To List-Serve and Protect

Now that Breaking Bad is over, Bwog has to wonder what Hartley Hospitality Desk workers do whilst ignoring our maintenance requests to: have our locks fixed, get our broken toilets replaced (looking at you, Carman), and help us raise/lower/rebuild our beds. Naturally, we knew Blue Cheetah would have the answer, as our trusty source for all things suspicious, occult, and incense-flavored at Columbia. Unfortunately, because of B.C.’s strict secrecy policy, we had no way of contacting him or her. No, we don’t even know Blue Cheetah’s preferred gender pronouns, because we can only communicate across a deserted parking garage using voice modifiers and wearing large, androgynous coats. Furthermore, we have been unable to contact B.C. since the unfortunate incident at Butler Library.

Bwog sent our Private Detectives Dillon and Goodman to inquire into the HHD and Blue Cheetah’s mysterious disappearance. The following is their report:

Bwog Detective Department

Case Number 00-7001

It started out your average Monday afternoon in Morningside. Uneventful and relentlessly depressing. We hadn’t had a case for weeks, not since our contact, codename Blue Cheetah, took a bunk. For all we knew, B.C. was chilled off, and we were dead men walking. But if someone had taken a hit out on us, we had yet to hear about it. The bigger problem was that no one was talking after what happened to B.C. Our usual informants were scared, going to the cops for protection, or just skipping town. We had ourselves a cold case.

Things took a turn when someone hammered on our door. Before we could say so much as “Come in,” the door busted open. Behind it was a dame like you’ve never seen before. Legs that went all the way down to the floor, and a head that went all the way up to the ceiling. Did I mention our office is only five feet tall? We work in half of a floor in Lerner.

Anyway, the broad gasped out, “Is this tips@bwog.com?”

“Yeah,” we shot back. “Who wants to know?”

“I’d prefer to remain anonymous,” she said with a wink. “Let’s just say I have some information that might prove useful to you. All I ask is that you hold off on posting this story until you get confirmation from a second source.”

“Well that’s just good journalistic practice, doll,” we responded, and got right to work. We couldn’t refuse an offer like that. The chick told us to check out the 116th Halal cart, where we might find something of value. As we walked up, we got a slant of two shadowy figures running from the area. We wanted to tail them, but finding Blue Cheetah took priority.

Retracing their steps, we got to a dumpster, which was unassuming enough at first. But when we got closer, things got hinky. Inside was a medium-sized number in a cheetah costume, spray-painted blue. Under six feet tall, average weight, though it was hard to tell under all the fur. The poor joe was knocked out. We had just enough scratch for a lamb-over-rice, not the combo, so we shelled out. When the sap smelled the food, he started to wake up, and we were in business.

The cat declined to tell us his name, but we knew he was pulling one over on us. It had to be Blue Cheetah.

“You think you’re a cool cat, don’t ya?” we said. “Just break up the act and tell us what went down here. We’re trying to help.”

So he spun us a tale, and boy was it a doozy. It turns out that while he was typing up his latest report in Butler, two women dressed business-casual jumped him.  That was all he could remember for sure, but we knew in our gut those women were the same two we saw take off from the dumpster. Innocent gals don’t run. We sent Blue Cheetah home with CAVA, although he seemed shady about trusting Public Safety. We knew we’d have to follow up on that tip later, but for now we had a job to do. We followed the trail straight to the Hartley Hospitality Desk.

Apparently the two tomatoes who nabbed Blue Cheetah worked at the Hartley Hospitality Desk. With our solid cover as Columbia students, it was duck soup to call the desk, say that we were locked out of our rooms, and insist that we couldn’t walk over to the desk since we had been showering and didn’t have our glad rags. Then we got ourselves up in towels to keep up the ruse.

When one of the canaries came to let us into our room, we cornered her, and put the screws on her. It wasn’t procedure, but then again, we didn’t give a rat’s ass about procedure. This wasn’t some on the level operation we were running. We learned that the Hartley Hospitality Desk, despite appearances, was actually not the culprit. According to the dame we interrogated, she and her partner snatched Blue Cheetah to protect him, and dropped him off by the Halal cart when it was safe for him to return to Morningside.

It sounded like a load of bunk at first, but then the broad introduced us to her partner, and what do you know, it was the same gal who had given us the tip about the Halal cart earlier. Everything was on the square. The chicks didn’t say much more after we parted ways, but we guessed that Blue Cheetah got too close to the truth, if you catch our drift. He was messing with the wrong mug, and it could have cost him if not for two very savvy undercover sleuths and our own gumshoeing.

We had our Cheetah back, and the answer to our other investigation to boot. The Hartley Hospitality Desk was taking so long to process requests because they were private dicks, just like us. Trying to make their way in the cold hard world. So we dusted out back to the office, satisfied with a job well done. We had no kicks, and nothing to worry us. For now, at least, it was just another late Monday night at the office.