Report to Headquarters: From Operatives E. Joseph Callahan and S. Oskar Morgenstern
Date: 07/06/01
Location: Washington, D.C.

The D.C. night was as hot and damp as Jerry Nadler jogging in a sweat suit. As we furtively slunk down the sidewalk, giant cockroaches skittered swiftly away from us. Peering from beneath our tin-foil hats, our eyes darted back and forth. We were on the lookout for any neocon operatives who might be tailing us. Our footsteps reverberated on the cracked pavement, the staccato beat tapping out an unholy jungle rhythm that echoed the pounding fear we felt thundering in our chests. This could be our only chance, you see. We had to take it or our consciences would gnaw at us like rats nibbling at cheese wheels.

Gene's thoughts drifted back to that fateful meeting a week before, at the secret LewRockwell.com bunker deep in the Appalachian Mountains. The brotherhood had chosen us (being by far its most expendable members) to attempt this dangerous mission. We were to steal Jonah Goldberg's plans for the invasion of Africa.

Gene's blood was still boiling, because William F. Buckley and his crew of scalawags and bounders hadn't tried harder to get rid of Social Security, the interstate highway system, fluoridated water, and other modern outrages. But he knew that it was vital to keep his emotions in check, at least this night: the mission was paramount.

We finally arrived at Jonah's apartment building. We waited near the front door. It wasn't long before someone exited.

"Hey, how are you tonight?" we asked him.

The guy gave us a puzzled look.

"How's Phillip doing?" We knew that everyone in this neighborhood had a friend named Phillip.

"Oh, he's great. Just got a sweet appointment over at Justice."

"Super. We told him he'd get it."

"Aren't you guys…?"

"Yeah, yeah, Foggy Bottom and all. Mums the word." We winked at him, and he smiled knowingly back at us.

We passed in through the front door, which he held open for us, and into the building.

To get Jonah out of the apartment, we slid a two-for-one offer on Big Macs under his door. A moment later Jonah dashed out of the building like a man possessed, bringing a leashed Cosmo with him.

When we were sure he was safely gone, we popped back out of the maintenance closet in which we had secreted ourselves. We had to work quickly. Stu pulled his G. Gordon Liddy "Political Operative Kit" out of his backpack and quickly opened the apartment door.

He shut the door behind us, and we were enveloped in darkness. As Gene backed out of Stu's way, he tripped over something on the floor. Stu clicked his flashlight to view the obstacle: a stack of Juggs magazines.

Gene picked himself up and put on his flashlight as well. We began to explore the room. It was littered with copies of The New Criterion and empty pizza boxes. The fair Jessica, as we had previously determined, was out of town.

Directly across from us was a fireplace. Over the mantle was an elaborate shrine. Scented candles burned at either end of the mantle. In the center was a large portrait of Abraham Lincoln, hung over a replica of a box from Ford Theater. On either side of the box were Confederate battle flags floating in… what was it? Stu took a whiff: urine! He reeled backwards in disgust and horror. The dark heart of the vast neocon conspiracy was more decadent than we could have imagined.

On either side of the mantle rose tall bookcases. Stu shined his flashlight over them and stifled a scream. Hundreds of books: every one of them an autographed William Shatner novel! Dozens of videos: every one of them a Simpson's episode! What had begun as a simple "fake and take" was turning into a nightmare. We needed to calm down. We plopped down on the comfy sofa across the room.

Almost immediately, waves of well-being washed over us. We felt completely relaxed.

"You know," said Gene, "a nice job on staff for a GOP Senator really wouldn't be so bad."

"No, not at all," replied Stu. His eyelids were heavy and droopy. "Gee, I'd like to look into those CBO numbers on Social Security privitization. I bet they'd be pretty interesting."

"Sure," Gene said. "Personally, I think allowing workers to invest 2.37% of their contributions in private accounts would be a great idea."

"Yeah, but we really should attack a Third-World country first. Maybe Paraguay. The American people need a call to national greatness to rally behind."

Gene jumped up. "Stu, get the hell off of there."

