So you decided to join me. Good.
I'm here at the Port of Houston.
The sun went down two hours ago.
It's getting late and I'm tense.

I've been investigating a hot lead.
Thirty young marmosets may die
if something isn't done soon.


I am at the Argos Bar and Grill Sailors Welcome on Navigation Boulevard, speaking into a device that is attached to my collar. The device is relaying my words to an AXM satellite where they are being encrypted and transmitted back to earth. The returning signals are captured by a receptor inside my system's main frame. They are then decoded and the text is inserted onto this page. The page is saved and down-loaded onto the server. Job done. You may be wondering why I'm not using my own personal website for this. The answer should be obvious. IT'S BECAUSE THE FEDS ARE AFTER ME!

At noon today I saw my phone ringing. I say saw since I never, ever, activate the ringer and must rely on visual clues. The telephone is located inside a cubbyhole on my workstation. Sometimes I notice the frontpiece blinking, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I notice it blinking and don't answer it. Sometimes when it's not blinking I answer it anyway, just to see if someone is on the other end, breathing. You never know.

This afternoon Anita Kokinapos started talking before I had a chance to disguise my voice. Anita owns the ARGOS BAR AND GRILL SAILORS WELCOME, down by the Port Authority. The best thing that can be said about her establishment is that the waitresses aren't scabrous.

Benjamin! You bad boy.
What do you want? I'm busy.
You don't come and visit me anymore.
The Argos is a dump. Don't you read restaurant reviews?
Max told me you liked the food.
What I said was, I'm surprised we didn't get botulism.
Did you order the special?
Is there a reason for this call?
I have important information for you.
I'm listening.
Is this line safe?
Obviously not. You got through.
There is danger. I risk everything by giving you this information.
I'm still listening.
There are thirty young monkeys on board a ship. The Juno.
Monkeys. The Juno. I understand.
They're being smuggled into this country by NASA scientists.
Stop right there. What you're saying is absurd.
NASA doesn't need to smuggle monkeys.
Benjamin listen to me.
They have American suppliers, you idiot.
I'm hanging up now. Goodbye.
Wait! This is for a special mission.
Special mission.
A top secret launch of the Space Shuttle.
I see.
Even the United States Congress doesn't know about it.
Who's your source? Matthew Broderick?
As we speak, The Juno's first mate is drunk and in my bed.
Fascinating. May I hang up now?
He's passed-out.
He'd have to be.
Earlier, in his delirium, he spilled the beans.
Did you have the beans last time you were here?
I can't talk anymore. Bull is waking up.
Meet me in The Argos at ten o' clock tonight.
Wear something red.
Why? You know what I look like.
Yes. But not in red.

So that's where I am and why I'm here. The Argos is empty this evening. There's a sleepy bartender and a waitress who looks like a man. And me. And that's it. I'm grateful that no one has played the jukebox. I don't know if I could handle it. Greek music sounds like goats fucking to me.

But something's not right here. There's something wrong with this room. The clock above the cash register has three hands. I hear water dripping. There's a dog sitting in a chair near the door, an old dog with twisted legs and gray hair.

Damn! I just dropped...