The Politics of (Un)Death

This will likely be a short post tonight, as I have just returned from a mission brieifing, and will soon be travelling to the (currently) undisclosed location for this mission. I will be sure to blog the mission once it is operationally safe to do so, and I may be able to make some other entries with my shiny new laptop, so I will be not be absent for any period of time...

But one thing that has been bothering me, with the upcoming vote in Iraq, and the inaugurationin DC coming up next week...I didn't get to vote for the first time in my life (or death)!

You see, since I was officially declared dead, I cannot vote using my prior identity, since that person is now legally dead. But I also don't have a birth certificate or any other identification for my present incarnation, other than the credentials issued to me by the Bureau. I am essentially a legal non-entity.

I don't know how he was able to pull it off, but I did twist Drake's nuts hard enough to make him keep paying me a salary to a special account at a bank where I can do all of my banking online. This allows me some freedom to have my own place, and to decorate in my own new and eclectic style--I do most of my shopping online at places like eBay and Amazon.

But it really chaps my ass that I couldn't vote in this past election. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually very politically active, I actually hate politicians of all parties. I usually vote against the incumbent in every election, since I don't want those candyass politicians to get too comfortable in their cushy jobs, you know? I guess every vote I ever cast was pretty much a protest vote...vote all of the bums out I say!

Now I don't even get to do that. Maybe that is why I find myself blogging these experiences, in the hopes of having my voice heard by someone, somewhere. Maybe I should move to Chicago, or Lousiana, I hear those places let the dead folks vote too!

If what was done to me happens to many more people, they are going to have to figure out how to handle shit like this. I mean, I can always lean on the Bureau to make something happen, although they fell on their faces on the voting issue, but what if this process is used by the private sector, for profit? What rights will those people (monsters?) have? Will we need an amendment to protect the rights of the Undead? And how the hell do you handle life insurance payments to family members when the dead guy gets up and goes back to work after the funeral?

How will they handle it when someone (something) like me commits a crime? What about a life sentence? Or a death sentence? I think I am already serving that one.

Hey maybe now people can serve multiple life sentences, and be brought back to serve each of them in teeny, tiny cells, staring at a blank wall...what a horror!

How long do I even have? Drake sure as hell doesn't know. He's not even completely sure how this actually worked. 'It's magick, Agent Bones, it's magick,' is all he says when I ask him. I do know that I wasn't the first guy they tried this on, I am reasonably sure though, that I am the first one it actually worked on...lucky me.

Well, looks like my ride is here...packing sure is easy, grab my laptop and duffle with a spare hat, some extra hands (gloves to go over my skeletal looking fingers), and away I go!

In the Beginning...

Sorry for the delay on my posting, I had them remove the skin from my fingers and hands and replace it with these special gloves. Much more supple, much better fine motor control. For the first time, I am able to actually type with my fingers and don’t have to use those damn pencils. Perhaps my posts can be more detailed and longer, as needed.

So, I promised on my last entry to mention more about the Beginning, how I came to be in this unique (I hope) position of being undead.

Drake Kampmann, a powerful man running a secret division of the FBI, had approached my chief in the summer of 1998 looking for good cops with no religious affiliations and a need for cash, and my good buddy the chief had narturally thought of me (thanks Chief). Kampmann had laid the deal out before me, essentially join this open-ended task force with the stated goal of being in a position to respond to religious extremists of any stripe in the United States. The deal looked too good to be true, the department got some badly needed cash, and I was offered a nice lure of up to $25,000 a year extra in my salary, directly from the DOJ. Of course there were ‘additional details’ to be divulged once I was on board...but I lost track of any strings that were mentioned when I heard about the extra money. I was married with two kids approaching college age, and a wife who was always trying to squeeze our pennies to make ends meet. But I am sure many of you have been in a similar position and can appreciate the lure of extra cash for what seemed a nice little assignment.

So what was the price of my soul? Well, up to the date of my death, approximately $125,000.

Hmmm...doesn’t seem like such a great deal anymore.

After signing the contracts and memorandums of understanding offered by Kampmann, I was placed on leave for two weeks by my department and sent the following Monday to Omega Project Headquarters, located in a suburban office complex in Fairfax, Virginia. I had a fairly intensive two week training session on dangers posed by various religious extremist groups and their growing influence in politics both inside and outside of the United States. There were about thirty other officers from all over the country in those sessions, all of them professing to be non-religious in any way.

