Boris Goes Paranoid

By Gonz Blinko

“Now I'm hiding in Honduras

I'm a desperate man

Send lawyers, guns and money

The shit has hit the fan…” – Warren Zevon

 

“You should have on your body at all times or at least nearby your passport or passports if you can get more than one, an open ticket to a neutral nation, any visas you might have, a weapon, enough cash and credit cards to get anywhere in the continent and the keen sense required to staying one step ahead of the bastards,” rambled Boris.

 

“Huh?”  I asked.

 

“You never know when you need to leave a country in a hurry and the US is included in the list.  The NSA keeps very close watch on guys like you and me and Echelon reads all of our emails, tracks all of our mobile phone calls, that’s why I keep changing numbers, they are watching and will have us in Guantanamo if we aren’t constantly aware and keeping ahead of them.”

 

We had just reached Boston via the Outlaw Biker Race from Miami Beach to Beantown and we disputed the results.  One of the Angels said he saw the winning bike from Sy T. Greenbacks’ team with Leland Burr driving and Gore Glendon holding on for dear life board a helicopter in South Carolina and fly, bike and all to Boston.  The rest of the competitors started calling them the Rosey Ruiz of the outlaw motorcycle set.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”  I asked, “You are starting to worry me,” I added.

 

“Shit, I’ve been all over the world, been to a lot of countries, Iran, Syria, Libya, Cuba…. A lot of places that King George the W. doesn’t like…  They watch me like a hawk to make sure I’m not too far out of their line of fire.  If I go missing for a little while, I usually find myself climbing out a hotel window and jiggying the hell out of town.”

 

“You’re just paranoid,” I said.

 

“Really, why is there so much static on my phone calls, what about the helicopter?”

 

“Boris?  What the fuck are you talking about?  What helicopters?”

 

“Every city I go to, helicopters.”

 

“Maybe they are traffic helicopters?”

 

“That’s one cover, hospitals is another.  Really, they are out to observe us in the dissident class.  Those of who oppose globalization but support internationalization.”

 

“The difference?”

 

“If you don’t know, we can’t take the time, I got to get out of Boston, got to keep moving.  Your Everglades spot is good cover but who knows if the Seminoles won’t turn us in?”

 

“Dude, take a pill, take two or three, they’re small, maybe four or five,” I said offering my old friend a jar of valium.

 

“Negative,” he barked, “I can’t lose my edge.”

 

“Why do you need to get out of Boston?”

 

“Mick Traynor.”

 

“The retired General?”

 

“One in the same.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“He spotted me in Charlie’s Kitchen while I was eating my double cheeseburger this morning.”

 

“Do you know General Traynor?”

 

“No, but he knows me and he’s certainly sent the fort my coordinates.”

 

“He’s a Harvard professor now, he’s not doing military stuff anymore.”

 

“Sure, the perfect cover.”

 

“Why would he care about you or your hamburger?”

 

“Double fucking cheeseburger and he’s the lead guy on Boston surveillance.”

 

“You sure you don’t want a pill?  How about a Phenobarbital?”

 

“Are you working with them?  You want to knock me out so they can cart me off and I’ll wake up with a cattle prod up my ass in some nation that allows such things” yelled Boris as he stormed out the door.

 

“Poor bastard,” I thought, “he’s really gone around the bend.”  I picked up the phone and called Sam. 

 

“What?”  she answered.

 

“Boris.  He thinks he’s about to be extraordinarily rendered because Mick Traynor came into Charlie’s while he was eating a double cheeseburger.”

 

“He could have a point,” said Samhara.

 

“What?”

 

“Only kidding.  Did you try to sedate him?”

 

“He refused both valium and Phenobarbital.”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“He stomped off,” I said, “I would guess he’s heading to an airport or some other transit center.  He said he has a handful of passports, some visas, an open ticket to…”

 

“A neutral nation, cash, a weapon,” finished Sam with a sigh.

 

“You knew about this?”

 

“He’s been repeating that same line over and over like it was some kind of mantra since he came back to the states.”

 

“Has he really gone nutty?”

 

“No,” stated Samhara with some authority, “He probably got laid last night and he still runs from any potential commitment.”

 

“Still?”

 

“You know Boris, she was probably some rich little snatch whose daddy works with his daddy and he doesn’t want to deal with any fallout from the family.”

 

“Isn’t he almost fifty?”

 

“He’s 48 going on 17, he’ll never change.”

 

“Where do you think he’ll go?”

 

“Doesn’t really matter, let’s just enjoy the quiet until he comes back.” Added my lovely lawyer.

 

“Want to get cheeseburgers?”

 

“Sure, I’ll see you at Charlie’s in an hour.”

 

-- End