So, uh, like, um, I've been dealing with bed bugs for like a million or two years

now, and it all started

with this drunk guy named Kirk, Tom Kirk. And I mean, Kirk was a good guy 'n' all and everything,
and I mean he was a real good guy, but in essence he was a low-life drunkard, and he lied to me a lot. I
mean, he told me he was in the CIA 'n' all, and I actually believed him.
I mean, I had met this guy named Jordan, Jordan Zeitner. And Jordan was a good guy too 'n' all, and I
mean, I met Jordan in this Indian restaurant in the bar of the restaurant, if the truth is to be told. And I
mean, I was just standin' there at the bar drinkin' a Kingfisher and whatnot, and I was waitin' for my
take-out order. I had ordered two guchi-guchi Indian entrees, peas and potatoes probably and prob'ly
some chicken too, and in those days I could afford two take-out Indian restaurant orders, for in those
days I worked down there at the old Washington Post and all. And I mean, I was a big-shot copy editor,
and it was my job to take the hit for any mistake that appeared on the editorial pages of the old Post for
that is where I worked—in the editorial department, rakin' in, like, 90,000 grand a year and all. And so
anyway, so I was just mindin' my own business and all, and this guy named Jordan Zeitner walks up to
me, and I swear to the almightiest of all the Gods he says to me, “So, you wanna work for the CIA,
huh?” and I swear to God this is the truth, and I mean I had never seen the guy before, and the fact is I
had just applied to the CIA to be a clandestine officer 'n' all, and I mean, I had just applied to the CIA
like a week before this, and so this was it, and I just figured that Jordan Zeitner was the real deal, and I
thought this was the way the CIA did business 'n' all and that I was now an official recruit 'n' all. And I
mean, this was like the first week in October of 2001, in Arlington, VA, just ouside Washington, D.C.,
and I mean I applied to work for the CIA just after 9/11 just like a trillion other people and all, and like
I said, I thought after meeting Jordan Zeitner that I was in. I was gonna be a certified bonafide
clandestine CIA kinda spy kinda guy and whatnot and what have you.
Well, so, anyway, I hung out with Jordan Zeitner for like two or three weeks or somethin', and basically
all we did was drink booze and go to titty bars. I mean, Jordan was a real bonafide maniac about the
titty bars. I mean, he would take me to them at 10 o'clock in the morning, and he would take me to
them at 10 o'clock at night. I mean, it was just titty bar, titty bar, titty bar with Jordan. And I mean like
I was wonderin' why a CIA recriuter—i.e., Jordan Zeitner—was takin' his recruit—me--to titty bars and
why was he drinkin' 'em up like a fish or somethin'. I mean, Jordan and I drank 'em up like sons of
bitches and whatnot and all, and I mean one time we were down there at old Nathan's down there on
the southeast corner of Wisconsin M down there in old Georgetown 'n' all, and I mean I was drinkin so
much—we had had like put away like two bottles of wine and were now drinkin' vodka and tonics—
and I put down four or five of them, and I mean, I knocked over a glass on the bar and got cut off by
the bartender 'n' all, and then I told some girl that she had “huge tits” 'n' all, and anyway I mean, I just
used to get plastered every night with Jordan and all. So I mean, Jordan used to tell me he was testin'
me. He said the company—that's the CIA--wasn't convinced that I was tough enough and that's why he
was takin' me to those raunchy tity bars, to see if I could deal with the more seamy sides of life and all,
and my time with him would determine whether I was to meet another CIA contact and all and proceed
to become a full fledged clandestine officer spy guy in the CIA.
And anyway so I mean, I hung out with Jordan for like three weeks or a month or so, and we drank 'em
up real good 'n' all, and then one Sunday when I was all hungover and whatnot, he, Jordan, calls me
and tells me that the time has come for me to meet the higher up guy in the company, and Jordan tells
me to high-tail it over to his place immediately 'n' all, and I did that despite the fact that I wasn't feelin'
to good 'n' all, and that was when I met Kirk.
