My bike route soon became my most affluent means of target intel collection, what with me living in the geographic dead center of “The Kill Zone” as the gentry of Albuquerque affectionately named my neighborhood.

Easily 90% of the toads I have come to investigate end up living right here in my own hood, where I don’t have far to go to keep tabs on them. I start every bike ride with a list of Requests For Intel (RFIs) to answer on my ride.

Several times I have had the good fortune of spotting key vehicles on my route, and have been able to mentally grab hold of their license plates to pass on to the LEOs (Law Enforcement Officers) to run for me.

Occasionally I suffered the horrendous annoyance of spotting a car very early on in my ride. Spotting the plate, I knew it was going to suck singing those numbers and letters of the license plate to the tune of “This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land” in my head for a whole freakin’ hour… but it had to be done!

I ride by the illusive Mr. Chan’s house. He’s a real shut-in, seen with less frequency than the North American Yeti. He is a suspected ringleader for an undetermined number of massage parlors who are illegally holding girls to work in their establishments, forcing them to sleep in the parlors overnight, only to get up and work again the next day.

Today the weather is so nice that Mr. Chan is no kidding standing in his yard profiting from the splendor of the season. He is standing right next to the street talking on his cell phone, omnipresent cigarette bouncing up and down as he speaks. Ah, Mandarin Chinese he is speaking; I just collected another piece of intel from Mr. Chan—thanks!


I even speak Mandarin Chinese (doesn’t everyone?), and I swear to this day to me it still sounds like they are just saying “Ching chang ting tang tong bing bang bong.” I tell ya I don’t know how I do it. I know if someone is speaking Spanish, and I don’t understand, it’s probably Italian or Portuguese… that’s just how I keep it all straight.