From the Bowels of Government.

Even though the Secretary of the Interior insisted that what he was scheduled to

present was of critical importance to worldwide security and stability, Ike strode into the

meeting of the Permanent Intelligence Select Subcommittee (P.I.S.S., for short)

entertaining serious doubts as to the secretary’s vigorous assertions. Eisenhower

suspected it was more a case of how ever since he’d won the war, people’d been

elbowing their way into line to get a chance to kiss his backside. The General knew that

there was more likelihood of his being presented with that sort of sycophancy than there

being any real threat; it was now his lot in life to weed out what some nut-jobs thought

were threats from the true problems brought to his attention by other nut-jobs. He

ironically hummed “Nice Work if You Can Get It” to himself.

Everybody rose when The General entered the room, except for the naked blonde

strapped into the gynecological stirrups, whose hoo-hoo (illuminated by an operating

room floodlight) stared at Ike from between her open legs . “Jee-sus Christ!” Ike swore.

“Who the hell’s this and what the god-damn hell’s goin’ on?”

“Sir, we tried to explain to him that these meetings are super-secret,” explained

John Foster Dulles, the Secretary of State. “Hell, most of the time we don’t even know

we’re having them ourselves, when we’re having them; that’s how secret they are.”

Ike mulled Dulles’ remark over a couple of seconds before muttering “Right

about that,” so that the entire assemblage could hear. Then he turned and addressed his

Interior Secretary: “That still leaves my original questions unanswered. And there’s

supposed to be no outsiders!”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 211

 “I beg the General’s indulgence,” answered the Interior Secretary, knowing he’d

better become one hellacious tapdancer in a hurry. “This is Svetlana, a Soviet agent

captured by McArthur’s occupation force in Japan.”

“Jeeziz God!” exclaimed Ike. “You brought a known Soviet Spy here?”

“It’s okay, General,” interrupted the secretary. “She doesn’t understand English,”

he explained. The secretary turned and addressed the woman: “Svetlana! You

understand English?”

“Нет Йнглиш,” answered the woman. “Нет Йнглиш.”

“See,” the Interior Secretary offered.

Ike exhaled, saying “Oh jeeziz!” Clearly, the agent understood enough English to

respond that she didn’t. Eisenhower recovered some and continued: “Let’s just get this

over with.”

“General, we found this secreted on her person,” reported the Secretary of

Defense. He handed the President a sheet of paper.

While Ike reached for the paper, the CIA Director added clarification concerning

the paper’s provenance: “Not so much on her person as in.”

“Jeeziz Christ!” exclaimed Eisenhower, snatching the paper. “You found this up

her hoo-hoo?” Ike studied the paper a second. It read:

танютинювюлиаюаалылгбяагбагванглны
атюнитюнювилюаааылглябгаабвгналгын
аютинютюнивюлааыаглялгбаавбнглаыгн
юаитюнютинювалыагаялглабванблгыанг
юиаютюнитюнавылгаяаглалвбналбыгнаг
иююаютинютанывгляагааллбвнлаыбнгга
июююаитюнатынгвялгаааллвблнабынгга
юиююиаютанытгнявглаалавллбаныбгнаг
ююииююаатынгтянгваллаваллабынгбанг
ююииююааытгнятгнавллвалаалыбгнабгн
юиююиаюыагтянгтанлввллаааылгбангбн
июююаиыюгаятгнатлнввллааыаглабгннб
иююаюыигюяагтанлтвнлвалыагаалгбннб
юиаюыюгияюгаатлнвтлнавылгаааглнббн

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 212

 юаиыюгюяигюаалтвнлтанывглааганлббн
аюыигюяюгиаюлавтлнатынгвалганаблнб
аыюгияюгюаилювалтанытгнавглнабанлб

“So what the hell is this?” asked the President.

“It’s Russian,” answered the Secretary of State.

“Jeeziz Christ, John!” Ike snorted, angrily impatient. “I can see it’s Russian!

Goddamn Russian code, for Chrissakes! So what’s this shit mean?”

“We got our best cryptologists on it,” offered the CIA Director, “and they don’t

know yet. Code could be so complex it’s undecipherable without the key.”

“That’s just great!” Eisenhower blurted. “Enigma wrapped in a riddle within a

mystery, up this broad’s hoo-hoo.”

“Mr. President,” began the Secretary of Defense.

