Oh well, Moe Lieden doesn't mind. He's found his own room to stretch out in.
"I can walk around naked in here if I want, Beak," he tells the General before Space's chief military official takes off in his special plane, The Maggie O'Connell (named for the Alaskan bush pilot in Northern Exposure, played by Janine Turner, "the most beautiful woman who's ever lived," Beak declaimed drunkenly one night when Moe Lieden found an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels in a secretary's desk drawer).
What former President Lieden was doing, invading the personal desk spaces of his workers, all of them attractive young women, ranging in age from nineteen to twenty-six, hair long and straight on all of them, is anyone's guess. Since Congressman Jarv Mitchell-Strong's shocking death by an assassin's bullet, Moe Lieden, like every American politician, is terrified, but Moe is terrified at the prospect of being shot. The other politicians are terrified because Jarv Mitchell-Strong entertained a host of VIPs in the political and entertainment spheres on his yacht. He recorded sexual activities, including a lot of rape, committed by rich and famous people at high levels of power in corporations, and politicians, though not Lieden, but his son, Happy Lieden, participated in twenty yacht parties.
For those who needed to partake, Happy brought the crack. A rich man, Happy Syndicate Lieden, buys illegal drugs, real estate, hookers, lots of hookers, cars; his paintings sell for 400,000 to 900,000 dollars a pop. They resemble Kandinsky's work, if Kandinsky had been a lousy painter. You want to talk with Moe Lieden for five minutes? Buy one of Happy's restaurant napkin black magic marker drawings for a thousand dollars. Buy a large Happy Lieden oil painting designed to be hung over a three to four person couch, only 750,000 dollars, but yielding two hours with Moe Lieden, over lunch if one wishes, but Moe Lieden will not pick up the tab. He hasn't paid for anything since he became a Congressman from the great state of Delaware, back in seventy-three, the year Gram Parsons died.
Meanwhile, General Beak heads to the White House for the party celebrating 250 years of French-American cooperation and good robust friendship. His plane rises from the tarmac.
The President of France, Vyvivarando, will be there, Beak thinks, as will the evil she-cat, President Dinah Parris. Dinah, hmm. Such a handsome woman. A shame she's a traitor to this nation. I must interact with her this evening--well, by Space, I will interact with Dinah Parris only to the extent that I must, in my capacity as a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, top man in Space Force! If not Chairman. That damned General Bomb! As Chairman he's well-liked and respected--well! he is worthy of respect but I hate his guts!--but really, I would make a better Chairman. I look like a Chairman. The first Chairman in space! The First Chairman on the Mooooooooon! Oh, there's the Moon, looking almost full, aren't you, Moon? Showing us most of your Earth-facing side. Those damn Chinese want to conquer you. Well, let them try! We'll be on the Moon again by the end of the decade. President Lieden must win in twenty-four to execute the agendas of Space. Before I retire America will plant its flag in the Andromeda Galaxy! New technologies will cause progress to gallop forward. As we encounter the aliens out there who don't want us to subjugate them, our weapons will develop. We will kill or enslave any who resist our policies. I want a drink.
Bomb: Helen? Bring me a brandy, you know how I like it.