Through the course of those early sessions, I can recognize now through hindsight, we were being evaluated in by our instructors and by unseen individuals as they watched our responses to the training materials and our post-training debates. We were being secretly vetted to make absolutely sure that we were truly unbelievers in any known faith. One guy admitted to being a pagan, from some group called Wiccans, I think, and he was here because his chief considered him a heathen . But he was the first guy shipped back. Strangely, there weren’t any women in this initial group...probably too smart to fall for the lures that prick Drake was casting.

(BTW-he hates it when I use his first name, which is of course why I keep throwing it out there. He prefers Director Kampmann, to which I say, ‘Blow me, Drake.’-he had me by the balls with his money when I was alive, but now I am his showpiece, proof that his horseshit theories actually can work, but I make sure he pays a hefty price for my cooperation now!)

In all, ten of the first thirty were weeded out in the first training session. Those that got shipped back still got to keep their first little incentive checks, but had to sign all sorts of anti-disclosure agreements, to keep the whole project quiet. Amazing how a little $ can work some magic.

Shit, I was sure going to learn the truth of that, over time.

After that first session, we were given a shit load of reading materials and training videos to watch, all pretty pedestrian crap, but we were told that we would be taking some tests and that the first team chosen would consist of twelve officers, so if we wanted to keep the bonuses flowing, we would have to bone up on material and score well. We were also told to keep our noses clean, and stay the Hell out of trouble, both with our departments and with the real world in general. A single bad shooting, or abuse investigation, or even a DUI charge, and we would be booted, no questions asked or answered.

Over the next year, we were weeded down to that first team of twelve. I must say, that we were a pretty tight and sharp group. After the team was set, we entered the tactical phase of our training, and received special training sessions with Tactical Ops teams at a secret location in the Arizona desert, which was some pretty high speed shit. it was during this phase though, that things began to change, gradually. We were fed a special diet of supposed high-protein, highly nutritious food that was filled with all sorts of shit I hadn’t heard of, at least since Advanced Chemistry in high school. We were also given these nasty-ass tasting high protein shakes that we were told to drink everyday back in the real world. Let me tell you, these things almost made me quit right there, but the mighty dollar still held me in its sway, and I choked the things down as required.

Now I know that these things were designed to toughen up my bones and to make small, gradual changes in my body chemistry that would make my body more usable when I died. The better prepared the body is for the things they do to it after you die, the better for Drake’s damn Necromancers, as I call them.

Anyway, by the end of 2000, things were heating up. We had passed all of the tactical training, and had even been called into handle a couple of situations before they became big, public messes. Once the new administration was sworn in, there must have been some sort of green light given for the next phase, because that was when Drake called each us into his office for special one day private meetings.

I’ll stop there, since I want to show Drake in all of his glory with my next post on the subject, we’ll see when i can do justice to that. Meanwhile, I would like to offer to answer any questions you might have (within the boundaries that I am constrained by). You can send those questions by e-mail, or post them as comments. I will try to post at least one response to questions with each post I make, if I receive any.

Stumblin' and Bumblin'

I have just returned from my first surveillance assignment. I have been told that this is the kind of assignment that I may expect to see lot of in the future. I must admit that I am very well suited to this kind of work right now.

In my prior life, surveillance was a drag. It comprises about 99% boredom, and 1% heartpounding excitement. It was always a struggle to stay awake long enough so as not to miss any important details. Of course now, I no longer have to worry about hunger, stiffening joints (they are always stiff-but at least I can’t feel it!), or feeling tired. Shit, I don’t even need to blink!

So last night I was assigned to sit and watch this house in a very bad urban neighborhood that is possibly connected to some serious drug dealing. I was made to look like a drunken stumblebum (not a very far stretch, if I do say so myself), and had to wear a natty old hat to cover my obviously fatal bullet hole scar in my forehead and some other tattered clothing to complete the outfit. I was then dropped off a couple of blocks down the street by an obviously distressed cabbie, who sped off like a bat-out-of-Hell when I loudly threw my empty 40 ounce bottle at him. I staggered down the street, mumbling and muttering in the kind of crazy, disjointed talk of many unfortunate street-dwellers, and made my way to just across the street from the target house. There I found a nice pile of abandoned furniture and garabge to strategically collapse into and feign unconsciousness.

I was out there all night and into this morning. I was amazed at the sheer variety of cars and customers that made their way to and then away from that house. They came from all over to this place, from suburban housewives driving their minivans, to sporty little cars driven by middle-aged businessman. Of course, there were plenty of jalopies and hoopdies mixed in there as well, and more than a few strung out addicts walking up to the place for their next fix.

