O.W.L.

A professional car sitter, the stakeout extraordinaire. What kind of trouble am I getting into today? Are these famous last words? Like I’m a badass callously running headfirst into danger. Or am I forcing excitement into another tedious, drawn-out, dead-end lead in this stupid investigation? One after another, after another, how’d I get sucked into this? Eventually, I have to have some sort of luck before driving myself completely insane. That’s what I keep telling my editor, but I don’t think she buys it; I’m pretty sure she’s had it, entirely over my bullshit, just waiting for me to fail so she can fire my ass.

Just have to follow the money, and it will lead to what I’m looking for; not sure what that is or if I’ll regret finding it. My gut tells me there is something off about this electronic parts warehouse; there is too much activity for how small it is. Too many trucks are going in and out of this tiny ass building. The guys loading and unloading boxes in the parking lot are too stiff, too regimented; anyone who’s worked a warehouse gig can tell it’s an act.

All of my sources and research point to this warehouse and owls. The whooo whooo night bird with the giant eyes and weird twisty head. But why owls? Why these creepy little night demons? Maybe they’re breeding and selling them on the black market, saying they’ll help make your erection stronger? Was it some intern googling what animals are symbols of death? Other secret government operations already took the devil and other demons, and he wasn’t a big cat fan, so they went with the owl.

My favorite source, Reggie, couldn’t shut up about them. He kept going on and on. Owls this and owls that, owls, owls, owls. So much so I glossed over, and ten minutes later, he was still ranting about stupid owls when I started listening again. To be fair, we were stoned out of our minds at the time. That’s why he’s my favorite source; I’m guaranteed to get smoked out anytime I see him. We’re just a low-budget Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo without all the style, flair, and substance.

Reggie’s always trying to mess with me to get a laugh. Now that I think about it, his ridiculous laugh does sound like an owl. I can see his stupid smug face puffing on a blunt, sitting in his living room in that filthy purple crushed velvet chair from the seventies.

“Whooo whooo motha fucka, jokes on you O.W.L. don’t mean shit. But I got yo money anyway. Whooo whooo!”

Asshole is probably sitting in his car down the street laughing at me as I sit here like a boob talking to myself playing reporter, waiting for something to happen. That’s giving him too much credit. He’s most likely passed out in that disgusting chair, already forgotten we even talked about owls, on to his next obsession.

Maybe it’s not about birds at all. Perhaps it’s the acronym O.W.L. Government agencies love wordplay; they are absolutely terrible at it but can’t help themselves. Like a shitty pun comedian, smiling like a big dummy while waiting for the audience to catch up and laugh at how clever they are. Come to think of it, I don’t believe there are any good pun comedians.

Ostracizing White Ladies? No, ma’am, you can’t see the manager. I understand you’re upset, but nobody here cares; we all make minimum wage. Especially the manager. He thinks you’re a twat and doesn’t want to deal with you either. It’d be best if you just fucked off. Bye-bye now. Thank you, and have a terrible day. Please don’t ever come again.

Order While Lubricated? What is that even supposed to mean? Sounds sexual in a gross way but oddly erotic at the same time. Maybe it's slang for late-night online shopping while completely hammered. Internal Ebay memos praise the company’s favorite kind of shopper, the intoxicated early morning impulse buy. Asking the age-old question, “How do we market this without people realizing we have no ethics and nothing is off-limits?” Not to say large retail companies like eBay and its competitors don’t have ethics…..

One Week Left? Oooooh, that’s it! A vacation club. A quirky group has been friends since college with their annual vacation countdown. They are eagerly anticipating when they are all sitting on the beach sipping Mai Thai’s getting sunburned. It could also be a countdown to world war three. A timer counts down the minutes until nuclear warheads are launched worldwide, triggering the end of humanity. Depending on whom you ask, that might not be a bad thing, just a little darker than Mai Thai’s, I guess.

It’s probably some stupid catchphrase like “Operation White Lightning - Our strike is so quick we are done and gone before that thunderclaps.” The analyst that came up with it is smug as they compliment him.

“Yes. Hrmmmm. Thank you. Yes.”

Some ass kisser in the back is trying to suck up and get as close as possible anyway he can, in an attempt to ride their coattails.

“Your best one yet, sir!”

Just smiling and nodding, so proud of his clever wordplay. Confident his superiors will just eat it up and instantly promote him, putting him in charge of his own set of troops. When he shows up, do the soldiers of O.W.L. use the customary greeting of a salute with a “Sir! Yes, Sir!”? Or do they flap their arms like a bird with a “Whooo! Whooo!”?

“Perched and ready for duty, Sir! Whooo Whooo!”

Perched? Yup, it’s finally happened. Mark it down. My editor will be pleased she won’t have to pay me unemployment. They’ll be able to fire me for incompetence. I’ve finally gone crazy. This is the story that broke my brain.

