37, Hangover

“You’re as useless as a concrete parachute!”  CIA director Mulrooney’s face was the color of a perfectly ripe tomato and it was taking up the entire screen on thie video chat.  The veins in his temples protruded out from his skull and spittle flew from the sides of his mouth.  “I swear to you on everything holy, O’Connor, I will reassign your useless ass to a paper pushing position in a forgotten corner of the Pentagon for the rest of your fucking career!” 

Special agent Dale O’Connor was alone in an office of the Moscow safe house, staring at a laptop screen. His guts wrenched but he hoped he’d puked for the last time.  He wore aviator sunglasses to cover his eyes.  A cloud of doom that reeked of an empty stomach and stale vodka made it’s way up from the bottom of his guts and flew out of his mouth in an unceremonious belch.  The stank aroma made his eyes water underneath the glasses but he didn’t budge his face.  “I’m hungover, boss.”  

“Hungover!”  Mulroony was mad, but the word caught him by surprise.  He repeated the word, but this time with confusion instead of anger.  “Hungover?  You?”

“I don’t lie, boss.  I hate liars.”  O’Connor’s face froze again, as if the computer screen had froze, but Mulroony could see he was still breathing.

“Jesus, Doc.  You gotta get your shit together.”

“It was a dream come true, boss.  I found my favorite drinking buddy and my favorite bar.  No regrets.”

“But you didn’t even get his fucking name, Doc!”

O’Connor’s face betrayed no emotion.  “Nope.”

For the past few months, Team Whiskey had been a minute late and a dollar short on every mission they’d attempted.  They’d only recently discovered the reason. There was a Russian military special ops team just like them with the exact same jobs and missions, and they appeared to be a little bit better at everything.  It was getting old, fast.

They’d named this outfit Team Vodka.  They knew very little of this special ops unit, but they did know that the members of Team Vodka had similar if not identical personalities to each of the members of Team Whiskey.  

The night before, a few of the Americans were walking in downtown Moscow to rendezvous with some of Von Stryker’s local informants.  O’Connor saw the random neon lights of a bar in the distance and ditched the crew.  Minutes later, Porter pulled up in a Ford SUV, picked up the remaining crew, and then sped off into the distance to race her Russian counterpart.  She’d won the race and had been sobbing off and on inconsolably since.  

O’Connor missed the whole thing because he’d been in a bar.  The bar’s only patron happened to be Team Vodka’s demolitions expert.  The two men hit it off instantly and were best drinking buddies for only three or four hours.  In that time, O’Connor had managed to get completely black out drunk wasted for the first time in his life.  

Dale O’Connor was the kind of man who didn’t get hungover even though he consumed Jameson whiskey by the gallon.  His body had some sort of super human ability to process alcohol over five times faster than other humans, but since he was a big dope of a man to begin with, no one questioned that he was constantly drunk.  The man slurred his words, smiled a lot, giggled at immature jokes, and was the most agreeable person on the team when it came to adventures, dangerous missions, or dinner menu choices.  He bickered about useless things with his buddies for entertainment, but he didn’t argue with his crew.

Despite his outward appearance of being a knuckle dragging drunk ass troglodyte, O’Connor was a world class demolitions expert and had a lot of knowledge about a lot of subjects from all of the late night drinking chit chat at bars he’d had in his life.  He had barroom social capital all over the world. He knew bars.  He knew booze.  Last night was the greatest night of tavern drinking he’d ever had, ever. The Russian could drink even more than his American counterpart.  O’Connor’s headache hurt like hell, but it was worth it.

“The bartender was another agent, or even if he was civilian he’s undoubtedly working for their team!  You were set up, Doc!”

O’Connor’s head pounded like a high school quarter back hammering away at the horny prom queen.  

“Technically, you’re right about the bartender.”  The sound of his own voice made his head hurt.  “He paid the bartender to bounce, so yeah, the bartender was technically on the take.”

Mulroony’s sat back in his chair and his face shrank on the screen.  He exhaled loudly as he stared at the ceiling.  His anger burned.  When he returned his gaze to the screen, he could see O’Connor’s expression had changed.  He looked like he was almost, sad?  Mulroony didn’t care.  “You had the chance of a lifetime.”

“And I took it.  It was awesome.”  Same old O’Connor.

“Fuck you, Doc!  I wasn’t talking about you getting to fucking drink with what you think is the Russian version of yourself!  I was talking about you getting the fucking intel on all of these explosions!”  Mulroony had every asset working overtime in Russia to figure out what was going on and everyone was in the dark.  With every warehouse explosion or group of shot up Russian thugs, the mystery of how it was all tied together got deeper.

O’Connor could hear his friends break out into some laughter in the other room.  His head hurt and he wanted off of this video chat but his brain waves couldn’t communicate the need.  “Mmmmf.”

“This is horse shit, and you know it!  I’ve done every god damned thing you’ve asked of me in the ten years you’ve worked for me.  I’ve never asked you for anything but to do your job!”  Mulroony realized that O’Connor never failed to blow shit up but still couldn’t give him praise.  “And yes, you do your job, but you could fucking gather intel too!  People’s survival depends on it!”  Mulroony was angry but his edge was slipping.

O’Connor seemed to be actually listening.  His mouth was slightly agape, as if he were possibly moved by his bosses words.  He said nothing, he didn’t move, he simply sat there breathing very slowly in a hypnotic manner, apparently taking in every word.

“For real, Doc!  You probably gave that man enough intel on us to ruin our whole Moscow operation!  You and your fucking loose lips!  You just have to god damned strike up a chat with the only fucking guy drinking in a bar.  Fuck.”

