Lots of NoDoz, and plenty of Dew."" That's how I respond when my close friends ask me how I ever got through U.S. Operative basic training without my superiors catching wind of my debilitating disorder. I'm agent Peter Stotch, and I have narcolepsy. Sometimes I'll go all day without falling asleep. Other times I'll find myself curled up like a kitten in the middle of the street. Regardless, I'm the best there is at what I do, and I'll be damned if the occasional mid-day snooze is gonna keep me from my work.
Right now I'm deep undercover in Istanbul, Turkey. It's hot as hell, the food is awful and the women are worse. I'm expected to hunt down a real ballbuster of a drug dealer, the kind with rabid dogs, Uzis and a thick middle-eastern accent. Boy, I've seen some nasty shit during my days down in South America and Mexico, but this was the coup de grace of shit-storms. Yesterday was when my tendency to nap really screweed me.
I'd been tracking this dame from Morocco, who has recently been seeing this dealer for more than drugs, if you catch my drift. She's the best lookin' broad in Turkey if you ask me, but she's still a bitch to track.
Just then, she stepped into a local bar. My throat had been feeling like sandpaper for hours so I was more than happy to have a quick drink. I moved to the opposite side of the bar and quickly ordered up a whiskey and coke. She'd been carrying a briefcase all day, a suspicious thing considering how it clashed with her little red number. I was halfway into my second Turkish Gold when this gal drops the briefcase on the bar and walks away; didn't even finish her drink. I quickly took one last swig and moved away from the bar into a crowd by the door. Sure enough, my main objective comes walking right through the back door, strolls over to the bar and picks up the briefcase.
There's something about danger that calms me down; it's always been a trait that's paid off on the job. I could feel my hands begin to steady as I flipped the safety off of my .38-caliber and stepped out of the bar to follow my elusive friend; I wasn't going to screw this up again. This guy has connections; he's not only the top dealer in the area, but the top murderer too. To catch him without his usual band of cronies was a rare opportunity.
As I was running to the alley where I was gonna cut him off and bag him, I felt that familiar sleepy feeling coming on. It's a little like you're going from sober to drunk as a skunk in a split second. I shook it off and kept running. I just needed to hold it off long enough to get this guy in cuffs.
As I was camped out in the alley, I could hear his footsteps getting closer and closer. I got ready to pounce, and as he rounded the corner, I gave him a knuckle sandwich. He went down quicker than a couple of frat-boy punks. I quickly grabbed the briefcase and rolled him over to throw some cuffs on him, when I felt the sleeping monster rise again. I was heading to snooze city quick, and nothing was gonna stop me this time. If you would have walked into that alley, you would have found two unconscious men. One laying down with one handcuff on, and the other slumped over in an attempt to cuff the other guy's hand. Quite the scene, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, I didn't wake up first.
I woke up sitting in a cell that smells like urine and cow shit, and it's here I've been sitting ever since. Maybe I'm not cut out for this job. There's a Wendy's that's hiring back in the cities... coulda just stopped by for an interview and my only worries right now would be making sure not to fall asleep face-first into the deep fryer. Thought I was dead... still do actually, but I'm glad whoever searched me had shit for brains, because they forgot to grab the six-inch blade I keep in the sole of my left shoe. If this sleaze-bag's going to try to get information from me without getting in over his head, he'd better bring friends this time, and I better stay awake for the kill. To be continued...
Confused? Not sure what to think? E-mail Andrew at aplahr@wisc.edu to voice your opinion.
