On special operations

From: Laurence Shandy
To: United States Federal Bureau of Investigation
Re: Deadly bees

Dear F.B.I.,

International literary sex symbol Laurence Shandy here. Depending on how long the agent reading this letter has been at the bureau, he or she may recognize me by my F.B.I. codename, Norman Mailer. I did some work for the feds back in '78. The information I provided then, while obtained under questionable legality, served to bring down you-know-who before he could take you-know-what and use it to blow up you-know-where. If whoever's reading this is some kind of rookie, go ask your superiors. If not, then you're probably a rogue agent serving time in mail detail for unnecessary property damage. In that case, you're just who I need.

You see, starting earlier this month, the bees have been on the attack. 7,000 of them swarmed the emergency room at the University of Arkansas medical center. Acting on a tip, I questioned one of the hospital's employees, Dr. Delaney Kinchen. I thought he might have been performing ungodly hybridization experiments on the bees, and they'd come for revenge. I went deep undercover as Dr. Kinchen's girlfriend. Pumped him full of vodka tonics and shrimp cocktail. You wouldn't believe the things that came out of his mouth that night. For that matter, you wouldn't believe the things that went in his mouth. Regardless, the guy checked out. It was a dead-end hunch, saved only by the fact that Dr. Kinchen's real girlfriend, who I detained in my pantry, has become one of my closest friends. With benefits.

And now another swarm of bees -- this time 3,000 of the bastards -- has tried to attack a fundraising walk for the American Cancer Society. What they have against cancer research, I have no idea. Could they be working for the Bush administration? Maybe. But the fact is that all I remember seeing of the monster that took my Meredith was tentacles and spines and bees.

This is getting out of hand. I'm too close to this, damn it! That's why I need the wise-cracking, rule-bending F.B.I. agent reading this letter to take up the slack for me. I have a German marine biologist working on tracking down the bee monster that started this mess, and I'm taking a cue from the suspicious Dr. Kinchen and employing a British hybridization specialist to augment myself with some bee-resistant genetic weaponry. What's the natural enemy of bees? Wasps? Hell, I don't know.

But while I'm overseas having my arms replaced with hornet's wings, I need some feet on the ground here in case there's another attack. Are you with me, agent?

I knew I could count on you, whoever you are.

Best wishes,
Norman Mailer (a.k.a. Laurence Shandy, gentleman)