Die Stupid

Prologue

A man alone.

He stood at the end of an alley, in silhouette against a moonlit brick wall. He was tall and big-shouldered and his stance spoke of casual violence and even more casual sex.

The youths facing him were one of the ragged packs that roamed the city after nightfall and during the occasional solar eclipse. This was their territory, and they owned everything within its limits, except their cars, which they leased.

There were five of them. They carried baseball bats and knives, as well as badminton racquets and demitasse spoons.

Yo, mister, their leader called. Looks like you is in a bad neighborhood.

Am I? the man said in a flat tone, specifically B-flat.

Sure is. I mean, it’s got potential for gentrification, but with the real estate market in a downturn, there ain’t no seed capital for local development. And you know what that means.

Enlighten me.

It means you shouldn’t of come here. We gonna mangle you like I mangle my syntax.

Gonna smurf you up, homebase, his second in command said. Gonna punch your lights up. Put you in a bodystocking.

Twenty-three skidoo, daddy-o, a third gangbanger said, punctuating the point with a few strums of his ukulele.

The tall man didn’t move. Better get to it, then, he said.

Something about his rigid stance made the youths uneasy. Ordinarily they could smell fear on their victims. Tonight they could only smell this man’s B.O., which was bad enough.

Their leader steadied himself and found his courage, which naturally was in the last place he looked. You asked for it, mister. You is about to be downsized.

We will muck you up, mugglefrogger, the number two man added menacingly. Bust some claps on your sass.

Quit beatin’ your gums, fellas, number three said. Let’s knock the bushwa outta this dewdropper.

The other two said nothing, because it was hard enough just keeping track of the first three.

The gang moved swiftly down the alley, zeroing in on their target like a swarm of fat ladies at a bake sale.

With slow indifference the stranger picked up two trash can lids, holding them like makeshift shields.

The youths slowed, momentarily intimidated. Then number three rallied.

Come on, you saps! Give this palooka the bum’s rush!

Together they rushed forward.

After that, things happened very fast. There were screams and the wet snap of bones. In ten seconds it was all over.

The tall man stood unmoving in the carnage around him. Broken bodies littered the alley, even though littering was against the law.

The kid with the ukulele lay sprawled on the pavement, his legs bent at crazy angles; a spinning trash can lid had shattered his kneecaps.

Jeepers, he mumbled, this cat knows his onions. He passed out with a groan.

The second in command held his head in his hands, trying to silence the ringing in his ears. The other trash can lid had been smashed in his face like a cymbal, though he wasn’t sure just what it was a cymbal of. Gotham clockstuffer, he moaned.

Two more youths clutched their groins, peeping like baby birds as they tried to recover from roundhouse kicks to the gonads. The pain was excruciating. But in the future their injuries would yield unexpected dividends when they took up successful careers as castrati for the Metropolitan Opera.

Slowly the dazed gang leader raised his face from the puddle of blood streaming from the hole where his nose had been.

Whoa, dude, he gasped, you kicked the shit outta us.

The stranger answered with a smile only he could have seen, if he had been able to see his own face, which was obviously impossible, so I’m not sure why I brought it up.

You got that right, he said as he walked away into the night.

Part One:

TRIPLE E

Chapter 1

Deep in the bowels of the White House, near a chunk of undigested veal, lay a sterile, windowless chamber that was off-limits to the public, except on weekdays during the hours of ten to five when regular tours were scheduled. Known as the Situational Ethics Room, it was normally reserved for discussions about three men in a lifeboat with a limited food supply. Today, however, the topic under consideration wasn’t hypothetical. It was all too thetical.

A long mahogany conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, or at the near end depending on your perspective, sat Kip Lafferty, Director of the Department of Homebound Security. He was a worried man, and not just because earlier today he’d found himself getting an erection while thumbing through Cat Fancy.

Lafferty surveyed the men seated around the table. You all know why you’re here, he said, telling them anyway. With OBL R.I.P., the security status of the USA ought to be A-OK. But there’s a fly on the horizon, a dark cloud in the ointment. We all know it. The question is, what are we going to do about it?

We could ignore it and hope it goes away.

"Mullins, that’s your solution to everything. It didn’t work with the Twilight saga and it’s not going to work now."

We could gamble that the enemy slips up.

No dice, Rollins. I’m against gambling. It ruined my father.

We could pray for a lucky break.

Sorry, Collins. I’m against prayer. It ruined my mother.

We could pass the buck to some other agency.

Forget it, Hollis. The buck stops with me, and I don’t mean just the bucks I’m skimming out of petty cash.

We could keep on doing what we’ve been doing and hope for different results.

Willis, that’s the definition of insanity.

I’m pretty sure you’re wrong, sir. The definition of insanity is a state of dire mental illness, like California.

I stand corrected. Even so, we can’t go on this way. Our adversary is a dangerous man, maybe the most dangerous man in the world, and he’s defied our every attempt to bring him down.