“What!” interrupted the General. He was becoming irritated with the whole

meeting.

“This could be a legitimate intercept,” continued the Defense Secretary, “or it

could be a plant.”

He was right about that. Either way, there were an hellacious amount of variables

to consider. If the intercept was not intended by the Soviets, and should the message be

decipherable, ought the intelligence be acted upon, or would the security of American be

better served by allowing to transpire whatever might be planned by its Cold War

adversary? And if the U.S. was intended to intercept the message, was it deliberate

misinformation or something true that the Soviets really did want America to know

through clandestine channels?

“The best our cryptologists can tell us now is that the Russian alphabetical

characters permute very methodically,” explained the CIA Director. “That may be

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 213

significant, or it may simply have been superimposed upon yet another permutational

scheme.”

“Jeeziz!” Ike cursed. “We pay people to tell us they don’t know?!”

“Sir, it’s how the British cracked the Enigma code in World War Two,” the

Defense secretary reminded him.

“I was there,” Eisenhower pointedly reminded the secretary.

None of Ike’s assembled subordinates knew exactly how to proceed after his

pointed assertion, so the CIA Director simply decided to plod on ahead, hoping for the

best. “Each row of the ‘intercept’,” he said, “is thirty-four characters long, and we have

seventeen rows of permutations.”

“So there’s a two-to-one ratio involved,” the President. “And I suppose your boys

don’t know if that means anything.”

“We don’t, sir,” admitted the CIA Director. “We’re co-ordinating with State to

see if the dates January Second or February First might be of significance. It’d be tough

enough if One and Two were the only numbers involved.”

“There’s more?” asked Ike, alarmed at the degrees of complexity the cryptologists

so willingly created for themselves to slog through.

“So I am informed,” answered the CIA Director. “The permutation, were it to

continue, would process sixty-eight times before it began replicating itself. We are

provided with but seventeen lines of the complete permutation. Again we’re co-

ordinating with State to see if the date 1768 might have some meaning to the Russians.”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 214

 “Good idea,” mused the President. “Us Americans, we don’t have an extensive

enough history to hold long grudges. Rest of the so-called civilized world, they’re

practiced in the art.”

“And then,” the CIA Director finished, “there’s other dates to consider, given the

numbers in the matrix: January or February or April seventeenth; January, February or

April 1934. Then there’s the content of the message itself.”

“You forgot a date,” Eisenhower pointedly mentioned. “April First.”

“We are looking into it, sir,” replied the CIA Director. “As always, this intercept

could be a wild, uh, goose chase,” he finished, shrugging and nodding towards the

Soviet’s private parts.

“Yeah,” mused the President, somewhat resignedly. “We pull the same crap on

them.” Ike shifted gears and addressed the interloping Interior Secretary: “So I take it

there’s more to her hoo-hoo than the message you found up it.”

“Yes, sir, there is,” answered the Interior Secretary.

“People,” began the Secretary, turning to the august assembly, all regular

members of P.I.S.S. “What does the acronym W.H.O. stand for?”

“Stop wastin’ our time with yer damn civics lesson,” Lyndon Johnson, the Senate

Majority Leader drawled. “All a usn’s here know it stands fer the World Health

Organization.”

“That’s what they’d like you to believe!” retorted the Interior Secretary. “It really

stands for ‘Women Have Orgasms’. Their chief purpose is to make the global

community understand that women can be even more orgasmic than men. Why else all

their emphasis on birth control?”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 215

 “Bullshit!” protested Dulles. “I’m on their board and . . .”

“Hold it!” the President interrupted his Secretary of State. “ ‘Women . . . have . . .

orgasms?’ That what you just said?”

“Yes sir, Mr. President,” answered the Interior Secretary. His reply was met with

derisive laughter from the entire committee, save Ike, whose mind worked better than

nearly everyone gave him credit for. The General continued questioning his Interior

Secretary “And you say Svetlanka, Svetiana, uh, this Russian agent, she was intercepted

in Japan?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.

Ike turned to the rest of the committee and addressed them: “Boys, some things

Mac told me went on in Japan, I really didn’t believe him. I thought the sumbitch was

just yanking my chain; you know how the two of us didn’t get along. But it starts to look

to me as if old Mac wasn’t shittin’ me. And if the Russians know about it,” the President

nodded to the naked woman, “women being orgasmic, they’ll try to find some way to use

it to destabilize America.” The General addressed his Interior Secretary: “Women really

do have orgasms, then?”

