The Third Day

Frank Bismuth woke with his head 

on his desk in a pool of his own drool. 

As his trunk rose from the mahogany 

roll top, he knocked a 

bottle of Grey Goose off. It landed 

in the waste basket. Luckily both

the bottle and basket were empty. 

This was the only kind of luck Frank 

ever seemed to have.

It was the third day of the first case 

he'd had in  months. He celebrated 

the advance in advance, which is 

why he found himself at his desk in 

the shape he was in. His office was 

a mess..not just  disorganized, but 

littered with trash. Frank felt it was 

the maid's job to clean it up. The 

fact that he  didn't have a maid didn't 

seem to upset this logic.

This is the part of the job he hated: 

the work. He'd made his fame a few 

years ago by saving a child  from 

some kidnappers. The papers made 

him into a hero, but the actual story 

was quite different. He was apartment 

hunting, and he went to the  wrong 

address. When he knocked at the door, 

he heard sounds of a commotion and 

a girl crying.  The man who came to 

the door looked like Bluto, and told 

Frank to scram. A small lightbulb 

went off in Frank's head, and he 

called the police.

This was a real case...a dognapping. 

An expensive dog. How expensive? 

When he asked the owner,  she said: 

"If you have to ask, you don't need to 

know." The insurance company made 

her hire a detective as part of her due 

diligence. The client didn't care if he

found the dog. He didn't care as long 

as he was being paid. There was only 

one party that cared.

There was a knock at the door. Frank 

went over, opened it, and peeked out. 

"Good morning, Sir. I'm Stan Smith,

agent for Heartfelt Insurance Company. 

I'd like to speak with you about Mrs. 

Sherman's dog and the  progress you're 

making on the case." "Hey, Stan, 

where's Ollie?"  "What?" "Never mind....

say, let's go downstairs  for some coffee...

we can talk there."

Frank took Stan to the diner downstairs. 

He listened to the adjuster with his special 

face that made it seem like he was 

paying attention. He was merely waiting 

for Stan to stop speaking so he could 

lay on his detective spiel. He knew how 

to lay it on thick. At the end of their 

conversation, the adjuster seemed 

somewhat satisfied and somewhat 

confused. Frank knew he wouldn't be 

seeing him again real soon.

Frank wondered how he was going to 

solve the case. A ransom note gave a 

figure, but no other instructions. He 

thought of finding a similar dog and 

making it up to look like the lost pup. 

He thought of finding a road kill dog, 

putting it in a box and taking it to the 

lady. "Sorry, Mrs., but this is all that 

was left of him." Frank was a lazy 

bastard, no doubt. But he was clever, 

and it had saved his ass. But this 

time he was stumped.

Frank had a brainstorm. It was a crazy 

idea, but it was  the only one he had. 

He telephoned Mrs. Sherman. "Miz. 

Sherman, I have a lead on your dog. 

It seems the kidnappers wanted your 

dog as a trophy. They're wealthy 

Brazilians and to get close to them, 

I'll have to appear as a rich American 

businessman, stay in the best  hotel, 

throw some money around to get 

information. If you want, I can be in 

Rio in a day."

Obviously the woman wasn't worried 

about the money, because in four 

hours Frank was on a Lear jet sipping 

Crown Royal and eating lobster tail. 

He had no idea what he'd do next, but

he was enjoying the ride wherever it was 

leading. When he arrived at the hotel, 

a letter was waiting for him with a 

platinum Visa card. He immediately 

went out and bought a new wardrobe. 

He wanted to look like a cross between 

a businessman and and a high society

pimp...something like Donald Trump. 

He dyed his hair black  and slicked it 

back to a glossy arrogance. He figured

the people he was looking for would be 

at the casino, so, after a lunch of steak 

tartar and champagne, that's

where he headed.

The whales at the casino didn't liked 

to be bothered. They had their own 

private rooms and staff to keep lesser 

people away. Frank had a substantial 

credit line, and he had hired several 

young actors and actresses to play his 

posse. With his innate bullshit swagger, 

he managed to seat himself at a table 

with some high rollers. His intention 

was to lose...a lot. In an hour he was 

down several hundred thousand. Frank 

could make people laugh, which had 

saved his life a couple of times. He 

played the crowd and got a few 

chuckles out of them. There was one 

player that the others seemed to be 

paying attention to. He was the biggest 

fish in the pond, Frank reckoned. He 

kept playing until he found himself one 

on one with this man. They were playing 

Texas no limit hold 'em. The table had 

an obvious flush going, but Frank had 

flopped a full house. They were betting 

heavily. Frank folded, and the man took 

the pot. Frank got up and said: "Well, 

looks like enough fun for me  tonight!" 

