Operation
Just Cause: The Thing About Interns
by Comm.
Michael Mason, 508th
Commanding
a PSYOPS
battalion is a lot easier than it sounds, because the conflict
exists in your mind, not your manpower. Clear your mind, and you
gain full power over your opponent.
When Jared Gilbert told me he wasn't going to put in
his contracted twenty-hours this week, it reminded me of the time
the 508th secured
Ft. Amador, a sizeable installation shared by the U.S. and Panama
Defense Force (PDF). American dependents couldn't be evacuated in
advance of any attack so we had to think fast. And clearly. We ended
up sealing off the fort, securing all the ex-pats, then started
with a systematic broadcast that simulated 105 mm howitzer rounds.
Why a howitzer? Because it made the Sandanistas shit their pants
on the spot, and it paid off again in Panama. By morning, we had
the entire place secure.
"Jared," I said, "I don't give a Cinderella's stomach
whether or not you've got mid-terms coming up. The contract says
twenty hours, and if your card doesn't read twenty hundred on Friday,
I'm gonna give you a shot in the shorts you won't ever forget."
You don't use it, you lose it, and I'll be damned if
I'm gonna compromise my PSYOPS command for a girly little intern.
Your Mom
by Jared Gilbert, Me Head
Intern
Hurricane Rhonda, they call her. She swept into the
office abruptly- a storm of red satin and four inch heels.
"Would you happen to know where Mikey is?" she asked,
breathing seductively into my ear. "I've got something he needs
to see right now."
"Gosh... umm.. I don't know Mrs. Mason," I countered,
my pulse racing.
"Call me Rho, baby. Its alright. I just had a few things
I needed to... get off my chest, if you know what I mean."
"Oh, um... Sure, I guess." My palms were drenched. "Maybe
you'd be free later?"
Like her son, Mrs. Mason's bust was impressively ambitious
without being prodigious. Unlike her son, Rhonda's 6'2" frame towered
over my head- I could tell immediately who had given Mike his licks
growing up.
At dinner that night, Rhonda grilled me about my work
as an intern. I played it easy, making quick off-the-cuff remarks
about how much my edits of Mike's work empowers his reputation as
a writer.
"Mikey's so lucky to have a strong man like you helping
him out. He's always needed a little outside assistance. I guess
it... runs in the family."
"Yeah," I said, recognizing her pass. "I can only imagine."
Later that night, I treated her to an antique carriage
ride through Downtown Tulsa with the spare change I'd stolen earlier
from the coffee-room couch. She giggled like a school girl. As we
rounded 3rd and Boston for the second time, she ran her fingers
lightly through my hair and kissed me softly.
Around midnight, punch drunk and giggly, we pounced
around her apartment like a couple of teenage bobcats. I won't go
into details- that's rude. And besides, with a woman like Rho Mason,
they aren't necessary anyways. In one quick Catwoman glance, she'll
tell you everything you need to know.
