Error: I'm afraid this is the first I've heard of a "comments" flavoured Blosxom. Try dropping the "/+comments" bit from the end of the URL.
Under the Radar
When Alan and Carla reached the perimeter fence around NSA FANX, they tripped a nearby motion detector. This blinked a light on the security console and automatically switched the output of the IR camera nearest to them on to the main security display. Initially, the guards on duty, Billy MacDonald and Eric Krause, didn't notice. They had taken a momentary break from their vigilance to join in sad commiseration about the prospects of the Washington Nationals in the NL East.
"They don't quite lead the majors in losses," said MacDonald rubbing his tired eyes, "but Cincinnati has a good shot at winning the next two. It's possible the Nats could be the worst team in baseball by this Sunday."
"Don't bet on it. There's an off chance that the Nats could win one this weekend too. They're playing the Phillies who always seem to choke this time of year." Krause got up from his chair to stretch for a few seconds. Then he sat back down and began looking at the monitors again. "I'm thinking Cincy's got a lock on the cellar..." Krause went silent for a moment as the routine scan of his eyes crossed the main monitor, registering the image and the corresponding motion detector alert. "Hey, what do we have here, Billy? Is a moonlight hike down a drainage ditch considered romantic?"
MacDonald grinned as he reached for the joystick. In a few seconds he had zoomed in on the bedraggled couple.
"I think I can see some titty there Eric. Maybe if we switched to indirect illuminator we could get a better view."
"Nahh, the millimeter wave is better for titty. Here, look." Krause threw a few switched on the console and had a radar image split screened with the IR image. "Look there." His hand danced over a trackball as he scrolled designator cross hairs on the image. "That's clearly a nipple. All you see on that IR of yours is a tan circle."
"OK, we already know it's a nipple," agreed MacDonald, "and the contrast is better with the clothing transparent to the microwaves, I admit, but those fuzzy 95 Gig radar plots make me think of ultrasound scans, which makes me think of babies and college tuition bills, not warm, soft tits. The IR is a more alluring image, if you ask me."
"Point taken. Anyway, maybe we should run an ID check on these jamokes? I think it's fair to say that there's probable cause for it. Are we authorized to do visual IDs without a warrant this week?"
"Didn't get a memo saying we can't."
Krause nodded, then he scrolled the designator up to the faces, drew boxes around them deftly, and triggered the video track and image capture. The targets were not moving much, so grabbing their faces this way was pretty easy. They seemed to be unsure where to go, so they kept turning their heads. This put numerous profile and front views into the movie he was grabbing. When he thought he had enough, Krause exported the grab to an MPEG file on his desktop. He brought up a secure FBI "patriot act" web site they had access to, filled out the form with their authorizing clearance, contact info for the reply, and uploaded the MPEG to the site.
"You know, Eric, I bet those two are from the vette that the cops just found smashed up over at the traffic light a few minutes."
"You think?" Krause said sarcastically.
"I do think," said MacDonald, ignoring the jibe. "Maybe we should tell the locals about them."
Krause sighed. "I suppose you're right. They have no weapons or bombs the millimeter wave would have shown it if they did. They're just two drunk assholes fleeing a DWI charge. It'll give the locals a thrill to track them through our weeds." Krause lifted the phone, but before he could start dialing the NSA liaison's phone number, he saw in his email INBOX that the FBI had already replied to his face ID request. Curious. They only responded that quickly when the faces were an easy call. He hung up the phone and opened the email. The man had an unusual rap sheet: a conviction for the oddball crime 'Theft of Internet Service' in Havre du Grace. What could that be about, wondered Krause. The name, Alan Campbell, was unfamiliar to Krause.
The woman, on the other hand, had a name that hatched a whole swarm of butterflies in Eric Krause's stomach.
He nudged MacDonald. "Billy, look at this. We seem to have found some pretty high class titty crawling along near our perimeter fence."
"We have to get out of here, is what we need to do," said Carla.
"No kidding," said Alan, "but we can't go back, and we certainly can't climb over this fence into the NSA compound. I imaging that would have unpleasant consequences. In fact, I'd be surprised if they didn't have a security camera that can see us right now."
They glanced around nervously, hunkering down lower into the ditch. As he tried to find a comfortable spot to sit among the rocks, Alan felt his cell phone in his pocket. Suddenly, he glimpsed a way out of the jam.
"Isn't there a McDonald's up on Elkridge Road on the way to the hotels? I seem to remember it being there. It's open 24 hours, I think."
