Little did Waingroh know it when he woke up this morning, but he would soon gain access to national security secrets that are usually classified for only the highest officials in international intelligence to see. Waingroh is no spy, but has now made a contact that has top-level security clearance and access to information that is so dangerous, this liason's real name cannot be revealed here. To his intrictate web of Government contacts, he's known only as: "The Falcon".
The Falcon pumps gas at the Shell station on 82nd & Foster. As he was filling up Waingroh's Turbo this morning, waingroh made a casual remark about how the price of gas was on the rise. Little did I know, this comment activated The Falcon's subliminal conditioning. He first looked around to make sure no one else was listening (and I could tell he was incredibly well-trained at this, because his right eye continuously wandered around in a circle as he spoke).
"Yup, they expect it to hit $3 a gallon by the end of the year, when the blackouts come," The Falcon said through his two remaining front teeth; he must've taken quite a few beatings in foreign interrogation rooms.
"Really. Blackouts huh? What kind of blackouts?" I asked. The way his haggard face perked up, those must have been the secret code words - and lucky Waingroh happened upon them by chance! The Falcon launched into a monologue about the war in Iraq, the secret war inside the US, the real problems with oil, and the coming "blackouts" that will knock out all communications throughout the country.
"'Cause that's what'll happen when the nukes hit." Whoa. I played it cool, like that's nothing I haven't heard before, but of course I knew I was on to something special; secrets that not just every lucky driver who pulls into the Shell station at 9a.m. can get access to. "Nukes, huh?"
"That's how they'll hit us. 40 briefcase nukes that they'll bring into the country, and explode 'em all at once. Each one's got about a 35-mile radius too, that's how they'll do it. Then they got no choice but fer blackouts." I knew I hit a goldmine of information, but The Falcon was beginning to break down. He was obviously sweating, and I think some of his past CIA training was failing and was affecting his speech, which was a little slurred and drool-producing.
As I was about to ask "So when they hit us with 40 nukes, the price of gas will still only be $3 a gallon?", I decided instead that I didn't want to press him too much further. The Falcon probably had surveillance from all kinds of intelligence agencies on him, and to keep our initial meeting low profile, I drove off with a charity smile. I could hear the Falcon yelling "35 mile radius!" as I drove off, a reminder of my password for the next meeting.
Keep your eyes out, I have a feeling that The Falcon may just be one of a vast gas-station intelligence network.