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Updated Sunday 15 May, 2011 12:18 PM |
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This Day in Alternate History Blog
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SNAKE OIL
By Doctor What
Chapter Three
It is an elementary and vital courtesy when you are using people's own money against them that you do it with some grace. --Richard Neely WV Supreme Court
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January 27, 2017
Patrick Michael Drake – ‘Bear’ to his friends; ‘Bad Ass Bear’ to those individuals who had the misfortune to get on his bad side - took a sip of Bombay Sapphire and leaned back in his chair and stared in amusement at the TV.
CNN was running yet another analysis from some ‘expert’ about the fiasco at the UN meeting.
Drake had to admit – it definitely made for ‘must see’ TV. The part where the Russian ambassador was caught on live TV telling the Chinese ambassador to ‘go fuck yourself’ was extremely amusing –especially when the two of them had to be pulled apart by other ambassadors just as a fistfight started. As it were, there were a few innocent bystanders who got caught in the crossfire, with the Canadian ambassador getting smacked in the jaw by the Chinese ambassador and the Finnish ambassador accidentally (?) getting kicked in the testicles by the Russian ambassador.
And the whole thing was caught on tape.
The ‘Payback for the Winter War’ kick – as it was being described by many – was already posted on YouTube, with a continuously looped clip of the kick set to the ‘Benny Hill’ tune already getting over five thousand views.
Drake blinked in surprise.
They got rid of the ‘expert’ and now CNN was talking to the White House Press Secretary – who was going to explain the White House’s official position on the ‘Alien Visitation Situation’.
Oh God—this is going to be freaking hilarious... thought Drake as he cranked up the volume a few notches.
“—obviously there’s bound to be a few cultural and linguistic difficulties in any initial contact between different groups of people,” said the Press Secretary, a plastic smile seemingly permanently affixed to his face. “There was only a dozen ships, after all, and it’s virtually impossible for them to visit everyone. And - as repeatedly stated by the White House – how can you berate us for so-called ‘American Imperialism’ when America was just one of a dozen countries contacted by the Visitors – “
Drake grunted in annoyance. Despite the fact that the aliens actually had a real name for themselves, the media found it immensely difficult to use it for whatever idiotic reason and had started referring to the Lytasians as ‘Visitors’ instead. The Lytasians didn’t seem to mind but it … annoyed … Drake immensely.
It could be worse thought Drake. At least the nimrods in the media didn’t stick them with some lame name from an old bad science fiction TV show or something…
“ – and the fact that we are sharing the cures with those less fortunate than us for free and still being slandered like this is, quite frankly, most distressing,” finished the Press Secretary. He gave the camera a ‘sad puppy’ look for just a second or two just to drive home the point.
“But what about the price?” asked the CNN reporter. “Even as we speak, a large plant – ostensibly to process minerals – is being constructed on the Moon.”
“The Visitors are in dire need of various resources for their planet – resources that are in short supply on their home world and which our Moon has in abundance – so, as you can clearly see, it is a mutually beneficial situation. The mere fact that this exchange is taking place indicates the good will of the Visitors and for them to be slandered like this, especially in their time of need, is quite frankly a disservice to both us and them. After all—did we not send out several probes out into the vastness of space each with a golden record on them with the word ‘Greetings’ in fifty-five different languages? And now—here they are –and we immediately become suspicious of them?”
Press Secretary shook his head. He put on what Drake had come to know as ‘Facial Expression Number 5’ – which was an equal mix of vague annoyance, slight emotional distress and quasi-parental disappointment.
“But sir,” said the reporter, not wanting to give up, “what about the accusations from the Chinese ambassador that his country was deliberately ignored by the Visitors?”
Press Secretary immediately changed his appearance to what Drake called ‘Facial Expression Number 6-A’ – the ‘Good God, are you really that stupid?’ look – which of course was completely different from ‘Facial Expression Number 6-B’ –the ‘Good God—this conversation can serve no further use and I’m going to leave if you ask me one more stupid question’ look.
