The Search For Randy Eleven

(Many thanks to Bernard, the Canadian beaver wizard, for his contribution to this story)

One of my favorite musical groups is Randy, Randy, Randy, and Randy, whose album "I'm So Randy" shot up to number three on the underground, subliminal music charts in 2002. The group is still together and is currently touring in support of its latest release, "Spiders and Milk," but has limited its tour appearances to states and countries with an "O" in their names.
I've been listening to the new album and have become intrigued with the cryptic song, "He Ain't A Randy No More," so I got on the Internet to find out more about the band. There were only three entries for Randy, Randy, Randy and Randy on Google, and the first two were about a Burmese family that named all its kids after actor Randy Quaid. On the third try, I hit paydirt. The Randy Files, run by a kid who calls himself Snip Whippet, is a virtual goldmine of all things Randy (and Randy and Randy and Randy). I read the band-members' bios, discography, saw colorful pictures of each member's tattoos, and learned the band's original name was "Turds Wrapped In Foil." Interesting stuff indeed, but the most astounding thing I learned was: there was a fifth Randy! I'm not kidding, a Randy number five. It seems Randy 5 left the group shortly before the release of "I'm So Randy," and even though he sang back-up vocals and played rhythm guitar on the album, he was never credited for his contribution.
According to Whippet, Randy 5 and the rest of the band had a falling out over which drugs the band would use to gain street cred with its fans. Four Randys opted for heroin and crystal meth while Randy 5, a former lactose-intolerant, semi-pro squash player, insisted on Viagra and Mylanta. A nasty scene ensued, with Randy 5 trying to strangle Randy 2 with a guitar string. Randy 1, 3 and 4 pulled 5 off and beat him to a pulp. Randy 5 left the group and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. But, the story doesn't end there.
Financed by student loans and Google’s AdSense revenue, Whippet relentlessly pursued clues as to the fate of Randy 5, and he has come up with some fascinating tidbits. Using sophisticated tracking software, Snippet combed through IRS records, voter registration records, Blockbuster movie-rental receipts, and birth certificates to find the missing Randy's trail. It seems shortly after leaving the band, Randy 5 (whose real name is Randy Eleven), abandoned his musical career and went to work in a shoelace factory in Sri Lanka, where he rose to a supervisory position as chief aglet installer. After only a year at the factory, Randy 5 (Eleven) left, and the trail went cold.
Six months later, he turned up in Flagstaff, Arizona working as a cactus inspector for the state. Records show he was fired for drunkenness after only three months on the job, and Randy 5 (Eleven) once again moved on, finally resurfacing in New York City, hiring himself out as a footstool for the rich. One day, while propping up a wealthy industrialist's feet, the tycoon's wayward son wandered in and recognized Randy. The kid peppered him with questions about the band, the breakup, and what Randy's had been up to. Randy 5 (Eleven) flew into a rage, told the kid to "get sodomized by a syphilitic lizard,” and stormed out, falling off the radar again.
Whippet says the last reported Randy 5 (Eleven) sighting came earlier this year in Barstow, California. A woman named, "Wisteria," says she recognized the fifth Randy at a Shell gas station. "I was like, uh, wow, that's Randy 5, so I went up to him while he was pumping gas into a Chrysler mini van and said, `Wow, you're Randy 5, and he was all like, `Yeah, I was, now I'm just Randy Eleven," and I'm like, `Cool,' and then he smiles and gets in his mini van--which, by the way, was totally full of cacti--and then he waves at me, and I'm like, ‘Bye Randy 5.’"
I should have left in the tale there, but I am a former journalist with an inquisitive nature and too much time on my hands. I became obsessed with Randy Eleven’s story and was determined to pursue it.
During my days as a newsperson traveling the globe, I developed a web of friendships with some rather extraordinary individuals. These people—from rogues to royalty—are uncanny in their ability to gather information, so I immediately sent out e-mails and carrier pigeons asking for help in tracking down the missing Randy. I received much of the same information Whippet had already posted on his website, but a friend based in Canada sent me a cryptic letter that takes the story in a weird, and possibly ominous direction.
My friend, Jean-Pierre Castor, is a former dealer in rare antiquities, specializing in 14th-century drool buckets favored by European aristocracy and old, Flemish chastity belts. He retired from the trade after a “misunderstanding” with law-enforcement officials Columbia, and currently runs the “Cirq Beav” in Montreal. However, Jean-Pierre is still in the loop when it comes to matters of secrets and rumors.
After customary greetings, his letter reads:

“Actually, I had to verify on my source before I could only think of mentioning some odd events that a friend of mine told me about. He's been researching abuses on the Canadian health care system for some time. You need to know that Canada has become a haven for people in need of medical care as the service is free for Canadian citizens. Well that could partially change soon, but that's not what I want to entertain you with. Plus, Michael Moore has already clowned around this issue.
My friend is a free lance journalist--he's done some stunts over the years, like spending three months among homeless people, living the way they do, making friends, really becoming a member of the community, if such a word can define the thousands who wander about, in search of an answer to the question ‘where the fuck am I today?’. Of course, with abuses of alcohol, zombie pills and other fire exits, his recollection were sometimes foggy. He still managed to write a series of articles, although I don't know how much of it is true. In any case, this series brought him recognition.
“Now, this is where things get interesting. My friend spent a few weeks in Lebanon just before Israel proceeded to bomb the southern suburbs of Beyrouth. He was there to collect information about Lebanese who also have the Canadian citizenship. There are a few hundred of thousand of them from Christian backgrounds who generally keep an address in Canada via a family member, but really live in Beyrouth most of the time, coming back when a war breaks out or when they need medical care. It is a documented fact.
“Now, my friend flew back to Canada just before the Beyrouth airport was damaged by bombing, and he spent the flight sitting with an American man with a southern accent who told him a fascinating story about an experiment that Israel has been trying to set up. The experiment involves creating a wall of cacti at the border with Lebanon. Unfortunately, the war broke out and the first thing that Hezbollah did was to rocket shred the experimental fence into a fruit salad.
“The American, who identified himself as Warren Robertson, could not provide documental proof, and considering the collateral damage from the war, it was just about impossible for my friend to verify the facts. Although the inquiry on the conduct of the Israeli chiefs of the military suggests information was withheld, my friend remained skeptical of the whole story and the character himself.
“However, once they landed at Montreal Pierre-Elliot Trudeau (PET) airport (and by the way, in French, the meaning of "pet" is "fart", so you can imagine how the French Canadians have been laughing at their English counterparts for being so fond of a fart--but then, most of them are assholes anyway), Warren Robertson's luggage was checked by custom officers, and what they found was dumbfounding: a Styrofoam case filled with frozen cacti flowers. Now, cacti are one of the plants that are banned from entering Canada due to their negative effects on beavers; beavers among other species have suffered severe wounds from trying to use cacti as dam building material in some area of Southern Quebec. Mr. Robertson didn't even argue the confiscation and was rather eager to walk away. That more than anything else triggered my friend’s interest into the man.
“My friend offered to let Mr. Robertson stay at his apartment as long as necessary for him to arrange for his traveling back to wherever he was coming from. That's how he eventually discovered that Mr. Robertson is a Canadian citizen since 2005.
“I don't want to go on at length on how my friend researched the whereabouts of Mr. Robertson, but I can transmit to my friend any question of yours if you really are interested on the details for your eventual book.
“Anyway, my friend discovered that Warren Robertson is actually Randy Eleven, although by the thick moustache he had under his nose, he looked more like George Clooney in Ocean's Thirteen. He seemed to have just been treated for breast cancer in Montreal (yes, it happens to men too; although not as often as colorectal cancer , which tends to show that he eats well and is not too anal retentive).
“My friend told me that he is still around; he even knows where he lives but was reluctant to tell me more, as Randy Eleven seemed somewhat evasive on what his life in Canada was about.
“I know that my friend has diverted his investigation towards Randy, but I think that the connection with medical care is still on. He wouldn't tell me more. And you know what? I strongly feel that there could be something of an American Connection tapping into the medical care system; it could even be that there some CIA and FBI agents involved undercover, although I hope not; it would be so corny. I just don't know what Randy is doing in here; I hope to know more eventually.
“I have to admit that my lack of knowledge of the music of Randy, Randy, Randy & Randy makes it difficult for me to understand how the hell he could end up in Lebanon with cacti flowers. I wonder sometimes; there are so many obscure personas involved in the show business, maybe Randy Eleven is not Randy Eleven?
“I'd be curious to have your take on it.
“I hope this information can be of help to your research; I am not sure however that my friend would be too happy that I told you about this since that would be like stealing the dough from his mouth, if you see what I mean. But considering that you have yourself much to share as far as Randy's background is concerned, I am sure that an agreement can be reached.”

As I stated before, I am obsessed with this story, but I am unsure how to proceed. Jean-Pierre’s information was startling, to say the least, and I know I can count on him to funnel further tidbits. However, I’m torn. I do not wish to place Jean-Pierre in harm’s way, and from the information we now have, it seems there may be nefarious actors involved. I know my friend can handle himself, but what if something bad befalls the beavers in his cirq? How could I live with myself?