The morning had been going well.  There was hot water. 

The shower blistered across R.J. Blass's shoulders.  The warmth of it heated the icy tiles and took the chill out of the air.  The slow thrumming of the jets against his skin made him reluctant to get out.  Here was a moment of absolute peace and comfort.

When he finally stepped out, the cold clawed its way back into the bathroom.  He hastily dried the rapidly cooling droplets from his body and then used the towel to wipe the steam off the mirror.

R.J. hummed a tuneless song, passing a razor over his face.  There was more white than black in the stubble he took off.  Each rinse of the blade sent more of the gray whiskers down the sink and gave him a chance to forget about them until the next day.

He was just finishing getting dressed when the pleasant repetitiveness of his morning was shattered by a hammering on the aluminum storm door, like an unenthusiastic woodpecker on a tin roof.  R.J. reluctantly crossed his small apartment, buttoning up his shirt.

The small window in the door revealed a man sniffing the air, with a look of disgust on his face.  He was dressed for a polar expedition.  The hood of his giant parka was pulled back revealing sandy brown hair.  The gel in it marked the passage of a comb, like striations in a rock formation.

Great.  Some missionary from the lower forty-eight here to convert us heathens, R.J. thought.

The guy must be broiling in that getup.  Didn't anybody tell him that April on the coast didn't require the Nanook of the North outfit?  The temperature outside was hovering above freezing.  The gray sky over the harbor hinted at rain later that day, not snow.

He cracked open the front door and yelled through the storm door.  "Sorry, not interested." 

"Mr. Blass?  Mr. Reginald Blass?"     

"It's R.J.," he said automatically before his whole name could be spoken.

"R.J. Blass, I am Agent Maxwell Wiley with DTAA."  He held his badge up against the glass.  "May I come in?"

R.J. stepped out and pushed the door just wide enough to take hold of the man's badge.  He pulled it in for a closer look.  Agent Wiley didn't resist, but he didn't loosen his grip on the wallet either.  His nose wrinkled again at the fish smell. 

The odor was a constant presence in Dutch Harbor and took a while to get used to.  R.J. didn't even notice it anymore.  It was an easy way to spot a newcomer.

"I never heard of the Domestic Threat Assessment Agency before.  Did you make that thing yourself?"

"We are a sub-branch of Homeland Security.  Have you heard of them?"

He let the badge go.  "Sure I have.  But that looks like it came off a forty dollar printer."

"I can give you the number of the field office in Juno if you would like to verify my credentials."  Agent Wiley smiled, his teeth somehow catching a glint of unseen morning sunshine.  "Or if you prefer, we could hold this meeting there." 

It was a pretty unvarnished threat.  R.J. wondered how that would go down: would the agent show up at the plant with a couple of uniformed officers?  Szymanski would love that.  It would be one more bullet in the man's gun.  He might not be able to fire him for being brought in for questioning, but he would never let R.J. live it down.

That was of course if the guy was actually a federal agent and not some kind of freak. He looked doughy and fairly harmless.  If things went bad R.J. figured he could always toss him out.

He shrugged and pushed the door open wide enough for the agent to enter.  "Make it quick.  I can't be late for work."

As Wiley strolled in, R.J. couldn't help but focus on the squalor of his own life.  Days worth of dirty clothes were draped over the chairs in the kitchenette, food was drying on the dinner plates on the coffee table, next to them was an overfull ashtray, and an empty bottle of rye lay on the floor next to the sofa. 

"So what does your agency do?"  R.J. asked to fill the silence as Wiley shed his parka, which must contain the feathers from an entire flock of geese.  Under it, he wore a dark blue suit.  The fabric strained against the solid bulk of his body.  The only fat on the man appeared to be on his face.  "And if you say assess domestic threats, you can turn around and leave right now?"

Maxwell gave a quick and ready chuckle.  "Mr. Blass, we fill a very essential hole in this country's security.  We monitor potential threats to civil order from non-terror related sources.  The police handle criminals.  Numerous government agencies tackle terrorists.  We deal with everything else.  May I sit down?"

