A PERECT WEEK IN ÇÀÝÁÇ

ÇÀÝÁÇ was the perfect place to vacation, and to forget about one’s troubles back home. Parker Goldring booked his flight to this tropical paradise, as much to relax as to evade his psychotic ex-wife. He understood her acrimony towards him because he was a slob, but he didn’t understand why she wanted him dead. He didn’t think he was that much of a slob.

Parker tried to learn as much as he could about the ÇÀÝÁÇ language as he could on the flight there, but it was terribly difficult to understand; even the rudiments of the language were intricately complex. The alphabet had but fourteen letters, yet each one came with a dizzying array of accents marks (left and right), umlauts, and cedillas for each letter. Another unique aspect of their language was that every word was a palindrome.

Parker gave up on trying to comprehend the language and downloaded the only translator that included the ÇÀÝÁÇ language. BrightBabble guaranteed excellent translations or your money back. Parker found this guarantee quite funny and delightful, for it was a free app. The snarkiness of the BrightBabble creators was somehow reassuring to Parker.

The airport was crowded, but he didn’t see anyone that looked remotely American. Everyone here was under 65 inches tall, with slender physiques and amazingly blond hair. Their eyes were their most unique aspect: one was green and the other was gold. Parker found this to be delightful as well. He was finding anything not resembling a trigger-happy ex as being delightful.

Parker had not booked a hotel, being in a rush to avoid bullets, so he pulled up BrightBabble and went to the information desk (he assumed that’s where he went) and spoke into the translator.

“Could you recommend a good hotel?”          

***ÎêëçëêÎ àáâããâáà***

The employees at the front desk looked at each other in amusement. Why would this strange man want to eat a fish stuffed with banana peels? The taller one shrugged and spoke slowly into the phone that Parker held out.

“Take a taxi to ËÿÿË. They have seafood.”

Parker listened closely to the translation.

### Seek the way of the raconteur. Turn towards the fast alchemist. Travel the path of red water. ###

He frowned at this and read the text again. Dragon. Alchemist. Red water. Yeah, ok.

Parker hypothesized that this was not a literal translation but rather a lyrical and poetic way of giving him directions to a nice hotel. He found the translation delightful.

Walking towards town, Parker noticed a man in the streets, telling a story to all and sundry gathered around him. He would embellish his tales with loud bangs and puffs of smoke coming from his waving hands. The crowd was entranced. Parker and his translator found the old man unintelligible. Raconteur indeed, he thought.

Now, what the hell is a fast alchemist? Parker continued down the wide boulevard until he came to a crossroads. To the left was a park. To the right was the jungle. He chose the jungle route for no other reason than he doubted that a fast alchemist would be found in a park.

The red water was more difficult to find because what he was seeking didn’t exist. However, he did find a roadside stand about a mile into the jungle that sold pomegranate juice. Parker was confident that he was on the right road to a good hotel. The signs were unmistakable.

Finding a taxi was a problem. Parker continued on into the jungle, vainly searching for any sort of motorized transport. There seemed to be none for hire, although trucks laden with packages wrapped in brown paper seemed to be abundant. The drivers all ignored him as he tried to wave them down, and one driver threw a sack of trash at him. Fish bones and banana peels.

Parker finally arrived at what looked like a modest hotel. It was more of a cabin, really, but very spacious. He walked up to the front door and was greeted by three men with automatic weapons. Parker was starting to think that maybe this wasn’t a hotel.

He opened the BrightBabble app and spoke into it.

“I am an American, looking for a hotel. Preferably one that has those pastries that you’re famous for. The King Kong Kouign-amann?”

The translation caused the armed men to look at Parker with a smidgen of worry.

### I am the killer of monsters from the land beyond. I seek your yellow cake, and a supplication for my master. ###

The men looked at one another, not quite understanding why a man who wandered onto their highly-guarded property would spout such nonsense. Everyone in ÇÀÝÁÇ knew to avoid this place, unless they had dealings with ÑŕèŕÑ.

“An American, speaking in code. He is the one. The CIA man.”

All three men nodded; this is the only explanation that made any sense. One of them gestured to another to go inside and inform ÑŕèŕÑ of his visitor. He was excited, for their enemies would finally be blown up by the terrible CIA bombs. It was worth whatever they had to pay.