A definite drug dealing location. There were always a couple of semi-obvious lookouts hanging out on various corners of the block, I was able to pick up on the signals they used to indicate potential customers or squad cars. There was also usually a pair of tough guys who would hang out near the door, playing cards and loud music, while barely concealed bulges gave away the locations of their guns.

Before, I prided myself on being a pretty observant cop, one who could pick out a likely perp from a croud of innocents better than the next guy, but I have never before been able to concentrate and observe the kinds of details I picked up on last night. I can literally remember the nicknames of the gangmembers as they greeted one another. I could also pick out many of the customers from a random lineup, and I even memorized the license plates and makes and models of most of the cars I saw. I have never been one to have a photographic memory before, but...this can be a curse as well. It is almost impossible for me to forget anything anymore, and there sure is an awful lot of shit I’d like to forget. You know the really sad thing,..I find I am remembering all sorts of shit I said and did in my prior life. Ain’t that a bitch? Now I get to recall all of the shitty things I said to my ex when we were heading towards divorce, and Hell, all of the things that I said and did before she gave up on my ass and took me to the cleaners. Of course that also means I get to relive all of the shit that was said to me, all the way back into friggin’ grade school. Ugh.

Sorry about that, I’m pretty sure you don’t want read about the nasty things I said to Sally Jensen in the thrid grade, or the things her bigger brother did to me in the boys’ room after that. I’ll try to stick to the story at hand, and try to bring some order to my musings. I just got overwhelmed for a second.

Back to the crack house surveillance. By this morning, one of the lookouts from the western end of the block passed by my body, and actually stopped to take anything of value I might have. I didn’t even stir as he rifled through my pockets taking the $3.89 I had placed in them before I had left the apartment. He kicked my lifeless body and cursed at my rather foul smell. He, or another of the lookouts, must have called in to dispatch about the dead body out front of their house, because they quickly packed in the rest of the scouts and the put up the card game, just before a couple of squad cars and an ambulance showed up. Luckily, the locals had been aware of the surveillance, and played it straight. They loaded me into a body bag, and threw me in the back of the coroner’s van when that arrived later. The bastards didn’t need to zip the damn bag up all the way though, I didn’t like that feeling of being in pitch darkness again, it reminded too much of my first death. As soon as I was safely in the van, and we were rolling away, I ripped that thing open and was figuratively breathed a sigh of relief.

I had to brief the locals in charge of the surveillance operation, and give them the list of license plates and vehicles to run through their systems. I also ran through a couple of photo arrays, and picked out 5 of the principles in the drug ring as being present in the operation.

I am not sure how much they can use my surveillance for court purposes however, since I am unlikely to be called to testify at any trial. One look at my ugly mug, and any defendant is gonna be set free by a jury. I don’t know how well this identity will hold up in a court of law either. I doubt that bastard Drake will allow me the chance to find out either.

In my next entry, I will endeavor to continue the story of how I came to be this way, and hopefully fill in a few more blanks. I am running short on time today, as this hunting and pecking away with two pencils is taking longer than I would like. I must go and rattle Drake’s cage to see if he can get me any more dexterity in these claw-like hands of mine. I can’t even hold a gun yet, and working any small device takes a great deal of time. I fear I am junking up this keyboard even now, and will need to replace it soon.

Rhythm and Blues

Without the normal human biological needs and urges for things like sleep, food and drink, I am finding it difficult to adopt a rhythm to my existence. I had intended for this blog to help establish such a rhythm, by sitting down each day and recording my observations on the events of that day. However, since that incident involving the armored car robbery that I last wrote about (which was my first law enforcement action since being brought back from the dead other than training actions), I have been in a mental funk, feeling blue, if you will.

When I was a beat cop, I thought I wold have given just about anything to be able to act in times of danger and fear without the sometimes paralyzing rush of adrenaline and the tunnel vision that usually accompanies that feeling. What I wouldn't give now to have any feelings at all!

Enough whining. I doubt any of you are particularly interested in reading my pinings for my lost humanity. Perhaps, however, you are more interested in learning more about how I got this way to begin with. Up until now, I have hinted at how I came to be brought back, but it is time to fill in a few blanks. Bear in mind however, that I don't have all of the facts myself, and some of the story remains classified by my handlers.

Late in summer of 1998, I was approached by my police chief. He took me aside into his office and said "I've got a representative here from the Dept. of Justice. It seems they are looking for good cops willling to take part in a series of special training events and meetings to be part of a special task force. They have asked that the officers nominated have no attachment to any particular religion. So Smitty, you haven't gotten any religion since we last patrolled together have ya?"

