He was a walk-in. No appointment but what the hell, could be moolah. He sat across from me. Not from Gentlemen's Quarterly, for sure. Dressed like a shitbum. A tilted stocking cap on his head. A schmuck with earflaps. His face was sunburned and scarred from cheek to cheek and nose to chin. Looked like a hot- crossed-bun. The following is a verbatim transcript of our dialogue, with pertinent commentary.
"The CIA is trying to kill me."
"They're sending me signals through my TV." Hmmmm. This guy has made it to the second rung.
"The electro-waves from my radio and phone are also sending me messages."
"Have you notified the FBI?"
"Are you crazy? They're in on it too." The first three words sorta grabbed me.
"I'm being poisoned through my water pipes." That's a first. Give the guy credit.
"Do you have any proof of this?"
"I certainly do." Bluff-calling time.
"They've filled my kitchen sink tap with urine." The cuckoo's nest has come to rest.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a wrinkled brown paper bag, from which he produced a small bottle filled with an auburn liquid. I recoiled in horror as he placed it on my thirty-five hundred dollar desk. I screamed,"No-no," as he lurched forward as if to open it.
"Please. The chain of custody must be preserved. Put it back!" I prayed to the God of Lysol.
"Will you help me?"
Got to be diplomatic, here. Any possibility of a complaint to the Board of Bar Overseers must be nipped in the bud.
"I'm sorry, sir. This office specializes in criminal defense work. We simply do not handle CIA-attempt-to-murder cases."
Rejected and deflated, he left with whatever the hell it was. As he closed the door behind him, my phone rang. It was a very deep voice. "Ya done good, kid." The caller ID reflected "NSA."
If it was a test, I passed.