LEE PEARSON / COMMANDER BOOMERANG’S DAY AT THE DENTIST
I know who he is and what he is just by the faux-penis bulging from under his khaki chinos, as well as by the cologne I can easily recognize as a cheap brand only available in some of the Eastern Bloc republics where Stalin’s framed portrait yet looms over babushka tenement foyers. By the way it flexes under the fabric, I can tell that the cock-imposter is of a larger caliber than my own—gross overkill, in my opinion—and by that, I know for certain that this dentist means business. To any other Average Joe, the finer details would go unnoticed, perhaps nothing more than a quirky three-quarter-chub to an observant man in need of a root canal, but I am no Average Joe. I’ve dedicated my life to the art of counter-espionage, working with the greatest spies of my generation as the unofficial sous-commandant of top secret Taskforce AqUILA under Director Cherry Vasquez.
A local anesthetic is applied to my top gums, on the right side where I’ve been ignoring an aching cavity for months. It’s daring—perhaps exceedingly foolish—to open myself up so early, but I can’t give up this little spy game just yet. It would be a syrette of potassium cyanide on the menu today if this dentist were any other rube of an assassin, but he happily takes his time playing his role as the charming dentist. He appreciates the nuanced strides of the dance one must make while in the espionage line of work, has the decency and good manners to let the charade move along so that we might see just who will end up outsmarting who, a not-so-friendly game between two seasoned professionals. The local anesthetic is just that, nothing more and nothing less.
A clear, plastic doo-dad holds my jaws agape and spreads my mouth wide open. The fake mustache warming my upper lip holds on for dear life. Many goons have been tricked by the deceptively simple disguise over the years—your average henchman isn’t exactly the brightest sort. The quarter-inch hairs were procured by AqUILA’s disguise department, a one-man operation headed by the legendary master of disguise, Keisuke Lovebolt. Lovebolt had gotten the hairs off the lips of a Shaivist sadhu while on a trip that took him to Varanasi. For the hairs, he exchanged with the Aghori a sum of high-grade Lebanese hashish—very high potency, nearly thirty-two percent in purity, a full five years before the wider market began to see twenty-percent emerge—delivered in a bowl made from the top of a Faroese woman’s skull that Lovebolt would never admit as to how he acquired. Sometimes, very subtly, I can still smell the hashish and charnel ash while wearing the mustache, particularly throughout Krishna Paksha, the stenches of death being their most pungent in the darkest morning hours of the Amavasya.
The dentist prods around as the feeling in my mouth seeps away, sensation reduced to nothing but cold, tiny pricks. A machine whirs inside, its burr filing away the cavity from the health meat of the bicuspid. A nurse that smells vaguely of tequila and lime holds a tube that simultaneously jets a stream of high-pressure water in and vacuums out, clearing away the debris from the dentist’s quick but precise work.
He finally has the cavity filled, the begins to discuss proper dental hygiene and how to avoid more dentist visits in the future. A hint of an accent slips out his lips, but I almost suspect it’s on purpose, a teasing slip of the façade to try and rouse a challenge from me. I play it cool, knowing it won’t take long before it’s all out in the open for me to pounce upon.
The game goes on, gentle tease after gently tease, until the dentist’s eyes shift and pupils dilate, classic tell of the deceiver. He’s finally made the mistake I’ve been waiting for. Too excited to keep himself in check anymore, the dentist tells me to floss every other day. See, the American Dental Association recommends you floss every day—any American dentist would know this by heart, second nature instilled while still in school. He’s no dentist, just another screwball who that they could go up against Commander Boomerang and win. The spy-dentist put on a much better show than most other goons, was even a little charming, but it still wasn’t enough.
I say, “You’re a lousy dentist, and an even lousier assassin.”
We both reach for our dicks. He’s fast—fast as hell. By the time my fingertips caress the grip of my weapon, the enemy’s boxers are already torn away, his chinos unbuttoned, unzipped and thrown down to his knees, revealing a cock and balls floating in a cloud of pubes hairier than my entire body, Aghori mustache included. The dentist’s expose, flaccid member nearly dwarfs the massive nickel-plated revolver he has strapped to his thigh. It’s only by luck that he’s so hairy, and thus so ill-prepared for this vaquero fast-draw situation. The hair slows him down—not by much, but perhaps just enough for me to beat him and survive the shootout. The length of steel is warm and grazes up the crown of my dick, stimulating the hot nerves and redirecting the flow of blood southward. My eyes cross lewdly. I only manage to pull my gun from its holster faster than the dentist because I had made sure to shave off every pubic follicle that could have impeded my draw, and because I wisely chose to not wear any underwear today. He’s fast, but my superior grasp of tactics and planning is what will win the day. Realizing he’s lost, the dentist fights for his life. He screams as he flicks his pistol’s safety off, but I already have him in my sights. I bring the front up to align in the round of the aperture and level the aim over his heart. I squeeze three rounds into him. The assassin wheezes a short moment, then whines and slumps to the floor in a heap where red gathers in a pool under him, streams trickling into his naked lap to the rhythm of his waning heartbeat.
