The music shuts off abruptly and a voice with a heavy New Jersey accent screams at throat-tearing volume. "GET YOUR ASS IN HERE AND SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR SHITHEEL!"
The music and the banging resume. Ariel enters hesitantly, and closes the door softly behind her. Once the door closes, the stench of the smoke and the volume of the music (Skinny Puppy) seems to increase a hundredfold. As Ariel approaches the desk, she notices that it is jumping slightly in time to the sheet-metal pounding. As she walks closer the broken wreckage of a human being springs from beneath the desk like an obscene jack-in-the-box.
The man (???) has skin of that particular shade of white seen only in hardcore goths, hardcore drug users, and hardcore vampires. His hair is waist length, black, and filthy. He appears to have lived in his tan C&I uniform for at least a week, as it is covered with food stains, sweatstains, and wrinkles. Despite the dimness of the lighting, he is wearing very dark sunglasses.
"WELL?" he screams, still at throat-ripping volume over the melodic strains of "Inquisition". "WELL, SHITHEEL?" he screams again. "IS IT ON STRAIGHT??"
Ariel stares at him. She may be a woman, and she may be small, but be damned if she's gonna take this from anybody. She takes a deep breath.
"IS WHAT ON STRAIGHT, ASSFUCKER?"
The creature behind the desk looks at Ariel as though she had completely lost her wits. The statement seems to stun him momentarily (or maybe it's the music).
"THE SKULL YOU STUPID FUCKING BURGER, THE SKULL! THE FUCKING TOP OF MY HEAD! DID I GET THE GOD-DAMNED THING ON STRAIGHT OR DIDN'T I? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU, RETARDED OR SOMETHING?"
With that, he proceeds to tug mightily on his long, greasy hair. "FUCK!" he screams. "FUCK, FUCK, FUUUUUUUUCK!!!" Each curse is punctuated by a yank on the hair, save for the final one, when the man puts his head down and runs screaming, full tilt into a filing cabinet, which falls over on top of him, incidentally knocking a heretofore unnoticed portable CD player to the floor, shutting off the music with a mighty crash.
There is a moment of profound silence, and then a moan from under the filing cabinet, followed by an awed "Fuh-kin-AY!"
Ariel's had quite enough of this. She turns and runs for the door, her leg buckling under her a little.
When the door doesn't open, she runs for his desk, picking up any sharp object she can find, up to and including a pen. Ariel searches in vain for an opening - there appear to be no doors whatsoever exiting the room, then runs back and rummages around on the desk, hurling pornographic magizines, old coffee cups, indefinable piles of paper, and a small stuffed animal (???) left and right. The best that can be found after a rapid search is what appears to be a used syringe and a pencil stub. Armed with these, Ariel prepares to defend herself.
About this time there is a groan from the corner, and the filing cabinet shifts slightly. The disheveled man crawls out from under and leans heavily against the wall. After a moment he cocks his head at Ariel, holding her improvised weapons.
"Oh fuck," he says conversationally. "Would you stop fucking around so we can get this fucking interview over?"
Ariel-- realizing the folly of trying to defeat the enemy with, um, a syringe, sighs and drops it. "Whatever. What am I here for?"
Still sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, the man peers at Ariel. He slides the dark glasses off, and stares with unfocussed, watery eyes for a moment, then slides the shades back into place, but makes no move to get up off the floor.
"You are here, you stupid dumb fucking burger, for your CUS-toms and IM-I-gra-tion interview. You are HERE in MY fucking office, because you are one of those kiss-ass fuckheads that are filling out fucking QUES-tionnaires on C&I.
"Now listen to me and listen pretty fucking well. I don't give a rat's ass what the fuck you are doing on Al Amarja, how fucking long you intend to stay, or any of that other shit. Ten fucking minutes from now I expect you to be out of my office and out of my life. The ONLY reason you are here, burger, is because I want a nice fucking rating in my fucking employment file and you are going to fucking well give me one. You are going to ..." the man suddenly leaps to his feet, waving his arms in the air and screaming "SHUT UP! SHUT UP!! SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING BITCH I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHO SENT YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUUUUUUP!" He staggers over to his desk, collapses into the chair, rummages around in a desk drawer until he comes up with a bottle ot tequilla and some pills, and consumes both in a single, long pull.
"God DAMN!" he mutters, "Fucking exes, you just can't fucking get rid of 'em!" He stares off at nothing for a moment more, then apparantly notices Ariel once again. "Fuckin' ay."
