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The room filled with the private security detail — the black shirts, as they were called. The Dweeb took a seat and put his sneakered feet on the Brazilian cherry oblong table.
Agent Jones took a sip of his disappointing coffee. “Kill the lights.”
A black shirt took out his gun.
“Not literally, Agent. I meant turn them off.”
The room dimmed to a hazy gray. Agent Jones pulled down a white screen and plugged in his twenty-five-year-old slide projector. Despite the high-techery available, he preferred the old wheezing machine. He clicked the remote. The fan whirred. On the projection screen was the faded-color image of a short man in a militarized black jumpsuit and huge, blue suede platforms. The man sported oversize sunglasses and a long, fat mustache. He wore an obvious wig, which bore a resemblance to Elvis Presley’s famous pompadour.
“MoMo B. ChaCha, aka The Peacock. Dictator of the Republic of ChaCha and a very creative dresser. Thief. Murderer. Racked up more human rights violations than Genghis Khan20.”
“Who?” the Dweeb asked.
“I thought you went to Yale.”
“I study business, not Chinese.” Harris snorted.
Agent Jones exhaled loudly and clicked to a new slide. “The Republic of ChaCha, or the ROC, is one of the richest countries in the world. Incredible natural resources. But we can’t get to those resources because a) our government has levied sanctions against the ROC, so all Corporation interests would be in violation of the Trading with the Enemy Act and b) MoMo B. ChaCha is certifiably insane. This is a man who is so paranoid, his most trusted advisor is a taxidermied former pet named General Good Times.”
The carousel clicked to a new slide. MoMo B. ChaCha in full military colors inspected his army from a Jeep. Beside him was a stuffed lemur in sunglasses and a general’s hat.
“But didn’t we put MoMo in power in the first place when the ROC elected a socialist president?” one of the black shirts asked.
Agent Jones glared at the man until he began to play with his pencil. “In a few weeks, MoMo B. ChaCha will travel to this very island to make an arms deal with The Corporation. As you know, MoMo is not a fan of our country.”
Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. “Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bun–smelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I’m With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries-drive-through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art.”
“So why is he doing a deal with us if he hates us so much?” someone asked.
“MoMo’s been trying to tamp down an insurgency in the ROC. Needs some firepower. We sell him arms; he lets The Corporation set up shop in his country. Covertly, of course.”
“How’re you going to get those weapons into the country?”
Agent Jones held up a small, white jar of Lady ’Stache Off.
“Lady hair remover?” a black shirt asked.
“Looks like it. Actually, it’s a powerful explosive. Dr. Du’Bious?”
“We found that if you change one compound in Lady ’Stache Off, it becomes highly unstable. All it needs is a charge of some kind and you’ve got incredible shock-and-awe capabilities,” the scientist explained excitedly.
“And it leaves your legs baby smooth.” Agent Jones attempted another smile. No one laughed. Agent Jones cleared his throat. “So. We sell MoMo his weapons. And The Corporation gets a foothold in the Republic of ChaCha.”
A new slide whirred into place. It showed an artist’s colorful rendering of the new ROC, with huge shopping complexes, smiling people in sunglasses toting oversize shopping bags, a Corporation oil rig shining from the blue water in the background. “Violà. The Republic of The Corporation. God bless America.”
There was a round of applause.
17Bermes scarf, a highly coveted status symbol. When the Pope chided pop star Magdalene for her collection by saying she could feed a village for a year for the cost of it, she responded, “Yes, but I can t wear a village around my neck.”
18 Bipolar Bears, The Corporation’s cuddly combination vitamin and mood-leveling drug marketed to tween and teen girls. Bipolar Bears banish bad moods and keep you beauty-queen perfect. Sold in a variety of signature bottles. Collect them all!
19Ragnaroknroll, an online gaming community whose members meet once a year at a Holiday Inn in Brainerd where they eat reconstituted eggs and stage mock battles. Soon to be a major motion picture with merchandising opportunities out the wazoo.
20Genghis Khan, thirteenth-century Mongolian ruler. Genocidal maniac. Wearer of very smart hats.
CHAPTER NINE
Under Taylor’s direction, her group of girls found their way back to the damaged beach, which resembled a dorm room after an island-themed kegger gone wrong. Broken trees and fractured palm leaves littered the sand. Belongings were strewn about. But the sea was now calm and the sky forgiving. The girls fell into the sand, exhausted and groaning.
