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Chasing Snakes in Charm City
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      Three-hundred-thousand have been slaughtered or condemned to die…”
      There was an apathetic resonance to the reporter’s voice that could only have been the product of such statistics.
      It was the fourth or fifth time I’d heard the report that day. I switched the radio off and once more felt a welling of sympathy in my brain. Or was it an abscess?
      Weird bastard, I thought. Doesn’t he have any idea what he’s gotten himself into?
      By now, Darren was probably sitting in first-class on the rain-soaked tarmac, killing time before takeoff by forcing his deluded self upon the person in the next seat through sordid tales of his exploits in the employ of the United States government.

      “Ireland? For St. Patrick’s Day?”
      For Darren, there had clearly been no alternative.
      “My liver never goes on break,” he said, “even on Official Government Business. It’s a testament to my devotion to the job, really, being willing to enter a quarantined foreign nation and risk exposure to a biological hazard, just so I can drink with the pros.”
      I could see his argument, but how professional could they be? What sort of Irish did they have over there, anyway? After all, they weren’t even having a parade.
      The whole hoof-and-mouth epidemic, combined with the awful specter of mad cow disease, had left the Irish badly shaken, and not without reason. In an effort to at least contain the diseases, European governments had commenced the wholesale destruction of livestock. The entire thing was so out of hand that Ireland had set up military checkpoints to inspect and “disinfect” anyone or anything crossing its borders, and cities like Dublin and Belfast had cancelled all of their St. Patrick’s Day festivities, including any parades. Anything that might draw visitors from outside the Emerald Isles, particularly the United Kingdom. It’s no secret that the British, in the historical sense, have never been immensely popular with the Irish, and there’s little chance of mad cow disease doing anything to improve international relations.
      But had it become bad to a degree that rogue foreign agents could freely infiltrate their midst and perpetrate this sort of espionage, compromising the National Security of the Irish Republic?
      “They have to be tested,” I said.
      “What?”
      “Hell,” I told him. “You need to establish a name for yourself in the pubs of Dublin. Drink yourself into a rabid froth and wait for the police to arrive. Don’t worry, they will. They’ll have to, and when they do, just start waving them back with a raw leg of beef. It won’t matter where it came from. Just come out swinging indiscriminately. With any degree of luck, the entire city will be under quarantine before dawn on the 18th.”
      “Christ!” he exclaimed. “I was just talking about some serious alcohol abuse, Old World Style - and you wonder why people call you a vicious little bastard.”
      “Jesus, Darren,” I said, sensing his apprehension. “Show a little pride! You’re an agent of the United States government, after all, and we’re talking about beef here. It’s what’s for dinner, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t let us down, man. The eyes of the nation now look upon you.”
      “Food just takes up precious space in the stomach,” he replied.
      “You selfish fiend,” I said. “This is serious, and the call is going out: to arms!, or in this case, legs. Mad cow. We’re talking about germ warfare. Europe hasn’t seen the likes of this one since the Great War, and you’re shipping directly to the front!”
      “It’s my job,” he said.
      “I think the time has come to consider issuing war bonds.”       “Try to keep it contained,” he said. “If you’re good, I’ll bring you back an infected brain.”
      “Thanks,” I told him, “but there’s a good chance it will consume itself before you even touch down Stateside.”
      He paused, confused.
      “No, no, I’m talking about a cow brain,” he said, “not a Jell-O brain. You have nothing to fear.”