Chapter Ten
One of the benefits of being in league with the Prince of Darkness is the ability to know
 what people are thinking. You might think that this would be a neat ability, but for
 a person like Tom, he would rather not have had the ability. Because most people are 
downright unhappy and that is mostly what you get to read. Others are having inappropriate
 or stupid thoughts. For instance, once Tom was caught on the beltway around Richmond 
at the time of the 4pm rush hour home. Sitting in traffic, he began to feel agitated 
and sticky and itchy. Even dirty. It puzzled him, as he had just taken a shower. Then he
 realized he was picking up on the thoughts of the motorists around him. Of course, being
 able to read minds would be a benefit if you played cards and gambled. But Tom didn’t gamble.
 One Sunday morning, Tom was puzzled to hear in his head over and over the stupid song about 
the Devil sitting on a tack. It stayed in his head for hours, right up to Sunday evening.
 Tom figured at that time, when the song finally ceased that the last church in California
 must have closed for the day. (People, Tom wants you to know that he thinks that song about
 the devil sitting on a tack is immature!)  One day, this ability got him into trouble.
 Where Tom worked was near the courts and that was downtown, and in a bad section at night.
 I mean, murders happened right in front of the police station. Tom was working late, 
and when he came out of the building and began to walk to his car that was in the parking 
garage 3 blocks away, he passed an alley near the City Jail and in the alley he instantly
 knew there was hanky panky going on. He nonchalantly walked by so as not to disturb the 
two guys in the alley and then he ducked around the corner and stood there and took in 
what was going on.  What he picked up first from the mind of one of the guys was a 
little consternation, but mostly soccer practice and bridge at night with the neighbors. 
A fed. The fed wasn’t actually thinking about his kid’s soccer practice at that exact moment,
 but his brain was on that level. Tom also picked up trickery. From the other guy, Tom picked
 up despair and suspicion and greed. It started to come to Tom: It was a drug deal.
 The fed was undercover, and about to sell drugs to the guy. Alone? Tom stretched his mind.
 No, there were two other guys further back in the alley, hiding behind something. A dumpster? 
 Now the criminal has seen one of the guys hiding. His anger is growing. Tom began to laugh to 
himself. The guy’s cover is blown. Serves the feds right! Then Tom became aware that the 
criminal had a gun and was about to use it. Tom had a vision of the fed falling back, grabbing
 his stomach in agony.  Oh, crap. There were some garbage cans nearby and Tom kicked one over.
 It was extremely noisy as it fell.
 “What was that!” The criminal yelled. 
Tom leaned around the corner and said: “Sorry about that!” 
The criminal rushed past Tom, his hand inside his coat, hand on his hidden gun and he
 took off down the street. The undercover fed had not realized that the criminal 
had spotted one of the guys behind the dumpster. Nor had he realized that the criminal
 was thinking of going for his gun and he had almost gotten shot.  He was furious that
 Tom had wrecked his undercover operation. The other two morons came out from behind 
the dumpster and they plus Mr. Soccer Mom yelled at Tom. Tom let them vent for a little,
 and then said evenly: “He had spotted you two idiots behind the dumpster (well actually,
 just one) and he was going for his gun.” Tom also informed them that, in his opinion,
 he had saved Mr. Soccer Mom from getting shot. But the feds continued to act like 
frustrated children. Tom wanted to go, to continue walking to the parking garage and then
 drive home, but they wouldn’t let him. They thought that perhaps his being there
 had a sinister explanation, that perhaps he was a drug dealer also, in cahoots 
with the guy who had just fled. They asked him what he was doing there so late at night
 and Tom told them that he was a probation officer that had just gotten off work. 
Your average person might have reacted differently, but Tom had been a fed of sorts 
at one time, and he was still very angry at the whole bunch of them for having been 
fired. Or perhaps what they would call disavowed.  Tom felt their attitude too 
self-righteous, and he began to insult them. He made fun of them, and used language
 that they recognized as their own. He showed special knowledge. And then he went too
 far and showed too special a knowledge. 
Tom said: “And if you continue to feed Marie and Jack hotdogs every day they’re
 going to get Leukemia!” The  fed just stood there, surprised at this remark.
 Then he became annoyed.  “How do you know about my kids?”