“Now see here, John –“
“Uh—my name is Bruce –“
“—see here, Bruce – the Chinese ambassador is free to believe anything that he wishes but these charges of his are grossly misinformed. Clearly the Visitors – purely unintentionally of course – left them off the list of contacts. To use a simple miscommunication as a pretext for these outrageous charges…” The Press Secretary trailed off, looking like he had been deliberately insulted.
“But sir—“, continued the reporter, “what about the allegations from the Russians that—“
Press Secretary shot the CNN reporter a supernova level glare of ‘Facial Expression Number 6-B’ and dramatically rolled his eyes.
“Really John—“
“Bruce—“
“Really Bruce –I am extremely disappointed in you and—“
The TV shut off with a click.
Drake sat there, pondering, and slowly taking another sip of his Bombay Sapphire.
After a minute or so, he stood up and walked towards a wall, pausing briefly to look out the backyard window.
Drake had paid extra money for the view. It was supposed to give him a ‘view of the Golden Gate Bridge’.
Technically – they were right. He could see the Golden Gate.
It required him to close one eye and squint with the other. And it only worked on those few days when it wasn’t cloudy or foggy or rainy. And only when the Sun at less than forty five degrees.
But by doing so, he could just make out this small red blob that he had been assured was in fact the bridge.
Drake shrugged his shoulders.
It wasn’t as if he was that hard up for cash – although he made a mental note to double check some of his investment portfolios in the morning.
He walked over to a nearby wall and looked at the weapons hanging on it.
He stared at them for a very long moment.
I really need to unwind – but which one to use?
The M-1? The M-16? The AK-47? The SKS? The over/under shotgun? The Winchester? Hmmmm … maybe go with something else? The Colt .45 maybe?
Drake looked despairingly at a 9 mm that hung on the wall, never used and barely even touched. It had been a gift from a brief dalliance he had with this leggy blonde corporal many, many moons ago. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that, as far as he was concerned, only sissies, pussies and little girls used the 9 mm.
He scanned the wall some more.
The SVD? The Browning? The Ruger?
Hmmmm…all good choices…but I really need to unwind…
A-ha!
Drake reached out and pulled the M-4 carbine off the wall.
He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down.
Quickly, he started taking apart the carbine.
In seconds, it was nothing more than a pile of component parts.
Drake took several long deep breaths, slowly clearing his mind.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes completely. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he turned on the stopwatch function on his watch.
Drake’s hands were a blur, working like a master pianist, picking up a piece and quickly connecting it to its counterparts. Over and over again.
Finally he slammed the last piece home and, with another practiced flick of his fingers, he stopped the stopwatch.
Pulling off the makeshift blindfold, he stared at his time.
Thirty-eight point seven three seconds?!?
UNACCEPTABLE!
Drake shook his head in annoyance.
If my old drill-sergeant was alive to see me get a time that pathetic, he would have to shoot me just on general principles! And you call yourself a Marine?! God-damn it!
Drake shook his head in annoyance again.
Face it, old-timer – you’ve got a lot on your mind….
Drake didn’t like reminding himself that he was getting old. Well—older.
Ok—so he was looking at the business end of the half-century mark a lot sooner than he would have liked. And he was finding something new every day that he couldn’t do anymore, like sitting cross-legged or eating a whole meatball sub just before bed or looking up and reaching down at the same time.
Still—as one of his favorite movie heroes use to say –“It's not the age, honey, it's the mileage.”
For his entire adult life he had been either in the military or working for the military –in both ‘official’ and – nudge nudge wink wink – ‘unofficial’ capacities. He had learned a great deal of things in those years.
Those conspiracy nut bars got it all wrong. It is simply impossible to keep any secrets in the military.
And keeping a secret among the civvies? Ha! If he laughed any harder he’ll spill his Sapphire…speaking of which…where did he leave his glass…?