The man returned a few seconds later. His manner had changed drastically; Parker attributed it to the fact that he was an American. It must carry a lot of weight here, he thought.

Parker spoke into the BrightBabble app.

“I need a hotel room. And food. Where can I get both? I’m a little hungry, you see. And a little tired. Maybe someplace with an ocean view?”

### I require the yellow devil. I require the gift to my master. I am the avenger of all wrongs, and will rain death down on all enemies. It is said. It is so. ###

ÑŕèŕÑ nodded to one of his men. A package containing yellow-cake uranium was placed in front of Parker, as well as $13 million in bearer bonds. ÑŕèŕÑ spoke over his shoulder and Parker was given the additional gift of a dozen Pez dispensers, each filled with cocaine.

Parker looked over the contents placed in front of him. A yellow substance, probably some sort of pastry mix the island is famous for. Hmmm. Certificates. Maybe take them to a restaurant and see what they’re worth. Must be a tradition on the island to give ornate-looking certificates for free meals or discounts. The Pez dispensers were cool. Hadn’t seen these since I was a kid.

Parker gathered up the packages and went outside. A Jeep was waiting for him to take him back to town. The ride was nice and quiet; the driver was terribly polite, almost obsequious in his manner. What a polite people, Parker thought, despite the presence of a lot of guns.

He was taken inside the hotel where the driver stopped. The driver spoke to the manager, and the manager snapped his fingers. Instantly, three men came to his aid. Parker was lead to a suite on the top floor.

“Free, sir,” the manager said. The BrightBabble app said otherwise.

### The King of the Volcano predicts a long life for you. Offer up the heads of your enemies to God. Sleep facing to the north. ###

Parker nodded. Sure. Whatever you say, bud.

“Oh, can I get a pot of coffee? With cream?”

The manager listened to the translation and gave Parker a curious look before nodding and heading off to perform this task. Americans, he thought. God has a strange sense of humor by letting Americans rule the world.

Thirty minutes later, two beautiful and scantily-clad women showed up at Parker’s door. He let them in, of course, because he didn’t know what else to do when two beautiful and scantily-clad women showed up at his door, this being the first time it had ever happened to him. The women undressed themselves before undressing him.

The night passed very eventfully. Parker loved the hospitality that ÇÀÝÁÇ offered Americans. Even the women wanted a piece of America.

The next day dawned bright and warm, though Parker slept late because of his nocturnal activities. The women were already gone, as was one of his Pez dispensers. Hmmm. Small price to pay for a night of immeasurable pleasure, he thought.

A bank was two blocks down from the hotel; this seemed like a good place to ask for information. The short walk cleared Parker’s head somewhat, for he hadn’t had any coffee yet.

The interior of the bank was as bright as the day outside and, wonder of wonders, an American was there to help him with his needs. Parker asked for and finally got a cup of coffee. He sipped it and sighed in deep contentment. As much as he appreciated the friendly women last night, he dearly missed his coffee.

Nestor Buchanan was the American who worked at the bank, but he was really a CIA agent placed there. His job was to take delivery of the weapons-grade uranium that the ÇÀÝÁÇ people of the jungle produced, along with several million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds and get it all back to headquarters. The covert operation was important to the U.S. because they needed ÇÀÝÁÇ as an ally, and blowing up half the population of the enemies of the ÇÀÝÁÇ people was something that they were more than willing to do to accomplish this end.

“Thank God, an American! This translator app,” Parker held up his phone, “is a little wonky. I’m not sure it’s translating properly. Lots of odd predictions and poetic sayings, you see. I wonder if…”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Goldring?” Nestor cut Parker short because, frankly, Parker didn’t interest him. He had a job to do and dealing with an inane American wasn’t part of the plan.

Parker, not offended at all by the man’s rudeness, placed two packages in front of him. One was to send back home. The other, the one with a thick sheaf of bearer bonds, was more problematic.

Nestor looked at the contents of both packages, his eyes widening in surprise and lips pursed in consternation. He recognized the contents of both, for it was he who should be delivering the uranium and tucking the bearer bonds away in a secret account.

Nestor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he put his right hand on his pistol.

“Who are you?”

Parker was nonplussed for the moment. It was none of this man’s business who he was, he thought. I’m an American and I have rights.

“I am the King of the Volcano, buddy. Now, send this package and help me deal with these certificate thingies.”