 You want to know what else I know? Tom said. “This guy’s cousin has taken my former job!”
 He pointed at one of them. “And this guy here cheated on his contracts final in law school!” 
He pointed to the third guy. “How’s that for being 'an Untouchable'?”
 They slapped handcuffs on Tom and took him to their unmarked police car with the 
little e on it. 
“Oh, and by the way, you didn’t have to confess that you cheated on your contracts
 test to the priest. It really was a minor sin.” 
The guy’s jaw just dropped, wondering how Tom knew. He had confessed this sin five years ago.
 Tom smiled. “I know these things because I’m in league with the Prince of Darkness.”
 Tom said other crazy-sounding things in the car. They took him to a pay by the month
 motel nearby and sat him down in a chair in a large alcove that was supposed to be where
 the occupant hung his coats. Tom leaned back against the wall. His master, the Baron,
 was now aware that Tom was in trouble. Tom thought back to him: Stay where you are. I
 am in no danger. Inform Ms. Black that I have called you, saying that I am sick and 
that I can’t come in to work tomorrow. He felt the Baron nod in assent. Normally a 
person handcuffed and sitting in a chair in a closet for hours would be bored, but
 Tom amused himself by reading the minds of the three feds in the room and then 
listening to the sounds outside. He could count exactly how many mice there were
 in the field outside. He guessed that phone calls were being made somewhere about 
what to do with him. He thought about his good deed, trying to prevent one or more 
deaths. Maybe he should have ignored the whole thing and continued on to the parking 
garage. But there was the possibility that he was still being tested by Somebody.
 Or it could just be:  No good deed goes unpunished. Good guys finish last. After
 some hours, he was taken to another room in the hotel. It seemed to be the temporary
 office of a psychologist. Lots of books on the walls. He had been there for a 
couple of months at least. Waiting until a new office was being built for him? 
Or was this how they all now lived nowadays, in temporary quarters, moving often? 
Now, Tom hated M5. Tom hated M75. And here he was, stuck in the same room with one 
of them. When the shrink saw the handcuffs on Tom, he gave the agents a withering
 look and one of the agents took the handcuffs off of Tom. It wasn't out of any kindess
 on the shrink's part. It would just make the shrink's job more difficult of trying
 to build a case against Tom. 
"Don't try anything," the agent said as they left, leaving the psychologist and Tom 
alone in his office. Tom thought: You guys aren't worth anything for me to try 
anything. 
"So, began the agency psychologist, "What gives you strength?" 
The opening question was the destroying question. They asked that question when
 they wanted to destroy you. They expected you to say: "Jesus, or God." 
Then the psychologist would write in his little notebook: "Mentally ill and Delusional"
 and the agent would be out the door before he could blink. Tom had been a spy, like them,
 and this is how Tom had lost his job with them ten years ago.  Don't think you can engage
 them in a religious dialogue. They really couldn't care less. 
 But Tom would give a different answer this time. 
"What gives me strength? Viagra." Tom leered.
"Anything else?" The psychologist was still hoping for a religious answer. 
"Yeah, a girl in a strapless dress," replied Tom. 
He wouldn't make the psychologist's job easy. 
"Let's try dream analysis. What did you dream about last night?" 
"I dreamt that a train was going through a tunnel. Then there was a rocket 
ship blasting off. Then I was eating a hot dog." 
The psychologist knew Tom was having fun with him with all these Freudian sexualimages.
 "Let's try word association. I'll say a word, and you say the first word that 
comes to your mind. Ready?" Tom merely smiled. "Apple." 
"Sex." 
"Orange."
 "Sex." 
"Flower."
 "Sex." 
They continued on this way for a short time. The psychologist got out the
 Thematic Apperception Test. This is a test that has a lot of pictures of
 people who look sad. Tom gave silly replies to this test as well. The 
psychologist trotted out the Rorschach, a test that only a qualified few know 
how to use. Tom doubted that this idiot knew how to translate that test accurately.
 Tom knew also that these spy psychologists weren't members of the APA- the 
American Psychological Associaton. They were mavericks. He found that out after
 trying to look up the  name of the psychologist who had originally given him the
 shaft ten years ago on the APA membership rolls. His name wasn't listed there. 
