Premier Quarter's (Fall 2005) INSIDER TRADING

Though not the central character in this quarter's featured Capital Gain -- As The Flavor Runs Out -- the older brother (cryptically referred to in the piece as 'Agent Orange') plays an important role in the psychological detioration of his younger sibling. Plus, he gets the fat girl in the tree house, which is a whole lot more fun than keeping watch from a bedroom window. So, without further ado...

DISCLAIMER: TQR is not responsible for AO's liberal dropping of the 'F' bomb.

TQR: Did you share in your brother's fixation with Bazooka bubble gum?

Agent Orange: Fuck no. Bazooka tastes like boiled soap. If I'd'a seen Joey was so hooked on gum I woulda knocked his teeth in. 'Tstuffs bad for you.

TQR: What's with your brother and your mother?

Agent Orange: Fuck if I know. Joey always was a little weird. And Mom's kind of a bitch, but don't print that, 'cause maybe she reads TQR.

TQR: Was what you got in the treehouse worth it?

Agent Orange: Dude, is it ever NOT worth it?

TQR: Did the girl die?

Agent Orange: Maybe, who cares? I think she just twisted her neck a little. I think I saw her again once at the mall, but it might have been someone else who had the same thighs. I mean it was twenty years ago, who remembers these things? Whatever happened it was her own fuckin' fault.

TQR: What are you doing now?

Agent Orange: I went to school for a couple months but I didn't see the point so I dropped out and moved home again. I started my own online business selling my brother's collectibles. Assholes'll pay hard cash for fucking vintage GI-Joes like they can rekindle their childhood. Total tools. I got twenty-five bucks for one of them. I sell about one every month. Mom says she might throw me out if I don't get a 9-to-5 but she ain't got the guts.

TQR: Do you keep in contact with your family? Your brother in particular?

Agent Orange: Well yeah, stupidass, I live at home. Joey's a bigshot now with some trading stock banker thing in Washington city. I kinda don't like talking to him anymore, it's like he's got something to prove so he has to spend all his money on fancy cars an' trophy models an' shit. Don't tell anyone I said this but he's probably switched to something harder than Bazooka by now, at least if all those movies about bankers are true.

TQR: Why did you give yourself the moniker Agent Orange?

Agent Orange: I don't fuckin' know, why does anybody do anything? Maybe 'cause of all those news stories about Vietnamian kids what got brain damage, or something. It sounds awesome actually, maybe I should make it my new seller name on eBay. Can I go now?


Afterword: I decided to grant the miscreant's wish, and, as it were: let him go. It was all I could do to restrain myself from engaging the brigand in a bout of fisticuffs, such was the offensiveness of the proximity of his person upon my higher sensibilities.

My secretary, Ms. Murdock was tasked with fumigating the office in which this interview was conducted, bless her soul. So. No harm, no foul, I suppose. And it just goes to prove that the reprehensability (is that a word, dear investor?) of a character does not mean the capital he or she inhabits can not be an admirable example of capital gain. So please, turn your attention to this quarter's CG: As The Flavor Runs Out, and enjoy.
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Just like Agent Orange of ATFRO, Gary Fogg of These Good Days doesn't get the most screen time, but his something something on the side with those characters who do -- Dale Douglas and Roxy McGee – make him legitimate. Mr. Fogg’s quote-unquote dealings with this husband/wife team complement his legitimate business venture, Rainy Day Security, Inc. of Portland, Oregon. Without Mr.Fogg’s (shall we call them?) “innovative marketing strategies,” Dale and Roxy wouldn’t have a tale to tell, or a pot to piss in. Thus it is my opinion that Mr. Fogg is a solid pick for this installment of IT.

WARNING: Falling F-bomb area.

TQR: Did you start Rainy Day Security on your own? What prompted you to go into the security biz?

Fogg: Well, I was a boilermaker, welding barges down at the Portland docks, and I saw the stupid people in charge, and I thought, hey, there’s no way I could be a worse boss than any of those fuck-tards. I was sick of taking shit from idiots and drunks, know what I mean? And it was dangerous work, too. Have you ever had a 20-by-20 foot section of half-inch plate steel fall practically on your head? So yeah, I started my company up from nothing. Just a dream and some hard work, and here we are.

