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The Guy from the Eff Bee Eye


With God as my witness, I thought it was a joke.

A prank.

It began with a couple of messages left on my voicemail.

"This is Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) from the FBI. I need to speak with you. I can be reached at (TELEPHONE NUMBER REDACTED)."

After the first message, I figured it was either a prank or a wrong number. To my knowledge, I hadn't done anything (lately) that would put me in the view of the FBI.

So, I dismissed it.

Also, the agent's name sounded - for lack of a better word - fake. I thought to myself, Self, whose parents would name their child that?

Then I received another voicemail. Same agent. Same request. Same callback number.

Now I was sure this was someone pranking me.

Who could it be? Which of my friends could pull off a stunt like this? I didn't recognize the voice, but voices can be faked.

I'm admittedly a slob. Housework… tidying up… is not my forte. If left on my own, I tend to adhere to Quentin Crisp's philosophy on the subject.

So I was more than a tad mortified when the doorbell rang.

There stood Special Agent (NAME REDACTED).

He had the look of a government employee. Off-the-rack suit. Ugly tie. Decent shoes. Bad haircut. If this was a joke, it was detailed.

Of course, I asked for identification.

That's when I realized it wasn't a joke.

This guy was the real deal.

A Fed.

In my house.

To question me about something.

I apologized for the mess. I cleared a chair and offered him a seat. I asked if he'd like a cup of coffee.

He accepted the seat but declined the coffee.

I explained that I'd received his messages but honestly thought they were a prank.

He asked why.

I told him it was because of his name.

"(NAME REDACTED)." No parent would name their child that… unless their sense of humor was even more twisted than mine.

I recognized the look on his face. A kind of quiet, personal deflation. He'd heard this before.

I tried to empathize. I've spent my life hearing people say "Michael Michael Motorcycle" and "Hey Mikey! He likes it!" like they were the first to think of it.

This seemed to put him at ease. At least, I hoped so.

Then we got down to the meat and potatoes of the situation.

Why was the FBI in my house?

I was relieved to learn that it wasn't anything I'd done.

This time.

There was a federal court case in Nashville. Bankruptcy was at the root of it. I had allowed one of my songs to be used on a compilation album. The person filing bankruptcy was also being sued by a competitor who wanted control of the debtor's intellectual property.

The competitor was attempting to finagle control of the rights to my song.

I explained to Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) that I had only allowed a one-time use of the song, and that I had retained all rights.

He needed proof.

Luckily, I had it.

It took a few minutes of searching, but I found my copyright paperwork. He asked for a copy. I scanned it and prayed that my dodgy, old, rarely used printer would cooperate.

Luck was with me.

It worked.

Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) had more questions. Most of them I couldn't answer. It all came back to the record label that used my song.

Did I know how many units were pressed?
How many copies sold?
Had I received any royalty payments?

I explained that I hadn't received any payments, nor did I expect to. I also explained that there was no way for me to know the business operations of a record label I wasn't really affiliated with.

He took a lot of notes.

He also suggested I contact the federal judge in the case. He advised me to fax her a copy of my copyright, along with a few other possible remedies to remove my name and intellectual property from the proceedings.

By this point, my head was pounding.

Our interview concluded. Special Agent (NAME REDACTED) gave me his card and asked that I contact him if any additional information came to mind. He apologized for interrupting my day. He was as cold and professional as one would expect from an FBI agent.

After he left, I contacted the federal judge's office and faxed the requested information.

Then I called my friend at the record label and left a lengthy, expletive-filled message.

Fair to say, we never did business again.

It's long been said that this particular song is the one I'll be remembered for.

Apparently, for all the wrong damned reasons.





copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger




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