He pulled Stu to safety. "It's the couch--the damned couch. Somehow, it was taking over our minds!"

"That explains everything: Jonah has spent so many hours on that monstrosity that it's probably in complete control of him by now."

Shaken, Stu stumbled into the bathroom. A sour feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach and his intestines groaned. Desperate to avoid disaster, he sought relief. His trembling hands reached for the medicine cabinet. Perhaps there'd be something in it to stifle the waves of distress that were beginning to wash up on the shore of his colon. The door squeaked as it slowly opened. In the darkness, Stu squinted, attempting to ascertain the contents.

"Holy mother of liberty! Gene, come here quickly, you won't believe this."

Gene rushed in. His jangled nerves were nearly at the breaking point. "For Rothbard's sake, what is it now?"

Stu pointed. There, in the medicine cabinet, was a cache of fake goatees. No wonder Jonah had been able to shed that thing so quickly when Bob Murphy had mocked it!

Next to them was a voodoo doll of Murphy himself. A sheet from a prescription pad was pinned to the doll's chest. Scrawled across it were the words "up dosage of Prozac." Sardonic smiles crossed our faces. If only Jonah knew how much Prozac Bob was already consuming, he wouldn't have had to gone to all that trouble.

The tension had broken for the moment and we headed back in to the main room, wary of its other hidden terrors. Being diehard anti-state, anti-war, pro-market sort of guys, we had to get those plans.

On a hunch, Gene picked up a folder lying on top of a mahogany desk.

"Hey, do you think this is significant?"

Written across the folder in large, bold letters were the words: "African Invasion Plans."

Stu studied it for a moment, silently mouthing the words. "Yes, I do believe we're getting somewhere."

We thumbed through the folder. The plans for the invasion itself were sketchy, but the folder also contained policy proposals for the period after the conquest was completed. The first of them pitched slavery reform: Slave owners could only own slaves for five years, after which they could not own any again for the next decade.

We continued through the papers with an increasing sense of horror. Ethnic slaughter was to be phased out over a twelve-year period, with most of the reductions to come in the out years. Cleansing would return to present levels at the end of that time unless further treaties were negotiated. There would be a ban on "late-term" clitoridectomies. Another position paper supported a scaled-back version of a popular witch-doctoring-reform package, including a provision that shamanic care management organizations cannot be sued.

This stuff was the ticket! We knew that these scoundrels and their plans had to be exposed. Stu stuffed the documents into his backpack and we prepared to leave. As a final gesture we scrawled "Happy Bastille Day" over Lincoln's face. Now it was time to kick the cat, yell at the TV, take our marbles, and go home. That's just the kind of libertarians we are, you see. We slipped off into the night.

When we were a couple of blocks away the tension began to dissipate. Just as we thought we were in the clear, a hand fell on Stu's shoulder. He jumped about a foot off of the sidewalk.

"So, Stuie, enjoying the evening?"

It was Stu's uncle, Mort Morgenstern! What the hey?

"Uh, hi, Uncle Mort. What are you doing here?"

"Boys, you've done great work. My bosses will be pleased."

"What are you talking about?"

"You think it was those Big Mac coupons that had Jonah tearing out of there like that? We put in a little call from the White House offering him a speech-writing position in the Bush administration, if he and Cosmo would just come down immediately."

"But why?"

"We wanted the plans. But we needed you to do the break-in, so if you were caught, no one could link it back to us. Now it's time to hand over the goods."

"Are you crazy? Lew needs these. He's going to broadcast them to the world. "

Uncle Mort shook his head sadly.

"You boys wouldn't want the story of your little incident involving the Ambassador from Tuvalu, the kiwi fruits, and the giant plaster chicken to become public, now would you?

We looked at each other in shock. "You know about that?"

"We know a lot more than you think."

Stu reached in his backpack and withdrew the plans. Reluctantly, he handed them to Uncle Mort.

"I knew you boys would see things my way. Have a good night." He merged back into the darkness from which he had appeared.

We had failed, duped yet again by Uncle Mort's machinations. We're sorry, Lew, we're sorry. Is it OK for us to come back to headquarters?