Agent Cybele Reporting, part 1

Well, I loved this girl once but she made me nervous and . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Agent Cybele Reporting

August 1, 2007
Attention: Lord Zorac, Chief Administrator of the Round Table.
This is Agent Cybele reporting. Have arrived in Portland, Oregon safely, my lord. and have
settled in without incident at your chosen location. The flight from Hong Kong was long yet comfort-
able with all the perks and privacy that accompanies first class status, allowing me to thoroughly per-
use Matthew Primeau's file without interruption. I believe my mind and body are prepared for the task
ahead of me. The targeted coffee shop is right across the street. I shall go their tomorrow and get to
work. To be honest, my lord, I believe I'll have an easy time with him. His file indicates a weakness for
intelligent, eccentric women who are willing to let him blather on, and I can play that role to a tee. Ezra,
my contact here, has been most accomadating and respectful. From him I've gotten an insider's view
of the city's socio-psychological makeup. It is indeed a city of kooks. He has been a somewhat regular
customer at the Go Sports Cafe for the last three years, and when shown Matthew's photographs con-
firmed that he had overheard many objectionable, dare I say troubling conversations between Mr. Primeau
and another individual, who goes by the name, Marcus. So it looks like Matthew has found at least one
other free radical, my lord, and it will be my job to find out exactly how many susceptible souls this rab-
ble-rouser has infected with his antiestablishment vitriole. I am confident, my lord. It took a year to
cleanse Hong Kong of such gadflies. I expect Portland to take a month at most. For the first week or so
my gameplan will be quiet observation unless the target approaches me. Then, as always, I'll initiate
contact, which should give me a clearer view of what must be done. Expect a report in a week to ten days.
Thankyou as always, my lord, for your support and confidence in my methods. Matthew, and by exten-
sion, a free-thinking Portland, doesn't stand a chance. This is Agent Cybele reporting.
Cybele sent the confidential email and shut down her laptop. The real work would start tomor-
row, but now she was ready for sex. She rose from the desk and turned to the bed, upon which Ezra's
glistening, oiled body was spreadeagled and handcuffed at the wrists and ankles to the four posts. His
mouth was ballgagged due to Cybele's lust for biting her conquests to the point of drawing blood.
Blood got Cybele's juices flowing. Blood and a helpless man's muffled screams. She crouched over
Ezra's flaccid meat with a wicked smile. "You'll be a man for me or you'll be dead by morning. You un-
derstand, don't you, slave, that your only purpose to me now is my pleasure." She sunk her incisors
into his inner thigh. Ezra flailed helplessly against the tight constraints, yelping through the gag like a
dog dying by the roadside after being smacked by a passing car. "That is but a foretaste of what I'm cap-
able of--Now perform for me, bitch!" Cybele yanked at Ezra's penis as if pulling out a deeply rooted gar-
den weed. It didn't get hard. Cybele spun around, grabbing Ezra's right foot. "Time to lose your big toe,"
she said. Ezra screamed and kicked, pissing Cybele off enough to stop. With blood dripping from her lips
she looked back. His penis was erect. "Now that's a good boy. You'll live another day."