“Hard to believe, but, yes sir, they do, General,” replied the secretary. “Or they

can, given the proper conditions. Observe,” suggested the secretary, flipping on a switch,

which caused a giant image of the woman’s privates to be projected onto a black and

white television screen behind and above the President. The secretary nodded to the

Soviet agent, who took the nod as a signal to employ her slender and well-manicured

fingers to spread the fleshy part of her anterior vulva, so that her clitoris was exposed.

“That little nubbin you see poking out from her folds of skin: it’s known in certain

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 216

underground niches of the medical research community as the Centralized Labial

Information Terminus, or C.L.I.T.”

The Interior Secretary nodded again to the Soviet agent, who held each of her lips

between thumb- and finger-tips of both hands and began tugging at her labia in up-and-

down see-saw fashion, so that the anterior skin traveled across her love nubbin. The

secretary explained: “That C.L.I.T. thing, it’s chock full a pleasure nerves, even more

than the head of a penis.”

“No!” gasped J. Edgar Hoover, incredulously.

“Boys in the medical research community tell me it’s so,” replied the Interior

Secretary, who continued: “Notice how when her flesh moves, it slightly yanks on this

‘Central Terminus’.” The subcommittee members intently focused their attention upon

the screen before them, while the Interior Secretary continued his explication. “She is

probably experiencing pleasure right now, and from pretty much the same motions that

occur between her legs when she and her Boris do the Big Nasty. The Terminus

monitors any motions her labia might undergo.”

“And all women got this C.L.I.T.?” asked Ike.

“Sir, that is exactly what I am told,” replied the Interior Secretary.

“Dang!” exclaimed the Senate Majority Leader. “And here I thought all along

they’s just flaps a flesh coverin’ up a hole!” The murmur of assent passing through the

subcommittee attested to the fact that all present believed likewise.

The Interior Secretary nodded one more time to the Soviet agent, who began

directly manipulating her Central Terminus itself, rubbing it with the tip of her middle

finger in slow, circular motions. Soon the speed of the circles passing accelerated, to the

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 217

point that she was making ever-quicker back-and-forth rubbing movements. The

subcommittee members watched the television screen show some thick fluid beginning to

ooze from between the woman’s legs. The initial trickle was soon followed by copious

amounts of fluid, which ran down each of her ass-cheeks. The woman’s fingers were

now a blur, rubbing upon herself lightly and very rapidly. She began screaming the same

two words over and over, in Russian.

“What’s she saying?” Ike asked his Interior Secretary, hollering to be heard above

the woman’s screams.

“It’s Russian for—uh, well. Sir?” the secretary loudly addressed the General,

trying to answer without giving offense. “It’s pretty colloquial.”

“So tell us what it is she’s screaming,” yelled the President.

“Uh, sir, it’s Russian for ‘Fuck Me! Fuck Me!’ ” hollered the secretary, somewhat

embarrassed.

Lyndon Johnson sprang up. “Hell, I’ll do ‘er!” he offered. Johnson walked

towards the woman while unbuckling his belt. “All this Rooskie needs is some good

Dallas Dong, Johnson’s Johnson . . .”

The Interior Secretary intercepted the Senate Majority Leader. “Lyndon,” he said,

“she gets like this, you can be screwing her, and she’ll still say ‘Fuck Me! Fuck Me!’”

Johnson stopped dead in his tracks. “No!” he exclaimed. “Now thet don’t make

one lick a sense!” he remarked, fastening his belt buckle. Johnson looked at the

screaming, orgasmic Soviet agent and shook his head back and forth slowly before

resuming his place at the table.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 218

 “Gentlemen,” the Interior Secretary hollered to the committee members, loud

enough to be heard above the orgasmic woman’s screams of intense pleasure, “what is

about to transpire has got to be seen to be believed . . .”

As if on cue, Svetlana’s vulva squirted two streams of liquid, one from each side.

The committee was stupefied, its members saying such things as “What the . . .?”

and “Jeeziz!” and “Holy shit!” to themselves.

“Behold,” announced the Interior Secretary, “the Incredible Squirting Orgasm,

sometimes referred to as an ‘ISO’!”

Svetlana continued to ‘do’ herself, and still screaming summoned up another ISO.

“Can’t you get her to stop?!” Ike yelled above the woman’s yelps.