TQR: What are you doing halfway through the story staking out high security lockups such as San Quentin and Pelican Bay? Who was running the business while you were away?

Fogg: Can I plead the 5th on that? OK, but seriously, I was looking for a few, good employees. Dudes just out of prison have skills, and it’s not like the headhunters are chasing them around, is it? But that was before Dale and Roxy started their deal. A fucking second-story man. Who would’ve guessed?

TQR: What's a go-getter like you doing with a loser like Dale, who needs chemical enhancements to keep him from moping?

Fogg: OK, well this might seem corny, but Dale writes some kick-ass poetry – the kind of shit that makes you think about life and death and how it feels to be knee-deep in a pussy – and I dig it. Maybe someday he’ll be famous. Who knows?

TQR: Are you aware of your friend's bizarre fantasy weekends? Did you ever participate in some of them with him?

Fogg: Bizarre fantasy weekends? Dale? Well, once we went elk hunting out past LaGrande. He shot at a porcupine and missed, and the damned thing chased us around the truck a few times.

TQR: Is Roxy a hottie or is Dale so pathetic he'd -- in the immortal words of Frank from the film 'Blue Velvet' -- "fuck anything that moves!"?

Fogg: Oh, Roxy’s hot all right. I knew her before Dale did. One night I wanted to give her a whirl, but she pulled a snubby .38 on me. Kind of spoiled the mood. But we’re partners now, so that’s all in the past.

TQR: Was it Roxy who came to you with the, ahem, “night time seizure proposition,” or did you shop it to Roxy?

Fogg: Dale came to see me, but I figure she put the idea into his head. And since he’s been taking that stupid drug, he doesn’t know how to let go of things.

TQR: Aren't you afraid that when the law eventually catches up to Dale and Roxy, you are going to be the first one they rollover on?

Fogg: Have you ever wondered why they don’t have cop shows about all the guys who get away with it?

TQR: Are you going to quit while you're ahead?

Fogg: What does “ahead” mean? I’ve been at the bottom of the food chain before, and I want to see what the view is like from the top. We have a sweet thing going, and I’m looking to buy a few cops and insurance investigators, too. There’s no reason we can’t get some more good people into the field and work this thing like a franchise holding company. Don’t forget to lock your doors and windows, man.
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This Insider Trading character goes by only one name: Hanabus. Which rhymes with … omnibus, sort of. You thought I was going to say 'weed.' Right? Well, to read the capital gain warning by Chancelor Reynolds is sort of like being high; that good high, though: no freaking out or, at least, not too much freaking out. Although, maybe, there's a whole lotta freaking out going on, come to think of it. And Hanabus is the chief freak. What with his Bearclaw Club thing where freaks go to become even freakier. He's the mastermind and chief surgeon and, possibly, snuff film aficionado.

WARNING: If potty mouth offends you, dear investor, I urge you to read no further!

TQR: What kind of parent names their child Hanabus?

Hanabus: A ruthless parent, my friend. My mother was a washboard for my father's brutality, while my father was a sucker for a sales pitch. We were broke all the time, though my mother kept food on the table, as best I can remember. I left home early because of the in-home fighting and the wild lust to wander. What can a poor boy do but become a whore, right? I mean, aren't I right? Crossed paths with an up-and-comer who had a good though twisted heart; the old queen wanted a house boy and I wanted to go to medical school, so that worked out. In my opinion it worked out. I am rambling, and I should be answering your questions, I suppose. My mother named me. I heard through a friend of my father's that she thought the name was pretty. My middle name, btw, is Stormtrooper.

TQR: Are you really the Greek god Dionysus? If so, do you and your followers tear apart goats and have orgies?

Hanabus: Hah. Do you serve drinks here? I feel the need... Ah, waiter. Waiter! Yes, please bring a round of drinks. Martini for me. Dirty. Give this poof a gimlet. Now, Mr. Rorschalk, you asked a silly question. Need I answer? Is that a nod? I am so reluctant to follow the... rules. Damn you, Rorschalk, I do believe I am developing a dislike for you. To answer your silly question, no we do not rip apart goats.