Look at that ass, General. You like it, don't you? Damn right I do, other voice in my head! Voice of temptation! Why, I could ask Helen if she'd like to attend the White House Party as my escort. No! Don't use the word "escort!" My date. No, not that! My stewardess, yes, I'll just say that. It's true, isn't it? I've employed her for five years and I don't even know where she lives. We've never had lunch. We've never played tennis. We've never had a drink together. There are drinks on this plane, Beak, you rascal! Invite Helen to sit with you and have a drink. What could she be doing back there? Maybe she's reading a steamy paperback? But what about Mrs. Beak? She believes in my faithfulness to our vow. I have been steadfast. Maybe I deserve a lapse? Maybe it won't hurt anyone if I feel up my stewardess? She must have some attraction for me. I'm a damned handsome man. Here she comes. Say hello, invite her to sit. After ten minutes of chitchat and warm talk indicating you care about her life and her interests, put your hand on her thigh. Put it there like it's supposed to be there. If she rejects you, laugh it off as a joke. If she treats you coldly thereafter, fire her. We just nodded at each other, but she smiled. I couldn't say anything. I must not have the adulterer's inclinations, such as one finds in a specimen like Billy Boy Blade. Back when we were bombing Yugoslavia, I was invited into the Oval Office. President Blade was there along with a young brunette with a cute chubby figure. She looked like a morning TV show hostess. In fact, I soon recognized her as Agnes Foreman of The Horne Report, a weekly television news program. The two looked disorganized in their clothes. The President's tie was askew, the top two buttons of his dress shirt revealed a flushed upper chest. A spike of gray hair projected from the top of his head. Agnes Foreman had only one stocking on and wasn't wearing shoes. I noticed sperm on the desk but didn't allow my gaze to linger, though I felt more than ever that I had intruded on the albeit treacherous and philandering behavior of our forty-second President. I became immediately concerned for the continuation of my job, 1999 having seen me relieved of duty working a desk in the American Embassy in Ankara, liaising with NATO member state Turkey as NATO pounded the bones and organs out of those Yugoslavs with our mighty bomber force! My new job put me in the bunker underneath the White House. I had my own office, albeit a cramped one. I had to share a desk with Herman Y. Peasley, State Department Analyst For U.S.-Egyptian Relations, Special Advisor To Vice President Carnage on Middle Eastern Affairs. The metal desk was also in Herman's office. The table top would slide back and forth, a shared desk between the rooms. Herman was a bit too greedy with that thing. His square inches were bigger than mine more than many times. And who knows? Maybe out there in Space I'll encounter aliens who will transform me into a god! I shall return to Earth, then, and take it easily, turn it into the world I want it to be, and I will have plenty of desk space!!!
Helen: May I get you anything else, General Beak?
General: Oh, I was far away.
Helen: Is there anything I can do for you, sir?
General: Sit down here with me.
Helen: Are you enjoying the flight?
General: I am, yes. Taking time to reflect on recent times.
Helen: America seems topsy turvy ever since President Lieden resigned.
General: Deposed, not resigned. Really, it was a usurpation.
Helen: Forcible removal?
General: Like pulling a stubborn cork out of a tight-necked bottle.
Helen: Jeepers.
General: Of course, I've been assisting the President in his bid for revenge at the polls in 2024.
Helen: I'll be out of the country by then.
General: You're going where? And for how long?
Helen: Mauritania. About six months.
General: Why Mauritania?
Helen: Observations. I don't just work for you, sir.
General: I knew that, but--
Helen: Will you miss me?
General: Yes, Helen, I will. Go, if you must, with my blessing.
Helen: Thank you, General. In the meantime, I'm your stewardess Helen and we will be landing at our destination in twenty minutes. If you need to use the head, I suggest you do so now.
General: Sound advice! (Drains his drink) I have pee pain.
White House Big Event Dinner, President Parris and First Gentleman Douglas Gard, Esquire, hosting President Vyvivarando of France and his lovely pop star wife, Sidney Milordpleasethme. Her fifteen CDs feature a breathy, talky singing, changing tempo often, shrill as a whistle, low as a rolling belch.
President Parris is in her element, bullshitting, listening to bullshit, saying a few serious things to make the money flow, more bullshit. She eyes her husband Doug arguing with Secretary of State Artie Sneffen.
Doug: You are a dead dry worm on the sidewalk with that idea, Arthur!
Sneffen: We must go to Mars. Don't you want to run in big jumps like John Carter in that film, did you see it?
Doug: I saw it. Terrible.
Sneffen: Disagree. The moment Lynn Collins--yum!--says the name, Barsoom, I shiver in my skin. In fact, this Secretary of State cried.
President Parris: You weren't Secretary of State when we watched John Carter of Mars.
Sneffen: I was, and still am.
