Chapter 14: Calling Mr. Clean

Thursday, July 31, 2008

The next day we had an early breakfast while our guest caught some quality face-time with the sun, they advertise this a “sunny California” and we had a standard to keep for the Texas boy. It was really too bad he did not bring sun-screen. But I was pretty sure that he would not die of skin cancer.

After he was done to a turn I had him brought into the interrogation room. His first complaint was that he needed something to stuff his ears, so the spiders would not crawl in and lay their eggs in his brain while he was sleeping.

I replied that since I was the high priest charged to feed the baby spiders and he was a pervert and considered “an extra helping of good eating,” I would not be able to help him there, if he blocked his ears they would go through the eyes instead. The spiders hated to be denied and they were big fans of especially strong memories, which they informed me he had in embarrassing abundance.

In fact, as I understood it, the queen was harvesting sperm from every mature male spider, and then gorging herself on their heads bitten off in the course of each exercise, just so she had enough fresh eggs ready for him. A tiny spider had gone in on recon duty last night, to sample some of the good stuff. There were only good tasting reports. In fact, the spider was still working across from left the right.

If Crow wasn’t sunburned he would have blanched white at the thought.

Then I suggested that if he gave me the names of some fellow pervs, to take his place, maybe something could be done? The spiders would accept more degenerate substitutes. We had Spider-feeding crews in every major city south of the Canadian border. (Everyone knows spiders don’t like cold and are confused by thoughts in French. Clearly, so are the French!)

Crow was more then willing to name names. We unchained one hand and gave him a pad of paper. He wrote and wrote. The names were interesting, but even more valuable was detailed contact info: a Dark Web address, log-in protocols with user names and passwords for different special tastes, and other specifics for his LA, New Mexico and Houston friends. He also gave us the location of his main computer and how to access his cloud accounts where he kept disgusting facts about past folks he had done things with. He said they were notes for a “tell all” book he would publish someday.

This really was not 49 business but to me it counted as “sub-humans this planet is better off without.” Tony and Irene agreed. Maybe we should have prioritized the gang activity, but we were blinded by how much we hated guys who preyed on the helpless underage kids. The collection of pervs could be prime targets of an FBI op, so I sent all the data to Mark (now in Brazil with his wife) who forwarded feelers to some FBI cyber folks he trusted. They were very grateful, and in less that 30 days they rolled up the whole network, taking credit for “good old-fashioned police work” culminating in arrests of a hundred of the lowest slime we knew of. Most were willing to deal more of their associates. In another month they had a national sweep that scooped up hundreds, and by the end of the year Europe and the rest of Latin America swept up enough pervs to build new prisons - as if they lasted in prison.