"Nah chief, nothin' has changed there, I'm still the same heathen who drank your ass under the table at your promotion party."

"That's what I thought. He's reviewing some of your past reports in the training room, I'll bring him to you when he's ready. Don't try any of your smart ass shit Smitty, this guy is serious, and it could mean a nice little boost to your salary, since the DOJ is kicking in some money for your time."

"Alright Chief, I'll be a good officer and see what he has to say."

Later that day, I was summoned back to the Chief's office. Instead of the Chief sitting at his desk however, a thin guy in a dark gray suit with a very intense look about him was sitting behind the desk. The Chief was standing to his side, and excused himself as I entered. The Suit stood up and extended his rail thin hand. Taking the hand though, I had to keep from gasping in pain and shock at the coldness of his fingers and the sheer strength of his grip.

"Hello officer, my name is Drake Kampmann, and I represent the Department of Justice and am trying to organize a special task force of local, state and federal officers. I would like you to join this team."

"OK, Mr. Kampmann, is it?"

He nodded.

I coughed before proceeding, "Chief mentioned that there might be some extra pay in it for me, and I'd like to know more about that, of course. But more importantly, what is this task force being organized to do, and why do you want people with no religious affiliations?"

"Well, these are good questions, Officer Smith, so let me begin with the purpose of this task force. We are organizing this task force so that it can be assembled on very short notice and deployed to virtually any location in the United States in response to a growing threat by religious fundamentalists of all stripes. The Attorney General wants a strike force of dedicated law enforcement professionals who have no affiliations with any religious denominations so that we can act quickly and decisively against any threat before it grows too dangerous. As to your first point, about the extra monetary compensation, the DOJ is going to kick in up to $25,000 a year to each department who contributes an officer for this strike force to compensate for the lost man hours our training and operations will require, and an additional stipend to be paid directly to each officer who completes all of the training exercises and remains a participant in the program each year."

"Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Kampmann, but you know, how big will this stipend be?"

"Officer Smith, the size of your stipend depends on your level of involvement and whether or not you complete all of the required training, but I will tell you that your stipend could easily exceed the amount paid to your department. The first partial payment will be made once these contracts are finalized. There are some additional details that I will only be able to discuss with you in Washington, should you accept my invitation to join this task force."

Shit, once I heard his mention of the size of the stipend, I didn't hear anyting other than mumbling. I signed the contracts and memorandums he put in front of me without much paying attention to the details. The visions of what an extra $25,000 a year could do for me and my family were just too tempting. They had found a sucker alright, and boy was I to learn that over the next couple of years.

More to come with my next few entries. Now I must take my leave to attend to some surveillance operations.

Braaaiinss

You should have seen the look on that crankhead's face! By the time I finished with him, he was begging to be arrested by the police, babbling about zombies trying to eat his brains!

I was summoned last night to help out in a nasty hostage situation that some locals had gotten into when they chased a pair of robbers from an armored car heist. The pricks had killed the driver and one other guard was badly wounded. But they didn't notice the local news copter that had seen the heist and called in the law (but not before airing it for their viewers and getting that all important exclusive footage). Once the jig was up the robbers had fled into a nearby house and were holding the old lady and her grandson hostage, threatening to kill 'em if the locals didn't let 'em slip away.

I was called in and sent towards the house as an unarmed police hostage in exchange for the boy. As soon as those bastards saw me lurching up the driveway, things started to go sideways in a hurry. The boy freaked when he saw me and bolted for the cops. The taller of the two crooks took a step outside to shoot the kid, and was dropped by a sniper with a well placed shot. I stepped over his body and into the house to see the fat, balding crook holding the old lady in an armlock with a big ass Desert Eagle .44 Magnum held to her temple. As soon as he got a look at my nasty mug, the bastard went from the flushed red of exertion to pale-as-a-sheet white. He looked into my eyes, and brought the gun up towards my chest. The old lady had some spunk in her as she bit into his other wrist, and did a mule kick into his balls. Dentures and curses went flying, but he never took his eyes off me. He managed one shot before I closed on him, arms extended in my best Frankenstein pose, as I muttered "Braaaiinss". The impact of the bullet was barely noticeable as I grabbed the gun and broke his wrist with one hand, and reached for his neck with the other.

When the local SWAT team stormed in, they found him in a fetal position clutching his nuts in his good hand, barely coherent. I was in the process of handing the lady back her teeth when I had to catch her in mid-faint.

It took a few hours today to debrief and get all the appropriate paperwork signed and the bullet holes plugged up again, but I am finally free to relax here with you, my gentle readers.