Doug: Why my lovely Dinah hasn't dismissed you is a wonder I cannot fathom at this time. I ask the gods for more wisdom on the matter. Perhaps I'm missing something?
Sneffen: You're missing a lot.
President: I'm missing a good joke. Anybody got a good one?
Man's Voice: What rhymes with Yahtzee?
President: I don't get it. Oh, I guess we're not a joking bunch. Oh, comedian, host of late night television fame, come here, stand before your President.
Clu Burminder, host of CBS late night talk show, Late Night With Clu Burminder, with the Alvin Kyte Rock and Roll Jazz Orchestra. In his five-thousand dollar gray suit, he strides over to President Parris, head tilted, warm buttery gaze fixed on her brown irises.
Clu: Madame President, allow me to congratulate you on a fine party. Everyone is entertained, we all feel the power of this executive structure, this White House, emanating into our bowels.
Parris: Oh my!
Clu: It is a great honor to be here.
Parris: You bet it is! Do me a favor and say something funny.
Doug: Yeah, lighten the mood, funny man!
Sneffen: Don't reveal who you really work for, Clu.
Clu: I work for the iguana-thing that runs CBS.
Sneffen (Beaming in a smile) There's your joke, Madame President!
Parris (laughing) Oh, bless your heart! Come see me in my office tomorrow, say, at eight-thirty, that's a.m. If you can't make it, too bad. I'm the President, see. My time is valuable. Make the time I just proposed or we're through! I won't even watch your stupid show anymore! I'll make sure you're on your way to Throughsville so fast your glasses will fly off your head! No one may get through to me if they cannot meet my proposed meeting time. Does it sound like an obsessive way to conduct my affairs? Yes? Do I hear a yes murmuring somewhere among you sycophantic piles of you know what? Look at this affair, all of us dressed up in our best, you boys in tuxedos look mighty fine, I'd bone half of you, including you, Frenchy Prez.
Clu: Madame President?
Parris: What is it, precious?
Clu: I will see you at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.
Parris: Compliance, yes. Kiss my shoe.
Clu: Are you--
Parris: Do it.
Like everyone else before him, Clu Burminder kisses President Parris's shoe, a nice blue one with a modest heel. While he's down there, Clu sniffs, detects a faint whiff of tired feet. This humanizes her and further, Clu, inside himself, worships Dinah Parris. The first woman President, just fabulous!
And she's Black!
A logical person with taste and good sense would say the rise in the film industry of the early 1970s of Pam Greer is a more significant historical event, culturally certainly, than a grasping power-hungry politician ruining lives while Pam Greer entertains us.
Doug: Here's General Beak. Over here, General! They have your favorite Scotch! Here, masked servant girl. Get the General your top of the line Scotch, the McGorkindale's.
Beak: Sir, how are you?
Doug: Splendid as a peach about to be photographed for an ad. Have you ever eaten a good peach?
Beak: Yes.
Doug: Did you know there's an emoji of a peach, but it's used in social media as a visual symbol of a butt?
Beak: (sighs) You don't say.
Doug: Emojis. There's enough there for a Congressional investigation, don't you agree?
Beak: I don't.
Doug: Why ever not?
Beak: What teenagers and college kids do with their provocative emojis is none of our business. Who cares? Why do you care?
Doug: I want American youth to be healthy American youth. Look at the Asians. So skilled in math. That's the basis of science, engineering, math. I was terrible at math, flunked trig, yeah, me, Dougie Gard, strong safety, thirteen interceptions my Junior year, got me laid I tell you. No, I assure you. Candy Inverness put her hand on my Johnson the night I caught three interceptions, and ran two back for touchdowns. She was killed in a car accident the next night. Never had a follow through from her. I still fantasize about it, you know, the what if?, like after the party she hadn't taken a ride from her drunk friend?
Beak: Sir, the drivel coming from your mouth could be disinformation. It could be the ramblings of a madman. It could be a sign your marriage is unraveling. Why? The pressures of the job, her job, I mean. You have no real job. You're just the President's bed partner. You're of no importance. You have no role in Space.