Nestor was shocked to his heels. The King of the Volcano! Code name for his contact on this mission. Nestor quailed at the implication: he was being replaced on the mission.

“Uh…yes, sir. Package delivered to…”

“This address. And insure it, will you? Don’t want to lose such a valuable thing without getting something in return, right? And about these certificates…”

“Uh, well, we can set up a numbered Swiss account, as usual, sir. Then you may use the funds at your leisure.”

Parker gazed at the man, a little puzzled at his strange way of wording things. Why can’t the man just cash them in or whatever the locals normally do with these things?

“Sure. Whatever, buddy. Let’s get it done.”

Nestor was amazingly efficient at setting up secret Swiss accounts, mainly because he had done this sort of thing a dozen times before. Moving around illicit funds and conducting secret wars was what he did.

Nestor supplied Parker with all the information he needed to retrieve his funds and promised to send his package that day. Parker left the bank in a good mood. Nestor sat down and drank three shots of whiskey, thereby rendering him slightly buzzed and a little paranoid about his future.

The buzz from the whiskey had long-reaching effects. Nestor had lost Parker’s address, so he had to look it up on the CIA database. Unfortunately, the address that came up was that of his ex-wife. Nestor sent the weapons-grade uranium to a woman who wanted Parker dead.

Parker spent the rest of the week enjoying his status as an American. He passed out the remainder of the Pez dispensers and was rewarded unduly for them, he thought. More women came to his room every night. He ate for free everywhere he went. He was given tailor-made clothes and hand-tooled shoes. People would stop him on the streets; men would shake his hand and women would kiss his cheek.

His flight home was an extension of what he had encountered on the island of ÇÀÝÁÇ. He was flown in a private jet replete with luxuries. He sipped expensive champagne and ate even more expensive caviar. The two flight attendants, one male and one female, each offered him sex. He declined both offers but still gave them his last two Pez dispensers. They seemed inordinately happy with the cheap gifts.

Parker arrived at his modest apartment and tossed down his bags, weary but happy. He twitched the curtains to assure himself that his ex-wife wasn’t out there waiting to blow him away. Satisfied for the time being, Parker texted his sister that he was back home. He then reclined on the sofa and turned on the television; the English words comforted him and he fell asleep.

A pounding on the door thirty minutes later woke him up. Sandra, his sister, burst into the room and started shouting something at him. Parker rubbed his eyes and waited until she was done.

“Ok. Now, sit down and repeat everything you just said without yelling,” Parker indicated that she should sit down and slow down. Huffing, Sandra did so, though the effort appeared to be monumental.

“Your ex. Philomena. She was arrested by the FBI.”

Parker sat up, suddenly interested.

“What? Arrested? Why…”

“She had weapons-grade uranium in her house! Can you believe that shit? They think she’s a terrorist.”

Parker nodded in assent.

“She is a terrorist. She terrorized me for years. But I don’t…”

“Anyway, she’s in FBI custody. She’ll be away for the rest of her life, Parker. Imagine that! You were married to a terrorist!”

Parker found it easy to believe on many levels, but it still shook him.

“And I got this. Some sort of bank deposit in Zurich? What’s this all about?”

Parker took the document from Sandra and inspected it. He gasped and looked at the figure again. $13 million, in his Swiss account. Just as suddenly, he relaxed.

“Just a mistake or something, sis. This is probably the monetary unit of ÇÀÝÁÇ. I bet it isn’t worth more than a few dollars. Odd, though.”

“What?”

“Yes, a secret Swiss account for a few dollars. Those people have a delightful sense of humor.”

Sandra didn’t exactly buy the explanation, but her brother seemed sincere. He was always sincere; part of his problem was that he was too nice to his ex and she took advantage. His biggest sin was being a slob.

“Say, did I get a package? I had some pastry mix sent here from ÇÀÝÁÇ.”

Sandra shook her head.

“Nope. Been here every day. Nothing but mail and a package from QVC. I opened it. Do you really need an avocado slicer?”

“No other package? Damn!”

“Nope.”

“I wanted to make a cake for you with it, sis.”

She put her arm through his and sat beside him.

“You can take me to dinner instead. We’ll spend that $13 million whatever that you have, yes?”

“Sure. And I can tell you about my adventures there. Well, most of them…”