Dear Number One,
As ordered, I went to see the play We Are Not Spies in Berkeley this past weekend for the purpose of discovering the true identity and purpose of its Bahai author, Mansour Taeed. Disguised as a drama critic, I gained admission to this show despite the fact that the theater was sold out and people were being turned away at the gate. This report omits details regarding the beautiful agent I seduced in the line duty to get my ticket.
First, my assessment of Bahai spy technology: it sucks. At the beginning of this one-man show, Taeed said the play would self-destruct soon after the performance ends. He even played the Mission Impossible theme. The play hasn’t self-destructed! A day after the event, I am still laughing at Taeed’s jokes, and still chuckling at his “film farsi” dancing. There’s also the lump in my throat that won’t go away.
Taeed’s beat up suitcase full of spy gadgets works a little better. It was made in Isfahan circa 1970. He opened it, and here’s some of what was in it:
1. Three Ray O Vac “D” sized batteries of the vintage we used in Iran for powering furniture-sized “portable” devices such as transistor radios and tape players.
2. One cheap Lamy (laamee) pen.
3. One “expensive” Parker pen.
4. A strange device for sawing plywood for the purpose of not flunking art class.
5. Another strange contraption for spraying poison at flying insects.
After this nostalgic show of force establishing his Iranian birthright, Taeed brought out one more item: a small picture of Abdul-Baha. It was the only possession that the Iranian audience did not universally connect to. But by then Taeed had made it impossible to abandon the thousands of other memories, tunes, poems, films, clothing, hairstyle, foods, carpets, doors, walls, buses, mountains, …that we share with him as Iranians. The only thing that kept me emotionally on mission was the in-your-face way Taeed drinks Pepsi. He takes a gulp and then glares at you, like, “You gotta problem with that?” Maybe that’s why kids used to beat him up at school. Not for being Bahai, but for drinking soda like you’re on his turf. Even Zoroastrians aren’t as defensive about their sacred haoma drink.
I have confirmed that the Bahai Pepsi militancy is traceable to a Bahai merchant who once owned the Pepsi franchise in Iran. He seems to have kicked ass against Coca Cola. This shows up subtly in the red, white and blue calligraphy Taeed uses to notate the family photos he projects onto the screen. Don’t be misled; those are not the colors of the Zionist-loving, Israel-supporting United States. Those are the colors of the Pepsi logo. I recommend returning funds and property confiscated from Taeed’s family in the name of collusion with Zionism, and instituting punishment proportionate to liking the wrong soft drink.
Taeed is not a harmless agent, though. He hides a most sinister secret. Disabling his bodyguard with a sharp blow to the back of the neck, I gained entry into his house that night disguised as a common party crasher (the body guard still claims to have been just another guest). Looking for evidence of Zionism I checked the bookcase, the wall art, CD rack, the food and drink. Nothing; just lots of Persian calligraphy. Ah, a suspicious history book! Dead end. I was hoping for books on how Iranians invented Christianity to vex the Romans. Isn’t that the real reason Jesus was crucified? Because he was a Parthian spy! Finally in desperation I snuck into Taeed’s office closet and waited for him to show up and place a call to Mossad.
What I witnessed was far worse. Taeed walked into the room, closed the door, then reached beneath his shirt collar and deftly yanked his face off! I stifled a scream as the empty eye sockets of a flesh mask stared up at the glue-streaked face of the real super agent. I recognized him right away. The big shiny teeth, the sparkly eyes, the glib, handsome smirk of Tom Cruise! Dear Number one, as our organization has suspected all along, the whole world is run by a secret cabal of good-looking actors.
