The Hollywood Tattletale
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Katfia Enforcers at Work

Minneapolis - Clueless Press International    As I reported in an earlier article, I am now at the beck and call of one of the entertainment world's most feared underground protection organizations, the Katfia. By the way, the Katfia does not exist. Anyone who says different is lying. Or making it up. Whatever.

Anyway, when the phone rang, I shortly thereafter found myself on a plane to the Land of 10,000 Lakes. I had so hoped to see at least one out the window of the plane, but it was the dead of night.

A black Mini Cooper (these are so much sexier than the VW bug) picked me up in front of the arrivals area. Unlike the previous driver, this one seemed to be much slimmer and shorter, but it was hard to tell much due to the SWAT outfit and black face paint. A gloved hand held up said, "Shhh. If you must, talk to the hand." Speaking in a low voice into a microphone/headset, the dark figure was obviously in touch with and coordinating with someone else in charge. The only hint of identity was a wisp of long hair trailing from underneath the black helmet.

Tires screaming, we pulled into an underground loading area, past the security guards that glanced up briefly and then went back to watching a baseball game on a small portable TV. Either the Katfia has connections everywhere, or the guards were made an offer they couldn't refuse. We slid sideways and stopped next to a row of trailers. As we exited the car, a low murmer of voices could be heard just behind the nearest trailer. Rounding the corner, I saw several people, dressed like my companion, and one person sitting in a chair.

"Stop here. I can't let you get any closer," said my personal Ninja. "You may take notes, but no pictures. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," I said.

Proceeding to the group, she joined the others surrounding the person in the chair. Since their back was to me, I couldn't say for sure who it was, but I could see beads of sweat running down his shaved head.

"So," said the SWAT Ninja who appeared to be the leader. "An accident, huh?"

"Yes," said the person in the chair. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Until I'm sure you're telling the truth. You see, when it comes to Katharine, I have to make sure that nothing, absolutely nothing, happens to her. And when I hear someone say 'accident', well, I just find that hard to swallow. Accidents don't just happen. Someone had to not be paying attention. You hear what I'm saying here? If you're standing next to Katharine, you need to be aware of exactly where she is at all times. You can understand where I'm coming from, right? Right?"

"Uh, sure. Hey, I didn't mean to whack her with the microphone. It just happened. I swear it'll never happen again. Really. Please? She's OK, right?"

"We think so. But if she's not...well, that wouldn't be good for you. You know what I mean?. Go on, get out of here. We wouldn't want you to miss the bus."

As he ran from the area, the black-clad figures formed a group and ran out and up the ramp. I started to head for the Mini, but my escort shook her head and told me that I wouldn't be leaving with them. They had to get to California and set up for the concerts on the West Coast.

"How am I supposed to get back to the airport?" I asked.

"Take a cab," she said.

And with that, she peeled out of the loading area and headed for a large black helicopter parked with rotors turning on the helipad next to the arena. The other Katfia operatives ran up a ramp lowered from the back, and the Mini followed. As the door closed, the turbine engine spooled up and off they went.

Standing in front of the arena, I figured I may as well head to California too. After all, that's where all the action is going to be for the next week or so. I walked to the curb and raised my arm.

"Taxi."