“Not without tying her hands to the cart!” answered the secretary, hollering to be

heard. “But I didn’t think it’d come to this. I figured with all these strangers in the room,

she’d be more inhibited.”

“Jeeziz!” the General remonstrated his Interior Secretary. “Didn’t you ever hear

that Power is the Ultimate Aphrodisiac? Get her in a room with all these senior

government types, she won’t be able to help herself. Where the hell you been?” he

screamed.

“Sorry, sir,” hollered the secretary in reply. “I never heard that one.”

Ike couldn’t believe that his Interior Secretary could be so naïve as to be letting

all the opportunities for sex that he must be encountering slip by unconsummated. The

General even began to feel somewhat sorry for the uninformed chump. “Here,” yelled

Ike, loosening his own tie and pulling it through his collar. “Use this to tie her hands.

Probably need your tie, too.”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 219

 “Thanks, General,” cried the secretary, taking Ike’s tie and removing his own.

Several other senior government officials got out their seats around the conference table

and moved, hastily and somewhat embarrassedly, to the mobile examination cart the

Soviet agent lay on. It took a few of the men grabbing and holding each of her arms to

get her hands secured with neckties to the frame under the mattress. She was that intent

upon continuing her self-ministrations. Once the woman was tied up and somewhat

calmed down, her cart was wheeled into a corner, and the meeting continued.

“Edgar, what do you think,” Ike asked his FBI Director.

“Mr. President,” replied Hoover, “I believe this is some sort of perverse

communist ploy to divert the attention of this committee from its true mission. I believe

she’s been surgically modified to throw this committee off course. That’s be just like

those monstrous and godless communists.”

“I thought you might say something like that,” commented Ike. He continued.

“This is exactly what Mac told me he witnessed—as a dispassionate observer, he

claimed—in Japan. Women actually enjoying sexual activity. I didn’t think it was

possible. That is, until now.”

“Dang!” exclaimed Lyndon Johnson. “It’s gonna hit the fan’s what I say. Y’all

think about it: us menfolk, we’ll do about anything so’s we can have ourselves a good

pop. Women find out they got the ‘xact same biological opportunity, there’ll be absolute

anarchy. Whole population—men and women—be like the mink farm mah cousin

Bubba owns a-hind his gas station. Ain’t no way even the Soviets be able to control their

people, word a this gets out! Jeeziz, we’d be sunk here, in America!”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 220

 “Lyndon’s right,” agreed Ike, addressing the entire committee. “We gotta put a

lid on this: C.L.I.T.s, ISO’s, the whole thing. Makes me wish I hadn’t come out for

planned parenthood, in a way. Now that the pharmaceuticals are developing a birth

control pill—with the government’s blessing—won’t be nothing holding women back,

word a this gets out.” Ike turned again to the Interior Secretary. “Just how specific are

the biology and medical textbooks?” he asked.

“Depends on the level,” replied the secretary. “General biology up through

college, no mention of this C.L.I.T. thing or female orgasm. Medical-school texts show

drawings and photographs of the Terminus, but most of them claim it serves no known

purpose. Bad news is I got the information for today’s presentation from a group of

researchers—in rural Indiana, of all places—who are—we’ll they’re so damn

scientifically and methodically graphic, they’ve already stumbled upon the function of

the Terminus. That’s the bad news.”

“And the good news?” asked the General.

“The good news” answered the secretary, “is they’ve got themselves stuck field-

testing their findings, and it’ll take serious discipline for them to cease and desist their

mink-like self-testing long enough to write up their report.”

“Short-term,” remarked Ike, “that’s good news: delays people finding out about

female orgasm. But long-term, that’s as bad as it gets.”

“How’s that, sir?” asked the secretary.

“Lyndon?” Ike addressed the Senate Majority Leader, whom he knew could be

counted on to understand the political ramifications of damn near anything.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 221

 “Hell,” explained Johnson, “you get your common, decent, and steadfast folks in

rural Indiana, rural anywhere, so sex crazed that all they can get it together to do is screw,

there goes the whole ‘conomy, the infrastructure, our military dee-fense. We are

screwed, literal and figural!”