Doug: I resent that, sir! I tried to read Foundation by Isaac Asimov! I had the trilogy. Foundation and Empire, Second Foundation. Hardcover, Science Fiction Book Club, don't laugh, I was a nerd. I sold the book to buy bread.
Beak: How much did you get for it?
Doug: I don't remember. I sold many books, treasures even, to buy the proverbial bread. Oh rich bread, nourishing loaves falling upon the faithful and, let's face it, some real dummies following Jesus, too, you have to expect it, but Jesus loved all of em. Even the Romans who nailed him up there. Gotta love Jesus, the patience of the man.
Beak: Jesus loved us, so he showed us the meaning of sacrifice. Do you know what it is?
Doug: The meaning of sacrifice? Giving up something for others.
Beak: Jesus was saying, "Don't do what I do." Crucifixion, and before that, torture. Whipping, cat o nine tails, the poor man had a shredded back before he was put on the cross. Pain, exquisite pain, the kind putting one into a trance state, into a place where visions happen.
Doug: You seem to be suggesting Christ Jesus was perhaps a bit more ordinary, human, than Goddish?
Beak: Fully human, fully divine, as are we all. Even lost souls like homeless wretches destroyed by the U.S. economic system and its predator class--you, Doug--are fully human, fully divine. Even you, Mr. First Gentleman, are such.
Doug: Blasphemy. Your proximity to former President Lieden has made you feel bold as you plot to restore that maniac to power. You know he almost destroyed the world? General Bomb saved the world but no one will know that outside a few. The military component of how we run things in America is mostly covert. Damn, I forgot to take my cock pills at six o'clock!
Beak looks at him, almost says something, shakes his head. An unexpected guest has arrived from San Francisco, from long past time, 1930--Sam Spade, dapper in a brown pinstripe suit, brown fedora, shiny black shoes, a slight upturn to his eyes, mustache, slightly Satanic look to his features.
Parris (greeting him): Mr. Spade, how are you? Where have you been?
Spade: From going to and fro in the world, and from walking up and down in it.
Parris: (laughing) Sounds like someone's been reading Walt Whitman!
Spade: The Book of Job.
Doug: I'm fascinated to know more about this book called the Bible. I've read some of it. I don't like the prose style.
Spade: It's a dry writing style, I concur.
Doug: Have you met my wife?
Spade: I gave her a toss, yes.
Doug: You're a charitable man? I give to institutes of higher learning and to Hollywood actresses and actors who demonstrate the most charitable zeal in any given year.
Spade: You donate to the rich?
Doug: These rich have problems, just like you and I--
Spade: I'm not rich, you are.
Doug: What's your line of work? I feel like we've met.
Spade: Private detective.
Doug: I guess it would be a stupid question to ask if I inquired about who your client is?
Spade: I'm not going to tell you.
Doug: Fair enough. What brings you to Washington?
Spade: Not the weather.
Doug (laughs too much at the slight joke): Your wit I nominate for driest, oh, just double-darned desert-like!
Spade: You have a way of speaking that makes me assume you had some kind of abusive contact with an older sibling or a parent.
Doug: My older brother Gage, Gage Gard, liked to fish in a lake with a monster lurking in its deep waters. One day, the monster took him. Gage was twenty-one.
Spade: What was your role in the forced resignation of Moe Lieden?
Doug: I knew nothing of it until after it happened, and then I heard what Dinah told me, and what Arthur Sneffen told me. The stories matched exactly.
Spade: Interesting. They matched exactly, you say?
Doug: Yes, and General Bomb, when he told me about it, it matched Arthur Sneffen's and my wife's accounts.
Spade: I looked into your background. Gage Gard defected to North Korea while a Colonel in the Air Force. He's had himself physically modified to look more Korean. He's a freak, and a traitor. Your younger sister, Tracy Gard, now Tracy Gardenstein, operates a motel chain in Alabama, Mississippi, and Tennessee, the Leave the Rest to Us chain.
