That she was. So was Ruby, and well. All this happened a long time ago. Ruby's retired now. The statute of limitations has run out. Besides, she moved away. And I forget her name. Also what she looks like. I'm willing to testify to this in court. I have witnesses. My lawyers are excellent. Shannon never met Ruby. In a way, it's too bad. They would have looked good together.

Shannon never sold nothing but sizzle at Fantasy Island. But did she ever. She sizzles like sirloin, the Tenderloin's best. She'll look right in your eye while you come. That's worth a bundle right there, just by itself. Shannon has eyes like Keane wished he could paint. She can dilate them at will. Wide. Very wide. Deep too. And slippery. You could slide right in and drown. She has a great many talents, and, odds are, more skills than you. Also she's smart. She reads three books at a time, and remembers every word she ever read or heard verbatim. It's uncanny sometimes, how much she remembers. It's a knack that can come in very handy. Some things she's heard, she wishes she could forget. She knows how to talk, too. Nowdays, she knows how to not talk.

When she was fifteen Shannon mouthed off to her stepfather at the dinner table. He said draft dodgers ought to be shot. She rebutted in her own inimitable way. She gets rude at the drop of hat, sometimes on purpose. I can't say I blame her. Sometimes, it's the most effective strategy. Others, it aint. He got extremely pissed off and had her locked up in a mental hospital. Sent to her room was just not enough, for this guy. The judge wanted proof she was nuts before he'd sign the commitment paper. Her stepfather told him that she insisted in throwing her tampons in the trash instead of flushing them down the toilet. This way he had to look at them while he pissed. Only a lunatic would do something like that to a man in his own house. The judge agreed. Off she got dragged to the bin. It was a regular snakepit. I figure she was a political prisoner. So does she. Later she lied her way into a softer bin, and still later lied her way out the front door, and came to San Francisco. The rest is history. Can't say I blame her; I've lied my way out of a jam or two myself. Hell, I've even lied my way into couple of jams. Haven't you? We all have something in common. I came to San Francisco, too. At least that's what I'm telling you now. For all you know for sure, I'm in Coral Gables, Florida, laughing up my sleeve.

One time a guy offered to snuff the son of a bitch for her, free of charge, just because he deserved it. Snuffed free of charge is as cheap as life gets. That's all some guys are worth. Shannon turned it down. I think it was a mistake. If I was her, I'd have taken him up on it, while she had the chance. It's not like he didn't have it coming. He just ain't worth the powder to blow him to hell, that's all. Some guys in this world are just like that. He's not the only one.

Aside from his guruship at the Frontdoor, Chuck has been running bondage parlors around the Bay Area for about 20 years. His protection is solid. Every once in a long while, one of his places gets busted, but always after he, the money, and the trick book have left.

I know another former employee, "Erica," who worked for Chuck at a different place, years ago. She claimed that he bugs the session rooms. I believe her. We played in a band together for a while, among other things. I played fretless bass. It's a great way to meet people. We played drug parties, cheap dives and free in the park. They were all benefits of one sort or another. You get to know someone pretty well when you play together. I know Erica better than most people. I don't think she lied about this, at all. She did try to murder me once (well, twice, actually), but that's another story. It happened much later, and not while at play. She just went off on me. Psychos do that sometimes. It comes with the address. If it was just me that she went off on like that, I'd have figured it was my fault somehow. I'm not and it wasn't, not by a long shot. In any event, it sure as hell don't mean she was lying about Chuck and his session room bugs. It's not like she don't know how to lie, y'understand, it's just that she just wouldn't bother if there wasn't something in it for her.

Erika knows how to premeditate, too, but she didn't premeditate my murder. She's just gets a little carried away sometimes, that's all, especially when she hasn't had enough sleep. There was a knife handy one time, and another time it was a pointed stick. How primal, I remember thinking, to die from a pointed stick – at least it'll look good in the bio. The first time I was walking away with my hands in my pockets. The second time I was asleep in the next room when she kicked in the door with one foot. She has dancer's legs. They're wound like spring steel. Her foot hit that door like some can-can karate. Both times she got tackled from behind, and, so, I get to be telling you all this story today. It's funny because you'd never expect a keyboard player to go off the deep end like that. It's usually the singer. Oh well. Can't pick 'em all. At least she wasn't a bore.

Everyone likes having a good asset, Erica no less than I. She may be a psycho, but that don't mean she don't understand what motivates men. Psychos tend to vary, but men are all alike. I think with my dick, same as the next guy. I just quit acting on my thoughts, that's all. Erica cured me of that. Now I play by the Book. I used to have this problem, see. Psychos make my dick hard. Hey, I dunno know, some people are just like that. There's no accounting for taste. Some guys like bodacious ta-tas. Others go in for long legs. Some guys first look at the purse. Me? I'm a sucker for manic psychosis.

