Agent Justin Pierce - Personal Notes - Saturday December 13^th 2008, 0912hrs

Terrible Thursday leads into Black Friday that turns into Shit Saturday.  Fuck only knows what's going to happen tomorrow.  So we're 33 days away from Stenneau's big to do and can I get any pissface at Delta Green to give us even so much as a reach around?  Can I fuck.  So much for Anderson's much vaunted solid green line.  I get the feeling after all that's happened recently that the green line is more a dotted one or at best wavy.  Either way, not a whole lot of goddamn use to those of us at the sharp end.

And the sharp end is kind of where the action's been for the past day or so.  Thursday night started with a field trip to collect samples of the Krewe's marketing flyers for analysis.  Doc Keele's analysis back in the Field Office's labs is still processing but apparently the ink is some kind of funky mix of animal blood and other shit that is luminous and notably yellow in certain lights. Analysis of the paper shows it to be old stock, as in not manufactured since Eisenhower was in office and it looks like an old printing press was used to make them - none of your laser copying for magical flyers naturally.

I was in the rack when Frost called me with news of unwelcome visitors.  Black guys in a black limo that looked the offspring of a Cadillac fused with the Batmobile, stationed across from his residence.  He opted to trail them - a near fatal decision as it turned out.  They led him up to the Lakeside and on to a stretch of largely deserted highway where the lake mist swirled in to give them cover and that's where Frost lost sight of their taillights.  He pulled over to look for them while they somehow doubled back on him and shunted his BuCar down the bank and into the Pontchartrain.  Frost was found on the bank and was technically dead when Fire/Rescue arrived but they managed to resuscitate him - a lucky break for us. 

On the way to him both Wilmot and I managed to total our cars - okay, I may have been a little slow in my reactions given the fact I was tired and a little emotional.  Okay very emotional.  Okay, wrecked - just like my BuCar.  Not sure what Wilmot's excuse was - just a shit driver when not in a tank I guess but from my perspective that invisible white rabbit that leaped out in front of me was huge.  The cops weren't having any of it the next morning - like I need lectures from flat footed fucks who should be in barber school.  I got a DUI charge although my ‘saviour' Devlin reckons it can be buried as a unfortunate by product of an undercover op gone wrong.  Thanks Boss - I always said you were a stand up guy - for a weasel ass motherfucker, that is.

I wasn't the only one helping the authorities with their enquiries - Frost had some arson investigator from NOFD checking up on the fire that began in little Tommy's apartment block, killed 2 of his neighbours (yeah, why do elderly couples always live UPstairs?).  The hump's name was O'Connor and he gave Frost the third degree on storing something very flammable in his apartment.  Unlike me, Tom didn't get charged but the look that O'Connor had on his face clearly indicated he thought Frosty's shoe collection was laced with gasoline.  Again, Devlin was making all our problems go away, shooing O'Connor away and putting us all on medical leave.  Me for a cracked rib and Frost for trying to drink the lake dry.

Friday, Devereux decided to chuck a sicky which given all that had been going on just about broke the straw on the camel's back.  Armaggedon nears and she's having period pains?  Sheesh, gimme a break.  Actually scrap that - unfortunate choice of words.  Well, we decided to do some digging (just in case a black limo had fucked her up the ass too).  We checked mobile phone records and established that she had been in Iberia while all the vehicular fun and games had been going on Thursday night.  We also checked the logs for the number she'd dialled when coming back from Iberia with Beverley in the afternoon.  Turned out to be a satellite phone of the Sirius variety - registered to none other than ex-SOG leader Mike Hamblin.  That makes me think that she probably was being fucked up the ass that night but not by the Zoboppers.  Our concerns were put to rest when Little Red Perfect popped back out of the woodwork and checked in with Chief around lunchtime on Friday.  Nice to see she could give a rat's ass. I think Chief expressed some of the team's concerns at her no show but whether it had any impact on Miss ‘Holier Than Thou' I don't yet know.

Friday night and we decided to work late and operate a safety in numbers policy with Frost hunkering down with Wilmot in a safe house.  I got a lot of guns at home so I chose to stay put.  Apparently Wilmot met up with Sommers to compare USMC tattoos and that's when our bad guys struck again.  The black limo followed them home and a confrontation ensued.  They were there to deliver a ‘get out of town' message invoking some Voodoo loa named Baron Samedi, but unfortunately they got served in return courtesy of a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum wielded by a PI named Clete Purcel - Wilmot and Sommers are adamant that he blew one of the black car crew's brains out but by the time the cops came, there was no body.  Purcel said he'd been hired by Romano Farina to keep an eye out for us - yeah, I'm still trying to work that one through.

So to Saturday where I woke up with a sore stomach and a need for better painkillers.  The plan is to get our asses down to Iberia Parish and check this Mama Marie LeFavre out.  Chief spent phone time with our ‘Sherriff in Comfortable Shoes' talking about her.  A huckster is the Sherriff's interpretation and she has a bait store down near Bayou Teche close to the Attakpes reserve where the mass grave was found.  Yeah - other folks spend Saturday mornings with newspapers and a beignet whilst we seek out folk to annoy.  That's your modern tax dollars at work folks - Hoover would be proud.