In the oppressive air all motions outside the cab blurred into each other, becoming a translucent jello quivering at the windows. Figures were unreal, passing by like underwater ghosts in some fragmentary dream. It didn't help that we had been up 24 hours straight drinking Indonesian moonshine, smoking handmade Javanese cigars, and exchanging small weapons fire with some local ruffians whose cat we had shot, but hey, we're pros, and this is what they pay us for. We live by our motto: "When the going gets weird, we'll be puking our guts out in a dingy pay toilet."

We were dumped onto a street, its pavement heaving tubercular breaths into the pea soup around us, in front of a run-down hut passing as a bar. We strode through the door and were overwhelmed by the heady stench of cigarette smoke, human sweat, frying spices, stale beer, vomit, and a dozen other odors we didn't even want to try to identify the source for. A fat rat scurried toward a corner of the bar. The jukebox played some 70s American disco, and a young bar girl gyrated to it up on the two-bit stage. Her eyes were droopy, and she didn't seem to be able to focus on the couple of customers in front of her.

We sat in a table in the back, as we'd been told. We didn't know what our source looked like, so we eyeballed every piece of pond scum that swung open the bar door. As the minutes turned into more minutes, we wondered if we'd been set up. There are more than a few characters in this part of the world who wouldn't mind if we took a permanent sabbatical from our jobs as investigative journalists for the Frumious Bandersnatch. Oh, no sir. If we just disappeared from the land of the living there would be sighs of relief in any number of penthouses and corner offices, where our continued existence has been a source of continued embarrassment.

The bar girl had finished up with her big number, involving activities with a fruit that we can' t possibly mention in a family-oriented rag like this. The next girl was taking the stage. We were getting up to go when the first girl showed up next to us. "No, no, we're not interested," we told her.

"Shhh. Pretend you are. I'm deep throat."

"I'll say. I saw that last bit."

"No, I'm your deep throat -- your source!"

We sat down in surprise.

"We'll have to pretend that I'm coming on to you. Otherwise it will look suspicious."

Well, like we said, we're pros, and we deal with whatever we have to get the job done. But putting up with her rubbing her firm, lithe, nubile, young body against us while we focused (with our usual steely concentration) on our story was not something we enjoyed.

"So, what do you have for us? It better be good -- we came halfway around the world to get this."

"Oh, you bet. You bet. You know your former Vice President, 'Fritz' Mondale, was awakened from suspended animation to be Clinton's personal envoy to Suharto."

"From suspended animation?"

"Oh, sure, the Democrats intend on keeping him around for many, many decades. He's too valuable when these type of situations come up."

"Which is what, discussing IMF bailout terms?"

"Ah, that's the ostensible purpose. But why would they send Walter Mondale for that? Why not Robert Rubin?"

"Makes sense. Then what gives with this?"

"Clinton's secret purpose is to destabilize the Indonesian government of President 'Prez' Suharto."

"And how will Mondale do that?"

"Clinton met Mondale several times during the '92 campaign. And if there's one thing he knows, it's that Fritz can't stop giving campaign advice. If Suharto starts listening, they figure he's got six months to go, maybe eight if he's lucky."

"Good God. This is diabolical. Mondale lost 49 of 50 states in '84. Suharto doesn't stand a chance!"

"Has Clinton used Mondale like this before?"

"Think about it! Just by becoming U.S. Ambassador to Japan, Mondale recreated the stagnant economy there that existed during his vice-presidency in the U.S. in the 70s! He's a living, breathing weapon of mass destruction, biological warfare at its most insidious."

We were shocked, and we needed to know if we could trust her. "And just how do you know all this?"

She batted her eyes at us coyly. "Didn't you know that Bill Clinton has been in Southeast Asia, big boys?"

© 1998, Gene Callahan and Stu Morgenstern