Doug: She's a successful businesswoman, but her husband Doug--he has my name--cheats on her with inexpensive hookers. He goes to New Orleans a lot and screws dozens of women, then goes home to my sister--
Spade: Sounds like a scoundrel. You're powerful, or you know powerful people. Put a stop to it. Have him killed.
Doug: Your suggestion, though I like the sound of it, doesn't sit well with my conscience.
Spade: You don't have a conscience. You're married to a murderer. She's killed more children than Gilles de Rais. She's upsetting the governments of other countries, she's picking a fight with the Soviet Union.
Doug: Soviet--you mean Russia. Haven't heard it called that since, like, the nineties.
Spade: My bad.
Doug: That young person's expression sounds strange coming out of your mouth, Mr. Spade.
Spade: Why?
Doug: You look old school, decidedly. I'd peg you for someone out of 1939, right about the time of good old World War Two.
Spade: From what I've read about that war, it wasn't good.
Doug: But surely you read Mr. Terkel's book, The Good War?
Spade: No.
Doug: You must! I have a first edition hardcover signed by Studs Terkel himself!
Spade: Then I mustn't read it. It's a valuable item to you, I don't want the responsibility.
Doug: Since I entered Washington service as Second Gentleman, then First Gentleman, I've never before now been turned down on a book recommendation. I'm heartbroken.
Spade: Look, I'll locate a copy of The Good War by Studs Terkel and read it, I just don't want to read your autographed copy.
Doug: But it's a copy that was held in the liver-spotted veiny hands of Studs Terkel himself! His soul entered the book! I believe that!
Spade: I can hear you perfectly. You may lower your voice. The people here think you're nutso.
Doug: Let them think, for thinking is the brain's exercise, and brains not exercised atrophy. They turn white, like cauliflower, dead squeaky food for rich tables.
Spade: Doug, life is more than this. Scheming, lying, no sincerity. I wouldn't give you five cents for the whole lot of vicious biting flies in this room. But, when one of them pays me, I dive in, especially when there's a fringe benefit.
Doug: Which is?
Spade: Access to the treasure cave, my good man. (Pats him on the head and moves away from the cuckold).
Spade: How do you do, Madame President? Sir, I don't believe we've had the pleasure?
President Parris: (Giggles) This is Mr. Samuel Spade of San Francisco. This is Raul Pinterrez of the Quadrilateral Commission.
Spade: More conspiracy theories about the Quardrilateral Commission are hatched than just about any organization, to my workman's knowledge.
Raul Pinterrez: We are a benign philanthropic think tank. The world doesn't know the good we do.
Spade: They know the bad. Your outfit recommended the poisoning of a river in South Carolina for the sake of quicker access to a mineral deposit of copper.
Raul Pinterrez: That was in 1954. Ages ago.
Spade: Just last week your Highest Ranking Member, He who Shall Not be Named, But Inferred, recommended the assistance towards transition to democracy on the island of Bona Furia.
Raul Pinterrez: Twelve of our members have vacation homes there, I doubt anything messy is planned.
Spade: Well, Madame President. I recommend not bedding, desking, or couching this man.
Parris: You forgot chairing (laughs).
Spade: Indeed. He's a scoundrel. A dung in human form. A man who turns civilizations into dungheaps. A liar, a pest, a greedy taker, a destroyer of hope and dreams, a wrecker of towns, of service stations, of runways, don't trust him, Dinah. I must go over there to speak with someone. Nice to meet you, Mr. Pinterrez.
Raul: A strange man. Of course, I find him funny. If I were to take him seriously I would draw my gun and shoot him where he stands, but I am a patient and humble man. I'll keep an eye on him. He intrigues me.
Parris: He's a fictional character.
Raul: Hm, you don't say. What do you mean?
Parris: He's from a book, The Maltese Falcon.
Raul: A book.
Parris: He's the main character in that book.
Raul: What is this? Cosplay?
Parris: No, baby. It's really him. Sam Spade from the book, that's him!