"Like I was saying before that fucking bitch interrupted me, you write me a nice little fucking review full of all the good shit about how wonderful a fucking job I'm doing, I stamp your fucking visa, and you go about your happy little fucking vacation. No fucking questions, no fucking forms, none of that fucking shit. You don't write me this wonderful fucking review and I fill out the 'forward your fucking luggage to Tasmania' form, cancel your fucking visa, and turn you over to the assfucking Peace Force who will assuredly run your fucking burger ass through the wringer a couple of times just for shits and giggles then lock you up some fucking place until you are a fucking old bitch bag. Extra fucking work for me. Extra fucking misery with a side of fries for you."
"So do you fucking get it now, burger? Is it fucking CLEAR?"
Ariel laughs a little, not with any humor. "Do you fucking think that I fucking care about your fucking form, or about the fucking Peace Corps? Fucking do you? And fucking what if fucking I fucking not only don't fucking fill fucking out the fucking fuck form, fucker, but I fucking write a fucking bad fucking one, fuckface? What the fucking fuck are fucking you fucking going to fucking do about fucking it? Fucking what if fucking I fucking write fucking down that fucking you fucking tried to fucking feel fucking me fucking up, you fuckity fuck fuck? If I fucking tell them fucking all that I fucking saw fucking you fucking fucking a chicken while fucking plotting the fucking assassination of the fucking governor, fucking what then, fuckhole?" She leans over, exposing just a little cleavage. "Fucking don't fucking fuck with me, assfuck."
"You got a fucking bad attitude Burger. And a pretty fucking filthy mouth too. You oughta fucking watch it. Fuckin'-ay you better." The man rummages through his desk blearily and comes up with a form after a few dismal tries. He slides it in Ariel's direction, managing to launch it off the desk in the process. After another moment's rummaging he comes up with a grimy, ink caked stamp.
"There's the goddamn questionaire. Fill the fucker out, turn it over to me, and I fucking stamp your passport. Then you're on your way... unless you want to party a bit first. We got shit on this island you've never heard of back in the fuckin' world. Fuckin-ay we do! But it don't matter none to me if you don't want to party, just fill in the damned form and we can both go do shit that's a hell of a lot better than standing in this fucking room trying to out-badass each other."
He slumps in the chair. "Fucking Burgers. Always think they're such hot fucking shit. Damn! To think I gotta put up with it too! Fuck me!" His conversation wanders off into quiet muttering.
Ariel takes the questionaire, and fills it out exactly as directed -- a glowing review for theis fine specimen of manhood. She noticably perks up when he says "party". "Party? How do you mean?"
The grungy man looks over the questionairre. "Fuckin-ay! Perfecto! Hand over that passport babe, we're rockin' now!"
When Ariel hands over the passport, the grungebag drops the questionnaire into a desk drawer (where in Ariel's estimation it is unlikely to be seen again during the current geological epoch), stamps her passport with the ink-gummed stamp, and hands it back, along with a receipt good for one night's stay at the airport hotel. Then he digs around in the desk again and pulls out a card that reads
Frank Beazleman
Personnel Supervisor
Customs and Immigration Services
X2089
"Listen babe... its gettin' early - sun's gonna be up in a couple of hours anyway and besides, what's the fuckin' sense of gettin' a free night at the hotel if you don't fuckin' use it, you know? Why don't you just give me a fuckin' call when your settled in, and I can introduce you around, ya know? Hot babe like you, I'll just BET you can PAAAARTY!"
Having seemingly exhausted himself with the effort of his momentary enthusiasm, Frank slumps back into his chair. Ariel hears the door open behind her. "Hang out in the waiting room babe, soon as your group's processed they'll take you to to the fuckin' hotel. And don't be wanderin' around the fuckin' terminal - I've killed more brain cells than most fucking whales have, and I still can't figure this shithouse out."
Ariel smiles at him weakly, a real smile of genuine charm. "I'll call you. Now why don't you tell me how to get out of here before I'm 60?"
"There's a fuckin' door behind you babe," Beazleman mumbles, gesturing vaguely with one hand.
"Now you see it, now you don't."
Looking back, Ariel finds that there is, indeed, a door. Opening it, she discovers that it leads directly back to the waiting room, which is now empty, but does have a stack of chairs in it.
"Hasta, babe!" says Beazleman with as much energy as he can muster, then reaches over to turn the CD player back on again.
Ariel scurries to get out of the room before he turns that godawful
music on again. She sits on the floor.
To Be Continued...