The Virginia Fratboys
'Dude, I so think that chick is checking me out.' This Shakespearean monologue courtesy of Oslo Fontina, CIA wet arts operative and my current guide in the city of Beijing. I'd been met by Fontina at the airport two hours ago and so far the topics have ranged from: hookers, beer, bucket bongs, football scores and the stupidity of rickshaw drivers, but only because our taxi nearly ran into one. Hard to believe that this cement head has a law degree. 'Oh man, I think she might be a dude. Do you think she's a dude? Man she looks hot for a dude though.'
Two Hours Earlier...
'Please, please, please do not leave me with this halfwit.'
'Oslo will be quite the perfect guide for your stay here in Beijing.'
'Look...mysterious guy... I just don't have a good history with the goons from the CIA,' I whine.
'I know you've had your share of run-ins with the Virginia Farmboys...'
'The Virginia Fratboys more like.'
'...but the Vegas Incident was a long time ago.' continues the Man with the Perfect Hair, unfazed 'Plus you'll be on the same side this time.'
'Admittedly that was THE funniest assassination attempt I've ever been a part of but I really can't stand these guys.'
'You'll be fine.'
'Hey dudes!' interrupts Fontina from afar. We turn to look at the brain dead CIA operative. 'Doesn't that airport tower look kind of like a dong? Seriously. It's shaped like a donkey's penis I friggin' swear!'
I turn back slowly to the Man with the Perfect Hair. 'I hate them all.'
Back to the Present...
Eight beers in and I can still hear Fontina talking non-stop and braying at his own witticism-I use that term very, very loosely- while he ogles women who are in the hotel bar. It's a wonder that the States have any kind of secrecy when all their agents are loud-mouthed yahoos but that's real life for you. 'Yup,' he belches, 'This shore is the life.'
'What exactly do you do for the Company Fontina?' I ask my cud-chewing companion.
He picks at a piece of duck meat jutting out of his teeth. 'Political assassinations mainly. We got to make sure our guys are running the countries we want to, the way we want to.'
'So you go around the globe rigging elections, bribing the proles with sacks of wheat and sugar.'
'Hell yeah! It don't matter to the Dee Dee Oh  if it's a tribe that uses punji sticks to catch wild boars or you're an industrial nation. We put the right guys in the right places.'
'And if the other candidate should happen to enter office despite the threats, bribes, kidnapping, etc. you kill them.'
'Damn straight. And then we plonk in some other shmo in his place. The Company can place anyone in charge of anything man,' he waves his beefy arms wildly, 'and I mean ANYONE. I can place a sack of returned mail in charge if I want to man. Would you like that? Would you like to see me make a sack of mail the president of Borneo? Cos I can do it if you want man.'
'...er...no thanks,' I reply, nonplussed.
Mad, bad and dangerous to know,
 The Deputy Director for Operations, or DD/O. The Head of the CIA (Directorate of Operations). Prior to March 1973 the Company was known as Directorate of Plans. This has absolutely no relevance to the story whatsoever.
 The awesome powers of the American espionage agencies notwithstanding, this may be beyond the powers of even the CIA. Could they have a bag brimming with envelopes, ranging from the 'You May Already Be A Millionare!' letters to 'Watchtower' magazines, elected as a president? Possibly. If the Mexican elections are any indication of how politics works (voodoo, dancing old geezers, bribe-a-ramama) then you'd think that an inanimate object could one day take office. However, there is no President of Borneo - it is an island divided between two countries - Malaysia and Indonesia - and one Principality. Malaysia has Sarawak and Sabah, Indonesia has Kalimantan, and then the principality. Take that Oslo Fontina!