Raul: Who else in this room is not real?
Parris: Huh?
Raul: What you say can't be.
Parris: It sure is. I myself met a little fella name of Frodo Baggins. He's a White House Correspondent, Shire Times, Foreign Desk.
Raul: I heard this White House was infected with madness, but I didn't realize it's true, I just dismissed it as an exaggeration. Governments are filled with cranks.
Parris: Yes, and Sam Gamgee too, Frodo's little friend.
Raul: I suppose Gilda as played by Rita Hayworth is real, too, one hopes?
Parris: Don't know about her, but Jack Kerouac signed the White House Visitors Register, must've been on a tour.
Raul: He died in the sixties, didn't he?
Parris: He's in his books as a character. Characters are coming to life, honey. E.T. was spotted in Indiana levitating a trailer park.
Raul: I must speak with the Top Authorities of the Quadrilateral Commission. Forgive me, you can mail me my Presidential Freedom Medal. You're doing a bang up job as President. The country loves you.
Parris: Now there goes an honest man. Where did my husband get to?
Doug Gard, holding a paper plate covered with Cheetos Puff, holds forth to the Ambassador from Israel, Gad Deathpunch, UCLA 1992. General Beak looks on, half drunk already.
Doug: I reach down into the well of my psychic resources, there to find what I'm looking for. Care to guess what that is, Ambassador Deathpunch?
Deathpunch: The strength to support Israel and recognize its right to exist, declaring that every chance you get when you're interviewed on television and YouTube?
Doug: Oh, they never ask me that. I don't know dip squat about Israel, except that I'm supposed to support it. My wife does. Okay, I'll support it. What else do you want me to do? Maybe I don't have any will of my own? Come on, give me an order! You want me to do what with the President? Here? Okay!
Parris: Doug, what are you doing?!
Doug: Attempting intercourse with my wife. Let's get the orgy started!
Parris: Get off of me! Steiner, do your job and protect your President! Take him to the nearest shower and throw him in, turn the C knob for cold!
Secret Service Man Steiner takes away Doug, whom he's punched in the forehead hard enough to give the First Gentleman a headache. The President steps on a Cheeto, looks at the bottom of her shoe, feels disgust for Doug's behavior.
Might have to commit him, she thinks. Might have to have him eliminated. Might have to silence some folks who might blunder onto the truth as to how Doug gets, let's just say, made into a non-problem. Or a problem in the long term? What if he survives, comes back to haunt me when I'm trying to convince Americans to elect this criminal, Dinah Parris, over that criminal, Mr. or Mrs. X?
Spade speaks with General Beak and Arthur Sneffen.
Spade: That man, Gard, belongs in a loony bin.
Sneffen: Of course he does, but he has a position of responsibility.
Spade: Orgies Roman-style go along with his responsibilities?
Sneffen: Washington-style.
Spade: Your smile gives you away as an attendee to those bashes.
Beak: I've heard such happens in Washington, but never in my Pentagon.
Sneffen: Lots of asshole-sniffing in the Pentagon, what are you talking about, General Beak?
Beak: Mine, that is, my asshole, smells like the vacuum of Space, by Space. My rectum is a vacuum.
Spade: A clean one?
Beak: A clean vacuum. I'm going to have a Space toilet installed where my guts are now.
Spade: While you're at it, turn your chest cavity into a sink.
Beak: A human bathroom! All of the amenities crammed into one body! Electric toothbrush, check! Shower cap, check! My jaw is the towel rack! My mouth a bird bath, I eat them for protein, I'll lose bone mass in Space, a bit of a drawback, but I'll replace it by eating the bones of others. Are there bones to eat here at this so-called orgy? If it's an orgy, where are the naked women?
Sneffen: The First Gentleman spoke out of his backside when he said, orgy, General. If you follow the words of the likes of Douglas Gard, you deserve to fail in everything you do.
Spade: Does that include the endeavors of Mr. Gard's wife?
Sneffen: You would trap me with the answer. You well know, due to the surveillance of yours we discovered, that I don't plan to endorse Madame President in 2024.