And I mean Jordan Zeitner lived in this high rise apartment not too far from where I lived 'n' all and
everything and whatnot, and when I got there, Kirk was just sittin' there in this chair, and he was
drinkin' a Budweiser beer out of a can 'n' all, and on the floor by Kirk was a brown bag (which was full
of Budweisers) and a blue backpack. Kirk, for what it's worth was a pretty ugly guy. I mean he had
thick dirty orange hair, which he parted in the middle of his head, and he pulled his hair, which was
shoulder length, behind his ears. And he had a real puffy, red face. And he had earings in either ear and
the earings were gold or brass or copper or somethin', but they look rusted. And anyway so when I got
in the room 'n' all, and I was sittin' in a chair opposite Kirk, and Kirk pulls out a letter from his
backpack and says to me--he bellowed to me actually: “So, you wanna work for the company, eh?”
And I was all nervous and stuff ,and I said yes, and he said, “Well, welcome to the most fucked up
organization I have ever been associated to in my whole life,” and with that Kirk handed me the letter
which he was holding. The letter was written by a psychiatrist named Joshua Stein. And in the letter
Dr. Stein certified that Kirk had worked for the CIA and the DIA (that's the Defense Intelligence
Agency) in Vietnam—more evidence, I thought, that I was being recruited into the CIA. I mean, I
really thought it was the real deal.
Well, anyway after that I started hangin' out with Kirk. And I mean, there's not really much to tell. I
mean each night after work at the good old Post, I'd drive to Kirk's apartment over there in old Adams-
Morgan, and together we'd head up to the bar at Clyde's in Friendship Heights, up there by Wisconsin
and Western avenues, and there we'd basically drink for a few hours, and Kirk would tell me tales of
things he did for the CIA while he was in Nam and all. I mean, fact is he wasn't in Vietnam for an hour
before he had to kill some gook or somethin. I mean, he actually shot some gook in the head at point-
blank range, or so he said, I mean, he had some pretty good and convincing spy stories, and I mean,
well, the point is this: Kirk was not in the CIA. I mean, I believe he did do some contract stuff for them
in the Vietnam War. I mean, what he did was observe drug use by U.S. soldiers and then rat 'em out to
the agency and various generals and what have you. But I mean, the important thing is that Kirk had
bed bugs. I mean he lived in a rat hole of a place down there in old Adams-Morgan. I mean, it was a
room in an old brownstone down there on Calvert Street near 18th and all. And I mean, the place was
just a fucking mess. Clothes all over the place, trash everywhere, empty Budweiser beer cans all over
the place, and you'll just have to trust me, it was a sty fit for pigs, and it had this mini brown
refrigerator in which he kept his Budweiers, 16 ouncers,.
And so anyway, the way I know Kirk had bed bugs was this: I mean, Kirk worked part-time as a phone
salesman, selling tickets to Kennedy Center concerts and galas and whatnot. And there was this girl
there, she worked there and all, and one time she needed a place to stay. I don't know. Maybe it was
snowin' or somethin' and all and what have you, and anyway this girl's name was Almeda Wickliff and
all, and she was a swell girl, and she was a black girl and all, and she was from England and all, and I
didn't know they had black girls in England and all,but I guess they do, and she came drinkin' at
Clyde's on an occasion or two with me Kirk 'n' all and everything, but I mean the point is Almeda
Wickliff spent the night on Kirk's floor once, and her arms and neck got all bit up by bed bugs comin'
up from the dirty, stinkin' rugs and whatnot, and Almeda Wickliff said she was woken up several times
during the night with bed bugs crawling all over her arms and whatnot, and I mean, I'm sure it was a
nightmare kinda night for old Almeda Wickliff, and I mean furthermore me and Kirk were out drinkin'
one night at Clyde's one night 'n' all, and I had two or three or maybe four vodka tonics and all, and
Kirk had three or four Budweisers and all, and I was in a good mood and all, so I mean, I ordered up
some white Russians (vodka, kahlua and cream, for those of you who don't know and all), and Kirk and
I drank two of those white Russian things real quick, like right down the hatch and what have you. So
