My name is Rudley "Rip" Andrechetti. I work as an advisor to the President of the United States of America, George R. Bush, whose grandfather was a two term president and great-grandfather was also an office holder of note. I have not come before you today to discuss the legacy of the Bush presidents. This is available for free download at any number of truly American websites. I have come before you for other reasons. I have come to tell the true story of Asian Orange.
It was during the first summer of the George R. Bush presidency. Most of us were languishing in our offices, sending Casper Weinberger jokes to each other via email, when the word came. The security blanket around the United States had been breached. A foreign invader, or market priced terrorist, had managed to get through the complex shield that protected all Americans except for those in Hawaii and Alaska.
"What was the trajectory?" I asked a senseless colleague.
"Came in from the Pacific Rim, over the top of the shield and entered through the atmospheric umbilical while it was in the aeration phase."
"Anything that could ascend to the umbilical point cannot possibly be human. There is no way it can be done, except with a space vehicle of some sort. We must take serious precautions to protect the people of this nation."
"Someone call the president."
Later that evening, we went out for beers and played some billiards. I flirted extensively with a cute waitress. It was then that the television played a dynamic role in my discovery of events as they happened. A small farm in the midwest was being held hostage by something or someone very diabolical. This diabolical entity did not appear to us on the television, but it did identify itself as "Asian Orange." We were certain it would not be easily repelled.
This required an immediate meeting of all the top advisors as well as something having to do with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. We were prepared to go to prairie town immediately via helicopters, or as George R. likes to say, "choppas." We were there sooner than later and were dispatched to the front lines without delay.
"Where is this Asian Orange?"
"In that bush over there."
"Why don't you just firebomb the bush? Don't you have flamethrowers or something?"
"Damned liberals made them illegal."
"Aren't you FBI? I thought the FBI was above the law."
"We've had some clampdowns lately because of public opinion polls. We'll bounce back in a year or so."
"Well, that doesn't do us a damned bit of good right now, does it? What do you know about this Asian Orange?"
"We believe he may, in fact, be orange. We also know what his demands are."
"What are the demands?"
"Just listen," said the random FBI agent, pointing to the bush.
Asian Orange was speaking, repeating the same demands it had yelled at the farm house for twelve hours. "Get out of the heartland. This land belongs to Injuns. Give this land back to the Injuns or die."
"Okay. Does he just want us to give this particular farm house back to the Indians or the whole fucking country?"
"It is my belief that Asian Orange is trying his demands on just this farm house as a test of how it will work elsewhere. And, by the way, it is more racially sensitive to refer to said individuals as Native Americans."
"Yeah, but that will bite us in the ass if we ever have to take this to court. Can't we call them refugees or something and see if the public buys it?"
"We could try, but the whole 'Native American' thing is pretty well grounded in the culture of this great land of ours."
"Good point. Well, let's come up with another idea. We can give Asian Orange this farm house and let him pack some Native Americans into it, a token of goodwill or whatever and then hold him to that. We could trick him into thinking we're giving in and then blow up the farm house with Asian Orange inside. Or, we could just go fuck him up right now. What's he got to defend himself with other than that shrub?"
"We're not sure what he's packing."
"But you're pretty sure he's orange?"
"Almost completely, sir."
"Understood."
When I was younger I would go rabbit hunting with my old man. He loved to kill the little fuzzy bunnies almost as much as he liked watching them suffer when he only managed to wound them and they would lie lifelessly in a ditch somewhere while he poked at them with a stick. I learned many things during those afternoons of rabbit hunting. I learned you can never bring enough food and drink on a hunting trip and I also learned that you don't always kill everything you shoot.
When it came to Asian Orange, I knew this challenge was one I was willing to take up. I had been a faceless presidential advisor for too long. It was time for me to become a hero to the American people. If the FBI was just going to stand around staring at the bush in which Asian Orange was hiding, then I would confront the bush and its contents. I would make the cover of Time Magazine.
Asian Orange moved first. Having not received the preferred response to its requests, it lurched towards the farm house. The occupants were quickly and painfully killed. The pain was incredibly intense just before they died, almost as if all their internal organs were being simultaneously boiled, but their deaths saved them from seeing the sign Asian Orange erected in front of their home. "Free Housing for Injuns."
"This diabolical Asian Orange must be stopped somehow. But how?" wondered a random FBI agent as I walked by and gave him a small handful of candy corn to hold him over until supper.
"We must resort to the same kind of diabolical trickery he uses to confound us," I told my patriotic associate. "We must demonstrate our good, old-fashioned American know-how."
"Oy!"
I approached the farm house without fear. I had gotten this incredibly cliche Indian headdress thing from my mistress' son a few weeks earlier and now it came in handy. I crept slowly up to the farm house and knocked.
"Honest Injun need bed to sleep in."
"Still cleaning out the corpses. Come back in an hour."
"Do you believe I am an honest Injun?"