“Only thing we can do is contain this as long as we can and hope for the best,”

posited Ike. “Keep the textbooks like they are. Mount a quiet—and it has to be quiet for

it to work—Jeeziz! we don’t want to be opening this can a worms ourselves—a quiet PR

campaign saying there’s no such thing as ISOs and that female orgasms are some kind of

public health menace.” Ike glanced at the Soviet agent in the back corner of the room,

who—true to her training—had extricated herself from her bonds and had begun again

with her self ministrations.

The General reiterated his final point: “Clearly, a public health menace.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

An incident obliquely related to the one that occurred in secret government

session had transpired across the continent in California, immediately before P.I.S.S.’s

morning meeting. A young musician, Russ Basgadarian, had sat alone on a beach west of

Fresno, in the wee hours of the morning. About half an hour earlier he’d ingested some

pills that somebody named Kevin had given him. Kevin said he was in the writing

program at Stanford. Or maybe his name was Ken. Russ had met Kevin (or Ken) briefly

at a party in San Francisco, a few days earlier. Kevin-Ken had promised Russ that all

sorts of things would become clearer to you, when the pills took effect. They had been

stolen, Keven-Ken said, from a cache maintained by the US DOD, the Department of

Defense.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 222

 Russ figured the pills must be working as promised: he realized that “the wee

hours” were called that because this was the time of day that people interrupted their

slumber to stumble one-by-one in and out their bathrooms, taking their leaks. Russ began

turning it over and over in his mind, how it was he’d never before happened upon such an

apparent explanation (after all, it had been staring him in the face for years), but he soon

found himself detoured in his ruminations, caught up in the mesmerizing rhythm of the

slow sound of the surf, upon which was superimposed the faint ringing of distant buoys.

Russ became aware that the background of his mind was dimly beginning to wonder

about its role in creating the reality he experienced.

Then something magical happened, so far as Russ was concerned, something

whose later memory of it would demonstrate to him without a doubt that his mind—

shackled or no—created his own reality. A naked lady emerged from the sea, trailing

seaweed and kelp behind her, illuminated by the moonlight. To Russ, there in the wee

hours, it was tangible and immediately-palpable verification that life had in fact sprung

from the oceans—it was doing so now, in front of his very eyes. Russ remained seated,

transfixed, while the woman walked to him, her hair a tangle of seaweed.

The woman squatted in front of Russ and reached, with her thumb and two

fingers, up into herself, extracting a small vial, one of whose ends she uncorked. Inside

the vial was a scroll, which the Sea Creature unrolled, displaying its magical writing, and

the woman read in her melodious voice to Russ from the scroll, in what was surely the

First Language. Whatever the message was, Russ knew he understood it at a very deep

level. The woman looked at Russ to make sure he had understood, then ceremoniously

rolled up the scroll, placed it inside the vial, which she corked, then she placed the vial

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 223

back inside herself, inside the Womb of the Mother of All Knowledge. The woman

pointed to the Moon with one arm and the North Star with another, before she walked

into the ocean, again becoming one with it.

For Russ, when the pills wore off, the event would be considered just the first in a

series of acid-induced hallucinations. But for the woman who had in fact emerged in the

flesh from Fresno Bay, it was yet another in a series of goddamn miscalculations she was

continually suffering at the hands of those from whom she took her orders. She was

another Soviet agent bearing the exact same matrix-message as the one now in the hands

of the American government, and she’d scuba-dived to the precise place on the beach her

Soviet handlers in the submarine had pointed out to her, despite her protestations that this

was not the site indicated by the coordinates. As a precaution, she’d taken care to stash

the scuba gear underwater, in case she’d need it later, before emerging from the ocean for

her chance encounter with Russ.

“Good thing I hid this scuba gear,” she thought as she again swam underwater,

this time in search of the proper strand to beach on. Whoever that was she’d met back on

the beach, he sure as hell wasn’t expecting her. When she’d shown him the vial, he was

supposed to take it and vamoose with her to a safe house. But he simply sat there, as if to

say “Open it up,” which is what she did. She showed the uncomprehending lout the

message, and even read it to him, for chrissake, before realizing that this guy was not her

contact. And how in hell was she supposed to sound out that gibberish, anyway? No

sense to any of its seventeen lines. Once she figured out for certain that her handlers had

screwed up—again—she took it upon herself to get a fix on the time and her cartographic

position by using her body as a crude astrolabe, pointing her arms to the moon and north

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 224

star, then she returned to the sea and her gear, eventually to land on the beach she knew to

be the right one, where she was in fact met by the proper person. She, along with the

agent held by P.I.S.S. and about a dozen other young Soviet women, were all KGB

operatives who had been ordered to smuggle the same matrix worldwide, as a test of

Soviet espionage capabilities in the face of American and NATO counter-intelligence

efforts. The only thing different, from one matrix to the next, were minute variations in

the composition of the paper they were printed on. The matrix itself was meaningless.

