Head of PIA Hotdogged

UMass PD Refuses to Help

Carl Mon,
PIA Intern

My Father and the head of the Peripheral Intelligence Agency, Clarence Mon, was a victim to a heinous crime last week. He had just finished a long day of investigations at the Amherst headquarters. It was 11:00 pm when he left the office. In the dimly-lit parking garage, he kept his eyes on the periphery as always, weary of his many foes and curiosities, as he made his way to his vehicle.

It hit him from where he least expected it. Directly from his front. He was struck upon his chest, not hard enough to cause pain but hard enough to scare the hell out of him. He turned his head and tightened his fists. It was too late. The masked figure had already satisfied himself, said “I’m sorry, Mr. Mon,” and was now fleeing the scene, hot dogs falling from his back pockets as he ran.

My father found a Fenway Frank mashed into his chest pocket. Ketchup and mustard soaked through his shirt into his chest hair. Remnants of a mangled bun had fallen onto the ground in front of his feet.

He called the police. “Hello, this is 911, what is your emergency?”

“It’s Clarence Mon,” he said. “Head of the PIA. I’ve been hotdogged.”

The dispatcher whispered to someone unintelligibly. Then she hung up.

My father was then ambushed from all angles. He was knocked to the ground. He was kicked. He was punched. He heard dozens of people whispering “I’m sorry, Mr. Mon.” He could feel the pressure in all of his pockets. He could feel ketchup and mustard through his clothes.

He had called 911 again and was desperately begging for help. “Please, I’m going to die. I’m being hotdogged from all angles. Help me, please. I’m in the parking garage downtown.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Clarence Mon, head of the PIA. Gosh, please help.”

“Oh, ok. One minute please Mr. Mon. The sergeant wants to speak with you.”

My Father begged for help as he was punched, kicked, and hotdogged relentlessly. “What? Help me! I don’t have time to talk about the merits of central intelligence.”

“Cut it out Mr, Mon”, came the cold voice from the phone. “It’s over. If the peripheral were going dark once and for all, we would all be better for it.”

At that moment, a giant hotdog hit my Dad’s phone like a baseball bat. A home run, it soared out the parking garage window. What happened after that point, I do not know. My father does not remember. He is traumatized and hospitalized for the foreseeable future. He keeps waking up, touching his chest and hips, paranoid that something has invaded his pockets. “Oh, thank the horizon, he says,” before falling back asleep, but it is never long before the paranoia wakes him up again.

This was the very crime that UMass PD’s Sergeant Tom Johnson so vehemently condemned last month. Now, with the head of the peripheral intelligence world as the victim, the sergeant is passive, selfish, and opportunistic.

UMass PD has refused to comment on the matter thus far. Sergeant Tom Johnson has continually ignored us as well.

I am traveling from my post in New York to take my father’s position in Amherst while he is bedridden. I am determined to fill his shoes, although I know it is no easy task. I am determined to investigate how the central is slipping its tentacles into the periphery. The periphery will be clear again if I have anything to say about the matter. And my father’s dignity will live on forever.

Carl Mon can be reached at mon.carl@surrealtimes.net

For more articles by Carl Mon, click here. To get in touch with this writer, email mon.carl@surrealtimes.net.

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