pork rinds. I refuse to allow them to do the testing themselves, as someone may figure out where I’m headed with my analysis. We will need to pay them to shut down and send the staff home for several days. There you have it. Three easy steps, and the food invention of the century will rise from the ashes of defeated snack manufacturers from around the planet. Consequently, Alpine Condensation’s packaging will prominently feature a flaming phoenix rising from the ashes of defeated snack manufactures from around the planet. In order to maximize profits for myself, corporate staff will be kept to a minimum. I will assume the duties of Chairman and CEO, while my compatriot Ziggy will serve as a board member. It’s always a good idea to keep some deadwood on your staff in case the economy turns and you have to lay someone off. As a financial institution, you should keep that in mind. While the sole intention of my project is to create mind-boggling wealth for myself, I am aware of the backlash in this country regarding disproportionate financial excess. Therefore, in an act of goodwill, I will reach out to the world’s humanitarian community. Because of the incredibly long shelf life of pork rinds, they are perfect for humanitarian aid. I will offer global aid groups a two-percent discount on purchases, but only for bulk orders, and payment must clear before shipping. I’m currently busy with an outstanding research project that has me traveling internationally. Please hold all loan committee questions until after product launch. Please mail the check for ten million dollars to my attorney. His name is Gregory Kennesaw Mountain. He’s in the book.
After another thirty minutes of weaving through town, constantly watching his six for secret agents, Avery arrived at a quirky maroon-colored house. The multicolored sign out front identified the old Victorian house as The Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore. The “Magic Man” was in fact Ziggy. Avery flipped the CLOSED sign on the front door to OPEN before barging in.
“Hey, you freaky little lizard, where are you?” he bellowed.
“Like, right here, man,” Ziggy replied. He was perched like a small monkey on the top of a tall ladder in the corner of the main room.
“What the hell are doing up there?”
“Checking out the feng shui, dude.”
“What for, no one ever comes in here anyway.”
“Like, I know, man. I’m thinking I’ve got my candles, like, too close to the incense. Bad energy. If I, like, rearrange them some, it might help business.”
“I doubt it. Face the facts. You’re the owner of a head shop in Austin and still can’t make a decent living. Fifty thousand college students right around the corner, and yet you still can’t manage to sell a single bong. The problem is deeper than your product placement.”
“Hey, man,” said Ziggy as he crawled down from his perch. “I sell books and stuff, too, you know.”
“Sell or collect?”
“Well, like I said, man, it’s been pretty slow lately. Can you help me move this table with, like, all the candles on it? I think right over there will do it.”
“Absolutely not. I need to use your phone,” Avery said as he headed to the cash register.
“Like, what happened to your cell phone, man?”
“It self-actualized…err…it was executed…err…it’s a long story.”
“Okay, but, like, no long distance calls, man.”
“Don’t worry — it’s an in-state call.”
“Okay, that’s cool, dude.”
“As far as you know.” Avery fished a piece of paper with a phone number on it from his fanny pack and picked up the receiver. “Get your bags packed. We’re leaving with the tide.”
“No way, I don’t, like, dig boats, man. I fell out of one in the ‘It’s a Small World’ ride at the Magic Kingdom when I was a kid. My dad was, like, super pissed. He made me swim the rest of the way and, like, meet him at the exit. No boats for the Zigster. Nope, definitely no boats.”
“It’s a figure of speech. Pack your things, lizard,” Avery said as he dialed the number.
PART II
CHAPTER EIGHT
Operation Mexican Shadow
Back at the STRAC-BOM headquarters, General X-Ray harrumphed as he noticed the front door left wide open.
“Private Tango,” the General commanded. “Close that hatch immediately. You’re letting out all my bought air!”
“Sir, yes, sir.” The private kicked the door closed with his heel, his arms full of camouflage-patterned toilet paper rolls.
“Make sure the latrine is spic and span. I want to be able to eat off it.”
“Pardon me, sir,” the General said to the painting as he snapped to attention and saluted. Fishing around in the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved a long piece of twine with a magnet tied to one end. Years earlier, the General had commissioned the construction of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters partly on account of the fact that Fire Team Leader Bravo’s mother’s house was getting a little too cramped for their militia meetings and partly because she threatened to call the FBI when she overheard the intimate details of Operation Dragon’s Breath, an ill- conceived attempt to mass produce homemade napalm, a plan that ultimately cost the poor woman her beloved potting shed and greenhouse. The exterior siding in the back of her house still bore scorched streaks of black soot and a few spots of melted vinyl to this day. When building the militia’s new operational command and control center, the General insisted on an intricate and top-of-the-line storage facility for the organization’s funds and secret plans. Initially, he’d attempted to purchase a used vault from the Antwerp Diamond Center in Belgium. The massive safe with its ninety-nine-digit dial, capable of more than one hundred million combinations, was just what he was looking for. Unfortunately, the shipping cost alone for the three-ton steel door was prohibitive. Instead, General X-Ray settled on the next best security device money could buy. Behind the LBJ portrait was a dinner plate–sized hole in the wall. Dropping the magnet into the hole, he carefully lowered it into the space behind the wall. When it reached the bottom, he spent a minute fishing back and forth with the long piece of twine. After a dozen swipes, the General felt the magnet catch on to something. Slowly pulling on the twine, hand over hand, he inched the magnet up. When the magnet finally emerged from the hole, it was stuck to a round metal washer attached to another long piece of twine. Taking hold of the second piece of twine, he reeled it in until a dusty tube sock emerged from the wall. The sock jingled as he carried it to his desk and sat down. Empting the contents of the sock onto his desk, the General put his head in his hands and moaned.
“We’re done for,” the General whimpered as he began to cry over the sad little pile of bills and coins in front of him. “Finished. Doomed.”
“Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” Private Zulu said as he peeked his head into the office. “Is everything okay?”
“No, no, no, no, no,” the General said, slapping his bald dome with alternating hands. A large snot bubble
