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thecookiejarThe Diary of an FBSI Agent, or:
'How I Came to Learn I'm an Idjit.'
--
With Foreword by FBSI Director Bobby Singer
Day One
Director Franklin came to speak with me today. The Bureau is looking to start a unit for paranormal investigations, and he wants me to be a part of it. I told him I don’t like David Duchovny. Director Franklin was not impressed.
Day Four
Travelling halfway across the country to speak with some guy by the name of Winchester about this FBSI unit. He is supposedly the foremost authority on everything supernatural, so we’ve been instructed to try and get him in as an outside consultant. I do not like spending hours in the car with Agent Graham. He sings along with the radio. Constantly. And off key.
Day Six
Samuel Winchester declined our request, but gave us an alternate number. He was very nice. His friend or his roommate or whoever... just stared at us until we got back in the car. So we’re following up on this number and then we’ll report back to Franklin.
Day Six (Later)
Sam Winchester is a very bad man. A very, VERY bad man.
Day Thirteen
It seems like so much longer than a week. And yet, the last seven days have been crazy; blurred together. It's possible that it was one long day and I just think it’s been a week. We’re at ‘Federal Bureau for Supernatural Investigations’ Boot Camp in South Dakota. Acting Director Singer is in charge, and he is probably the most hostile teacher I’ve ever had the misfortune of having to work with. He shouts at us a lot, whether we’re doing things right or wrong. He says we’re all going to end up dead because we’re morons. Vaguely reminded me of Mad Eye Moody.
Day Sixteen
Supernatural Investigations apparently involve copious amounts of flinging salt around. I made a joke about ghosts just being twenty or thirty slugs stacked on top of each other wearing a bed sheet. Graham laughed, but Director Singer threw a boot at me. Monster hunting is VRY SRS BSNSS, apparently.
Day Sixteen (later)
Important Note: A steel-toed boot will make an effective projectile weapon if enough force is behind it. Doctor at the ER said I have a mild concussion, and should be very careful from now on.
Day Twenty-One
Director Singer claims we’re all idiots (aka: idjits) and are not fit for anything more intellectually taxing than hard manual labour. He has us breaking down rusty cars in his junk yard. Graham and a couple of the other guys think it’s some kind of a Karate Kid thing – wax on, wax off, paint the fence and all that– but I’m not so convinced. I think he’s exploiting us as cheap workers. (Where cheap = free)
Day Twenty-Three
Still sifting through stacks of car parts. Rodrigues cut his hand open on a piece of a wheel well. While Director Singer gave him a tetanus shot, stitches and a long, mocking lecture (why does he have the necessary medical equipment to give tetanus shots? Investigate this later.) he told us about the time this hunter he used to know was infected with ghost sickness. (They’re incorporeal, but they can still pass diseases, apparently. I wondered about ghost-Herpes, but I figured saying something like that out loud might've gotten me punched in the mouth.) ‘The point I’m trying to make is: you are all idjits,’ he told us.
Day Twenty-Six
After almost a week of working in the junkyard, Director Singer has us practicing our salt lines again. It would seem that this, too, is apparently a lot harder than any of us anticipated. Laying a straight, unbroken line of salt on a flat surface should be relatively simple. Except that it's not. Director Singer says we're not doing it fast enough or that there are gaps. A space less wide than a hair will let a spirit or a demon through, he says. And if it gets through, it will eat me or something, despite the fact that I am an idjit...
Day Twenty-Nine
I'm still not positive that this man is even remotely sane.
Day Thirty-Two.
Next week, we're going to learn how to lay salt lines on uneven surfaces, if we don't get killed by monsters first. Director Singer says 'at least you'll taste nice, what with you using the wrong damn shaker.' That was to Rodrigues, who was drawing pictures in the middle of his circle (actually it was kinda egg-shaped) with cayenne pepper instead of salt. I think he's trying to make Director Singer kill him.
Day Thirty-Six
We have mastered the art of dumping salt on the floor. Director Singer took us to Hooters for lunch to celebrate.
