DECKER: Episode Three (An Adaptation)
If you’ve read my adaptations of Decker episodes one and two, you know that things are heating up, boiling over and about to burst. Today, I present my adaptation of episode three. It’s a suspense-driven cliffhanger. Like Decker himself, it hits hard and packs an American punch. So, strap in and enjoy. You can support Decker by showing @timheidecker some Twitter love, as well as the great @greggturkington, whose acting is a real treat in this episode. Thank you and Happy Decker Day, everyone.
DECKER: EPISODE THREE (AN ADAPTATION)
President Davidson’s beady eyes dart left and right like a stuck pig as the cold steel of Decker’s gun nuzzles the side of his head. It’s now or never. He knows Decker’s unhinged enough to pull the trigger, spray presidential brain-syrup all over the desk. But letting Decker share communications with a top secret agent could cause political ramifications from here to Swallow Valley.
“The choice is yours, Mr. President,” Decker says, ready to roar. “Do you want your skull and brains and blood splattered all over your desk or are you going to pick up that video phone and call CIA and get me your best code breaker?”
And this is it. The president feels death well up in his belly. His estranged wife. Delinquent kids. His legacy as a leader. All gone to scrim. It must be done. “Fine,” he says, giving in to the heat. He reaches for his secure video phone, boots it up.
“That’s what I thought,” Decker says.
The president’s cheeks twitch, eyes widen with relief. And his fingers stab at the video phone’s keypad. It’s camera scans the president’s face, lasers those beady retinas, and loads to completion.
“Welcome, President Davidson,” the video phone’s female voice says.
“Uh, give me Special Agent Kington, on the screen.”
Decker lowers his guard, leans in. He’s already soaked up the president’s password, studied the intricacies of this so-called “secure” device. But Decker’s strategic peeking halts when he gets a glimpse of Special Agent Kington—”smells more like a Kingston to me,” Decker thinks. He assumes these so-called “special” goons are assigned fake names to protect their identities. But this guy takes the cake and pisses mud all over it: a goofball Hobbit, greasy comb-over in a suit, and that classic CIA why-are-you-so-smiley-buddy-boy of a guest grin. Decker’s seen it a thousand times. And he doesn’t like it.
“Uh, Decker,” the president says. “This is Special Agent Kington, Special Agent CIA.”
“Hey guys,” Kington says, a certain lift in his voice as if hosting a television show and not dealing with an imminent threat to the American people.
“Special Agent Kingston,” Decker says, “you come very highly recommended.”
“I’m sort of a specialist,” Kington says, cocky grin on his face.
Decker doesn’t buy it. “We have some documents here we need you to review immediately.”
“Sure,” Kington says.” And what are the—”
“Well, we can’t review anything until we break into this case,” Decker says. “We need help breaking into a three-digit code. Are you up for the job?”
“Interesting,” Kington says. “Alright, let me think about it.”
And this snarky lag dumps Decker over the edge. It’s always these Hollywood Bond wannabes who think the world’s gotta bow to their agenda whenever they want to piss in the popcorn. Have they no sense of the mass of this situation, of the rotten violence that could explode like a barrel of chicken shrimp? “There is nothing to think about, Kington!” Decker says. “We need you to crack this three-digit code as soon as possible, otherwise the whole country is gonna be in problems—can you do the job or not?”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Kington says, oblivious. “I mean, that’s my area of expertise.”
Get a load of this buff, Decker thinks. Full to the brim and caked in the dregs of his own cardboard box. But he’s all we’ve got. And it’s show time. “Alright, Kingston, this is the case,” Decker says. “Can you see it?” He angles the video phone slightly.
Just one fuzzy glance at the case and Kington is intrigued. Being an expert, a collector, a security specialist, his face glows like a greedy Golem. “Of course,” he says, “that’s a collector’s item. Where’d you find it?”
“I got it from a terrorist,” Decker says, suddenly out of patience with this piss pig. “Now, can you get in or not?”
“Ah, I think I can do it,” Kington says, “because I’m the master of codes.”
And the president’s chubby fingers wiggle in nervous anticipation. “See, that’s why I called in Special Agent Kingston,” he says, looking up to Decker, “because he, he is the master.”
This makes Kington’s smirk stink even louder. “Yeah, right—”
“Well, Kingston,” Decker says, interrupting this crony pool party, “can you tell us the code?”
“It’s a lot of work, but, uh, I’m the right man for the job.”
“Goddammit, Kingston,” Decker says, cold fury raging, “can you get in the case or not? What are the numbers?!”
“I knew this question was coming,” Kington says, still gauging the price of the case, the make and heft. “Um, it’s tough,” he says. “There’s just so many of them.”
“You incompetent fool,” Decker says. “I need you to give me the numbers to get in this case. What are they?!”
Kington looks down, fingers engrossed in some top secret device. “This is a internal coding system, so the way to do these codes is to—”
“Damnit,” Decker says, “we don’t have time! Tell me what to do! You gotta help us get open this code!”
“That’s something I’m working on right now and—” Kington says. Stress pounds the room. His slowness unfurls like an endless roll of dismay.
“Oh shit…” President Davidson says, hangs his head.
And even Decker’s hands tremble with the possibility of a national emergency. “Should I turn it to the right?” he says.
Kington shrugs. “Sure, it’s worth a shot.”
“You motherf***er,” Decker yells. “Get me the code! I need you to get these codes open! Are you man enough?“
Kington’s nimble hands bob like puppets below the video phone monitor. “Still plugging away at it,” he says. “We’re getting there. Uh, it should be pretty soon—it takes a lot of work to get these things right, but, uh, it’s worth the effort.”
“Gimme the code, Kingston!“
“Okay,” sure,” Kington says, calm like a stick of nickel candy.
“What are the numbers?!”
And Kington smirks, says, “Five.”
Decker’s fingers go to work on the case. He carefully clicks the leftmost number to five. “I’ve accessed five,” he says. Sweat beads on his brow.
And Kington bags the second number. “Five,” he says. “This is a brilliant system—”
Decker clicks the middle number in place. “And what’s the last one?!” Decker says.
“Five,” Kington says, eyes focused on that device he’s using to crack this code.
Decker snaps the final number to five just as President Davidson’s knuckles turn white. “Let’s see if this works,” Decker says. “Here we go, I’m trying it, Kingston. Your job’s on the line.”
“Okay,” Kington shrugs.
And we hone in on the heat, the sharp pain, the potential misfire that might explode the entire country if this code is not correct. Decker grips the latch. Snap. He knows it’s time. Snap. There is no going back and if this is it, if this is the last hurrah, at least he died trying to protect his country from invasion. And with those two latches unsnapped, he flips open the case.
And the world does not end.
And bombs do not drop from the sky.
And he’s still alive.
“We accessed it,” Decker says, a warm stream of relief washing over him.
“I’m really proud of this—” Kington says, grinning proud.
“Great work, Kingston,” the president says. “You really are the master.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
But trouble mounts. And terror is yet to come. “Ahhhhhhhh,” Decker growls. “These plans are worse than I thought.”
“Damnit, Decker,” the president says. “What the hell are we gonna do?”
Decker breathes out like a dragon, releases a burst of demon breath inside him. He didn’t expect to see what he just saw in the case. No man could imagine it would be this terrifying, this devastating, this unreasonably savage and cruel.
For the first time in his life, Decker is speechless.
And afraid.
To Be Continued…
