Chapter 6 - Surprise I

   In the course of working undercover for years, I'm around criminals. And there's one thing about criminals and their social circle, that stands above all else. Its us against them. Us being the criminals, and the them is naturally the authorities. If you intend to fit in, you can only ingratiate yourself to them so much, by being a bystander.

   You honestly have to participate. And yes, I mean in crime. So? I'm required to be a criminal. I have to be seen breaking rules, laws, regulations, polite rules of society. I have to show contempt for authority. Now. A lot of criminals, at least the long term successful ones... can smell a rat. And if one isn't particularly good at it? His buddy or the next one, will be better than normal at it. The criminal organization would never survive without this group ability.

   The larger the criminal organization grows, and the longer it survives and even thrives? You can bet your ass they got good at this game. How could they have gotten to the point they are, without it. Long before that point and more then definitely by that point... if you approach and try to worm your way in? You're basically putting a spotlight on yourself.

   If the one you're working your way in with doesn't notice anything? One of his buddies will, and the wrong word only has to go in the right ear once, and... you end up face down in a ditch somewhere.

   A very brief overview of the FBI? It started out because criminals like Dillinger figured out that they could hit a bank and zip across state lines. The FBI was created solely as a response to organized crime that grew out of the depression, and used state lines as a tactic.

   The original FBI agents? The infamous G-men. What people called commandos, had proved they had the mettle to go up against big deadly odds, and live to tell the tale. These men, were recruited. Dillinger and those like him? Were selecting small towns with small town police forces that had no way to be ready for what they were in for. Its not their fault, you simply can't expect tiny towns to be ready for shit like that.

   The FBI? Basically hunted down the criminals on Hoover's infamous most wanted list, and took it to them. Most went down in a hail of federal gunfire. When that battle was over, let's say by 1950. The tactics these G-men used? Were not what most people would approve of. Dillinger's girlfriend, for instance. She never participated in any crimes, and was nothing but his romantic companion.

   They picked her up, because they were having trouble getting Dillinger himself. They handcuffed her to an uncomfortable chair. Refused to let her use the bathroom. Teams of agents took turns yelling and interrogating her for hours on end. And yeah, it wasn't limited to scaring her.

   They were taking a Chicago phone book, and using it to beat her. By the time Melvin Purvis "rescued" her? She couldn't stand up, had pissed herself more than once, and could barely move. The G-men were militarized thugs, and really it made sense given what they were up against.

   Hoover knew that wouldn't work in the long run. Americans had some sense of fair play deep in their genes, along with the streak to do what needed done. He reorganized the bureau.

   He gently washed out the thugs, and recruited for brains and character as well as physical fitness and other needed traits. The intelligence arm of the military, provided him with another model. What would later become the CIA was originally the OSS, the Office of Special Services.

   The secret agent techniques used by military intelligence? Were brought to the FBI.

   You will encounter limited success, or even no success whatsoever... trying to get your way in. If, however... the criminals recruited you? Well then. That's a different story. When Merry the steakhouse waitress was getting surrounded by drunk wives of dirty FBI agents at work, and finally fought back?

   Well. Merry the steakhouse waitress, was born one Frusta Sferza Frustino. First called Tina because of her Italian menu name, she picked up another name by the end of her freshman year playing women's soccer at one of the biggest top ten schools in the tough mid-west conference.

   I was known until I left college sports, as The Hurricane. A lot of big strong girls have the reputation that they "hit like a man". Few actually do. I was one of them. I literally grew up around a bunch of big farm boys, and I played sandlot sports with them. I didn't fight girls. When I ran across a boy that was coming up behind me, after the play was over playing tackle football... and shoving me into the mud puddle to intimidate me, and get "the stupid girl" to go home crying?

   I had learned off of the other boys without realizing it. You laugh that stuff off a couple times. Then? You warn them. And if they laugh and do it again, daring you? You need to haul off and punch them right in the face, leave marks, and get some blood. You don't have to "win", but you do have to make it not worth their while. These people in general, pick the easiest target. Before I got out of grade-school and into middle school? I had an "honorary cock", as one boy in my group phrased it.

   I wasn't the obligatory try-hard "tomboy" that insisted on running around with the boys. I was one of them, in all but how I took a pee. I picked up from one of my guy friends, the three strike rule. You do it a third time, despite increasing warnings? You get what you get. So, by the third or fourth time I was surrounded by drunk FBI wives, who thought they were hot shit and above the law. And the local city police were laughing and refusing to file charges, despite the videos at work of what was going on, late night on weekends at the steakhouse?