A bladder full of old stale coffee and a belly full of gas station breakfast burritos, plural, because you can’t have just one. It’s like eating scrambled egg-flavored ice cubes wrapped in processed cheese-flavored molten glass. Yummy yummy. The adverse effects of this combination would surely cripple an average person, leaving them hunched and cowering in a corner, drenched in sweat, fearing the inevitable mudslide that's moving its way down their body. But not me, no, no. I’ve trained myself to endure such torture. Convincing myself, it’s the only way I don’t lose my mind while trying to will something to happen at this completely normal warehouse, where completely normal warehouse things are happening.

It can’t be completely normal and above board. The number of employees and the revenue this “electronics warehouse” reports on the surface seems legit. Once I look deeper, it starts to fall apart. When asking around town, everyone is very nervous and deflecting, quick to change the subject to something mundane and unimportant. Add that to the frequency of trucks coming and going, and anyone with half a brain should be able to tell it doesn’t add up.

The shift change is coming up. There is a short window where the trucks are left unattended. This is the best chance to get a closer look at the boxes and trunks that are coming on and off the trucks. Not the smartest thing to do, but it beats sitting here smelling my farts for eight hours until the following shift change. I have to take a piss; if I get cornered, I’ll start peeing on a tire and play dumb. What do you mean this is not a urinal?

I’m surprised at the lack of security cameras. It's easier to deny the existence of something if it’s not on your security footage. They can’t be subpoenaed for something that wasn’t recorded. Works out better for me. All the boxes are taped up. On the outside, nothing unusual, just an owl logo stamped on them. If I had brought my tape, I could cut a couple open and tape them back after finding out what’s inside. I could steal some, but I’m not trying to run across the parking with an owl box under each arm. That’s a little harder to explain if I get caught. At least the trunks are unlocked.

Shit, someone's coming! Shift change shouldn’t be here already. It looks like I’m hiding in this trunk.

“I need you to load the boxes and trunks on these trucks. They all have to go to the barn.”

The barn? They don’t really call it the barn? Isn’t that a little too obvious? Owl logos, the acronyms, and a barn? I hope it is a dusty old junk-filled barn. I’m getting a free chauffeur ride there—a field trip in this tiny miniature trojan horse, minus the horse and the army. I’m stuck in here with random boxes and no weapons. Defiantly not as cool as the trojan horse. Or the weapons.

“Also, keep an eye out. They said there’d been a reporter poking around town. If anyone shows up, don’t say anything to them; send them to the office.”

What the hell! I’ve been working on this investigation for months. There’s no way I’m hiding in this musty ass trunk taking a trip to “The Barn” to let someone else break this story.

“Did they say what they look like?”

Yeah, what does this asshole thief look like? It’s probably Bob from the Sentinel. The dickhead has no original content. He waits for someone to do the work, then swoops in and plagiarizes later.

“They just said he was a douchey old nerdy weirdo. The guy at the gas station said he ate a bunch of those old breakfast burritos.”

Nope. That’s me. A douchey old nerdy disgusting burrito eating weirdo that doesn’t realize I’m the one they are looking for.

“Why would you do that to yourself? We should be able to smell him from a mile away. I don’t think those are actual food.”

Rude. If they were that bad, they wouldn’t keep making them; it’s not like they were sitting on the shelf for years. And if they made me smell, they’d know exactly where I was. They wouldn’t be taking me to “The Barn.” “The Barn,” what a stupid name. Even “the Lair,” as cliché as that is, would be so much better.

xxx

I knew this warehouse was on top of an underground facility. The old disgusting burrito gut was right again with too much traffic in and out. There have to be at least forty or fifty trucks parked down here. Not as many troops as I suspected, but I’ll have to be careful, not dressed the part to be down here. I can’t see any surveillance cameras either.

I haven’t snuck around like this in ages. Listen to me, “ages.” No wonder they think I’m old and nerdy. If I get caught, I’ll just pretend I have dementia. Honestly, mister soldier man, I was just looking for the bathroom. I thought it was past all the trucks and behind all these boxes. What do you mean I’m not supposed to be down here? Are you sure this isn’t the social security office? I’ll just shit my pants; then they won’t want to touch me.

What the hell is that? It looks like those Medieval grandstands stacked on top of each other, filled to the brim with ripped Asian men. Or are they realistic looking Mannequins? They aren’t moving. This is super weird. Maybe they’re getting ready to watch a joust. The super-secret government Medieval Times. Soon the trumpets sound, and colorful armored men ride out on horses for their fake duel to the death. Where’s the line for turkey legs and beer?

Why aren’t they moving? Are they sleeping? Obviously, the only smart thing to do is get closer. As soon as I’m within touching distance, they’ll spring awake and scare me, and that’s when I’ll shit my pants. That’s what’s going to happen. They see me watching them. I’ll run away and get caught from my dirty undies. I can’t hide that smell, especially after all those breakfast burritos. This is a good idea. It’s a great idea. One hundred percent no questions asked a fantastic idea. I just have to repeat the lie enough times to convince myself, and it comes true. That’s how it works. Everyone knows that.