Before I can let out a relieved sigh and take it easy, the tequila-smelling nurse returns with a hellish screech, kicking open the door in a fury. 7.62x39 hunks of deadly lead wail out from her arms. I dive behind a nearby desk, splinters exploding all around as the bullets thunder through cheap plywood cover. I make myself as small as possible behind the flimsy barrier, wood resembling swiss cheese. My ears ring, and I can barely hear the sound of the nurse’s rifle being thrown back, empty magazine clattering hollow and plastic against the linoleum floor. My aim is true and elegant as I rise up from the destroyed desk, aiming the pistol and the tip of my exposed cock at her center of mass.
“Do svidaniya, bitch.”
The hollow thunk! thunk! thunk! of three .22 warheads punching through her sternum make more noise than the subsonic pops from out the suppressed muzzle and the cycling of the rounds through the pistol’s chamber As the nurse collapses to the floor, rivers of red staining her white scrubs, I catch the final spent brass casing mid-air and twirl the gun back into its holster on my right inner thigh. I bend over to extract the radio hidden deep in the hollow of my body.
On a mission deep in the jungles of the Brazilian Amazon, I learned to always have handy a small sum of olive oil in case an important tool were to become lodged inside. The smart planning has saved my ass—literally—countless times over the years. I keep a discreet bottle disguised as hand sanitizer, always. I apply a dollop of the oil to the smooth, freshly-shaven rim and press a finger in to dial on my prostate. Open-sesame. The radio eases out and falls into my palm. Along with the radio, I am pleasantly reminded that I had also stowed away a cigar for later, a present for myself for a job well done. The smoke is sweet, a blend of tobacco laced with the scent of a cherry cordial.
I was elected as a prospective secret agent for the then-recently-formed Taskforce AqUILA after the elasticity of my asshole had become the stuff of legend from the casual rough-housing of me and my comrades together in the barracks while on deployment in Iraq. Once I was selected, the training my ass and I underwent was grueling. Of the dozen or so prospects that began the selection process, all had washed out. My mentor, Couteau, remarked in one of our first training sessions together that I possessed a ‘profound and innate talent for intaking and holding large quantities in my rectum.’ The skill has proven to be invaluable all through my career as a clandestine operator in AqUILA.
I even had the honor of receiving a medal from the President of the United States himself after a nearly year-long undercover solo mission among the ranks of the Honduran cartels that revered Death as their patron saint. The operation ended climactically with me smuggling enough processed coca wrapped in latex to fill my anal cavity several times over across the US border at El Paso-Juarez. At the end, some dozen or so high-profile drug traffickers with ties to internation terror cells were apprehended and brought to justice. The medal I’d received was a Purple Heart, for my hemorrhoids.
I flex my asshole shut again after depositing the dentist’s cell phone for safe-keeping and press on the radio. “You were right, Couteau. The dentist is one of them.”
The signal hangs silent a moment before a ruckus erupts from outside the office’s lobby. Boots clatter against the tile floor and file in, the boys clicking their tongues in a dialect of morse-coded Pig Latin to keep their communications garbled to any nearby enemy ears that may be listening in. The squad’s captain comes in after the rest, saunters to me and removes his mask. He has a cute, boyish look that betrays his rank and makes my cheeks turn warm, a face so clean that it’s hard to imagine a single whisker has ever blemished its smooth surface.
“. .--. --- - .-. .- -.-- ,” he demands in a terse, authoritative tone.
I say, “Ease up there, Captain. This dentist drew on me—same with the nurse there. A pair of Russ spies, if I had to guess—or worse, VIPERE.”
“. - .... .- -.-- / .. .--. . .-. ...- .- -.-- !?” he exclaims. “..- - -... .- -.-- / .. -.-- .- -.-- / --- ..- --. .... - - .... .- -.-- —”
I take of my Aghori mustache. “Very much still active, I’m afraid. All this time underground, for centuries. But they’re still pulling their strings from where no one can see. They’re getting bolder these days, and that worries me.”
“.- - - .... .- -.-- / .- .-. ... -.-. .- -.-- !” he squeaks, focusing intently on my lip where a scar arcs down my jaw and tapers soft at my chin. “--- ..- -.-- .- -.-- / ..- ... - -- .- -.-- / . -... .- -.-- —”
“Commander Boomerang,” I say, holding out a friendly handshake.
