The Belly of the Beast: Chapter 1

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Just before winter break began, Mr. [REDACTED] informed me that he had an outstanding story in the works, but remained coy, refusing to tell me any details. Eight days ago, after two months had gone by without hearing anything from him about this story, I sent him an e-mail telling him that I was eager to see what he had done. Two days later, I discovered his manuscript on my desk. It was handwritten, missing half of the first page, stapled at irregular intervals, and was stained in patches by a sticky substance with an overripe and disturbingly seductive odor. One of my fellow editors was in the office when he dropped it off, but she only caught a fleeting glimpse of him. She said that he was red-eyed and that his movements were unstable. She went out into the hallway to find all of the StudLife racks overturned.

My attempts to contact Mr. [REDACTED] unsuccessful, I have decided to publish his account, albeit in a censored form. It is not a matter of personal taste but of legal liability—I cannot release the truly disturbing parts of his story without first ensuring that he signs a legal waiver for the obscenity charges that would doubtlessly follow.

What follows is the manuscript as I have transcribed it, with the most disturbing material removed.]

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He is Colin D., a cousin of a friend. He is writing a book. Colin has decided to keep his name secret, using the alias Anthony Kass, to keep himself safe from retribution. If my contribution to his research is any indication, he is quite safe already—I do not believe that anybody will be shocked by his findings, nor do I believe that any vengeful assassin would be competent enough to do Colin in. I will refrain from using his last name out of the fear that he will have an excuse to contact me again. I do not expect to be credited in the book for my assistance to Colin, which is probably for the best. The working title of the book is Right and Wrong: Inside the Dangerous New Conservative Groups in America.

I met Colin in Orlando, Florida on December 30. He had gotten in touch with me by e-mail. “I don’t use Facebook,” he wrote. “A man like me can never be too careful.”

I was eager to meet him—Orlando is not a particularly exciting place when you have no interest in Disney World or Sea World or the Holy Land Experience, a theme park where $30 will guarantee you a chance to see Jesus crucified every few hours—presented, of course, as a musical number—and in between crucifixions, you can wander from gift shop to gift shop. They approach religion differently in Florida: I had never seen Bible-based cereal before I went there. I do not hold a grudge against the Holy Land Experience; I am confident that their Jesus is kept in a larger holding tank than Shamu.

Colin wanted to rendezvous at a Venezuelan café, the identity of which he has asked me to keep secret out of fear of retribution against the owners. He instructed me to sit outside the café at exactly 10:36 A.M., open the Arts section of the New York Times—“It has to be the New York Times”—turn it inside out, and wait for him.

I arrived with the newspaper at 10:30. Not wanting to startle my skittish contact, I waited six minutes to sit down. Within a minute, I noticed a man wearing sunglasses and carrying a messenger bag walking back and forth behind me. After he had pretended to casually browse the storefronts for a couple minutes, I had had enough. I turned around. “Are you Colin?” I asked.

“I’m Colin,” a voice behind me said. I whirled around to face him and saw a short man in his late twenties. He extended his right hand to shake mine, using his left hand to scratch his patchy beard. “That’s my associate, Jeff,” he said, motioning behind me. “I’m sorry for this security measure, but a man like me can never be too careful.”

Jeff pushed by me without shaking my hand. He took a seat across the table and kept his sunglasses on, trying his best to look grim. Colin and I sat down.

“It’s great that you’ve agreed to do this,” Colin said.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Great,” he said. “Now here’s the deal. You need to walk around on the floor of the gun show we’ll take you to and, um…just…just see what you can find.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Anything,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, like…illegal stuff,” he said. “Like if you see any sales of guns to minors or convicted felons. Find out if there’s something like that going on.”

“How am I supposed to know if they’re selling to a convicted felon?” I asked.

“It’s illegal to sell to a convicted felon,” Colin replied, arching an eyebrow. He looked me up and down for a second, then continued: “So be sure to see if there’s any selling going on to minors or felons. Also, it’s about more than that.” He leaned across the table. “There are some people there…they aren’t the same as you or me. These people have deep-seated racism and hatred for everybody. Tell me if you see any racist activity or plans to overthrow the United States government.” He began to wave his arms in the air, his voice growing more passionate as he struggled to continue. “I mean, these people…they wanna kill everybody in Washington. Everybody.” His eyes were wide. “Do you know what a militia is?” he shouted. “It’s an army to kill anybody who works for the government!”

This last sentence shot out of his mouth with exceptional force, accompanied by a large amount of spittle. He was completely out of his chair, leaning over the table. He wiped his mouth and sat back down. Jeff had not budged.

“So why do you need me?” I asked him after he had calmed down a bit.

“I’m too well known,” Colin explained, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “We need a fresh face to infiltrate their ranks.”

I knew it was bullshit, but the allure of dangerous investigative reporting was too much to pass up. I would be just like the guy who dressed up like a blaxploitation pimp to take on ACORN, except I’m not a semi-retarded ultra-Irish advocate for white privilege. Colin rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “Take notes on everything,” he said, “what anybody says, any prices of anything, descriptions of everybody…can you draw?” I shook my head. “I don’t have a camera,” Colin continued. “Can you use your phone camera to take pictures of the vendors?”

“This is starting to sound really stupid,” I said.

“Ok,” he said, “no pictures. But we need descriptions of everybody, and names, if you can get ’em. And the money’s important. First rule of investigation: follow the money. Follow the money.” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could: “Follow the money.”

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll do it.” I pocketed the notebook and pen.

“Good,” Colin replied. “Be careful. And follow the money. Let’s go.”

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Come back  soon for Chapter 2!