Spade: Why do you stick around seemingly in her camp?
Sneffen: That won't be for much longer, now that we've talked. Frankly, I'm tired of pretending. I can't stand Doug Gard. And I know you work for Dinah.
Spade: Who told you?
Sneffen: General Bomb.
Spade: I'll let her decide if I work for her or not.
Sneffen: Fair enough.
President Parris makes a speech.
Parris: May I have your attention, ladies and germs (laughs, the only one who does). We conquered Covid! We worked from home, we Zoom-taught our kids, we protected them. Our flag still flies. North Korea is afraid of us again. I need to...go off script. Yes, I was reading a script written by Gloria, one of my speechwriters...sorry, Gloria, but I need to just be myself. I know, you're thinking, how can the first Black woman President of these United States express what she really thinks? Feels? Intuits? Senses? If it sounds like I read Psychological Types by Carl Jung in college you'd be correct. Wrote a paper, got an A, go ahead, check on that fact, you'll find it's true. Dinah Parris, big time scholar! Am I a good President? I'll let history decide on that one. Let me tell you, History. If you don't give me a good grade, I guess that means my enemies will have written the accounts. My enemies are many. I am hated. I received a letter from a four year old girl who wishes that makeup wouldn't stick to my face, so I'd have to go around without makeup all the time. Mean-spirited little bitch, right? Some of you have noticed Doug's odd behavior of late. If it gives any consolation, Doug has been odd and prone to outbursts of strange behavior for as long as I've known him, that's twenty-five years next September. We were a young romantic couple. The Bay Area's Most Likely To Go Far three times in a row. Doug made a donation to the newspaper holding the Most Likely to Go Far competition, cash prize ten grand. Doug's contribution of eight and a half grand--he had just seen Fellini's Eight and a Half--yielded a mere fifteen hundred the first year, and then, after Doug contributed thirty grand the second year, the yield was twenty grand down. Didn't like that. Doug donated fifty thousand to get a ten thousand dollar prize the third year. What the f was my young attractive White husband thinking? I felt like the Black lady married to the White dude on The Jeffersons. Ground-breaking show. I met Sherman Hemsley at a convention. One word: gentleman. I can imagine him playing breathy jazz tenor sax, driving the ladies nuts. Yes, I fantasize. Don't all of you? Who wishes they were doing something else, right this instant? You, Ambassador Deathpunch, how about sharing your wish to be elsewhere (laughs).
Deathpunch: In the command room of a military post responsible for penetrating Hamas defenses using any means necessary.
Parris: Oooh, I was hoping for something lighter. You, Mr. Spade, where would you rather be?
Spade: In Madame President's bed, strumming a guitar, singing a ballad about the Spanish Civil War.
Parris: Lovely! Doug would be there, of course.
Spade: To blazes with Doug! This is my wish to be elsewhere, Madame President, no one else's.
Beak: The brazenness of the man. Sir! I salute you!
Spade: (sotto voce) General Beak, tell Mr. Lieden I have interesting information for him.
Beak: You work for President Parris.
Spade: Lieden paid well, he'll pay out again for this information.
Beak: What's the nature of it?
Spade: Planet related.
Beak: As in climate change?
Spade: No. As in remaking the planet into something else for the sake of unnamed persons or an unnamed person. No more questions. Lieden needs to know about it because he's the only on-the-outs politician running for President who can maybe put a stop to what's in this file. I obtained this file at great risk to my life, General Beak. I expect more money, say, ten-thousand.
Beak: You drive a hard bargain, man of Frisco. Ten-thousand it is. I recognize your skill at obtaining said file. Hand it over now.
Spade: You hand over ten-thousand in cash and I hand over the file to you. Get the money.
Beak: I'll have to make a phone call.
Spade: Don't tell me how you get the money in my hands, just do it.
Beak: Aye.
