Dan Turkel
Transmissions from Operation Underdog
TRANSMISSION 0:
This is agent Floyd Fugue of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Tomorrow is the first day of Operation Underdog. The goal of the operation is to gain hitherto unheard-of insight into the mental machinations of a Mexican druglord, in this case the infamous Esposito “El Azote” Esposito.
The DEA already has a mole already embedded in Esposito’s life, an undercover agent who managed to infiltrate the druglord’s circle of friends and now frequently finds himself the recipient of sought-after invitations to dinner parties and beheadings. However, while this agent is able to obtain information pertaining to trafficking, money sources, and growing operations, he has been unable to provide us with a character profile of the prototypical drug kingpin, the kind of information our group could do great work with.
Thus Operation Underdog seeks to gain unprecedented access into the intimate life of Esposito Esposito in his own home, without the logistical difficulties of bugging and wiring the house itself. Instead, we will be placing a living, breathing agent in his residence...without the Esposito family even realizing it.
Many in the agency were initially resistant to the operation outline. Fearing the possibility of losing an agent, higher-ups in the DEA vetoed the proposal. Only when I, the mastermind, volunteered to be the field agent did the key decision-makers conclude that the potential for highly effective reconnaissance far outweighed the risk of agent loss. Such was the convincing nature of my confidence.
Tomorrow I am leaving for Culiacán, Mexico to begin. Our current embedded agent will pave the way for my transition into the household by presenting me to Esposito Esposito as a gift pet Pomeranian.
TRANSMISSION 1:
Begin Transmission 1 audio log. I apologize for the low volume of this transmission. I have pulled my head out of my mask and into the felt Pomeranian suit and am whispering these words into the in-suit microphone so as not to wake Esposito Esposito or his wife Anita Esposito (née Anita) as I am currently “sleeping” at the foot of their bed.
Naturally I cannot sleep at all as the overwhelming excitement of the successful penetration has me rapt. Our agent embed had been invited to the Esposito residence to watch a soccer match. I’m not certain what they discussed for the entire period as I could not hear well through the wrapped cardboard box I was in, but I could tell from the shouts of “¡Gol!” that the two were immersed in the match. It is a testament to the ability of our embed that he could maintain character knowing that a fellow agent was just feet away, waiting to be unveiled to one of Mexico’s most powerful and dangerous men.
After about an hour or two of watching the game, the embed must have presented the cardboard box to Esposito. He unwrapped the box and lifted the lid: the air was refreshing but the light stung my eyes. Based on the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, something was wrong—could they see through my disguise? The two lifted me out of the box and placed me on the ground. My acting skill was about to be put to the test, but what I did not expect was for my legs, cramped and asleep, to give right beneath me. I flopped right onto my face and slowly tried to right myself, repeatedly losing my footing in the process. I noticed a look of concern on the embed’s face. Esposito spoke:
“¿Está paralizado?” He considered me, watching me flounder. “¿O retrasado?”
At this point my heart was pounding too much to catch the embed’s rapid, panicked explanation, but based on the tones of their voices, some sort of understanding was reached and I officially changed hands from the DEA to the murderous villain.
Our embed left the home shortly thereafter and Esposito soon joined his wife in the bedroom and left me to sleep on a sheet at the foot of his bed. I pray that tomorrow it occurs to him to let me out to relieve myself.
TRANSMISSION 2:
Today I got to meet the full Esposito family. As we well knew, the head of the household is Esposito “El Azote” Esposito himself. Anita is his fairly unagreeable wife. She is pleasing to look at, but unpleasant to interact with and uses a great deal of fingernails when petting you.
The two of them have three children. The eldest is Aguacate, who appears to be teenaged, pimply, and aloof. I didn’t hear him speak a word today. The middle child is Chicharrón, also teenaged. She was, so far as I could tell, kind and courteous—characteristics I’ve always admired—I suspect we will get along quite well. The youngest, Babuino, at about 5 or 6 years of age, appears to pose the greatest threat to the operation, particularly to the integrity of the Pomeranian suit.