   Well. Three drunk girly girls were in for a huge surprise. I mashed a big stack of those heavy salad bowl plates from the salad bar down over her skull, and proceeded to beat her senseless. There's three of them, and my waitress friends got into it. I got the second one down in a booth and mashed her face and ribs to hell and back, then attended to the last one. She got corralled into a corner, and I worked her over good.

   When the local city cops arrived? I was in no mood. I'd already been kicking an almost unconscious girl across the floor, going for ribs and face. I gave them enough of a show, that I ended up handcuffed and male city cops were punching me in the face. Then the mace, and finally? They tasered the shit out of me until their batteries ran out.

   One of the girls at work, had dated an outlaw biker. He saw the videos from the security cameras everyone found highly entertaining. Her outlaw ex, had a buddy. He was impressed. He liked it. I became the girlfriend of a national enforcer for an outlaw motorcycle gang.

   He had grown up a heavyweight golden gloves boxer for a sport, and when it wasn't in the cards after turning pro... well, go figure that's how he ended up becoming who he was. He took me on a trip with him to another city in another state. My job? Handle the girls, while he handled the guy he was sent to deliver the message to, and one or two of his buddies.

   Several girly girls. Cute, mouthy, coke sniffing bad girls. The little fan club of the guy Pound was sent to deliver the message to. He asked me if I'd mind watching his back, and more or less handling the girls. He can't have three or four girls hanging off of him, while he's taking care of the member the locals can't handle, and his buddy.

   There's two kinds of national enforcer, at least in our organization. The one kind? Prone to use clubs, knives, guns... even explosives. When they're working? Usually not flying colors. Then, there's there's a hands-on national enforcer. No guns or anything else. And you advertise. Full colors.

   My university soccer coach used to use me the same way.

   I was once known as The Hurricane. The girls on my team, particularly those that lived in the same townhouse with me? Affectionately named me... Mama Bear. Pretty sure, just about everyone and that's country and city alike... knows you better not get between a mama bear and one of her little cubs. And why. And if you endanger one of her cubs? Well, its obvious what happens.

   This? Wasn't much different, really. Illegal, sure. Necessary though. My coach would call me up. Show me a number on his notebook paper. It could be a polite matter of simply knocking her around, like she was doing to our skill stars they couldn't stop. It could also be not so polite. Yellow card for fighting. Out of the game, one game suspension. In certain rare cases? We're all done with polite.

   Yeah. The Hurricane? Was known for a lot of things, and one of them was putting members of the opposing team's "goon squad" into the hospital.

   Like I said. This, wasn't so different. Name and photo, instead of a number. Deliver the message loud and clear. I was surprised when I got invited to attend national parties, with Pound. My biker gang doesn't have female members. We have girls that are "property". I was national property.

   When Pound had to leave the city, never to return with warrants on him? I had to turn in my "national" T shirts and business cards. When I went to do just that? I was shocked. A national had been sent to the local chapter meeting, and... told me I was to keep my national property status.

   I continued to do what I had done before? Without Pound. Someone like Buzzy or Grizz would ride me somewhere to deliver the message.

   But, remember where this all started. I'm required to break the law. A member of organized crime, that won't break the law? Really no point. I don't bend over loud bikes for lines of coke. I buy and sell weed, and pay my street tax. Like the men do.

   There's no such thing as a full patched female member. And there's certainly no such thing as a female enforcer, national or otherwise. Girls like me? We're called tanks. Most property girls, are either someone's old lady, or... just another skank.

   So when I started moving cocaine once a year in bulk, and dutifully paying my street tax voluntarily? Well. I fit right in, and once again? I'm just one of the boys. And Panic, as my citizen boyfriend. He's required to break the law some, too. Gray area stuff, nothing major.

   So? We have money we shouldn't have. We don't even "use" the ill gotten gains, like most people would. Its just... kind of there. One of the things we did, was to set Zar up with her own video editing business. Its called a cutting house. So she could do for herself, what her career had her doing and making a living off of her and the other cutters.