People always talked. Always. It’s the nature of humans to blab.
And the military was no different.
The slow and the stupid and drunk talked ‘cause they were…well…slow and stupid and drunk. The super-paranoid types –of which he had met more than his fair share - were always convinced that they’ll get ‘suicided’ at any moment and always took steps to make sure that a trusted friend or two ‘knew stuff—just in case’. The clueless talked ‘cause they usually had no idea just how valuable their info was. The greedy talked ‘cause they valued money more than loyalty. The ones that had fucked-up talked because they forgot the old Latin proverb “Carpo lemma per balls quod suum pectus pectoris quod mens mos insisto!" or “Grab them by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow!”
Bottom line? If you had connections –and Drake knew he had a lot of connections – you can find out anything.
And if by some miracle of Providence you had a conspiracy group made up of people that were NOT slow, stupid, drunk, paranoid, clueless, greedy and/or fuck-ups – according to Drake’s opinion, the last time this had happened was sometime in 1868 – what was not being said in public was often just as important—if not more so - as what was being said.
His favorite example that he liked to talk about was the nuclear research of the Nazis.
Scientists – just like everyone else—like to talk to people. Especially amongst themselves. They telephoned each other. They sent letters to each other. They dropped by for visits. They had drinks together. Even those that hated each other got in touch every now and then, if for no other reason than to say ‘Nyah! Nyah! I’m doing better than you! Nyah!’
But in the late 1930’s, all the scientists in Germany…went quiet. No phone calls. No visits. No drinks. And most damning of all—and this was the kicker – no papers being published. At all.
There were only two explanations for this – both of which were very worrisome. Either they all died or they were all suddenly working on some big project together.
And – bless that little scatterbrained professor – Einstein wrote that letter to Roosevelt and managed to –eventually—convince him that it was choice number two…
A smart person could deduce some interesting conclusions using that ‘reverse analysis’ tactic.
And Drake knew that he had many, many faults – but lack of intelligence wasn’t one of them…
Drake refilled his glass and took another sip of the Sapphire.
What was being said in public – ‘The Visitors are our friends! We LOVE the Visitors! They’re neat and cool and have nothing but good intentions for us! Did we mention that they’re our friends? And that they’re cool?’ – did not jive with some bits and pieces he managed to put together about what was being said in private – which he was becoming increasingly convinced was something along the lines of 'God-damn these muthafuckers--they're going to screw us like no tomorrow! Better try to see if we can at least get through this with some dignity—or at least our asses—intact!'
Drake shook his head in annoyance.
Did these civvie idiots actually think that BS cover story about the alien’s home world ‘dying’ would actually last?
Hrumph—who am I kidding? OF COURSE those nimrods thought it would last! Or at least until the next election! Typical bloodsucking moronic politicians – trying to cover their asses and passing the problem to the rest of us!
So—what to do?
Drake thought for a long moment and took another sip of the Sapphire.
Two choices, dude.
One – become a full-time crusty but still oh so lovable questioner of the aliens’ motives and become a general pain in the ass to all parties concerned or Two – realize that you’ll be dead by the time the other shoe drops -– and therefore act accordingly.
Hmmmm…
Drake pulled out his cell-phone and dialed a number.
After a few rings, it picked up and a sleepy voice answered.
“Hello?”
“McCoy? Sergeant Jason McCoy? Is that you?”
“Bear? Bear—is that you? God-damn man! –uh, sir, I mean –“
“At ease, Sergeant.”
“Sorry, sir—it’s just that –it’s been a long time since –“
“Relax, Jason – it’s ok. I’m no longer your CO. You still hang out at Hurley’s?”
“Shit—I’m pretty much getting my mail forwarded there these days. They’re thinking of naming a drink after me…”
“You still in touch with anyone else?”
“Uh—a few. What’s up?”
“Get as many as you can wake up in the next two hours. Meet me there in three hours.”
“What’s going on, sir?”
“I just might have some jobs for you…”
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