Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom






World Leader Peepers - NSA Operatives Gone Wild

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"Frank did you get the maid's cell phone number?" Damon was a little miffed that his favorite operative wasn't doing enough to mine more personal communication linkages from every household servant of the NSA's favorite target. Frank had been on the job for 10 years, but his actionable intelligence: phone numbers, pet data chip replants, residence bugs, remote video & audio transmission feeds, and numerous other more invasive surveillance tactics had only yielded skimpy data streams.

But all that would change because it was once again the much vaulted "Super Spy Week". This time Damon was determined not to let the "Gigabyte Intelligence Award" slip through his hands like had happened the last few years. He was going to push all the thousands of NSA operatives to the limit. He'd have them troll each U.S. agency for any 'grain' of data, and ferret out every juicy piece of shit they could find on every foreign leader. Damon was primed to dig deeper, like any good 'mole' who anticipates rolling succulent morsels around with their long winding tongue.

It really wasn't all that long ago when Damon and a good many of his 'mole' associates questioned the tactics used by the United States in its quest to acquire the holy grail of data streams - the "Absolute Data Maximum".

They, that is, all of Damon's peers at Quad A had been employing a gigantic electronic rake to catch in its rusty spikes literally everything that could be processed. This very personal data was used to generate contact maps, personality evaluation estimates, trait linkages, and a whole slew of esoteric data that ultimately ended up deep in the massive data warehouses someplace in the state of Nebraska. Needless to say, the "Absolute Data Maximum" goal - the engulfing of the entire world in a daily electronic sweep of every imaginable wire or wireless intel conveyance still causes a few new operatives some sleepless nights. Those that don't meet muster are simply eliminated, transported to a foreign dungeon or Damon's personal favorite, a wet cell in Guantanamo - problem solved.

Guess the citizens of the United States were finally waking up to their stark reality. They were nothing more than a piece of slimy meat to be broiled, grilled, or fried at the whim of 'patriotic' public servants tasked with keeping them in line. It was truly a marvel of intellectual waste - this derivative of Soviet era espionage.

Unfortunately, with all the budget cuts it was really getting tough rounding up all those pets. Data chip implants had become the next invasive entry point in the espionage trade. Planting your own version of a souped-up tracker, sensor, eavesdropper, and full tactical contact acquirer - a new and improved data chip version direct from your pals in all the covert government agencies - this was getting to be a real troublesome mess - there were far too many four legged critters.

It would all work out in the long run. Damon was just 20 gigabytes short of the prize and Frank had used the handy interrogation room of one of those Arab sand pits to extract all the extra phone numbers from that pliable maid. Therefore, thought Damon, the top prize of a luxury yacht complements of his agency's preeminent Washington lobbyist was his for the taking - at least this year - next year was up for grabs because the data threshold for the prize kept increasing.

Frank and Damon left through the steel vault with crooked smiles frozen across their pallid faces. It sure was fun being a peeping Tom - even better getting paid to slither and probe into people's secrets!