Due to credible threats from everybody from under-aged and over-zealous readers, radical Islamic militants, and outbreaks of Ebola and Dengue fevers, as well as World War III, I have been forced to retain professional personal security services.

Behold!

This is Biscuit. Or, as he says when he calls me in an emergency “This Bicuit!” Or, if there’s an emergency and he’s already been hitting his afternoon Benzedrine and grappa, “Thiscuit!”

Biscuit is my new bodyguard, head of security, road manager, hype man, and fixer. I have never seen him without sunglasses on. He is not allowed to carry firearms as a condition of his probation, but he is an absolute menace with his BB gun rifle. I have yet to see him shoot, but he keeps bludgeoning the hell out of people with the butt of the thing, so much so that part of his nightly routine is to repair the the gun with duct or masking tape.

His resume, such that it was, was handwritten on a cocktail napkin from The Hideaway Lounge. It said BISCUIT in huge letters at the top, and then had bulleted qualifications, of which one was “former seal.” Of course, I thought he was indicating former membership in one of the Navy’s elite SEAL teams, but such was not the case. Biscuit very much believes that he was a seal, you know…water mammal, black eyes, flippers, aggressively cute…in a past life and had a particular fondness for mackerel.

Biscuit Trivia: Not only is Biscuit his given name, but he has two older twin brothers, both of whom are named Balloon.

We had some difficulties early on. A few weekends ago was his first excursion with me in his new capacity. We headed to San Francisco, but got a late start and decided to pass the night at the base of Mount Diablo. Things were going fine until just after 3 in the morning, when there was a 6.1 magnitude earthquake about 60 miles away. After the shaking was over, I went to check on Biscuit, but he was no where to be found. I wouldn’t find him to the following day. I had actually assumed he had died in the quake, so I was quite surprised when I finally returned home Sunday evening and found him sitting on the lawn in the front of the house.

“Biscuit, what the hell happened? I thought you were dead! I was worried sick. How did you get back here?”

“Ran.”

“You ran all the way back here? That’s 80 miles!”

“Yep. Ran right out of my pants. I didn’t sign up for no erfquakes.”

And it was true: Biscuit was not wearing pants.

Mo Biscuit Trivia: Biscuit drives a white Chevy van (model year uncertain but rust levels put it circa late ’70s – early ’80s) which he refers to as “the Biscuit Basket.”

We had another incident while on the road last weekend, this one much more impressive. We were passing the night at a secure, undisclosed location. I was inside, sleeping, while Biscuit was posted up outside, avec bb gun, guarding the perimeter. Earlier in the afternoon, in a backyard next door, what I believe to have been a quinceanera started, complete with a platoon of mariachis in full regalia, including bandoleers of rifle ammunition, side arms (revolvers of dubious functionality), and sombreros the size of God’s (if God is a Mexican (and I have no reason to believe He is not)). The music began at approximately 3:00 in the afternoon (it was a Saturday) and was really quite good. However, despite being one suave gavacho, I was not really in the mood for mariachi music just then. I was actually trying to watch a movie. In San Francisco, few people have air conditioning, because the temperature is always so unbelievably perfect, except for this summer, when California has been experiencing End-of-Daysish drought and heat waves. So the windows were open, and the mariachis were wailing plaintive refrains, and I couldn’t hear the goddamn movie. No biggie…I simply cranked the volume up on the TV, but this irritated my date (who was attempting to recover from the night before and speaks no English), so I fed her a few Valium and she was right as rain.

Eventually the movie ended, but the fiesta next door was really just getting under way. I believe that they did not actually send out invitations to the party: they just hired this army of mariachis to sing loud as hell and figured everybody they wanted to attend would just hear the ruckus and head over. Which they did, and apparently they brought tequila, because once the sun went down, things really kicked off.

And so it went until 10pm. Then 11. Then midnight. As the hours ticked by, the volume increased, and the vocals ventured further off key. By 1:30am, when they were showing no signs of stopping, or even slowing down, I gave the order on the walkie-talkie: “Sic ’em, Biscuit.”

I have no idea what he did (I pay him to not tell me those sorts of things), but by 1:41am, there was unmariachied peace.

Even Mo Biscuit Trivia: Biscuit has made it known that if he is killed in action during his time with me, it is his sincere wish to be buried in the Biscuit Basket, making it, one supposes, the Biscuit Basket Casket.