O’Connor’s chin dropped ever so slightly, as if he were nodding.  He unnervingly said nothing.

“Think about it, Doc!  He’s fucking Russian!  He played you like a fiddle, you dumb shit!  Have you even checked yourself for bugs!  Jesus fucking Christ, Doc!!!”  Mulroony was loosing it.

O’Connor’s expression didn’t change.  He just sat there, mouth agape, shoulders slightly rising and falling with each calm breath.  O’Connor was a master poker player.  He could hide all emotion from his face.

“Well!” Mulroony barked, “what do you have to say for yourself?!”

Mulroony didn’t speak.  He sat in the awkward silence to make O’Connor really feel the heat of his anger.  He tried not to blink but he realized that O’Connor’s aviator glasses made a staring contest useless.  “Take off those fucking glasses, Doc!”

The video chat wasn’t frozen, but O’Connor didn’t budge.  His mouth was slightly agape, his shoulders calmly going up and down in a very soothing rhythm.

“Oh, so you think that I’m gonna fucking tolerate the silent treatment from you?”  

Mulroony’s anger burned hot until something odd distracted him.  His computer speakers made a weird sound for a few seconds.  It was sort of like ripping cardboard, but also like rushing air.  He turned his ear towards the computer itself, as if that might help him decipher what he’d just heard.  The sound happened again.  By the end of the it, his anger was through the roof.

“You did not just pass out on me, Dale O’Connor!  You are not fucking snoring!”  His angry words clearly jolted O’Connor on the other side of the screen.  “Are you fucking kidding me!”

It took a second for O’Connor to realize what was going on, then he acknowledged the moment.  “Boss, I’m hungover.  Call you tomorrow.”  Mulroony’s maroon face was livid as he started to protest but O’Connor hit the space bar and ended the call.  The laptop screen went dark as O’Connor drooped his head and closed his eyes.  “I feel like a bag of dicks,” he muttered.

After several minutes of slow breathing, the pounding in his head was low enough that he could walk back to his bedroom.  O’Connor had to pass through the living room to get to his bed, which meant he had to be social for a few more moments.

Bradley McVandalay had a roll of yarn and what appeared to be two large chop sticks.  He was attempting to knit or crochet something.  “Hey Doc, lemme guess.  Mulroony blew a gasket.” 

“You’re saying you’ve met the man, then.”

The joke made McVandalay laugh.  “Sorry you had to take the brunt of his stress.  That man needs a break.”

“I say we kidnap him.”

McVandalay fiddled with the yarn and chop sticks as if he were competent, but he had no clue what he was doing.  “That’ll go over well if we ask for a raise next year.  Sure, let’s kidnap the boss!”

“And take him to the islands.  That fucker should be running a tiki bar on a beach, not saving American corporate interests overseas with tax payer money.”  

Sargeant Schuman shuffled into the room in her flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers.  “Hey McV, hey Doc.  Coffee’s still fresh if you wanna cup.”

“All good, friend.  My guts couldn’t keep it down if you paid me in pussy.”

Schuman sat down on a couch and curled her feet up under her butt.  The hardened killer of men looked like a cute college aged white girl home for winter break.  “Paid me in pussy.  I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I’m hungover.  Don’t judge.”

“Don’t judge, ha!  I’m on a world wide goose chase to find the only man to have beaten my ass in a boxing match cuz I fell in love with him.  I won’t judge you if you don’t judge me.”

Schuman was one of his best friends and most trusted confidants.  They’d completed dozens of violent combat missions together and he felt he knew her heart and soul.  He wanted to encourage her with his words and show his gratitude for a decade of intense friendship.   “You’re a fucking mess of a human, Sarge.”

Schuman about spit out her coffee as she laughed, “I love you too, Doc.”

His head pounded like a mother fucker and his bed beckoned.  “How’s Porter.”

Schuman smiled.  “She’s in love for the first time.  It doesn’t help that it’s with a total stranger.  Let’s not get into the psychology of falling in love with the male, Russian version of yourself, as if you’re falling in love with yourself, and all that jazz.”

“Porter isn’t in love with herself, or even the male version of herself, blah blah blah.”   Hangover or not, O’Connor knew his friends and he didn’t need a PHD in psychology to break this down.  “She likes to fuck hot guys and go really fast.  That’s it.  So I’m guessing the guy is hot, he clearly can drive as well as she can,” O’Connor paused, then said each word separately, “shit… like… that… turns…that… woman… on.”  

“She’s more than turned on!  She’s in love, Doc.  It’s kind of like you, falling in love with the Russian version of yourself.  I’ve never seen you hungover, like… ever.”  

He thought about it.  “I guess you’re right, Sarge.  I’m in love.”

“Well Porter is too, and it’s freaking her out.  She’ll get used to it.”

O’Connor’s headache urged him towards his bed.  “I gotta lay down.”

McVandalay hadn’t lifted his gaze from his yarn project the whole time.  “Get some sleep, brother.”

“I’m putting in an order for mittens.”

As O’Connor walked away, McVandalay finally looked up.  “Ha!  I found these chop sticks in the silver ware drawer and thought I’d fuck around with them.  You might be waiting a long ass time on those mittens.”

“If anyone can knit me mittens with chops sticks, it’s you, Bradley.”

In the distance, a Russian demolitions expert fell in and out of sleep as his boss yelled with a red face at the top of his lungs how angry he was for not even getting the name of the American he drank with the night before.