The captain takes my hand and shakes it eagerly. “..- - -... .- -.-- / .. -.-- .- -.-- / --- ..- --. .... - .... .- -.-- / --- ..- -.-- .- -.-- / .. . -.. -.. .- -.-- / . . - .... .-. .- -.-- / . .- .-. ... -.-- .- -.-- / .- --. --- -.-- .- -.-- / .. -. -.-- .- -.-- / .- - - .... .- -.-- / .. .-. . ..-. .- -.-- / .. -. -.-- .- -.-- / . .-. .-.. .. -. -... .- -. !”
“Not quite. It’ll take a lot more than some German gimp with a bazooka for an arm to kill me, Captain. I had to disappear. That VIPERE heat was getting to be too much, so I had to fake my own death.”
“..- - -... .- -.-- / . -.-- .-.. .-.. - .... .- -.-- / . ...- . .-. -. .- -.-- / .- - -.-. .... -.-. .- -.-- / --- ..- -.-- .- -.-- / --- -- -- .- -. -.. . .-. -.-. .- -.-- / --- --- -- . .-. .- -. --. -... .- -.-- !”
“I hope not, Captain, I sure hope not. I think they’re planning something big. As much as I love your dialect, it’s starting to give me a headache. I think it’s safe to speak plainly now.”
The captain clears his throat. “You can never be too safe, I say. Well, gee, how are we supposed to know if these two are with VIPERE anyhow? They’re dead.”
“The woman won’t be one—they don’t let women into their ranks. It’s likely she had no idea exactly who she was in cahoots with here. We’ll need to make a close inspection to see if our handsome dentist here is one of them.”
“You—you think he’s handsome, huh?”
“Of course. And the only thing sadder than a dead man is a handsome dead man.”
“Well, let’s go on and take a look at the handsome guy, then,” he says.
I kneel down and pat at the dead man’s soft cock, raising the shaft and balls up, then putting them back down carefully. “I read in an old record from the 30s that their initiation ritual involves the tattooing of the perineum with a viper. It’s not widely known, but one Italo Balbo, goon that led the Blackshirts, was rumored to have had the snake on his taint. It’s the earliest example of the tattoo anyone’s been able to find. He also had a shitty-looking goatee.”
“It’s the taint, then,” he says. “That’s easy to check. Let’s take a look under the hood—”
I catch his hand before he could lift the genitals. “Easy, Captain. I also read that they’ll commonly lay traps on their own bodies so that, in the event of capture or death, the organization’s kept protected.”
“You’re saying these dorks booby-trap their own dicks?” chuckles one of the other soldiers shuffling around in the room.
“It’s a strange practice, but that absolutely right,” I say. “Now, Captain, I want this room clear besides you and I.”
“You heard him. Everyone out.”
The boys salute their captain and evacuate the room, casually clicking their tongues back and forth, chatting carefree about where they were planning to grab lunch after their work was finished at the dentist office.
I run a finger below the sagging testicles and feel through the thick, wiry pubes for anything out of the ordinary. “Aha,” I say as my fingertips graze the outline of some hidden contraption stashed halfway into the dead dentist’s ass crack.
“What is it, sir?”
I track my finger slowly, carefully along a thin wire—perhaps a thread of fishing line—that leads into his ass where a small explosive device is rigged. “It’s a bomb. C4, I think.”
“Geez, you were right. Do we need EOD?”
“I’m plenty qualified to handle this myself—this isn’t my first rodeo with IEDs and ballsacks, believe me. From what I can tell, it’s a very simple mechanism, really.” I snip the wire with my fingernails and sigh a relief when the bomb doesn’t go off.
“Gee! You really are as good as they say, Boomerang!”
“Captain, not to be immodest, but I’m better than they say. Now, shall we take a look at this guy’s taint?”
“Yes, sir!” said the captain. “Jesus, Boomerang! This fella’s johnson must be—heck—it’s gotta be one foot-thirteen inches at least! Wowee!”
“Yes. He is—was—genetically gifted.” I raise up the balls only to be met with a wall of wiry, black pubes covering the skin underneath, along with any tattoos that may be on that skin. “Could you please find me a pair of scissors, Captain?”
He throws apart the room, scouring through every drawer and container, until he notices a pair of simple silver sheers hidden in plain on the table beside the patients’ chair. “Pretty easy to find in a dentist’s office, huh?”
“Good work, Cap.” Carefully, I cut down the bush, layer by layer, until the hair was just short enough to see the flesh underneath. There, spanning the ass crack to the base of his balls, was a viper with red eyes and venom-slaked fangs poised to strike. “VIPERE. I knew it.”
“Holy moly.”
I discard the scissors and wash my hands in the sink. “Good job, Captain, very good job today.”
“Commander Boomerang, I—I just don’t know what to say. Sir, you are the whole reason I joined the SEALs and the CIA. After I heard about your mission in Brazil—”
“How do you know about the op in Brazil?”
