A Confluence of Clandestine Conferences

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Full Name:

Vera K. Garcia

Franchise Location:

725 NE Weidler St, Portland, Oregon.


I observed a noticeable uptick in events this week. So noticeable that I thought it too reckless to not report in early.

There were four events. All involved two people or fewer, but I couldn't catch any names.

The first was on Monday. It was early in the morning, before sunrise, and I was stationed on the corner of Grand and Multnomah. An older man in a suit came walking down the street from the West, and he stopped near me.

I was very still, and my act was working, and I don't think he noticed that I was a person. He took out his phone, and I caught a glance over his shoulder of what he was typing. I could pick out "can't be the Foundation", and Foundation was capitalized. Do we know of a Foundation?

The man had a gun on his belt, but I don't think he was a police officer. He didn't stay long.

The second event was Wednesday night. I was down Broadway street, by the veterinarian. Two men walked by, and they were arguing. I froze up, kept my pose, I don't think they noticed.

The taller one was saying that they couldn't do what they were doing, that they were going to end up caught, and then they wouldn't even get to remember what they did so wrong.

The smaller man shushed him. Said no, the plan will work, and the reward will be worth it. Portlands will remember us well. And he said Portlands, specifically, plural. Is that significant? But they were gone before I could hear anything else.

The remaining two encounters were on Friday. The first was in the early evening, when it was just dark enough for my act to be most effective. I was by the big parking lot on Halsey. A group of two, a woman and a large person in a suit. The woman sat down on a bench, not ten paces from me.

She sounded angry. "I just don't see why we're still going through with this," she said. "I've done my part for our partnership, and I know he must be happy." Emphasis on "he". "We're in such a fucking rut now," she said.

The other person didn't reply. Out of the corner of my eye I peeked at them, and they didn't have any eyes behind their sunglasses. Just empty sockets. Unusual.

"Fine," she said. "Let's just get out of here." She pushed herself to her feet and stomped off, the suited person following behind.

Later that night, I was waiting for a bus to take me home, right across the intersection from the Taco Bell. I was still wearing my makeup, but I wasn't trying to hide.

The exact same woman came up next to me and started waiting. She wasn't attentive, she was trying to light up a cigarette. I offered a greeting, and she yelped, dropping the smoke. She muttered some obscenity and turned to leave.

I watched her go across the street, into the parking lot of that Chipotle. When I was sure she had stopped watching behind her, I followed.

She turned around a corner in the parking lot, but when I reached the corner, she was gone. I glanced around the parking lot, but she was nowhere to be found.

I realize now that every group I encountered this week was walking in the general direction of the Chipotle when I lost sight.

I would very much like to investigate the Chipotle parking lot further. Please provide me with further instructions.

As well, my compliments on the chalupas. They are always a sublime experience.

Vera Garcia
Rotational Static Reconnaissance Specialist
Oregon Division of Secret Meetings

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