   She started out with a tiny rented office, working by herself. We doubled her weekly pay, overnight. The little cutting house made its start up seed money back. She eventually had to hire and train another cutter, and now has a couple of them. Her cutting house? Specializes in training films for businesses, and eventually smaller pieces of larger projects. She takes "end credits" work, and does some audio recording and editing, too.

   Not musicians, voice over work for training films and short documentaries. If at the end of any training film or little documentary you see "Lightning Cuts" in the credits? That's her and her cutting house. "Storm Audio" means they did the voice over work. They do some radio spots, but there's no credits you can see for that.

   As a cutter for her career, she ended up a media manager. That's what they called someone overseeing a little project. Customers had to tell her, she was basically an entry level producer. Her owner was never going to tell her that. When customers tried now and again to try to hire her on the side? Well, it eventually led to what we did.

   And if you ever spot "Two Feet Productions" before or after anything, that's her being a producer.

   When Wizzy was still alive, he wrote one then a couple more computer programs for fun for one of his AV major friends. It makes the rolling credits you see at the end of a movie. You can change the font, font size, color, and rolling speed. You work out of a little text file, and can immediately see your work.

   If you type...

   Person A.

   Then? Person A rolls up the middle of the screen.

   If you type...

   Person A, Person B.

   They roll up in a double column.

   If you type...

   Person A; Person B; Person C.

   You get those triple columns.

   There's a few other things things, too. But you get the idea. And so, if you ever see "Wizard Titles & Credits", well. That's him. He lives on after death, still doing for her. I've seen her using it before, and she has to stop now and again and wipe her eyes. Yeah. I can't fault her for that.

   I myself, sometimes get a little "ghost in my eye" now and again as well.

   Yes, she made a good living before. Yes, she makes a lot more per year after by this time. But no, by her own lips she's not "that kind of producer". She's in the holding pattern now, waiting to break through the glass ceiling. One day, maybe one of the directors that make training films and commercials and tiny documentaries... might happen into a half hour, hour, or longer documentary project. Maybe, some god-awful direct to video DVD movie.

   The director, will want to work with a cutting house he used before. He'll want an affordable producer, that he can trust with a budget for time and money. He'll almost certainly want a place that can do its own voice over recording, editing and mixing. And? He'll need it all on a shoestring budget, by Hollywood standards.

   If it went over well, that could lead to longer documentaries. More cutters. And if one of those up and coming directors, ever gets a half decent low budget movie and it gets noticed? That's the director's chance to maybe get a better project offer. And guess who he'll want to use for cutting, producing, and basic audio work. Someone he's worked with before, and he's confident what they'll send back.

   If you ever wondered, video editors get paid by the minute of final product. One thousand dollars per minute of edited video, is entry level. That, is her gross for an editing project. What she has to spend on anything? Comes out of that, leaving her business the rest. Cutters, make around a hundred dollars a minute of finished work. Some make more, with experience.

   So if you need a one minute video clip, its about a thousand dollars, minimum. A one hour documentary when finished, would be roughly 60 grand. 120 grand, for a two hour documentary. We honestly had no idea how she would handle making double, then triple and more what she used to make working for someone else.

   We just upped her pay slowly over time. Seeing how it went. She honestly doesn't seem to go nuts, and we're eventually just going to sign her over as the owner. JG, is the tech god that maintains her computer workstations and servers and all that stuff. Him and Panic? Speak the same language. Uncle Mike, says they speak in "martian".

   JG just got a percentage of the business because he keeps the computers running. Businesses that do that for cutting houses? Charge by the second, and have fees for everything on top of that. Plus, they charge you extra for the equipment.

   He takes all that out of the equation. If memory serves, he's 20 percent now. She likes him. A lot. He reminds her of the AV guys back at college. Which were Wizzy's friends.

   In a perfect world, those two will end up partners. Romantic as well as professional. She'll own most of the business, and he'll have the rest.

   That's who we're required to attempt to drag along with us, for her surprise.

   Its more a matter of if his schedule at work is open. He's Uncle Mike's go to agent at work at the bureau. He likes spending time with her. It didn't take much to get him to come with us for a weekend. I knew his schedule was open, I just texted Uncle Mike and made sure. JG has no idea I'm an FBI agent like he is. Only my handler, which is Uncle Mike? Can put a real name to Merry the former steakhouse waitress at the bureau. In real life? Few others. I can count them all on one hand, and have fingers left over.

   With the exception of Panic? They all knew me before Merry was invented.