Killing Mr. Chavez

Not many people realize this, but for a short time I was part of the most prestigious worldwide law enforcement agency in the world. No, I’m not talking about that time I tried to sign Leland up for tai kwon do and accidentally enrolled us both into the Cub Scouts, I’m talkin’ about the CIA. That’s right, yours truly was once a double agent, working in the most turbulent times of our era, May – September 1998. It was a summer gig, but it wasn’t the summer of love brah, it was the summer of…non loving. I got the job through Young America Works. It says you have to be 30 or under to join so that wasn’t a problem but what was a problem was the fact that I had to prove my American citizenship. I had lost my passport 5 years previous when I took Beth on a trip to Amsterdam. I was ordering a plate of space brownies from the local weed merchant when this gypsy kid came over and started to dance. Well, I was so stoned on the atmosphere and also the two pounds of hash coursing through my system that I gave him some money and started to dance along with him. Next thing I know I’m surrounded by a whole posse of them and I can’t find Beth. I got all disoriented and sick and then I passed out. I woke up in the Anne Frank house, which wasn’t really a house it was an attic so it’s kind of false advertising if you ask me.

Anyway, I woke up in there and thought I was in some torture room like in that movie Hostel and kind of freaked out. The people there were really understanding though, even after I destroyed most of their displays. When I checked that I still had all of my important body parts (teste 1 & 2) I headed back out with a spring in my step. It wasn’t until I got back to Beth that she told me my wallet was gone. The little bastard took everything, my money, my passport and my Best Buy value card. I just needed one more stamp for a free camera case, they didn’t have digital back then it was the old fashion kind. Then I was going to steal a camera to make it a win-win. I knew I couldn’t get back on the plane without ID so I stuffed myself in Beth’s special bra bag and rode home in the storage compartment. It wasn’t too bad, it was cold as fuck but I ripped open some Canadian couple’s bags and found what I needed to survive, a blanket, some granola bars, a t-shirt from the Van Gogh museum and a Coleco. Apparently it's just caught on in Canada. I found some Monopoly money in the bag as well but no board, which was a bummer.




My favorite game was E.T.





Once I hit America I thought I’d never need a passport again but when the CIA calls, you gotta accept the charges. Little do people know that the CIA is surprisingly slack when it comes to that sort of thing. They let me prove I was born in the best country in the world by reciting the first 20 minutes of Rambo: First Blood. I did such a good job I should’ve won an Oscar, or at least a Golden Globe:

“Back there I could fly a gunship. I could drive a tank. I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can’t even hold a job PARKING CARS!”

That’s right Sheriff Teasle, he can’t even get a job parking cars so give him some food for Christ’s sake. All he wanted was a bite to eat and maybe a hand job from one of the local skanks, he’s a drifter, what did you expect, a new mayor? Grrrr that Teasle boils my blood every time I watch that movie, which is three times a day if you’re keeping score.

Ok, I’ve calmed down now. Once I was admitted into the CIA I was put into their intense training program. This included being tortured in numerous ways to ensure I wouldn’t crack under pressure. The tortures were varied and extreme, they included having my fingernails pulled out, being electrocuted and made to watch every Sandra Bullock movie ever made on a continuous loop for a week. The next stage of training was the agility tests which I passed with ease. I only messed up once when my hair got caught on the monkey bars and I nearly scalped myself. I shouldn’t complain though, it’s the reason why my hair has so much body today. It was stretched for about a foot and a half longer then humanly possible and is still in the shrinking stage, so the President of the Hair Club for Men tells me. And when the President tells you something, you know it’s true.


















And remember, I'm not only the president of Hair Club For Men, I'm also a sexual predator

Once I passed the training I decided to take the time to ask what the sweet hell the CIA wanted with me, a known felon at the time and with a fairly heavy coke addiction. They told me they had recruited me from surveillance operations done on unknown biker gangs. They needed someone to go deep undercover into a Colombian drug cartel to take down one of the most ruthless people in the world. No, not Pablo Escobar, but his accountant, who in many respects was smarter and more evil than Pablo because he did the guy’s books. People in the 'know' will realize that Escobar had been gunned down 5 years earlier. But his cartel was still running, just trust me, it was still going. Once the accountant was taken down it would be like dominoes falling on this bad boy. I felt like Kevin Costner in The Untouchables except I didn’t have Sean Connery backing me up or a failed career on the horizon.

Once I landed in Colombia I was to meet my contact, Chez Chez. I didn’t have a fucking clue what kind of a name that was I was on dangerous soil so I played along. Chez Chez turned out to be pretty cool, he told me where I could find Farino, the Escobar cartel’s accountant in between smoking a joint the size of an English cucumber. Once I stumbled out of Chez Chez’s office I rigged my recording device up, which was in my hair, and headed over to meet Farino. I was posing as Mr. Chavez, a car salesman. Pablo was preparing to buy a Bentley and Farino took care of that sort of thing. My goal was to get some incriminating evidence from him while I was there. Here’s an excerpt of our encounter:

Farino: Ahh yes, the Bentley salesman, thank you for coming on such short notice

Dog: No worries mate, I feel like a dingo on the beach down here, really really hot.

Farino: Are you from Australia? I was told you were Mexican.

Dog: I am Mexican. I mean, my father was Mexican, my mother was Australian, I was born in Mexico.

Farino: Then why do you have an Australian accent?

Dog: Because….well, my mother was a slut and she’d bang anything that crawled so my real father was probably Australian but I was definitely born in Mexico.

Farino: Never mind, lets get down to the business at hand, cigar?

Dog: Sure, a Mexican never turns down a stogie. Uhh…could you do me a favor and for the rest of our conversation could you speak into my hair?

Farino: What?

Dog: Uhh…I was born with a rare defect, I hear from a hole in the top of my head, it’s called Craniear.

Farino: Lets just sign these documents ok? I have a very busy schedule.

Dog: Okie dokie, I’ll just sign these and we both can go to jail…I mean, our respective homes or businesses, hehehe.

Farino: What the fuck? You signed this thing “Duane Chapman, CIA Agent”, is this some sort of sick joke?

Dog: No no, it’s my company name, CIA stands for “Cars Instantly, Assholes!” It’s kind of an aggressive slogan I agree, but they’ve got this guy in marketing, he doesn’t listen to anybo-

Farino: Enough! I’m calling Mr. Escobar Jr. and he can deal with you properly.

Dog: No! I don’t deal well with torture! I watched Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood 37 times…37 times man, haven’t I suffered enough?

Farino: No! Tonight, even Sandra Bullock cannot save you. You will die!

End tape





I'm gonna miss you Chez Chez










The details of my escape are long and interesting. Maybe I’ll share them with you someday, but most likely I won’t. I’d like to put the whole ordeal behind me. It involved hiding in sewers and playing in a burlesque show disguised as Mimi, the traveling singer who was half man, half woman.