"Just 'cuz you're a sucker, don't mean you gotta act like one," somebody said to me once. I hadn't been thinking of it as some kind of act. I figured an act was part of some script, and I was ad libbing and knew it.

Better to play by the Book. There's more to life than manic psychosis (believe it or not). Some of it is every bit as interesting. How interesting depends a lot on what it is that you like (should you happen to know). You see, I mainly just like not being bored, that's all. You'd think it'd be not much to ask. But being not bored is a hard thing to do in your world. It's harder to do it alone. Unless, of course, if you're a psycho. Psychos never stay bored very long. The rest of us still have to work at it. A good asset helps. A good agent is better, but harder to find. Assholes are a dime a dozen. If a guerrilla is truly worth ten regular soldiers, then a good spy, in the right place, at the right time, is worth 10,000 armies. Any spy is worth something, even a psycho. Admittedly though, psychos are somewhat harder than non-psychos to motivate consistently. Consistency is to be striven for. It is the key to credibility. You do want to be credible. Trust me on this. Knowing why helps, too. Motivation is the key to behavior. You must grasp motivation firmly, or you'll never get anywhere near where you want in this life, not with spies, not with yourself, not with anyone.

Some spies come in from the cold to get warm. Others come in for the money. Some come for love. Some are just come junkies. Some come out for attention, and the boon that attention sometimes briefly yields. Still others get outed through no will of their own. That kind comes out kicking and screaming. Kicking and screaming are Erica's specialties. She bites, too. Most spies don't bite. Most of 'em don't even nibble. And it's not like the bait ain't tasty, either. Not one of the bunch ever gets bored, though, no matter how boring the work itself gets. At least they're not bored while the good parts are happening. Then there's the anticipation. Anticipation is never boring. Some times, anticipation is the best part, all by itself. The good part will happen eventually. Sometimes, you just have to wait – you don't have a choice. Sometimes, the longer you wait, the better it is when it finally comes. You know how to wait, don't you? I know how you could learn. There are a number of good parts. They're certainly worth waiting for. Some happen repeatedly. That few things in life that are like that is well known. Some are. Erica was for a while. I did get to hear about the bugs, so she wasn't a total loss. That's assuming, of course, that she told me the truth.

Now you heard, too. It cost me little to learn and you did pay to hear it. What's that make me? Did I say "little?" Well, I did have to sleep with a psycho, and you didn't. That ought to be worth something right there, all by itself. After all, you got to hear about the bugs anyway, and didn't get have to risk getting stabbed or anything. So what is it worth not to get stabbed? Well, it varies, and not always just with the knife.

Sleeping with psychos is a mixed blessing, at best. It almost cost me my life, twice. And what did the single, meager, sordid rumor I got out of it cost you? Less than twice what my life's worth, I hope. There are a few things in this life priced like that. Life is not priced by the ounce or the inch. I'd rather get paid in cold cash, than hot secrets. I also barter for weapons and tools. Secrets often make better weapons than cash. As commodities, they can be less than ideal. Cashing in a secret is like cashing in a check. Somebody has to believe that it's telling the truth. Checks sometimes lie. So do secrets. Sometimes, the right lie, in the right place, at the right time, is worth more than the truth. The ability to determine the relative value of the truth and a lie, is in part determined by the ability to tell them apart. Their strong family resemblance has been known to interfere. Blood is thicker than many a thing, but money is thicker than blood.

Spies have been recompensed since early antiquity. That is if they know how to ask for it. One or two of you out there would like to hear the tale of the other two bugs, now wouldn't you? Have you learned to negotiate yet? Practice makes perfect. Knowing how to ask for what you want is a skill well worth perfecting, and not just by spies. Did I mention that I give lessons?

Smart spies get paid very well, and not always just for spying. Getting paid, not skill level, is what makes you a professional, no matter what it is that you're getting paid for. Everyone else is an amateur. Amateurs do it for love. Love don't pay the rent. Love never enters the landlord's heart. After all, we're only his livestock. We're not pets. We're meat. Till then, we're beasts of burden. I probably wouldn't mind so much if it was our burden. It's not. It's his. We just bear it, that's all. If it was ours, it wouldn't be a burden; it would bear us. The land bore us well for most of the time we've been here. Then came the Enclosure. What makes it his land and not ours? Men at arms, just like the old days, no more and no less. Cops always side with the landlord. Always. Every time. They know which side the butter's on, and how it gets there, too. The only man in uniform who will ever take your side against the landlord, serves in an invading army. It's part of his job description, but only till after the invasion is over.