This is even weirder up close. Did they create vampires? They were going for super-soldiers and completed an undead race that would suck us all dry. Is this the beginning of the end of the world? Today in the news, a trespasser breaches a top-secret government facility and inadvertently sets off the destruction of humanity as we know it. They couldn’t go with a bat as a symbol. Then everyone would know where the vampires are hiding. I had to use the stupid owl logo for misdirection.

These guys are so calm and peaceful. Whatever they’re doing, they should bottle it and sell it. You could make a fortune as a rejuvenation retreat. Their skin is so soft that I can’t stop touching them. Why am I feeling them? Is this some government spa research facility? The trucks are probably full of lotions and salt rock lamps. I don’t know why but I expected these guys to be clammy, like the vegetables at the supermarket. Or fake. A wax museum of ripped Asian men located in a secret underground facility makes sense. That’s not weird at all. The government would waste money on something like that. It’s not like they are using it for social programs to improve the lives of their citizens.

“Right this way, Sir. They’re right over here.”

More people are walking around down here than Disneyland for a secret facility. Okay, maybe not Disneyland, but a busy farmers market.

“How are the troops doing?”

We’re good. We are just chilling with our soft skin. No need to check on us; you can move on to the next part of the tour.

“Right on schedule, Sir. They will be deployed two weeks from today.”

Uh oh. Nap times over, boys. Better makes sure you make the most of it before you ship out. Have to go clubbing and get your ding dongs played with. They could also play with each other's ding dongs if that’s what they’re into. That’s a possibility. Not sure why I’m thinking about ding dongs so much. Or maybe there’s a stand of sleeping ladies somewhere.

“How long until they are active?”

My guess is sometime in high school. That’s when most kids start to experiment with sex and their “growing bodies.” If they were in the same shape, I bet some were very active. I had to wait until college. What a painful memory that was. I fit into that nerdy douchey description.

“Roughly an hour after we drop them in China, the drugs keeping them in a coma wear off. The controls will be a little buggy for the first thirty minutes. Once the coma drugs are out of their system, we have full control and can command them at will from anywhere in the world.”

Okay, that’s so much worse than I ever imagined. Now would be an excellent time to get out of here. I don’t want to get stuck down here living out my days in “The Barn,” scurrying around like a rodent. Eating scraps of food over the bathroom sink. The myth of the missing lunches and morning danishes has been solved! We caught the culprit! It turns out it's that old nerdy annoying reporter that was poking around town asking questions about us.

Whooo Whooo.

Sure, why not owl noises. They already have PlayStation soldiers. Of course, I’m dumb enough to go toward the noise. I might as well check it out; I’m already down here. It won’t be a trap. Why would they set up a trap? Only those who are supposed to be down here are down here. Reckless, complete and utter disregard has worked for me so far today; why switch it up?

Whooo Whooo.

Do these assholes have a barn owl? And they’ve made the little bastard a tiny red barn to chill in? They know I’m here. That’s the only explanation. They’re messing with me. All this super soldier stuff is fake. They have cameras hidden in all these boxes. My editor set me up, and she will jump out and grab me. They’re sitting in a room right now with her and Reggie, watching me on surveillance cameras as I trip out over this bird. To be honest, this is… This is awesome. When did secret government agencies get mascots? What’re following next cheerleaders? Are they going to run out of a backroom through a tear-away banner and shoot prizes at me with a t-shirt cannon?

“Who’s loves war crimes and atrocities against humanity?! And who wants a T-shirt so everybody knows it?!”

I’d be blasted in the face with a low-quality advertising gimmick. After seeing this, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a gift shop. Gotta pick up my O.W.L. logo coffee mug and “The Barn” chocolate set. Get some stuffed owls for the kids if I had kids. I could get them for someone else kids if I knew someone who had kids. Okay, no stuffed owls, just the mug, candy, and novelty pens. You can never have enough novelty pens.

“I need you to hop in truck thirteen and take it to the drop location. Just stay with the convoy, and you’ll be okay. You’ll be briefed top side and head out from there.”

Oh sweet! Somehow I’ve made it back to the trucks. It must be my investigative instinct. Follow the mystic owl, and they’ll show you the way. Now those owl instincts need to get me on a truck and back off when we get “top side.”

“Yes, Sir. Truck fifteen, I mean thirteen, Sir. Thirteen.”

This kid seems jumpy maybe truck thirteen is the lucky one. Is it still a trojan horse if you use it to escape the city? Is there a story where they brought it in until the guy left then threw it out so they wouldn’t hurt his feelings? This thing suuuuuuucks! It doesn’t even look like a horse. Throw in the moat out back let it sink to the bottom, so Mark doesn’t see it when he comes back next week. Stupid Mark is always bringing this garbage around, but he’s such a nice guy. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Whoops, the kids starting up can’t miss my ride out of here. It would be better to let myself get fired and not write about this.