“Oh, everyone knows, sir. It was so impressive. I mean, it was your very first mission and you—I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s an honor to finally meet you, sir.”
“Likewise, Captain. It’s nothing exceptional, though. Just doing my job,” I say. “Now, just where the hell is Couteau? I know it’s her style to be fashionably late and all, but she’s already missed out on all the antics.”
“I believe she should be here any—”
“I’m here,” a voice so sharp it’s smooth says from the doorway. “Another job well done, huh, Boomerang? But don’t you think you could’ve kept them alive for questioning?”
“They didn’t want to give me that choice, Couteau.”
“They never do, do they?”
“To be honest, I very nearly got got when gospozha there came out with the goddamned AK-47 and started unloading everywhere.”
“Mm, you’re starting to get rusty, Boomerang. Don’t you think it’s about time you retired?” She runs a hand down the small of my back and pats me on the ass. Her lips nearly glance off my ear as she whispers into it. “Get a house? Have some babies? Wouldn’t you like to learn my real name?”
The captain averts his eyes, looks to the floor with his cheeks blushing red.
“Maybe one day, but not today, not while VIPERE’s still a threat. Sorry, Couteau.”
She dares to kiss my neck, then withdraws with a disappointed huff. “I’ll be waiting forever for you to give all this nonsense up. You’re addicted to these little spy games, admit it. It’s not about saving the world at all, is it? You’re a fool, Boomerang. A pitiable fool, and a damn good tease. One hell of a combination, isn’t it?”
“The reasons don’t matter—someone’s gotta do this job. Call me if any new details come up, will you? It seems I’m back on the hunt. I’ll see what I can’t dig up about our recently departed friends here.”
“Let me know if anything stands out,” she says. “Remember, you can get a lot more information off someone who’s alive. Keep that trigger finger under control, if you can. Unless, of course, I happen to be around.”
“Keeping them alive has only ever been more trouble than it’s worth. They’re a dangerous bunch. But I will try to take one alive, if they’ll let me.”
I pass through the crowd of soldiers on my way out the dentist’s office, mood rejuvenated with a restored sense of purpose. The sun is warm, soothing against my skin after spending so long in the cold, gray office. Opening my car door, I look one last time toward the little beige building to see the captain jogging out to me.
“Commander Boomerang!” he calls. “Sir!”
“Captain.”
The captain huffs, catching his breath. “Sir, I just wanted to tell you good job back there. And good luck tracking down more of those VIPERE jerks.”
“And good job to you, too. That’s what you ran all the way out here to tell me?”
He chuckles a little, nervous, and looks to the ground, becoming visibly flustered. “Well, not just that, sir. I also wanted to let you know that I’m applying for selection in Taskforce AqUILA next month. I wanna do what you do, sir.”
“Huh. I almost forgot selection’s opening back up. Captain, if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve proven that today. And, please, just call me Boomerang.”
“Yes, sir—I mean—Boomerang. Um, can I ask you something, Boomerang?”
“Of course.”
“Well, if I make it through the selection, do you think maybe we could go on a mission together sometime? Just you and me?”
“The missions I go on are very dangerous, Captain. Especially now with all these VIPERE shenanigans going on.”
“I know. But I’d be safe with you, right?”
“I can’t guarantee that,” I say, solemnly. “A lot of people have died on my watch. That’s why I work alone these days. I got their blood on my hands, Captain, a lot of peoples’ blood. I don’t want your blood, too.”
The captain raises a confident thumbs-up and says, “Soon I’ll be good enough that you won’t have to worry about me, sir! I’ll train really hard to be just as good as you!”
“That’s the spirit. Hell, maybe you’ll end up better than me.”
“That could never happen, sir! No one’s better than you, no one!”
I waved a hand to dismiss the flattery. “Please, it’s just Boomerang. That’s an order. What’s your name anyway, Captain?”
“It’s Bonnett. Bonnett O’Hammond!”
“Your real name, not some moniker the CIA gave you.”
“It is my real name,” he says.
“Bonnett O’Hammond. Well, that’s one helluva name, huh?”
“Thank you, sir! Geez. I mean, Boomerang.”
“Well, it sounds like I’ll be seeing you again real soon, Bonnett.” I throw the keys into the ignition and the car roars to life. “I wish you good luck with selection. I got a good feeling about you, Bonnett O’Hammond.”
“Thank you, Boomerang! Bye! Good luck with your VIPERE hunt!”
“Goodbye, Bonnett. Remember to keep sharp. There are vipers about.”
Lee Pearson is a writer who lives and works in Northwest Arkansas. He has no real credentials or accolades, but his work has been featured in Cephalophore 3: Capitol, SCAB 14 and Back Patio Press. He's been ineptly running God's Cruel Joke literary magazine since late 2022.