Spying is only the second oldest profession. Rahab was working Jericho before Joshua's spies ever set foot in the place, and even that was a long time ago. Rahab was no amateur. Whatever else she was (and she was at least a war criminal), at least she knew how to do it right. She got in good with the soon to be new cops and tax collectors, saved her own ass and her family's, and got rid of her landlord, all in one move. This is much easier said than done, even today. There is one way, though, and that's treachery. Treachery is avarice's trusty sword and survival's stalwart shield. No need to stock up; it's readily available and relatively cheap.

"And they burnt the city with fire, and all that was therein: only the silver, and the gold, and the vessels of brass and iron, they put into the treasury of the house of the Lord." – Joshua 6:24

So much for Rahab's landlord. Hey, even the servants of the Lord have to make a living. Tax was another matter. Even a pro can't escape death and taxes. As a Canaanite, Rahab practiced the Old Religion. She worshipped the Goddess and tithed to keep up the temple. The temple staff maintained the public granaries. Whoring paid for the upkeep. That's how it was done, back in the old days. It made their equivalent of taxation a voluntary act which was rewarded immediately. It also made every trick a form of worship. It was a way better system than taxes as we know them now. Joshua swept it away. To this very day the taxes in Jericho are collected by men.

Taxation as we know it is extortion, plain and simple. The shakedown never quits. Death, on the other hand, only has to wait until you quit, and death's job is done. The longer you live, the sooner you die. Just by living you're doing death's job. It's not fair. You're the one who dies. Death gets the credit. And who gets the credit for collecting your taxes? Well, remember when you were a little kid and the bullies used to shake you down for your lunch money? They grew up. They know which side the butter's on. It's on their side. So's death. Death helps them collect.

"Kill ten; scare a hundred." – Sun Tzu

Shakedown lives well. Death, however, lives longer. Nothing outlives death. Shakedown makes more than death, by a longshot, but death lives to spend it. Shakedown gets paid. Death, on the other hand, gives it away for free in the street. Death can afford to give it away. Death has plenty extra. Death gets more every day. That doesn't mean that death can't also be bought. Death is no amateur, death is semi-pro. Death can definitely be bought, sometimes for pittance. Sometimes, even, death can be bought off. To buy death off, you usually have to arrange it through shakedown, who always takes a piece of the action. Life itself is taxed, and almost everything in it. There are more kinds of taxes than you have dreamed of in all your philosophies, dear reader. The worst of the bunch is the sales tax on booty wipe. It's not a lot of money, mind you, it's the principle of the thing. It's bad enough to have to pay for the privilege, but to have to pay a tax, too? That's more than gratuitous. That's rubbing it in. Psychologists both professional and amateur have long noted that being repeatedly reminded of one's status reinforces behavior considered appropriate to that status. The key word here is considered. The question is, "By whom?" Asking is considered inappropriate behavior.

Joshua was a pro among pros. At least so said the official version. When a story has versions, they must all be taken with a grain of salt. This is be especially true of official versions. Joshua was a pro all right, but his real specialty was taking the credit for the labor and daring of others. That doesn't make him unique. This is part of every general's job description. Generals sleep on clean sheets, and only alone when they want to be. Foot sloggers sleep on the ground. This is the way of war. His two famous spies were pros among pros, themselves. What a masterful coup they pulled off. It must have been hard not brag. One of the drawbacks of spying as a trade is the lack of opportunity to show off your job skills. Spies have no rodeo circuit. There is no Emmy for spies, no Nobel prize. Even loggers get to brag in the bar after work how they made it into an art that day. Even whores get to brag on their job skills, and do they ever. You should hear them. They go on and on. Not so spies. They consider it very bad form. It can also get you killed. Or worse.

Spying is as much of an art as a craft. To go unrecognized is the bane of the artist's existence. It's even worse when the public likes your art, and they still don't know your name. Joshua rated getting his name in print. What'd he do? He stayed safe in camp, with an army to guard him. It wasn't his own neck he stuck out. It was somebody else's. They won the war, and Joshua got the credit (except for the part he so magnanimously shared with his personal friend, God.). Joshua's chroniclers were forever dropping God's name. You always look better in the eyes of social climbers and sycophants if you make it look like you hang with the in crowd. This is how name-dropping works. Mentioning the right name in the right place, and at the right time has worked wonders since early antiquity. Historians tend to drop the names of the friends (and supposed friends) of their patrons. Their patrons are much more likely to be generals than spies, whores or foot sloggers. This is the way of history.

