The Fahey Connection: My Time in the Jeff Fahey Yahoo Group
It was a dark, cold Friday afternoon when Hurd arrived at my office doorway (door open as always, they won’t suspect anything that way).
“The commish wants ta see you.”
I gave my obliged thanks and, lifting my fedora and overcoat off the rack, exited the room. I walked the corridors, I sensed the reek of stale urine, archaic wallpaper remnants of a forgotten past, trapped in a memory of the Cold War. Framed portraits of Josef Manegele and Max Ernst’s Eye of Silence sat side by side on the wall; this place had never ceased its bizarre condition for me.
The Municipal Affairs building resided just south-west of the
The commish was a pugnacious-looking fifty-something. I had only met him two or three times before, although his reputation was notorious, he would often challenge his agents to combat each other in late night games of pogs, with the losing participant/s cast into the abyss of reptilian rabbis. I had never awarded much prestige to these so-called superiors, but I knew I’d have to rove cautiously here. He had the glint of usuriousness in his eyes; the man was probably a loan shark in a previous life.
“A matter of great importance has surfaced.”
Isn’t that what they all say?
“Now I can’t tell you too much you understand.”
Unambiguous as always.
“We need you to infiltrate the Jeff Fahey Yahoo Group.”
The words resounded in my inner self, bounding back and forth between kidneys. I had heard rumours that a major operation was to be executed on this matter, but never did I consider myself a viable candidate.
“You have the sort of nefarious repugnance that is required of such a mission.”
I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended at such remarks, but I left anyway content that my orders had been declared. The way the department functioned was in a pronounced minimalist respect, you were told the primary details and then you were on your own. Cuts down on paperwork apparently.
I took the stairs to the basement car park (the lift had been acting aberrantly recently; the technicians complained of asymmetrical malfunction, no one knew what the hell they were talking about). At the car I made a number of phone calls to known infiltrators and interlopers, in this business there is a huge capacity for meeting some of society’s vilest and most repellent individuals, perhaps that’s why I continued to do it.
I had been tipped off about a man who palpitated with blue. I found him in a back alley bar, he was wearing a large blonde wig, I could smell the blue emanating from his pineal gland. I approached and grabbed his lapels, as you do, trying to maintain that gruff exterior that is expected of all those plunged in seek.
“Where is the Jeff Fahey Yahoo Group?”
“I...can’t tell you.”
At this point I put him down and reached into my inside coat pocket, out came a DVD of Psycho 3, I learned this trick in ‘nam, I lifted the object just above his line of vision, at the same time my other hand was immersed in taking out a large blow torch from the opposite side of my coat. I teased the inevitable twice before finally meeting the two objects in a cataclysm of Fahey-fan terror.
“No, no no no! I’ll tell you what eva you want.”
Never fails. He promptly went onto describe the full activities of the group. In the end I gave him the slightly scorched DVD, what the hell do I want with it anyway?
I pulled up at the docks relaxed and reassured by the presence of a gatling gun in the trunk. I slipped in the back door of the non-descript building and was immediately met by a ‘members only’ notice. Dodging that mammoth impediment I proceeded to the ‘join’ area.
This is almost too easy.
I used a codename and progressed on though the labyrinth of questions, a screening process to rival MI5 and the FBI combined.
Before I knew it I was ensconced within the walls of Jeff Fahey discussion. My training had taught me that fear was only an aberration of the psyche, but it was hard not to feel it manifest in this instance. I could feel the pungent whiff of trigonometry.
I had been rambling amongst the discussions of The Wrangler and Body Parts for some time, I had thoroughly lost track of any semblance of the nonspatial continuum, a terrifying sempiternity. Then suddenly I was awash with decrees of ‘Jeff nights’, and I thought infiltration is of paramount importance here. However before I was able to find my Dictaphone, I had been bludgeoned in the cerebellum by a comment on Every Woman’s Dream, causing me to lose my footing and slip into the chasm of blue.
I don’t remember quite how I got out of there, all I recall is waking up on a small dinghy covered in a putrid, translucent, blue-tinged, viscous substance.
Fearing for my well-being and sanity, I escaped to a cabin in the mountains where I write this now, forewarning all those tempted to engage the calamitous and maniacal discourses held deep within the Jeff Fahey Yahoo Group that it’s not worth it, you will only pay with your mental lucidity and physical welfare.