The whole operation was the brainchild of an up-and-coming KGB bureaucrat named

Andropov.

Back on the wrong beach, Russ struggled to recall the exact words the woman had

intoned, his memory receding as the pills he’d taken wore off. By the time he was sober,

the only bit of the Sea Creature’s elocution he could remember was the ninth line of the

matrix, the one smack dab in its middle. A few months later, Russ would cut a record

with those words as its chorus, using his stage name, Davis á Vill. It would become a

national smash hit, eventually working its way into world-wide cultural consciousness.

Go figure.

Svetlana, the Soviet agent who would be called upon to demonstrate her talents to

senior members of the American Ruling Elite later that day, had her own back story, the

telling of which is important, as she will re-emerge later in this book as a major character.

Her grandparents had been members of a small group of low-ranking Soviet

revolutionaries who had been internally exiled shortly after the Russian Revolution. The

members of this group, who had wanted the Mensheviks to prevail, had been sent by the

victorious Bolsheviks to the Sakhalin Islands, where they could do no harm. In the

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 225

Sakhalins, this group of disenfranchised revolutionaries was very disillusioned with the

direction the Soviet Union was taking under Lenin and Stalin, but they had enough sense

not to yap any too much about it. Some of their children had married and held similar

feelings—one such set of parents had beget Svetlana. During late August of 1945, her

parents, along with a number of other Menshevik-minded descendents of the original

exiles, had foreseen that the triumphant Americans would set up an occupation force in

the Japanese Islands, and they bribed vodka and saki smugglers to take their children

across the Le Perousa Strait to Wakkanai, the northernmost city on the Island of

Hokkaido, in Japan. The children were given instructions to get as far away from the

Sakhalins as possible, and surrender to someone who was from America, where their

parents hoped that they could make better lives.

Most of the children made it across the strait to Hokkaido, and began traveling

south by night in small groups, some of them fortunate enough to find and surrender to

American forces, some being intercepted and detained by the extemporized remnants of

whatever local authority might still exist, some being shot as looters, while they foraged

for food. In all the confusion of the war’s aftermath, it took the Soviets a while discover

this small exodous, but once they did, they sent scouts into Japan to recover their

wayward citizens, as the state—like any administration—could not bring itself to admit

that it was capable of making any type of mistake that might cause its charges to want to

leave.

Svetlana was the last of the living escapees to be found. She had became

separated from her group, and made it all the way to the southern island of Kyushu,

where Nagasaki was. She had been secretly wandering southward for well over a year,

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 226

until she was finally discovered by a sympathetic woman while scrounging in the city

dump outside of the remnants of Nagasaki in the wee hours. Svetlana was nearly

seventeen years old now, and this woman—whom Svetlana suspected to be an

American—took her to some monastery, where the woman seemed to be staying.

Neither the woman nor Svetlana knew it, but the Soviets were still actively searching for

any of the Sakhalin escapees that might still be around, and they were closing in on

Svetlana. Be that as it may, the American convinced the elders of the monastery that the

Russian ought to be allowed to stay, and she became quite a sensation there. But almost

immediately the Soviet agents finally caught up with Svetlana, snatching her off the street

when she was begging.

Given the choice of her parents being killed or her spying for Soviets, Svetlana

chose the latter, and she began spending a fair amount of time off the monastery grounds,

to be trained as spy. This wasn’t against the rules, as she’d taken no monastic vows. The

American noticed that Svetlana’s absences from the monastery were slowing down her

progress, and in order make up for lost time, she explained to Svetlana about clitorises.

Sex was a big part of the day at this particular monastery. The young Russian was

immensely grateful for this particular boon, and the next few weeks were the happiest of

her life. Then one day, without even so much as a chance to say goodbye to her friends

in the monastery, she went to spy school and the Soviets sent her on her first assignment,

which was to smuggle a message into America. But she got picked up by American

Intelligence before she even left Nagasaki, and shipped to the states, where she was

called upon to strut her stuff before the Wise Men of P.I.S.S.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 227