"Yes, I do, but it is dark and you cannot see me. Later we will turn on the lights and you can eat corn, which you call maize."
"You have much knowledge about our ways, friend."
"Are you an Injun chief?"
"I have a tribe."
"Bring them to this farm house. Bring also your squaws. It is safe here from the Americans. Come back in one hour."
"I will, thank you, friend."
"I am known as Asian Orange."
"And I am no Injun! I am an advisor to president George R. Bush and you are under arrest for murder and theft of property for the purposes of returning it to the Injuns."
I lept into the house, expecting to throw my arms around Asian Orange and pin him to the floor. He was too slippery for me and stepped back into the darkness and disappeared. The door to the farm house closed behind me and I was left on my knees in the dark. I crawled around, trying to find a wall and a light switch, but there was nothing but dirt and horse manure everywhere I sunk my hands. My decision had been a poor one. I was now at the mercy of Asian Orange.
By the time I got up off the floor and found my way back outside, Asian Orange already had the next farm house under siege. My best efforts to put an end to his reign of terror had fallen flat. I knew it would be best to leave this work to the trained agents of the FBI, but I still had a desire to become an American hero. This time Asian Orange would not get away from me.
I crouched in the bushes outside the second farm house, trying to think like Asian Orange. As I waited for something to happen, I overheard two FBI agents talking in a casual, non-official capacity.
"Who the hell is that guy, anyway?"
"Some low level advisor to the president."
"He's an asshole. That's what he is."
I wasn't sure who they were talking about, but I did not plan to file a report. Although they were on duty, I could not begrudge them the right to talk disdainfully about some halfwit. There were more important things on my mind. I was going to nail Asian Orange and bring him down.
"What's the sally, pal?" I asked a local cop carefully.
"The sally knows the tally. You need to talk to Sheriff O'Malley."
"Sheriff O'Malley, does he know the sally?"
"He's got the tally, that Sheriff O'Malley."
"That's good to know, because I need to know the sally."
"He'll get you the sally. He's down in the valley."
"Thanks for the rally. I'll go talk to Sheriff O'Malley."
It was a quick walk down to the valley, where Sheriff O'Malley was enjoying a small, ceramic dish of watermelon sherbet. He was sitting on the hood of his police car and did not look up from his dessert when I approached.
"I need to know the sally," I told him.
"Asian Orange is an operative of a very exclusive Hong Kong restaurant seeking certain targets in the United States. It is their hope that if they can get enough land handed back to the Injuns, they can build restaurants and casinos on the property and make billions off gambling crazed Americans."
"That's diabolical!"
"You have your hands full with Asian Orange. He's a difficult customer. He spent many years as a bouncer in a nightclub that employed prostitutes posing as massage therapists."
"Thanks for the sally. Is that the complete tally?"
"That's the rally. Ain't no more to the sally."
"Thank you, Sheriff O'Malley."
It was a matter of getting back to the second farmhouse and sneaking up on this Asian Orange from behind. I could see the plan taking shape. These two farmhouses and the property attached to them formed an almost perfect horseshoe-shaped tract of land. It was the perfect place to build a sin-drenched casino.
The FBI was waiting on an order to come down from high on the hill, but I did not need to wait on orders. I found an old truck parked out behind the second farmhouse and got behind the wheel. The farmers, who were likely being tortured and killed at that very moment, had left the keys in the ignition. As they screamed, which was understandable given that they were having boiling acid poured into their navels, I started the old truck and pulled the shifter down into drive. I was going to ram that truck through the back of the farm house and apprehend Asian Orange right after the farmers were put to death and not a moment before.
"One of them is still alive," said a random FBI agent who came over to the truck and had me roll down the window. "He was in the shitter when Asian Orange broke in and I don't think the bastard knows he's in there."
"A man on the inside?"
"Yes. Can you believe it? If we play our cards right he'll be like Bruce Willis in that movie Die Hard and we won't have to do anything."
"Can we trust a farmer who has bowel movements to protect the Constitution?"
"Good point. What's your plan?"
"You mean the sally?"
"Yeah, the sally. Whatever."
"I'm going to drive this truck through the back wall of the farmhouse and use the headlights to find Asian Orange in the dark."
"How well did you think this out?"
"Pretty well."
"Did you know the back wall is made out of concrete and that it is almost a foot thick?"
"I did not know that."
"Well, it is. You want to go get some beers instead?"
"Yeah, let's just go with the Die Hard ending."
"Cool. You like Coors?"
GLOSSARY OF 2057 STREET LINGO
Sally: "The plan, or any available information."
Tally: "The big picture, combines the sally with information
that may not have been requested but is important nonetheless."
Rally: "The big step forward. The victory scene. Just go ahead
and give everyone a medal. Also slang for 'That's all I got' (less formal)."
Valley: "The crime scene, or where the law is setting up for investigating a crime scene."
O'Malley: "Cliche name for cliche Irish cop."