Welcome to another installment of State Og, where we report the latest news about our company while wearing pirate hats. Of course you can't see the hats while reading this, but trust me: it makes all the difference in the world. Thanks this week go to Jason "Vengeance Otter" Johnson (Hyrule, North Carolina) and Brett "Nimmo" Hurban (River City, Maryland).
Agent Profiles: Corin Tucker's Stalker Part 2
I will never forget the day I first met Dennis “Corin Tucker’s Stalker” Farrell. I was a young student at the FBI’s academy and my mentor, Jack Crawford, had called me into his office early that morning. I entered his office and stood in his doorway with the pride and poise of one who knows he is the academy’s star student, or, in my case, one who is so drunk he thinks he is a direct descendent of Boba Fett.
“Jesus Christ, Johnson!” exclaimed the FBI section chief. “You look like you picked a fight with a pack of baboons – a pack of really sick, lactose intolerant baboons on an ice-cream binge!”
I hesitated, not knowing what to make of his strange, nonsensical statement. Was he testing me? Suddenly, I was no longer so confident in myself as I had been when I entered the room. In fact, I was confused and uncertain that I belonged working on assignments with the big boys in the FBI. Hell, at that moment, I wasn’t even sure if I had pants on or not.
“Don’t be silly,” I replied. “There’s no such thing as baboons.” Ah, with that quick-witted response, I felt my confidence coming back and at that point I was almost positive I had pants on. Now the only real nagging question remaining in the back of my uncertain mind was: am I wearing them on my head?
Chief Crawford, dumbfounded, stared at me for a moment. “You appear to be covered in shit, Johnson.” Despite his stern voice, he appeared really confused, much more so than I was a few seconds ago. This was, of course, a good sign. As the least confused, it meant I was the one in command of the situation: the alpha male, as they say. This meant in the hierarchy of manliness, Crawford was somewhere between me and Charlton Heston’s character in the sci-fi classic The Omega Man, and I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip between my fingers. I didn’t know where all this crazy talk about “shit” was coming from. I came straight (incidentally, the straightest path was through a liquor store) into the office after rolling out of my bed (which I made entirely out of U-NO bars). Nothing out of the ordinary happened, let alone an encounter with these mythical baboons Crawford was so fond of.
Taking advantage of his confusion, I realized my only real chance of graduating from the academy was at hand – though I was optimistically cautious, I had a few nagging doubts about passing all those classes I never bothered attending. I seized the moment and tried to trick the chief in his perplexed state into thinking I had already graduated and was ready for my first assignment.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to thank you for graduating me ahead of the rest of my class. Thank you kindly, sir. Where’s my badge and my office? Don’t worry about a gun, I’ve got ten. Of course, that’s just what I’ve got on me right now, so I can run home and back if I need more.” Ha, I thought, I’m a natural fast-talker.
“Settle down, Johnson,” said the chief, shaking his head, “I’m going to hope, or at least pretend, that’s mud or some kind of chocolate. I have an assignment for you. It’s an important assignment and to be honest I wouldn’t normally trust you with picking up my coffee from the shop down the street, but this mission carries with it the slight risk of being eaten by the criminally cannibalistic, so I consider it right up your alley. Here, in this envelope is some information about the criminal mastermind known as Brett ‘Nimmo’ Hurban, who has committed crimes of such magnitude that he has bankrupted whole nations, though I admit they were pretty crappy nations. I want you to read all of these documents and then go to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where you will find Dennis ‘Corin Tucker’s Stalker’ Farrell. I want you to discuss the Hurban case with him. All the information you need is in the envelope.”
I gasped at the name of the devious scoundrel Crawford invoked. All I could manage to do was whisper the words, “Oh my god, you want me to interview The Stalker.”
“You know of him?” asked Chief Crawford.
I flew into a rage, flipping the chief’s desk over, and then flipped it over again and again until I rolled it into another office, where I started flipping over other peoples’ desks. After about five minute of this, I, pumped full of adrenaline, charged back into Crawford’s office, pointed my shaking finger in his face and cried, “I do not!”
At this point Crawford pushed a button on his desk and several men with stun guns rushed in. Obviously they were there to give me a stun gun or two for my assignment, but I have no memory of them doing so. In fact, I had no memory of getting to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, where I suddenly found myself with the documentation on both the Hurban and Farrell cases. I read the papers and got myself up to speed. Then as I walked down the corridor leading to Farrell’s cell, the inmates immediately began yelling insults and few even started flinging bodily fluids in my direction. Fortunately, I came prepared and I began throwing back jars filled with my own.
At last, I reached the spot where Farrell was kept. Unlike those of the other prisoners, his cell was composed of thick Plexiglas walls (due to his alleged steel bar allergy), which gave it a certain charm. In fact, with the right sun lamp the prison cell would have made the perfect terrarium for a giant Galapagos turtle, if you could find one that had killed enough hookers to earn a place in this particular establishment. Within the walls, I could see Farrell’s art, his pog collection and not least of all, the madman himself. He stood with a graceful composure and an air of sophistication and culture about him.
I decided to get right down to business and began, “Mr. Farrell, I’m from the FBI and I’m here to--”
The Stalker raised his hand to silence me and with a refined voice said, “I know why you are here officer. You seek my help in apprehending the one known as Brett 'Nimmo' Hurban. A very naughty boy from what I hear. After exhausting all your resources, you feds have finally come to realize only a criminal genius can catch another.” He smiled and smugly continued, “I will help you… but there will be… a… cost.” With that, he began to let out the kind of prolonged, deep, evil laugh that only super villains and people who work at the Department of Motor Vehicles can do well.