Day Thirty-Eight
Salt is only step one in getting rid of ghosts. Step two is digging. More specifically, digging up graves. Digging up dead human people and lighting them on fire. It’s sort of insane, but then, I guess it’s just Dir. Singer.
Day Forty-Four
Dir. Singer is taking the best students on the very first GhostBusting mission tonight. Despite all my misgivings and goofing off, I am the top of the class. Have no idea how this will go, especially because Graham is coming too and he's driving which means more singing (will salt stop him? Must investigate). Wish me luck.
Day Fifty
Ghost hunting was a success! I shot a ghost with salt! It went right through the ghost and hit Graham in the face! He yelled a lot but I saved his life so he wasn't really all that mad. Dir. Singer slapped me on the arm and growled something that might have been ‘not bad, for an idjit,’ which is currently the nicest thing he's said to anybody (probably ever). All other agents are jealous. Very jealous. I am awesome.
Day Fifty-Three
Well. It turns out ghosts are bad, but demons are worse. And regular salting and burning is apparently less than effective. Well. The salt works pretty well, but the burning... There’s a memory that will stick with a man. Apparently there a Latin exorcism we'll be learning tomorrow.
Day Fifty-Five
Dir. Singer will not stop yelling about declensions and conjugations and our bad accents. For a language that is supposedly dead, Latin is pretty damn demanding.
Day Fifty-Six
After the thirty-something-th time I tried to recite the demon exorcism, Dir. Singer ran over my foot in his chair and told me I was on a time out from talking because the sound of my voice made him want to shoot himself in the ears. I opened my mouth to ask him a question and before I even said anything, he hit me and taped my mouth shut. Apparently he has the power to prevent me from talking. No word (hah) on long this is going to last. He's certifiable.
Day Fifty-Eight
After almost three days of having my mouth taped shut, Dir. Singer says I'm allowed to talk again, but only if he's not in the room. Rodrigues is showing us all up. Apparently he went to fancy boarding school and took Latin in school and so now he's the director's pet. That dick.
Day Sixty-Two
Exorcised a demon today. It was the most exhilarating and draining experience I've ever lived through. Dir. Singer got in the way of some of Graham's rock salt rounds, but I managed to wheel him into a safe closet before I said the exorcism. He even said thank you. I'm pretty sure I'm his favourite again.
Day Sixty-Three
Dir. Singer sent us away today. He says we're idjits and if we learn anything else about fighting monsters we'll forget how to tie our shoes. I pointed out I could learn a little more about liches and just buy velcro shoes instead and he threw his boot at me again. I ducked this time.
Day Seventy
Something Dir. Singer failed to mention: hunting ghosts involves a lot of research, involving sitting in old musty libraries and looking at even older, mustier newspapers. Sometimes, you run out of newspapers and have to go ask the librarians if they have older papers on microfiche. And then the librarians pat your hand really gently and start rambling about their great-great-grand-parents, and you have to nod and nod and agree with them and finally they give you the damned microfiche and then you have to sit in a dark musty old room and look at pictures of old newspapers until your eyes want to bleed.
Day Seventy-One
Nobody has yelled at me in a whole week. The ghost I was hunting was apparently killed four weeks ago by some guy named Cass. Am starting to have delusions of non-idjicy. I should call Dir. Singer about that.
Day Seventy-Seven
Dir. Singer has informed me that I am, in fact, an idjit, and that if I were ever to call him again at four-fifty-two in the gods-damned morning he will use all of his knowledge of black magic and the dark arts (was this serious or a Harry Potter reference? Look that up) to come after me and kill me in my sleep. There was also mentions of skinning me, and burning me alive, and something about salting me and roasting me over a fire. I'm not quite sure, I think he was asleep at the time he was yelling at me. I think I'm going to call him again tomorrow -- never thought I'd miss the sound of his voice, but it really makes me feel good to have that old grumpster on the line.
Day Eighty
I wonder how angry Dir. Singer would have to get before he actually came out all the way to Albuquerque to visit me? Well, he would probably come out to kill me, not visit, but I think if I kept really quiet and pretended to be incompetent he might feel bad and help me on the hunt.
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Date: 2010-08-15 04:34 am (UTC)