August 2, 2007.
Dear diary:
Sometimes cliche`s get it just right. I slept like a baby. Ezra's profile proved correct. Damn, that
boy has stamina. I had to un-gag him, for as usual I couldn't come till I took a shit and fed him my dirty
ass, but so much for proclivities, dearest friend, I'll never understand them. Ezra's a good cook. Best om-
elette since mother's. I arrived at the Go Sports Cafe promptly at nine, dressed in a simple olive green
dress and simple open-toed sandals. I'm shying away from makeup or jewelry for now. I'll attract Matth-
ew when the time is right. The establishment, if it can be called that, is a sorry affair. Dale, the cheery,
leering owner, is a bumpkin. Sports memorabilia decorate the dingy beige-painted walls. Pennants, old
baseball photographs, and the like. Shitty ambiance. He actually had sports talk radio booming from the
speakers. No wonder business was slow today, but Matthew did show at 9:30, his usual time. This sad
sack has the elders nervous? Only to you, dear friend, do I pose such a forbidden question. I was read-
ing Daniel Quinn's Ishmael, in order to better understand Matthew's mindset--it's a favorite of his--when
my concentration was obliterated by an obnoxious, obviously contrived stentorian voice. "Bamm!--Dale!
Another Primeauean zinger!" I didn't turn around. I just listened. Dale laughed, "What now, Matt?"
2
"The genius has hammered out another chapter in the book that will change the world!" he
said. Right then I knew I was dealing with a histrionic child. A megalomaniac given to strange
proclamations. I smiled to myself. This is gonna be easy. Lord Zorac will want to know what the book
is about, and that should be a breeze. Every time I meet a man with literary pretensions he literally
thrusts the pompous doggeral into my hands--every goddamn time! Fortunately, Matthew was too
self-absorbed to notice me. He sat in the opposite end of the building, drinking coffee, hunched over
his papers. I caught my first glimpse of him after about an hour when he passed by--Did he notice
me?--on his way to the restroom. His appearance in the flesh is as unimpressive as the dossier's pho-
tos. Slouching gait and spectacled with a three-day's-growth on both beard and head. He wore beige
khaki shorts that looked grimey enough not to have been washed in weeks. His white University of
Michigan t-shirt was grey-stained beneath both armpits. Another kook who misses his mother. What
a clown! He stayed till the high school girls left at one o'clock. And how he leered at them! My God,
it was disgusting! Doesn't he know how clownish he appears to them? Secretly, I was hoping for a
more formidible adversary. What a pity. He used the facilites nine times in his three and a half hour
stay. A weak bladder. We can use that against him. I didn't overhear any troubling philosophy out
of him today. Guess Marcus didn't show. But he will, and I will be there when he does. Thanks as
always for the needed privacy, dear diary. You're the only friend I have. More later. Love, Cybele.

August 5, 2007
Dear diary:
Forbidden thoughts only to be shared with you, love. Maybe there's something in the air
here in Portland, but I feel out of balance. How do I explain this? It's a new feeling. I feel a flighty
buzz in my chest as I greet the morning sun, and ready myself for a new day of coffee shop espionage.
Dale gave me a free blueberry muffin this morning, and I had to fight back tears. What is happening
here? It was just a muffin, and I never want for anything no matter where my duties take me. I even
enjoy Dale's simple, good-natured chitchat. He seems to, and there's a lump in my throat as I type this,
actually care about me. I shouldn't be affected by magnanimity. It goes against all my training. I'm feel-
ing accepted, dear diary--There! I said it! This is what people mean when they speak of feeling "accep-
ted." I've lived a shackled life. I'm a snake feeling the itch to shed off my old skin. Maybe the itch is
only temporary, but there's something more. Without even speaking to him yet, I'm feeling drawn to
Matthew's quirky personality. There's a freedom about him, a spontaneity to his gestures and speech
that's catchy. He is unselfconscious. He doesn't self-edit for social approval, and others, even stran-
gers love him for this even if they disagree with his bizarre utterances. Is he dangerous to the order?
He does have a remarkable ability of softening the ego-defenses of others, and bringing out the play-
ful qualities laying dormant since childhood. That's gotta be it. He's child-like and erudite. That's the
contagion! In his presence, one gets that playground feeling, that sandbox feeling, and there is no judg-
ment in his friendly talk, and that is the threat of him to the elders. Whatever his private thoughts, his
public interactions are accepting and open-armed. His natural, child-like love of others is predominant,
not his critical side. His resentment, and I haven't witnessed it yet, must be rooted in the fundamental
social reality that insists that one grow up, and sacrifice imaginative play for serious work. Matthew
will not grow up in the social sense. Matthew will not be assimilated. But his brain has bloomed to
such a degree that the elders have deemed it necessary to send me here. The threat of Puer Aeternus!
Eternal child with a free-wheeling genius, hellbent on revolution. This man's personality is such a mir-
acle that it's no wonder he's been marked. He would lead us back to Eden? And I would stop him? I'm
so confused, beloved page, and I haven't even spoken to him yet. He has the most lovely nose! So
straight and dignified. I am drawn and I am scared at what that may mean. Gods give me strength to
resist his spell. The encounter is not far off now. How do I handle this?
A word about Ezra. I'm getting bored fucking him. Has fucking ever bored me? I never had
the chance to discover sexuality on my own terms. Uncle Ernie and the elders saw to that. I'm feeling
pangs of anger at this injustice for the first time in memory. I never had a chance to develop my own
life! All was manipulated! All was handed down from others! All was given, without regard for my input.
Even my soul, dear diary? Is that the rub? Is that what has awakened my hate? Help!