anyway, the thing about Kirk's drinkin' is that he can drink Budweisers from the time he wakes up until
the time he goes to bed and be only mildly fucked up. But when he drinks the hard stuff, he gets
sloppily wasted, and I mean, ya know, slurring his speech and all, and not bein' able to walk in a
straight line, losin' his balance and all. And anyway to get out of Clyde's bar, you have to walk up a
fairly long and steep set of stairs. And on this particular night when Kirk and I had each had at least
probably five drinks a piece, two of them being vodkas and kahluas and all, I mean, Kirk was havin' a
real hard time negotiating the steps. I mean, he'd lean and sway way to his right and then he'd sway to
his left, and so on until I got up behind him and pushed him and did my best to keep him upright and
walkin' in a straight line and whatnot. I mean, we got to his place down there in old Adams-Morgan
and all and everything, and I was thinkin' that I should walk Kirk up the concrete steps in front of his
foul mew to make sure he got into his rat-fuck of a mew safely. But I didn't. I suppose I was being
selfish or lazy or indifferent or probably all three. So anyway, we get to Kirk's place and just before he
gets out of the car he says somethin' like “The company needs you, Seamus! The company needs
you!” or some such, or some such lie, which I believed to be the truth and all, I mean Kirk was always
feedin' me lies, and I mean, I didn't realize it at the time. I mean, I guess I'm just a gullible and stupid
Irishman and whatnot and what have you, and I watched Kirk make it up the steps, and he did alright
and everything, I mean, he made it okay and all, and ,so I was getting' ready to take off and I released
the emergency break and put her in first gear and all, and I gave her some gas when I heard this girl
shrieking at me outside the passenger window of my car.. I mean, this 20-somethin' girl ran up to my
car cryin' “Mr.! Mr.! Your friend has fallen down! Your friend has fallen down!” And all, and so I put
her in neutral and all and pulled her break back on, and I looked up at the porch, and I don't see Kirk
anywhere and stuff and anyway, and so the point is I got out of the car and walked up onto the porch
and from there I spotted Kirk. He was lying motionless on his back in a well just to the west of the
porch, and there was a basement window in the well and there was a light in the window and I could
see that old Kirk didn't look to good. I mean he was pale like Casper the Friendly Ghost or somethin'.
And I hopped on down into the well, and I said, “Kirk! Kirk! Wake up!” and stuff like that and all,
and Kirk remained apparently lifeless until I slapped him across the face a few times, and he woke up a
little bit and everything, and he started coming to, and he began mumbling some stuff and everything, I
mean, his mouth emitted some drunken gibberish and all and whatnot, and I tried liftin' him up and all,
but I didn't get very far for Kirk was a real obese fellow and all, and just then two 20-something boys
happened by, and I asked them for help, and they agreed to help and all, and the three of us managed to
carry Kirk, fat slob that he was, up into his room and onto his bed and all and everything, and I just left
Kirk there lyin' on his back in his bed passed out and whatnot, and I remembered noticing a little blood
on his forehead., and this was all like 1:30 or 2 o'clock in the morning.
And anyway I mean, the point is Kirk had broken his neck. I mean, when he woke up the next day he
was in great pain, and he couldn't move to good, and he called for an ambulance. The ambulance came
'n' took him to good old Sibley Memorial Hospital over there on Loughboro Road and all and
everything and whatnot, and they X-rayed him and all and found that he had shattered his neck in three
places or some such.
And anyway the point being they patched old Tom Kirk up and everything and placed him in this huge
sturdy neck brace and all, and everything, and so Kirk calls me after he gets out of the hospital and in
an oh-poor-me-kinda tone of voice he says, “I got a broken neck! Can I stay at your place while I
convalesce for a few days, please?” And so I said “Yeah, okay” and all, and Kirk came over, and he
brought bed bugs with him, and he stayed for three nights on the red couch I had in the living room,
and that's how I got bed bugs. It was all God-damned Tom Kirk's fault.