R.J. didn't feel any more informed about the DTAA.  "You should have stuck with assessing domestic threats."

Agent Wiley glanced around the messy room making an elaborate show of looking for a clean place to sit.  R.J. pulled a stained dress shirt off of one of the dining room chairs and tossed it into the corner.  He then sat down opposite it, not bothering to move the t-shirts and pants piled on the seat.

"What's this got to do with me?"

"R.J.— May I call you R.J?"  He still didn't sit.  He just put his briefcase on the table.

R.J. nodded.  Just get on with it.

"My agency would like to hire you for a very special project."  He clicked open the latch on his case.

"What?"  Who the hell had he let into his apartment?  The badge had to be a fake.  No spy agency in the world would be interested in him.

"You are aware I count fish, right?" R.J. said with a deep frown.

"We both know that is not entirely true."  Agent Wiley finally took his seat.  "You are a very capable administrator.  You are in charge of government quota reporting for Heritage Fisheries.  You supervise dozens of biologists; are familiar with government reporting, schedules, and audits.  And on top of that, you have Ph.Ds. in both Biology and Zoology.  As unlikely as it may sound, you have many desirable skills for this project.  And we are willing to pay handsomely."

Maxwell Wiley took out a tablet computer and a beige folder.  He handed the file to R.J.  It contained a multipage document printed on the thinnest of paper.

"We are prepared to offer you this contract.  It is a five-year term.  One-hundred-and-twenty-thousand a year.  We believe that is a substantial increase from your present employment.  And I guarantee you will find the work much more interesting."

"I don't know about that.  I love my job."  Not even the most gullible person on Earth would have believed him.

Wiley smiled at him.  It creeped him out.

"And what exactly would I have to do?"

"We need you to head up a small research facility."

"Research?"  R.J. asked the question with absolute flatness, like a low-pressure system ahead of a storm front.

"Yes, I believe you have some experience with that?"  Wiley still had his toothpaste commercial grin plastered on his face.

R.J. flipped the contract back at the agent.  "Okay, joke's over.  Time for you to go."

"This is no joke, Mr. Blass.  We are in desperate need of your skills."  He didn't move from the chair.  Instead, he started fiddling with his tablet.

R.J. stood.  "There are thousands of administrators you could get.  I suggest you make your offer to one of them."

Wiley spoke, although he was still clearly distracted by the device in his hands.  "Yes, there are.  But very few with a background in cryptozoology."

"Out,"  R.J. said only the one word.  The rising red tide that spread across his face all the way to the tips of his ears said the rest.

Maxwell ignored him.  "Please.  I'd like to show you this video.  I think it'll explain a lot."  Cheerfully, he folded the tablet's case into a stand and placed it on the table facing R.J.

"Look, it is too early in the morning for stupid games or practical jokes.  You had your fun, time for you to leave."  He walked over to where Wiley was seated.  His body was rigid as though he were trying to create a current that would push the man back out the door.

The agent repositioned the tablet so the screen continued to face R.J. and pointed to it.  "You really should watch this before you make up your mind."

Despite all his best intentions, R.J. glanced down at the screen.  What had he done to deserve this level of humiliation?  Could he never bury his mistakes and move on?

"Is this supposed to impress me?" he spat.  "Like there aren't a million hoax videos you could have gotten off of the internet.  Your time is up.  You can walk out on your own, or I can throw you out."

He wasn't entirely sure he could force the agent out, but R.J. felt the anger and shame crawling over his skin like a million red ants, and hauling this man's ass out of the chair and out of his life would give him great pleasure.  He was thinking just how much he wanted to wipe that smug grin off the bastard's face when something flickered on the screen, and his eye drew to it instinctively.

"Holy Fuck, is that what I think it is?"  His mouth dropped open, the strength in his jaw muscles gone.  He became absorbed by the images on the screen, his emotions forgotten. 

Wiley dropped his smile, but the amusement was clear to see if R.J. had bothered to look.  "Oh yes, that's exactly what you think it is."