Maybe we could send him some Tracy Chapman albums, Hollis said. They always bring me down.

We have to do something better than that, Hollis, and we have to do it fast. This man is cooking up something big, and I don’t mean paella. Think, people. Or if you can’t think, at least look like you’re thinking.

The men assumed a variety of contemplative poses—hand on chin, eyes half shut, mouth half open, lips pursed.

It’s no good, sir, Willis said finally. We’re all out of ideas.

Actually, Hollis said, I have an idea for a strapless blouse with a vee neck—

Lafferty shook his head. Not that kind of idea. We need ways and means to crack this case.

I thought Ways and Means was in charge of tax policy, Collins said.

I’m saying we need a new direction.

East? Rollins suggested.

We need to get into the enemy’s head, walk in his shoes ... Lafferty’s face assumed a faraway look. His shoes ...

I’m not sure we can get hold of his shoes, Willis said. Would his slippers be okay?

I do my best thinking in my slippers, Rollins said.

I was wearing slippers when I came up with my blouse idea, Hollis said.

Lafferty wasn’t listening. That one word echoed in his mind: Shoes. Shoes. Shoes ...

Suddenly he had it. Everything clicked into place like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle displaying the combination to a safe that contained a winning bingo card.

I’ve got the answer, he said. His gaze panned the room. Gentlemen, we need Dirk Squeezer. We need ... the Shitkicker.

Startled silence met his remark.

I thought that guy was dead, Willis said at last.

Lafferty smiled. A lot of people have made that mistake. Enemy combatants, law enforcement officers, paramedics, morgue attendants. But Squeezer is a hard man to kill. Put a bullet in him, and he smiles and asks for another. Stick a knife in his back, and he pulls it out and picks his teeth with it. Run him over with a threshing machine—well, that would probably prove fatal. But he’s too smart to be killed by farm equipment. Lord knows, enough farmers have tried.

Hollis looked skeptical. Isn’t Dirk Squeezer just a washed-out Special Forces operative who didn’t make the grade?

Washed out? No soap, Hollis. And don’t tell me he didn’t make the grade. Dirk Squeezer made the grade like Ray Rice made bail. He’s the best one-man army this country ever produced. He makes John Wayne look like John Candy. He makes Stonewall Jackson look like Janet Jackson. He makes Sergeant York look like Dick Sargent, and he makes Dick Sargent look like Dick York, which isn’t that hard to do, since they both look pretty much the same. I’m telling you, Dirk Squeezer is the weapon we need.

Even if we did want to bring in Squeezer, Mullins said, we have no idea where to find him. No one does. That son of a bitch is as elusive as a ghost.

"An invisible ghost," Rollins observed for emphasis.

Ghost or not, Lafferty said, we can track him down.

How? Hollis was perplexed, and also nonplussed. Squeezer lives off the grid. He roams the country like a homeless person. Squats in abandoned gas stations. Eats out of trash dumpsters. Pees in vacant lots.

He has no Social Security number, Mullins added expositionally. Hasn’t paid taxes in twenty years. No driver’s license. No last known address. No known associates. No physical description. All we know is his shoe size. It’s 28 triple E.

And that’s what we’ll use to reel him in, Lafferty said. "There are only half a dozen men in the US with feet that freakishly large, and we already know the whereabouts of five of them. Squeezer may not need Social Security or friends or a roof over his head or indoor plumbing, but he does need shoes. He spun around in his swivel chair, just because it was fun. We’ll put out an APB, a DUI, a CYA, and an RSVP to every retail footwear vendor in the United States. The next time a customer even tries on a pair of 28 triple Es, we’ll swoop in like an owl on a field mouse. Squeezer is the field mouse," he added for clarification.

Think it’ll work? Willis asked dubiously.

"Damn it, man, it’s got to work. Dirk Squeezer is our only hope. Lafferty cradled his head in his hands, babying himself. And may God have mercy on us all."

Chapter 2

Lafferty left the White House at midnight. A chauffeured limousine took him to his Georgian townhouse. It was inconvenient living in Georgia when he worked in D.C., but the commute did give him time to think.

What he thought about tonight was Dirk Squeezer. Also a particularly ambiguous article in last month’s Vague. But mainly Dirk Squeezer.

Lafferty knew little about Squeezer, and the little he knew was tantalizingly enigmatic, like Bill and Hillary’s marriage. Squeezer was born in a Midwestern whaling village on the forested slopes of a mountainous plain. Rumor had it that he was orphaned at age ten when his mom and dad perished separately in freak laundromat accidents. Shuttled through a series of foster homes, Squeezer became known as a problem child, prone to bed wetting, temper tantrums, and demonic possession. At age sixteen he disappeared from the system, going off the grid for the first time—but not the last. It was believed he spent the so-called lost years eking out a living in a variety of unsavory jobs, including