He tipped the help generously, and 

walked out. The other players 

just stared as he left.

The next morning Frank was having 

brunch and a well dressed man walked 

up to his table. He introduced himself. 

"Sir, my name is Thornvold Arnquist. 

You were playing poker last night with 

a gentleman that is my employer. Do 

you mind if I sit down?" 

"Please" Frank responded.

"You lost quite a sum to my employer 

last night, and he was concerned after 

your well being, that you were alright,

and that there were no hard feelings."

"Well, it's not a big deal, but I did have
to kill my second wife...NO! no! That's
a joke! tell him not to worry, I'm a big 

boy. I wouldn't have been there if I 

couldn't afford to lose."

"My employer...let's call him Bill...was 

very impressed as you left the room 

that you didn't seem at all upset. He's

not only an avid poker player, but he's 

an astute reader of character, and he 

would be pleased to have dinner with

you this evening at his hotel, if you 

would be so inclined."

"Sure! At least I can get a dinner back 

from him!"

"Fine. Eight o'clock at the Empire Hotel. 

You will be shown to his rooms."

"I'll be there."

The man left. Frank finished his eggs 

Benedict. Something had happened. 

Here was his opportunity. What about 

the dog and the old lady? They were 

somewhere at the back of his mind on 

a shelf labeled "to be dealt with later." 

He couldn't wait to hear what this rich 

fat pig wanted to tell him.

He arrived at the hotel punctually. This 

was the best hotel in Rio, five star plus. 

He gave his card to the concierge, who 

led him past a bank of elevators to a 

private one. This took him to the 

penthouse,  where a butler ushered him 

into a vast  drawing room. "Would the 

gentleman care for a cocktail?" "No, 

thanks...lemonade or something."

"Very good. Drugs? We have hashish 

and the finest sinsemilla. We prefer to 

serve opium after desert."

"Well, yeah, a joint would be nice."

"We have a water pipe I'm sure you 

will  enjoy. Please make yourself 

comfortable."

(That was a surprise! Maybe the old 

toad  is more hip than I thought he 

could be.)

Frank sat down at a grouping of three 

chairs and a mahogany coffee table. 

There was an ash tray there, so Frank 

took out his Delicados and lit one up. In

a couple of minutes the butler returned 

with another servant carrying a tray. The 

butler placed a small water pipe in front 

of him, and beside it a silver bowl of green 

herb. The water pipe itself was a work of 

art. It was blown glass encased in filigree 

sliver work depicting some kind of plant. 

One smoked from a tube that resembled 

a vine. The glasswork was colored to 

appear as foliage. Lemonade in a crystal

glass was also placed in front of him. 

"Your host will be joining you in a moment. 

If you should need anything, there is a 

button on the table to press." 

"Thanks for everything....uh...what's your 

name?"

"You may call me Reggie or Reginald, 

Sir, which ever you prefer."

Not bad....so far. Reggie and the other 

servant disappeared somewhere at the 

other end of the room. Impeccable 

furnishings...not antique, rather built for

the space by master carpenters. A duel 

could properly take place in this hall. The 

formality of the butler along with the 

familiarity of calling him Reggie felt...

good...wholesome somehow. He took a 

toke from the water pipe and wondered 

how his host did business this way.Then 

he remembered that salesmen always 

soften you up before they go in for the 

kill. But, really, Frank didn't have much 

to lose. He was on his client's dime...he 

might not "find the dog" for a while. His 

host could make him disappear, he 

thought, if he'd wanted to. But he wanted

something from Frank. What was that?

"Good evening, Frank. I hope It's alright 

to be familiar."

The fat man, looking eerily similar to 

Sidney Greenstreet,strode into the room 

and took Frank's hand in both of his

meaty paws and shook it firmly.

"Of course it is. But, what do I call you?"

"I want you to call me Shorty for now. 

Partly to keep my identity private for a 

while until we see if we have business

together, and partly because I think 

it's funny."

"OK, uh, Shorty, but forgive me if I smile 

once in a while."