“No, that’s not why I’m here at all. While it’s true we weren’t getting anywhere on the Brett Hurban case, he apparently turned himself in yesterday, and it’s a good thing he did too. He’s such a criminal mastermind that we never would have caught him, unlike you. That’s the real reason why I was sent here: rub it in how much of an incompetent criminal you are and how you fare even more poorly when compared to the likes of Brett Hurban. Oh, and to remind you that it’s your tax money paying me to do this.”
“I don’t believe you,” snarled The Stalker. “Why would a criminal genius like Brett Hurban, turn himself in? No, this is some sort of trick.”
“It seems that his new girlfriend, Corin Tucker, set him straight and turned him a way from a life of crime and towards a life of hot, all-night sex.”
The thought of Corin Tucker with another man sent Farrell into a rage, his face twisted into a really twisted expression. “What?! That’s impossible! She loves me and only me. She implies it in all her songs, which all contain secret messages meant personally for me!”
“Yeah, you might have a point.” I continued, “Anyways, Brett turned himself in yesterday, but, to everyone’s surprise, it turns out he’s such an awesome and charismatic guy, nobody had the heart to press charges. Now he’s on his way to Rio to live it up with Ms. Tucker.”
“Silence!” yelled Farrell. "I never wanted that harlot, anyways.”
“Who the hell are you trying to kid? You had your name legally changed to Dennis ‘Corin Tucker’s Stalker’ Farrell. It’s on all your stationery. This must be tearing you up inside!”
“My name has nothing to do with that beautiful earth-bound angel of an artist. It’s an… anagram… yeah… for Turks rice elk, not cars!”Here is a picture from the self-made film that served as evidence to convict Farrell. One might say he was hoisted by his own petard! One might also say if he gets anywhere near his own petard, he'll lick that too.
“Yeah, right. I mean what are you in prison for? Oh yeah, the police caught you after breaking into Tucker’s home. From what I understand, they found you molesting all the dairy products in her refrigerator and filming yourself doing it.”
“There is no evidence of--”
“There’s the fucking film, dude!” I quickly interrupted.
“You will not speak to me in that tone! I am a master super villain!”
“Oh, come on! The only reason why a few people called you a “super villain” was because of the unbelievable stamina it took for you to molest all that cheese.”
That’s it! I’m going to prove once and for all that there is no prison that can hold me, and then I will kill you and all that reminds me of you!” Upon saying this, Dennis tossed his sketches and paintings into the corner of his plastic room, produced from his pocket what appeared to be two corndog sticks (presumably from the last fine meal served by prison) and he began rubbing the two sticks together to produce a small fire, or possible to satisfy some strange perversion involving sticks.
“I’ll save you the trouble. Corin Tucker is dropping all charges against you and you're free to leave now. She said something about having a real man to protect her, and not being afraid of curd-humpers.
Farrell, in his rage, ignored me and said, “Soon, I will have a fire hot enough to melt a hole in this Plexiglass tomb and when I do you are going to wish--”
“Bring it on, aquarium boy,” I interrupted. His attitude was starting to tick me off, but I soon noticed that plan might succeed. The artwork in the corner of Farrell’s cell began to smolder and a flame became visible. On cue, Dennis “Corin Tucker’s Stalker” Farrell let out a laugh that would do even a manager at the DMV proud. It sent an eerie shudder down my spine, as I thought of the implications of this madman getting out. The shivers turned to spasms of laughter as I watched Farrell’s poorly ventilated cell fill up with smoke and the sound of his laughter transform into the sound of choking and arms flailing wildly against Plexiglass.
A few moments went by and I decided that Farrell wasn’t beyond redemption and that it would look bad on my record if I just let him asphyxiate, so using my watch with a hidden laser emitter that I got from either the FBI arsenal or Radio Shack, I quickly carved a hole in the cell wall and pulled the would-be super villain out.
“Enough is enough,” I said while trying really hard to look like a benevolent older brother trying to steer a misguided sibling on to the right course. In my most sincere and gentle voice I said, “It’s time for you to get a real job, you goddamn hippy. I hear that State Og is hiring and I bet a job there will make a man out of you. In fact, I think I’ll apply there myself.”
"Let's roll!" replied Farrell.
Attn: Employees of Nimmo's Office
Beginning as soon as you are done reading this memo, we will be moving our location out of Ohio and setting up shop in Georgia. We have made this decision because of many factors. I am well aware that we were doing very well in our current location, but due to me being wanted in all but two states, I have decided that we are moving.
I know that it is a difficult process to leave your old life behind and start over in another city. You have to leave your friends, you neighbors, and must go through the torturous moving process. That is why I have hired some extra hands to help you with this process. Each of you who are not on their way to Georgia by the end of the night will be visited by my hired helpers as long as they have gotten out of that unfortunate and mysterious fire at our receptionist's house.
Furthermore, since the cost of moving is very costly to the company, I have changed a few of our policies. First I am eliminating all paper. All information on all employees will be documented solely in my memory. I’ve been taking some of that Ginko stuff along with the usual steroids so I think that we’ll be all right.
Second, we will not be building an office on our new Georgian land until we turn a profit. This should not pose much of a problem since the property is nicely lined with grass with only moderate numbers of fire ants. Each of you will be given a blanket as your desk and I have stolen Vengeance Otter’s cell phone so we can use that for all of our calls.
My office will be the massive tent near the edge of the property. I have hired some old fashioned Persian guards to make my office look more authentic, and I suggest that you try not to speak to them. I was originally debating between an ancient war tent or the British anthropologist on an African expedition setup, but decided on the war tent simply because I could not hire authentic looking guards.
Please be aware that since my no paper policy is in effect that you will be fired and interrogated by my Persian guards should I see you reading it.- State Og Representative
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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