History is the propaganda of victors. Official history is the propaganda of officials. The official is to history what the editor is to news. The best reporter on earth ain't worth shit if the editor says his story ain't news. Then there's the old red pencil. The absolutely most fascinating parts of history get cut and forgotten. Bullshit gets remembered. Of all the great plethora of bullshit that echoes this planet, official bullshit is by far and away the most likely to be remembered. Officials have a much different idea of what should be forgotten than do honest folks like you and me. Joshua was the relevant official in the Rahab case. He picked which names got dropped. Even his father got his name dropped. What'd Nun do in the damn war anyhow? Nothing I heard about, except for that one time he came. And the only way a whore got credit at all was by selling out her people. That's official history for you.

Then there were the sappers. Earthquake my ass. The walls of Jericho "came tumbling down" because they were felled by sappers, professional sappers. And a superb job of it they did of it, too. Are their names in the bible? Not even. Their names are as lost as the names of the two spies who went into town, at great personal risk, to do the surveying that guided the tunnels. Their mission made it all possible. Then there was the Isrealite army marching band. Do their names rate a mention? The sappers never could have reached the walls without the band as a front. They would have been heard and counter shafted. Picks and shovels make a dreadful racket. Let's hear it for the band. It's not a real party without 'em.

All these guys were professionals of the first order and the highest degree. Proof? Look which side won. But look who got the official credit. The boss got the credit. Why am I not surprised? Some things never change till somebody changes them. Change don't happen. Shit happens. Change gets made.

Give credit where credit is due, I say. Erica, for all her faults, is a pro among pros. Love never crosses her mind. She knows how to spot a bug blindfolded. She's never gets fooled by just stripes. Erica knows everything there is to know about blindfolds and stripes. She knows more than enough about bugs. Erica knows more than she's telling, but not if you know how to ask. Hint: don't ask. Now I've made her name (one of them, anyway) as immortal as Rahab's, if not as widely known. And what did Erica do for me? Wouldn't you like to know? Hint: don't ask.

Everyone heard about one thing Rahab did for Joshua. I've wondered what else she did that we didn't hear about. Am I the only one? I've even wondered if Rahab was her real name. She was in the very kind of situation where I, personally, would have dispensed a bit (at least) of disinformation about just exactly who I really was, and just what exactly it was that I did, and just where exactly I was doing it. It would have been the smart move. This is especially true if there was any chance a Jerichoan or so had survived. People tend to get really pissed off at you when you help a bunch of guys rob them and burn down their city. Can't say I blame 'em. The virtues of plausible deniability are evident to even the dumbest among us.

Most whores ain't dumb at all. That's a myth. The dumb ones weed out. They weren't real whores, anyhow. They were just wannabes who couldn't make the cut. What a real whore knows about life includes whole lots of stuff that you probably don't. Some stuff is worth more than other stuff. The stuff about people is the stuff that's worth most. People are more important than anything. Nothing is more important than people. Anything you want, you get it from people. If you want bread, you go to a baker. If you want flour, you go to a miller. If you want grain, you go to a farmer. Everybody wants something. What wise people want is greater understanding. There is a wisdom that passes all understanding. It can not be deduced. It must be revealed.

Though certain Jerichoans would certainly disagree, Rahab must have been fairly wise. This says nothing about her morals. There are good whores and bad whores, just like anybody else. The wise move ain't always the right one. Some moves are wiser than others. Rahab at least saw which side the butter was on before it hit the floor. She knew it was gonna fall, when, and something she could do about it. That put her at least three moves ahead of the rest of town which is about par for good whore. And how did she get that way? The two spies had revealed it to her. It's not so easy to get spies to reveal things like that. It's enough to make you wonder how she did it. Like for instance, did she ask? How'd she phrase it? Most people will say anything to save their own skin. Just anything ain't good enough. You gotta say the right thing.

Then there's this thing about giving up names. Did Joshua give up the name to divert public attention from the identity of his two spies? Or did he divert attention from her by giving up some patsy's name? Did he grant her a pension? He certainly could have afforded it, just from that one score she handed him on a silver platter, so to speak. But was he that kind of guy? Or did she just have to go back to business as usual, but with new clientele? At least she got to be remembered. This is no mean feat in a world where the guys who write history tend to believe that God thinks poorly of whores, and so think them little worthy of credit. Also, remember that they get paid to tell the official version. Officials usually gloss over the time they spend with whores because, for one thing, there's hell to pay if the wife finds out.