It sure is weird going into a situation knowing that I can't be hurt. Sure is different from being a beat cop. Hell even the SWAT goons aren't invincible. There just isn't enough body armor to keep even the bravest officer from getting the shakes after a shootout. Yet here I was, shot through the chest cavity by one of the biggest, nastiest guns out there, and I didn't feel anything other than a shift in my momentum from the impact. I can look at the whole incident with a clarity unclouded by the adrenaline I would've felt just two years ago.

No dry throat. No shakes after realizing what could have happened. No exhilaration at surviving a tough struggle. No real sense of victory or accomplishment. Just a plain, clear knowledge that two lives were saved, and one was avenged.

But what is vengeance when there is no beating heart to burn with the need for it? What have they done to me? What have I become?

Perhaps there are no real answers to these questions, but I am going to find them if they exist. I know with a certainty that I am an experiment. I was the first dumb bastard to successfully fufill that weird contract for them by getting killed, and then be raised back up again. But I know of others who signed up for this too. I owe it to myself, to those other poor saps and to all the living to find out what kind of monster I have become.

It would be too easy to become an impersonal killing machine. The perfect soldier. The perfect robot. A machine with the intelligence and the...soul?...of a man. But a creature who can shed no tears, suffer no pain, feel no love.

The really bad part, the part that no robot would ever face, is the memory of all that is now gone. Oh that bastard Drake says he is working on a better neural system for me, that they are still refining systems that may bring some sense of things like touch back to me, but how can that be the same?

In my past life, I wasn't much for books or even deep thought. Mine was a life that was experienced, both good and bad and everything else in between. Now I must find meaning in my thoughts and in the wisdom of others.

What a strange damn journey is ahead of us. Are you ready for that? Am I?

Journal, my ass...

The Bureau shrink suggested that I keep a journal of my experiences, so that I 'could work out my issues' with my new existence. I don't think he, or my handlers, will appreciate the public forum that I am now using to do just that. But hey, what can they do now, fire me? I don't think so.

You see, when you are already dead, you get an attitude. Maybe its the freedom from all of the expectations and worries of living, or maybe I'm just pissed because I feel trapped in this shell of a body they have set me up with.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much, since this is essentially the same body I died with. Maybe if I had been a little better at taking care of myself when I was alive, I wouldn't be so disgusted at what I see in the mirror, but I don't know how good they can make a body look that's been dead for more than a year after being shot in the forehead.

So, by now you must be pretty confused. I probably should explain a little bit about myself, but this will be difficult since many of the details of my existence are considered top secret, and even I don't have clearance to know all of the details.

I can reveal that the name that I am using here was assigned to me when they 'woke me up'. I was a cop, and a damn good one, before I was killed in the line of duty on October 31, 2003. My life hadn't been a bed of roses, but things were just starting to get good again before that night. I had just finished with a nasty divorce where she got almost everything except my balls, but I was looking so forward to actually using those things again! I had finally sobered up and was in line for a promotion that would have had me sitting pretty until retirement, maybe ten years down the line...damn it all, hold on, my lens is fogging up....

Alright, so maybe I still smoked too much, but a man's gotta have at least one vice, no? So much for worrying about cancer. If I had known I would have ended up like this, I sure would have smoked a few more Cubans. I had this great connection, a fellow cop from Canada. He'd score the Cubans for me, and I'd hook him with the occasional Red Wings tickets. But there was always the nagging, 'You'll stink up the house', or 'You're gonna make the kids sick'. Bah.

Anyway, I was a local cop see, and I made the dumb ass mistake a few years back of signing up for this top-secret experiment with the DOJ. Seems like they had this horseshit theory about keeping a persons soul around after they died. They said they would be able to transfer your soul into a machine, or some hyped up version of your body again, and you could theoretically live forever. Now I didn't believe any of this voodoo bullshit, but they were offering an annual bonus every friggin year you stayed in the program, and as long as you did their little rituals and wore this special little doodad (sorry classified material here) all the time.

Hey, I wasn't religious, figured I had nothing lose, and the extra money sure helped out when things got tight, like they always do. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I woke the hell up in the morgue with all of the bastards in suits and one strange dude in robes looking down at my ass!

Whoah, talk about strange. Last thing I remembered was staring down the barrel of my own damn gun that the punks had taken in the course of the struggle, there was a flash and bang and sudden pain. They were all wearing masks of presidents, and it just figured I'd get whacked by Shrubya.

Hold on, I am getting paged. Looks like I need to wrap this up tonight. I've got so much more to tell you about, but I am on call 24/7/365, and there is stuff that only I can do.