CLASSIFIED

The yacht, a sleek luxury model favored by rappers, movie stars, and moguls, powered toward the small island. This particular yacht had once been featured on the show Pimp My Sails and on the cover of Luxury Lifestyle magazine with a bikini-clad model drenching her body in champagne under the headline, “Get the Latest Hot Accessories.” The yacht had been sold to MoMo B. ChaCha through various channels because it was a symbol of wicked American excess, which The Peacock publicly disdained. But he liked the yacht’s heart-shaped hot tub, where he sat watching Ladybird Hope on a TV news hour calling him a threat to national security.

MoMo chuckled and puffed on his cigar. He offered a cigar to General Good Times, too. “The lady pines for MoMo. Soon we will have our new weapons, and when she is elected president, there will be the big wedding and she will give us a secret McDonald’s in the people’s palace. Excuse me for a moment, General. I must dress.”

MoMo searched his closet for the perfect outfit. He settled on the Elvis in Hawaii bedazzled white jumpsuit. In place of the sequined eagles on the sleeves, MoMo had commissioned ruby replicas of the ROC’s emblem, a fistful of feathers. He added the Elvis wig, the sunglasses, and the blue suede platform shoes, which brought his height up to a full five feet five inches.

In the mirror, MoMo snarled and flipped up his collar. “Get ready, world. I am your Heartbreak Hotel.”

MoMo called for his bodyguard.

“Sir?” the man said.

“What do you make of this arrangement we are negotiating?” MoMo asked, steely-eyed.

The bodyguard looked nervous. “Permission to speak honestly, sir?”

MoMo spread his arms wide. “Of course.”

“This seems like a setup, Ser Peacock.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, Ser. I do.”

“Huh.” MoMo thought for a moment. Then he reached into the gold-plated soap dispenser, pulled out a gun, and shot the guard dead. He pressed the intercom. “I am to need a cleanup on aisle nine, please.”

MoMo didn’t like feeling suspicious. But you didn’t get to have your own country named after you for being a tool. Insurance. Mutually assured destruction. MoMo found the DVD and looked for a place to hide it. He uploaded it to his laptop and labeled the file Yacht Systems.

Nameless guards started dragging away the body of the unfortunate guard. MoMo stepped over the dead man on his way out. The yacht slipped into the secret docking cave. Flanked by a contingent of black shirts, Agent Jones waited to greet the dictator.

“Ser Peacock,” Agent Jones said, bowing slightly. “An honor.”

“You do not acknowledge my advisor, Agent Jones?”

The stuffed lemur sat on The Peacock’s shoulder.

“Welcome, General Good Times.”

A black shirt approached Agent Jones. “Sir, corporate can’t make a decision: Should we go with blue one or blue two on the lights?”

Agent Jones’s eye twitched. “I don’t care.”

“Blue one is sort of a cerulean, and blue two is more of a sapphire.”

“What is going on?” MoMo demanded.

“It’s nothing. Just a beauty pageant.” Agent Jones glared at the black shirt.

“A beauty pageant? Here? On the island?”

“Miss Teen Dream,” the black shirt answered.

MoMo let out a cry of happiness. “Ladybird Hope was Miss Teen Dream. Most famous pageant. General Good Times and I accept commission as judges.”

Agent Jones mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “MoMo — I mean, Ser Peacock. You can’t be seen. You understand the nature of our deal is private.”

MoMo waved Agent Jones off with his fingers. He took a back seat in the Jeep beside the lemur. “The general and I will be very quiet. No one will to notice us in the back. I love the pageants. So much sparkle. Like Elvis. And explosives.”

“But the weapons, Ser Peacock.”

“Weapons later. First, pretty girls. Drive, Agent Jones. Before I lose my patience.”

Reluctantly, Agent Jones climbed behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He was already regretting not filling out the early retirement form.