"One is supposed to smile, Frank, and 

laugh. Why do you think I have all this 

wealth? So I can be miserable?"

"No, of course not, but I don't know 

many rich people that aren't still obsessed 

with money...and miserable because 

of it."

"Absolutely, Frank. But you hadn't meet 

me yet."

"Yeah, well, why am I meeting you? 

What's this all about?"

"First, Frank, I have to tell you I know a 

lot about you. I know you're on an errand 

for someone rich...perhaps you're looking 

for something for them. I know you came 

to the casino to look for information. I know 

you joined the game to scout out the 

players. And I know you lost that hand to 

me to make an impression on me because 

you think I'm the one that might be able to 

help you. You think I'm the big dog. And, 

you're right.

Whatever you need for your client, I'm sure 

I can help you. What's the problem?"

"She lost her dog."

"All this because she lost her dog......?"

Frank took a photo from his wallet and 

showed Shorty. 

"It's rare and expensive and she's rich 

and she's paying me. What can I say?"

Shorty took the photo, took out his cell 

phone and walked about ten feet away. 

He made a couple of calls. At one

point, it looked like he was scanning 

the photo into the cell phone. A couple 

more calls.

"Alright, we should know something 

shortly. Now we should get to what 

you're wondering: what could I

possibly want from you?"

"It had crossed my mind."

"I read you at the poker table. Nobody 

else did. They bought your story, and 

these are serious guys, serious players, 

like me, but for some reason you were 

invisible to them. I want to hire you...to 

be around when I need you, because, 

if you can fool them, you can also see 

through them. Poker, business, 

markets, it's all a game. You see 

through the game."

The butler approached with a phone. 

Shorty walked  away a little again. 

A five minute conversation. Shorty

walked back. 

"OK, they found the dog on the black 

market and it's on the way back to it's 

owner, who has been informed. The 

casino has graciously cut your losses 

at the table, which have been paid,

and your dog lady has deposited

your fee in your bank. Hungry?"

"Now that you mention it, I do have 

the munchies. Say, I appreciate the 

intoxicants, but I thought rich people,

besides alcohol, were into stuff like 

cocaine, meth....what gives?"

"Frank, I'm an old hippie. When the 

CIA infiltrated the San Francisco scene 

and began exchanging pot and LSD 

for meth and heroin, I saw what they 

were doing and got out. When I sit 

across from a guy at a business 

deal in a silk suit gritting his teeth, 

I know exactly where he's been."

Dinner was steak au poivre, asparagus 

and baked, stuffed potatoes, served with 

a 1959 Chateau Lafite. They retired to 

Shorty's study for majoun and brandy.

"The human species is in decline," 

Shorty started. "Common sense no 

longer has the value it once had. 

People are led into believing 

absurdities because lies are continuously 

beaten into their heads, just like Goebbels 

and Orwell said they would be. It's rarer 

and rarer to run into people you meet 

for the first time and feel here is an honest, 

down to earth person. This is a symptom 

of the social engineering project that has

been run by the sociopaths in charge of 

the system since, at least, the time of the 

First World War. Freud, the cocaine addict 

that gave us useless psychotherapy

and barbaric shock treatment also 

planted the seeds for Madison Avenue 

which convinced us of our brave new 

world. And the result is we live in a Ponzi 

scheme paradise with the rent coming due."

"Uh, ok. So, what are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to do what you did the other 

night. I'm trying to infiltrate their poker 

game, their power and money game, 

so I can disrupt it...perhaps even destroy 

it from within. To do that, I need people 

with your skill at being invisible. That 

night you were invisible even at the end

when you lost and left so nonplused. 

Invisible even when you were visible. 

You can get to their center, get information, 

plant seeds of doubt and discord. Did you

ever see the movie Yojimbo? It's a 

samurai movie where a lone ronin defeats 

two opposing clans simply by pitting them 

against each other through rumor an 

innuendo. It's really as simple as that. 

Frank, these  people are wrapped so tight. 

But they're insulated. That's why someone 

needs to get close."

"So, what do I get out of it?"

"For three years of work you get a 

first class ticket to Alpha Centauri, the 

New Colony, a beautiful retirement 

home and income for the rest of 

your life, before Nibiru destroys 

the earth."

"Why go to the trouble if Nibiru is going to 

destroy the earth anyway?"

"It's a living."