The session went on like this for four hours, the shrink taking two breaks. Tom wasn't
 offered any breaks. Tom knew they were pushing, trying to wear him down, 
so that he would cooperate or drop his guard and react angrily and say something
 that he would regret later. 
"Listen," said Tom, "I'm getting hungry." Tom ran his tongue over his pointed teeth.
 "We're not finished testing yet."
 "What other tests you got?"
 "I have several more."
 "Listen, if I get hungry, then I get cranky." 
The "psychologist" ignored him. 
Tom stretched his mind to get the lay of the land. Next room to his right.  
Two guys. One old dude, unknown, and Mr. Soccer Mom. Reading magazines. Next room to
 his left. One dude actively watching them over closed circuit TV, but now daydreaming
 and inattentive. Room across the hall. The psychologist's secretary. Filing something.
 Rooms farther away. Lots more agents. Tom looked at the one window in the psychologist's
 office. It had bars in the window. Wonder what the hotel management thought of that. Ah,
 the hotel was probably totally owned by the feds. Now, there is a psychological test called
 the MMPI. In this test, it asks you questions like: do you think you are being followed?
 Do you think that people are spying on you? If you answer yes to these questions, then you 
are crazy. Thing is, what if you are a former spy, and really are being followed? 
Tom thought of this test and laughed to himself. And how it was time for him to leave. 
He was getting tired of fed hospitality. 
"You know, I once took the MMPI and it made me look really strange," Tom lied. 
"Really?" the psychologist brightened. Maybe he would be out of here sooner than he
 expected. He immediately got up and rushed over to the cabinet where he kept the MMPI
 test forms. While the shrink had his back to Tom, Tom flicked his finger and the closed
 circuit TV mounted in the far corner of the room became unplugged. Tom stood up, moved
 around the desk with lightning speed, reached down and yanked out the wiring to the 
Emergency call button. The shrink looked over, and saw that Tom was behind his desk, 
holding the wiring in his hand. He rushed for the door. Tom put out his hand and the
 shrink flew across the room and landed on the sofa on the far side of the room. 
"Do you find the sofa comfy? Say, more comfy than the sheet metal chair that you guys
 have been forcing me to sit in for hours?"  Tom pointed to the chair, then
 pointed to the door, which now locked itself.  Mr. closed circuit TV in the 
other room hadn't noticed the fuzz on his monitor yet. "I told you, when I get hungry,
 I get cranky. Like when I had to eat all those dandelions in people's lawns to 
survive after you guys canned me." Tom flicked his hand again and the huge armoire
 that held coats and umbrellas moved itself over to blockade the door. The shrink 
reached over to a phone on a desk next to the sofa to call for help but all he heard
 on the line was demonic chanting. Now papers and books began to fly off shelves and
 flutter around the room. The shrink got up again and fought through the whirlwind of
 flying papers and books and tried to get to the armoire to shove it aside but Tom 
caused its doors to open and shut wildly. 
"Don't we just love athiestic psychologists," replied Tom, who strode to the window. 
By this time, Mr. closed circuit tv noticed the fuzz on his screen.  He exited his 
room and came over to try the door knob and he heard the commotion within. Unable 
to enter, he rushed across the way to the room where the secretary was sitting and
 fairly yelled at her to call for help. He ran down the hall to get other agents.
 Tom bent the bars aside easily. Then he turned his attention to the smarty psychologist.
 "Come here," Tom said. The hurricane of papers and books ceased and the psychologist 
found himself inexorably drawn to come to Tom. He tried to fight it, but he found that 
he could not. His body was not under his conscious control. Tom heard agents banging
 on the door with an axe they had busted out of a glass cabinet to be used in case 
of fires. Tom took hold of the shrink's arm, pulled back his sleeve and bit his
 wrist and drank blood. 
"Tastier than dandelions." Tom smiled and the shrink saw the incisors 
that Tom had bitten his wrist with. The shrink looked into Tom's eyes and saw
the eyes of a pit viper, the cosmic snake, the conqueror worm. The shrink 
screamed. 
Tom laughed. "I told you that when I get hungry I get cranky."
 The shrink passed out and Tom morphed himself into an owl and flew out the window. When the 
feds had finally smashed through the door and then the armoir with the ax, they saw
 that the shrink was on the floor in a trance, laying among a pile of books and papers.