TQR: Do you finance the Bear Claw Club with a day job, or some other means?

Hanabus: I came in to a rather large sum of money after working for a reputable medical establishment where I found certain information concerning a daughter of a colleague and a practicing, old as a mummy medico landing neatly in my peppermint-scented lap. Need I go on? Ah. Perhaps I am beginning to appreciate the cut of your jib, Mr. Rorschalk.

TQR: What was the inspiration for the Bear Claw Club?

Hanabus: My compulsion to see things as they should be, or rather, as we all need them to be. We do not live in a perfect world, Mr. Rorschalk, and I dare say it'd nauseate me perpetually if we did, but as a way of life, a philosophy, one can always retire from the real world and enroll in a fantasy one. If someone wants to be Medusa, well, give me one good reason why that person should not be Medusa. I have the power in my gifted hands to allow dreamers to become the dream. Would it not be unjust to turn my back on these dreamers? Eh? What's that? A raised eyebrow, Mr. Rorschalk? I'll have you on a spit, dear friend. I will, sirah. Perform for me your perfect perceptual experience, act out in a fashion worthy of what you perceive yourself to be. We'll call it a match of Charades, no worries. Oh, come now. You can drop the facade of interviewer, Mr. Rorschalk. I know why you called on me. The same reason anyone ever calls on me. Let's raise the curtain on your duplicitous self, shall we? Stand and perform for me, Rorschalk!

TQR: Aside from connecting people (and boy o boy is that pun intended), what do you do for kicks?

Hanabus: You won't play into my hands, Rorschalk? You'll keep asking these ugly blunt shoddy questions, these hunchbacks? You do me insult, sir. But, as we sit, across from each other, all tidy and neat and, might I remind you, drinkless, I will perform these ridiculous hoop jumps, if that's what you want. What do I do for kicks? I enjoy skinning measured waiters. You might think that a conjuration of the situation at hand, but, no, I swear upon my mother's grave, I enjoy skinning the slow repugnant servants of society. I also enjoy 64-card pinochle. When I was a child I had a bug collection.

TQR: Are you taking advantage of the vulnerable in order to pad your wine cellar with vintage Chateau Lafites or whatever they are called or what?

Hanabus: How dare you, sir. I do what I do, as stated earlier, because it would be wrong not to do it.

TQR: Are you still 'becoming' or have you already 'become'?

Hanabus: I will never become that which I seek to become. A curse. Which depletes me, it does, this knowing of not-becoming, this realization of short comings, this burnt cake in the oven. Have you come to harass me? I may be on the heavy side, but I assure you, Mr. Rorschalk, I can take you. You insult me time and again and you expect me to sit here and take it? What have you done with the waiter? Where are our drinks? Give me that pad and pen, sir. I've taken it, and, oh yes, this is what we call scribbling, what I'm doing here, writing you a note, sirah, so that you'll remember this day. That's right, read this. Out loud, bitch!

TQR: Fuck you, buddy?

Hanabus: That's the facts, Jack! I'll have you on the floor, break this damn chair over your head, and, now damn it all to hell, the waiter arrives. Hold me back, you son of a bitch! Hold me back or I swear I'm going to rip that little peacocks arms out! Wipe that grin off your face, Rorschalk! I will find you. I will have my day, as all dogs have their day. You'll pay for this. Where did all these men in white coats come from? I thought this was a caf é, Rorschalk? You made me believe this was a damn place of leisure! What is this? Some sort of mental institution? A mad house? Where are they dragging me off to, Rorschalk? I demand to know! You're the mad one! You're all mad! Leave me be. I say, keep your hands off. Help! Help! I bruise easily. I'll sue. Mother!

Afterword: Not only are we giving investors bang for their buck (it's free you blaggards!) here at TQR, we are also taking dangerous schizophrenics off the street. Twas a brilling sting, that cafe set up. With the assistance of one Detective Jeremy Huff of the Seattle PD, I set the trap and this twisted butcher was sent straight to his just reward in the basement of some godforsaken institution catering to the criminally insane. I was somewhat in fear for my well being there for a few minutes, as you can well appreciate by purloining the transcript. But all is well. Please read more of this mad zealot in warning, another of TQR's fine CGs.