Danger / Shakini
I’m at the Denny’s on Clayton Dr. in Raton, New Mexico, really getting into this crispy pancake sausage burrito, when in comes Mohammed Aiden (a pseudonym constructed from the most common name in Africa and the most common name in the United States in 2007), employee of unknown rank in one of the world’s most secret organizations: Hawthorne Grain Marketing LLC.
He slides into the booth and it’s like he’s standing still and the world is assembling itself around him. That’s how all these super secret elite guys are: way too smooth. B-school b-holes who had the right ex-Interpol dad. He gets the waitress’ attention without moving, says, “Black coffee, black as this man’s soul,” and everyone in earshot rolls their eyes. He has a deliberately neutral accent. He smells terrific.
“Mo,” I say, chewing.
“Mister Danger,” he says, taking off his watch and changing it to Mountain Time, forcing me to admire it. “My employer has a proposition for you.”
“Hey neat.”
“A situation has arisen in the Arctic and we all felt you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Not a fan of the cold.” I discover that my napkin is stuck to my fingers with syrup and decide to just let it ride.
“Perhaps you can warm yourself by burning the $85,000 my employer is willing to pay for your services.”
“That’s the worst idea I ever heard.”
“Then perhaps you can warm yourself by spending the $85,000 on a night with twelve women who are expert in the art of shakini. I can provide some recommendations.”
“I’m sorry, I get my sex moves all mixed up. Shakini?”
“You know when you have a dream where you do something absolutely horrifying? Something unforgivable?”
“Killing a kitty.”
“Killing all the kitties,” he says. “And you know your life is over? Ruined? You have thrown away God’s great gift and every day from here to the last—which will surely come soon, brought on by your own hand—will be filled with shame and misery and terror?”
“Hoo boy yes.”
“And then you wake up? And that feeling of pure, joyous relief washes over you?”
“Love that.”
Mo’s coffee arrives. He takes a whiff and recoils. He pivots—effortlessly—and hands it to a broken-down woman in the neighboring booth. “With my compliments, madame,” he says, then turns back to me: “Now imagine that happening to your genitals—and, for a slightly higher fee, anus—over and over for hours on end.”
“Shakini.”
“Shakini, Mister Danger.”
“OK yeah, give me their digits.”
Mo reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out an incredibly nice fountain pen and a business card that says YOU ARE WELCOME on one side and I CERTAINLY DO APOLOGIZE on the other. He circles the former and writes a URL underneath that I can’t, in good faith, repeat here.
I pocket it and say: “I’m up for whatever, as usual.”
Mo does that Hawthorne thing where he modulates his voice so no one but me can hear what he’s saying. One time an agent did that trick on a crowded subway, with like two or three hobos in between us, and it still worked. He goes: “One of our vice presidents has gone rogue up around the 78th parallel. According to our sources, he is nearing completion of a device that would extinguish all organic life on this planet. My employer would like you to go up there and destroy the device and ensure that the vice president never does anything like this, or anything at all, ever again.”
“Question,” I say, doing a poor job of peeling the napkin from my hand.
“Of course.”
“If I opt for six ladies instead of a dozen, can I get the shakini thing for two nights?”
Mo glances at his ridiculous watch. “Well that’s just basic math, isn’t it.”
