitty car 🚗 was unnoticed by all, except the cadence-caller on a passing run.
That evening, the Botendaddy was given a graduation certificate and orders for Ft. Sill. MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) 13-Foxtrot, Field Artillery Forward Observer AIT (Advanced Individual Training).
Now, in uniform, at 2200 hours, I caught the shitty green shuttle bus to the Louisville bus station.
I walked through the bus station. ‘Baby Elephant Walk’ by Bert Kaempfert (with angry trumpet guy) is playing on the sound system.
I did not buy a ticket and I coolly walked out the back door of the station to an awaiting Green 1970 Dodge Polara, 440 Four-Barrel with dual cam overdrive and patented levering pin.
A fat, blonde 63 year old German woman was at the wheel. I got in the car and we headed down 31 West towards Owensboro. I placed a stack (A F&$KING STACK) of Franklins in an envelope onto the dash.
“I already paid ‘Redbone’ for your time, Greta, so no worries, it’s all handled. And your time doesn’t just include driving Fräulein, you’ll have to take care of some ‘business’ verstehe?”
“Ja schatzi! Big Business!”
The car headed into the night.
“Look Greta, this is a dangerous situation. We may being followed right now. Pull off right here, because I’m literally going to f&%k the shit out of you. They’ll see two people f*%king and they will drive right past. We may have to f&$k 20 times before this trip is over. Do it… for America!”
I stated in my most muscular cold war spy voice.
“Ja meinem Geehteren Herrer! Ich hear und obey! F*%k me you big, fat, muscular, sweaty hunky mother!”
So, I f&$ked her. In every way imaginable. With my excessively oversized gargantuan giraffe 🦒 🐓 cock. Her enormous wet sloppy dripping worn out hooker snatch greedily consumed every stroke of the torqued-out monster. When I was done she was literally coated in my man-stench and filled with my rancid youthful spermatozoa. Then with the pursuing kill team totally off the trail we headed to Oklahoma.
We ended up staying in a shitty motel off of a rural side road in central Kansas. I proceeded to fuck that old broad in every way conceivable. Her real name? Greta Kirschenboim from Leipzig, East Germany 🇩🇪. STASI Code name: ‘the watcher’.
PA DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE, HARRISBURG, 23rd and CALDER, SPECIAL ANTI-SUBVERSION UNIT
“Sir, I am special Agent Schlitterbahn. I have bad news. We lost his trail. We have no choice but to let him get to Ft. Sill.”
The agent put his fedora 🎩 on the table.
”Those homo bastards at the CIA think they have rights to him. That commie pinko scumbag is mine! I know he wasn’t born in Russia 🇷🇺! He was born in Belarus 🇧🇾! He is a rigid doctrinaire communist spy. I want him alive! Let’s get him to Pennsylvania. Call Thornburg and make it happen!”