"So what," said Carla, "I'm not hungry either."
"I think it's over that way," said Alan, motioning to the right. "This fence must lead around to it. If we follow the fence to the right, we should be able to stay out of sight and still reach the McDonald's parking lot. I have my cell phone. I could call my friend Nate. He's checked into the Holiday Inn. We could hide in the brush till we see his car, then quickly run across to get in. He can take us to my hotel. When we sober up, you could turn yourself in. We say that the accident made us confused and we walked to the hotel on our own. You may face a 'fleeing the scene' charge, but not DWI. They have no proof you were drunk."
Carla thought about the plan for a few seconds, then nodded, "It could work."
"It's our only option," said Alan, "I just hope Nate is in."
Nate wasn't in yet, but he hoped he soon would be.
The hotel room was a shambles. Everywhere it was decorated with the squalor of empty beer bottles, spilled bags of Dorito chips, fast food wrappers, and piles of half eaten chicken wings. The king sized bed was stripped down to the base fitted sheet. In the center of the bed, naked, trussed up with rope, her face down, and ass posed high in the air, was Monika. "Yo, baby, where's that bottle of Fruity Booty?" asked Nate.
Monika, a 250lb goth chick from East Baltimore, had never shown any interest in anal sex before. She had been pretty much a straight cock/mouth/pussy suck and fuck girl. Nothing unusual or nasty other than the usual Nawaikido rope play and bondage stuff. But for some reason today she had gotten it into her brain that a good buggering was what she was missing. Maybe it was her most recent piercing that had sent her thoughts in this direction. Nate didn't care. He had never fucked anyone in the ass before and now it seemed he would get the rare chance to lose his ass-fucker virginity.
Earlier that evening as they had been walking out of the Gold Club and the porn DVD Cornhole Hussies was featured in the display case of their adult store. It caught Monika's eye and she bought the disk along with a bottle of lube, winking significantly at him. This wink rattled his balls as it quickened their pace back to the hotel.
"...ink ... ver ... aye ... eeeVee," came the muffled reply by Monika. Face down, and tied as she was, her words were hard to make out through the ball gag.
"Ahh, yeah, I see it," said Nate and snatched up the bottle by the TV. He squirted the pink goop down Monica's ass crack.
Nate was wearing a silk robe over his sumo wrestler physique. His dick protruded through the folds, stiff as a wakizashi from the two little blue pills he had washed down with his beer a little while ago. Glancing at the TV he said, "Yo, Monika, you should see this porn. Two black dudes are DPing this white chick, and there's a housefly buzzing around the action. Maybe they should mix deet with sex lube."
"..ut ....up ...n ...uck ..ee ...n ...ss," she said.
"OK, honey, here it comes," said Nate.
As he was lining up to take his first plunge down the Hershey Highway, Nate's cell phone rang. By the ring tone he could tell it was Alan. Shit. Was he supposed to pick Alan up at the Airport. Nate couldn't remember.
"Yo, What the fuck, dude?" said Nate into his cellphone.
"Nate, thank god you're there," whispered Alan in reply.
"I'm kinda busy right now."
"Yes, I'm sorry for calling so late. I can't explain over the phone. You have to trust me. It's real important you come and pick us up."
"Did I fuck up and forget you at the airport, dude?" asked Nate, still uncertain. "I thought you were going to take the hotel bus. We would meet in the AM."
"That's right. But something happened. I need you to pick me up now. Do you know where the McDonald's is on Elkridge Landing Road?.
"Sure dude. Free WiFi there," said Nate, glancing away from the winking brown eye being probed by the head of his Viagra swollen cock to the collection of empty Big Mac wrappers on the night stand.
"We'll be in the weeds by the fence around back. We'll look for you. Do you have the Bronco?"
"Yeah, dude, I have the Bronco, but what the fuck? Can you wait about an hour. I have some nasty business here that I need to finish."
"You have to get us now, Nate. Please. It's very important. Very. We're stuck here outside the NSA fence and cops are looking for us," said Alan.
"Cops? NSA?," Nate looked up from the bunghole and he put on his samurai game face. Way cool, dude! I'll be right there. Shall I suit up for battle?"
"No, just get here quick. And bring a robe or something. I have a girl with me and her clothes are torn. She needs to cover up." said Alan
"Holy fuck, this sounds better and better."
"...ut ...uh ..uck ...oong," said Monika.
"Shut up, bitch," said Nate, "my buddy's in trouble."