Babuino is quite fond of pulling at my tail, to which I initially responded by playfully and then semi-playfully nibbling at his grimy little hands, but to which I now respond by gritting my teeth and growling at him. Not infrequently, however, this provokes a defensive reaction from Esposito who will whack me quite roughly on the head—the first of many insights to come into the mind of the druglord: he is very protective of his family and will resort to violence to defend them. Fascinating! I am now careful to put on a façade for Babuino in front of the father, only to give him sly, threatening looks when others are not around.
The events of the day were generally unremarkable. I spent a great deal of time getting to know Anita, Chicharrón, and Babuino—quite exhausting work I might add, all the rolling around and petting and jumping—but I did not get to see much of Esposito who spent most of the day in his home office where I am not allowed on the carpet. Aguacate was similarly illusive, locked in his bedroom probably Tweeting or twerking or whatever kids are up to lately.
I was careful to recall the fact that, for the duration of the operation, I am not only a dog but a puppy. As such, I was sure not to do any “tricks” or display any signs of remarkable intelligence for fear of raising alarm. I found myself repeating my stumbling collapse from the previous day multiple times, primarily to the delight of Babuino and frequently with his physical encouragement. In order to bring home the point of my neonatal status and to regain a semblance of dignity after a day of quite degrading labor, I thoroughly soiled the carpeting in the hallway. The puppy image was definitely communicated, but the revenge was short-lived as the Esposito’s maid had little patience for my stunt and not only put my face in my shame, but also set upon me a great deal of physical and verbal abuse. I felt weak.
I did make the important discovery of my name, Gilipollas, or Gili for short. I have more to report on the topic of my ability to communicate with the family, but right now I am going to collapse.
TRANSMISSION 3:
I have rested well, perhaps twelve or so hours last night, and have more information to depart: In preparation for Operation Underdog, the DEA paid for about a year of comprehensive Spanish lessons for me, despite my protesting. I feel that now is an appropriate time to reveal that I spent all the Spanish lesson money on media about dogs (books, movies, even music) and did not learn a single word of Spanish.
As I explained to my supervisors, dogs do not speak the language of their owners. So if I understood even the slightest bit of Spanish, I could find myself inadvertently responding to commands or situations with a level of alertness and understanding far greater than is of me. Instead, my limited comprehension of my surroundings prevents me from blowing my own cover.
I do at times wish I had learned perhaps a few key words. My inability to pick out and distinguish common dog commands (like “sit” or “stay” or “roll over”) leads to quite a bit of disappointment in the children, Babuino especially. Additionally, when the kids were at school today, Anita was off somewhere, and Esposito was off likely engaging in a criminal’s quotidian routine, I was home alone with the maid who spoke to (or at) me at length. About what? I have no idea. I am slightlycurious as to what information I would be able to gleam from eavesdropping had I learned the language, but I have made my doggie bed and now must lie in it.
TRANSMISSION 4:
I am slightly worried about the amount of face time I have been getting with Esposito. That is to say: I have not been getting any face time with Esposito. I suppose this is just because it is the work-week and he is out in the field, doing his job. In the meantime, I have had plenty of time to interact with the children, though it is as of yet unclear what information I will be able to obtain from them.
Today Chicharrón was home sick from school and, barring the unpleasant maid, was the only one in the house for most of the day. She laid on the couch and watched TV for just about the entire day. I laid on the floor in front of her and she frequently rubbed my belly, producing in me a pleasurable response similar, though I think not identical, to what most dogs seem to take from this. Chicharrón, I am noticing, really is a lovely girl and, were she not the daughter of a murderous, vengeful criminal, would have some real potential to grow up into a spectacular young woman. From the way she treated the maid (though I did revel in it) to the amount of marijuana she smoked throughout the day, cough notwithstanding, I fear the druglord family life has soiled her.
