The Bantu wolf awaits

The Director's penis

He had seen it, seen it all, not through the eyes of The Director, but through The Director’s body, of which he, Special Agent Willis, was but a single cell, maybe several cells since there are billions and billions of cells in the human body and only 9,523 Special Agents in the FBI. Perhaps he was an entire neuropil, a neural network providing information to The Director’s brain (He hoped greatly he was not a group of cells in The Director’s penis). One speaks of being at the “nerve center” of something, and there he was, the Willis Nerve at the fiery center of J. Edgar Hoover’s bulldogbody, witness to the Palmer Red Raids, Marcus Garvey’s Universal Junglebunny Improvement Association, the National Association of Coon Persons, the viral Negro/Communist plague, the capitulation of Roosevelt to kneegroes in the Army, and now, Martin Luther Coon, sloshing in jism, consorting, (no, Princes consort) slavering over the bodies of white women. Well, MLK won’t do that no more.

The Director experienced these defilements in his physique (which was America’s), the Black militant buboes in his armpits and groin which were the body politic that was both Hoover and America. Special Agent Willis felt them as they passed through his parcel of Hoover’s cells, hopefully in the brain.

Lucky lucky Agent Willis had found inspiration in the form of a memo from the Philadelphia office, commended by The Director, proposing a move of cunning genius, nothing less than the Asiatic Toad, the Siberian Beetle, the, the, whatever heights Agent Willis could scale. Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, Doris Day sang to him on 8-track tape. Willis took a deep drag on the joint.

AND furthermore, get a jump on the CIA acidhead liberals and their fevered behavior modification schemes, Dr. Jolly West doping up hippies from his Company pad in the Haight. How ludicrous Jerry Rubin’s claim that after the Revolution the Pentagon would become an LSD experimental farm. It IS an LSD experimental farm, creepos, where do you think the stuff comes from? God?

Back to business, the Asiatic Toad.

“The emergence of the New Left,” the Philly memo said, “has produced a yen for magic. Some leaders of the New Left, the Hippies and the Yippies, wear beads and amulets. New Left youth involved in anti-Vietnam activity have adopted the Greek letter “Omega.” Self-proclaimed yogis have established a following in the New Left movement. Their incantations are a reminder of the chant of the witch doctor.”

 

Who needs Philly to tell Frisco that?

“Above-described conditions suggest that a few select leaders of the New Left be subjected to harassment by a series of anonymous messages with a mystical connotation.”

 

Now, the neat part.

“The enclosed sketches are a sample of such a message, bearing captions such as ‘The Siberian Beetle Can Talk.’ The symbol utilized does not have to have any real significance but must be subject to interpretation as having a mystical, sinister meaning.”

 

Lame sketches. I can do better.

“It is believed that such anonymous messages would subject the recipients to mental anguish, suspicion, distrust, and disruption through these means.”

 

What would The Director like? Philly suggested “The Chinese Scorpion,” good, “The Egyptian Cobra,” saw that in a movie. A country and an animal. The Siberian Tiger, no, that’s real. The Transylvanian Rattlesnake, right on with the vampire implication, rattlesnakes too Western, nothing mystical about American reptiles. The Manchurian Mole Rat. There we go, the movie The Manchurian Candidate, the naked mole rat, eats its own shit. Mole and rat, undercover agent and take that you dirty rat. Ease up, Willis, you are too too stoned.

Inspiration struck next morning in the shower as the neighbor’s poodle raked the alley with its bark. A wolf, thought Willis, take that yapster down in a bite. A wolf. The Wolf. “The Bantu Wolf Awaits” poured straight from the showerhead. Bantu, good ring to it, no idea what it means. Bantoo. Like Voodoo, secret magic. Has a Negro sound. First thing downtown, get the sketch artist to do a Bantoo Wolf, mystical and sinister.

One promotion, coming up. He’d send the Wolf to ... pick an asshole on the editorial board at Ramparts Magazine. Spook those suckers good. Special Agent Willis was ready for breakfast.