I also fear that she has soiled my Pomeranian suit. She made a habit of sneezing into her hand and then (absentmindedly?) continuing to scratch my belly, rubbing her mucous into my felt fur. I might have protested, but felt as if a dog would not, and also cherished the increasingly rare non-violent physical contact. Between Babuino and the maid, I have not been getting the love a family dog deserves.
As of right now, my underside has become crusty and disgusting. I feel low. Chicharrón, who is the kindest to me of any of the Espositos, has sullied me.
TRANSMISSION 5:
I apologize for the amount of time since my last transmission; a dog’s life can be quite busy evidently.
This weekend, the family went on a picnic to a nearby park. Aguacate did not seem enthused, wearing a black t-shirt, tight black jeans, and never taking off his dark black sunglasses, but he came along after some sort of yelling exchange.
I must say, Mexico at this time of year is much too hot for a dog, or a full-grown man inside a felt Pomeranian suit for that matter. Knowing how dogs deal with the situation, I decided to give panting a try. I stuck my tongue as far out as it would go and hyperventilated, letting drool drip from the sides of my mouth (which I felt would help to sell the performance). Interpreting this display as one of hunger, which was not entirely inaccurate, Chicharrón snuck me a bite of her sandwich.
Oh! The taste of a sandwich! Even before the mission started, I had spent months eating only dog food in preparation and I had forgotten the wonders of food designed for human consumption. I was ecstatic and spent the rest of the day licking Chicharrón’s legs out of affection.
My research began in earnest during the picnic. Here are some notes on the interaction of the druglord and his family: Esposito shows a clear favoritism among his children. He possesses little patience for the angsty Aguacate and frequently smacks Babuino to quell his shenanigans. Like me, however, he has developed a particular liking for Chicharrón, rarely raising his tone at her or showing any disapproval.
Esposito has displayed an extremely short temper. Another family was picnicking nearby and tossing a Frisbee. It crash-landed into the Espositos’ bag of chips, startling everyone and sending blood rushing to Esposito’s face. He looked as if he were about to scream when suddenly a dog careened into the picnic and retrieved the Frisbee. I immediately got up and ran after the dog, barking at him. I eventually caught up and engaged in a doggie courtship ritual, the likes of which I had intensively studied before the mission began. I sniffed him, paying due attention to him rear end, and allowed him to do the same to me. When he began licking relentlessly at the dried mucous on my belly, I began to walk back to the Esposito picnic only to find something awry: Esposito was heading towards the other family, his hands in fists at his sides.
I followed tentatively. When he reached the other family, the patriarchal figure immediately made some sort of apology or polite remark, and I tried to wag my tail by gyrating my hips to diffuse the tension as I could see that Esposito was not pleased. My efforts were in vain. Before I knew it, Esposito had punched the man in the face right in front his family, Esposito’s ring opening a nasty cut on the man’s nose. I was panicking, though also beyond excited with the new information on Esposito: he is prone to violence! Or did that come up earlier? Either way, in a quick display of professionalism and wit, I immediately snapped back into character as Gilipollas and asked myself, “What would a dog do?”
And so I licked the running blood from the fallen man’s face for what felt like an eternity before his family and their growling Labrador shooed me away. We returned home shortly after and I fought the nausea of car-sickness and blood-ingestion all the way home. Upon arrival, I promptly (but discreetly) vomited in the backyard.
I consider all this a success. I am learning more by the minute.
As an aside: I have begun sleeping beside Chicharrón. She strokes my fur until we both fall asleep and it helps me unwind from the day’s chaotic events. We are becoming fast friends.
TRANSMISSION 6:
Today both Esposito and Chicharrón were home. Chicharrón claimed to be sick again though I am beginning to suspect that such a claim is just an excuse to avoid her schooling. I too was a bit of a rascal at her age, I suppose. I should use this transmission to give some information I have obtained on Chicharrón:
Somewhere around the age of 18, Chicha has grown into her mother’s good genes and then some. When I arrived in the house, she wore her long dark brown hair in a ponytail, but she has since cut it into an almost boyish, short style, kind of like Emma Watson in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.” She has a fairly petite build, though she does little physical activity that I’ve witnessed, and seems to spend most of her time watching TV or in her room where she listens to rap records and occasionally sneaks a joint or a swig of whiskey. During the several occasions where I have inadvertently found myself in her room while she has gotten dressed or changed, I have noted that Chicha has a belly button piercing but no tattoos—distinguishing information that could be of use if the DEA ever needs to identify her.
Chicha will occasionally play with her little brother, or at least flip through a magazine in the same room as him, but rarely interacts much with the near-silent Aguacate. However, Aguacate does seem to be protective of his sister, or at least feels obligated to help her. I have seen him lending her large sums of money—what she spends it on I don’t yet know—and also, I believe, doing her math homework for her. Perhaps for all his solemnity, Aguacate isn’t really a bad guy.
I mentioned that Esposito was also home today. From what I could surmise, he had a long appointment with his personal confidante or therapist or something—someone he really trusted—but since they were speaking (in Spanish of course) and not performing any actions I could easily recognize or interpret, I figured that there was little information I could gleam from the situation and devoted the day to comforting Chicha instead.
I think that, despite the enormous mansion and extremely lavish furnishings, she doesn’t feel comfortable having her girlfriends over and just doing teen stuff. I find it hard to believe that someone as loving, affectionate, and (if I may be frank) beautiful as Chica doesn’t have any friends—she’s just stuck between a rock and a hard place with the druglord father situation. I’d imagine it does have its perks though: for instance, she drives a Mercedes and wears exclusively American designer clothes. But how could mere things fill the void that meaningful friendships and bonding time should be filling? They can’t. I just wish there was more I could give to her, but alas: I am, to her, just a pet.
TRANSMISSION 7:
Unless I have lost count, I have been living as a dog at the Esposito residence for 25 days now. The operation outline dictates that at this juncture I must “run away” and rendezvous with our embedded agent who will debrief me before I am flown back to the States.
As I said from before the operation ever began, I think there is much that can be learned here about Esposito, druglords, and human psychology in general. Not only has the vital information begun to spill forth, but the operation has demonstrated the success of dog-suit-based reconnaissance, a field which I have pioneered. I am beyond pleased with the results so far, but I am also excited by the thought of what more is to come. I feel that the operation is not yet over, and for this reason, I will be deviating from the operation outline. I state with full understanding of the gravity of my disobedience that I intend to continue living at the Esposito residence indefinitely.
My ability to obtain information increases daily, as do my accommodations, arguably rivaling those of so-called “normal” human life. I am now house trained and frequently let out to perform hygienic functions. I have none of my former human worries like appointments, work stress, or family matters. And Chicha has become for me an incredible companion. On the days she goes to school, I wait panting at the door for her return and spring into her arms as she opens the door, licking her face with joy. I hunger for her, like a pork chop.
I make only the humble request that the DEA consider arranging a new costume for me. The mucous ended up not being a problem as I have grown accustomed to licking myself clean quite like a real dog. Rather, it is beginning to get a little snug on me. I think I’ve been gaining some weight between my regular dog-food, scraps that Chicha sneaks me, and (my mouth waters just thinking of it) some raw steaks that Esposito himself has been giving me when I growl for him (in his bizarre way, I think he is beginning to like me! more to come on this in future transmissions I’m sure). Every time he feeds me a cut, he mumbles something affectionate about “peleas de perros.” I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about, but I’m on the case trying to decode his sudden change of heart towards me, and I can’t complain about the extra nourishment.
I hope you understand my decision and see how it will ultimately serve to benefit the operation and the DEA as a whole, not to mention my own personal and emotional well-being. (Excuse me if I love what I do.) Please continue to monitor this channel as I will continue to send transmissions.