Spade watches Beak rush off like he has to take a dump. Spade suspects Beak's phone call will be to someone who's been asked for money by Beak in the past, possibly a mob guy. This could put Beak in danger. Spaceman go boom before liftoff. Tragedy Strikes Space Command! No, Beak has resources, including dirty tricks men of his own. Hector Farrbarrhuberr, for instance, rumored to have carried out the hit on Congressman Middleton-Strong. Farrbarrhuber actually arranged the hit, didn't do the shooting, but sat opposite the target by a restaurant window. Any number of high power players would have the motive to knock off Jarv. Still, the suspected deadman's switch revealing the perversities on display on Jarv's yacht, hasn't materialized, yet, or is being suppressed (?). Politicians, FBI officials, arms dealers, European royalty, dictators, mercenary generals, Happy Lieden partied on that boat.
Sam Spade hoped the contents of his passed-on envelope would convince Moe Lieden and General Beak of the necessity to change their campaign slogans to defending Earth against alien attack. The made up contents were composed by a minor science fiction writer, Vic Neptune, found on the internet by Spade, paid five hundred of Dinah Parris's money to come up with a fictional brief alerting the reader to a possible imminent attack by a race of beings who have been hanging out in the Outer Solar System for centuries, playing with and sculpting the moons of Uranus, Saturn, Neptune into defensive art fortresses. They plan to invade if we get out of hand and threaten them. Familiar type of story, but the twist is that their agents are here in human disguise, something to make Moe Lieden and Beak paranoid. Why is Spade doing this? He hates all of these corrupt motherfuckers. He wants them all to suffer defeats before he returns to his time, his San Francisco, his Norma Shearer movie before hitting the sack, Norma Shearer's sweet face on his mind as he goes to sleep. Now, he can watch Norma Shearer movies on YouTube, but it's not the same as being in the darkened theater gazing at the silver cheeks and liquid eyes of Norma Shearer.
Parris (to Spade): You look dapper tonight, darling, meet me in the broom closet, second door to your left down that corridor.
Spade, already loosening his tie, starts to that corridor. while
Doug: (calling out) I say, Spade! Where are you going?"
Spade: I'm off to fuck your wife.
Doug: What's that? I couldn't hear you!
Spade: (turning) I'm going to fuck your wife! In a broom closet! Hard!
Spade goes to where he said he was going, closes the door. Silence. Doug claps his hands, rubs them together, a gleeful look on his face.
Doug: That's the funniest thing I've heard all night! Who can top the comic shock theater of that? Is he really doing it with my wife in yon broom closet? Was he joking? I could knock, ask them what they're up to, but I know that Dinah would rip me to shreds, metaphorically speaking. She'd be so pissed for interrupting her. She'd be particularly mad if I interrupted her sex. She likes to concentrate when she has coitus. If that concentration gets broken, she becomes a madness-inflamed tigress. Then is she at her sexiest, but also unapproachable.
Spade comes out, buttoning his pants:
Spade: (to Doug) See you later, hornéd one. (To the group) You're all a bunch of scumbags and I hope you all die!
They all stare at him. It's been quite a night. Dinah Parris exits the broom closet, just a few people stare, one of them journalist Frodo Baggins, who entered the party just as Sam Spade called out his intentions towards the President in a broom closet. Being short, a mere three-eleven, Frodo Baggins noticed immediately the President's drooping stockings.
Frodo: Madame President, your stockings droop. I have a cousin, a second cousin twice removed, really, who invented an anti-drooping paste for stockings. Works like a farmer at harvest time.
Parris: Aren't you a sweet little thing! I'd like to see you walk on my desk, telling me things about your Shire. You know, I read about the Shire. I had a Presidential Daily Briefing on The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. It was a long PDB. Eight pages, wow, they're usually four or five! My staff knows my attention span, you little sugar cube of a Halfling. Does the Shire have oil?
Frodo: Who is this Mr. Spade you've been photographed with on a few occasions, including by my cameraman Sam Gamgee.
Parris: He's a gentleman I know. Don't ask any more questions about him. About my knowing him. I'll talk about something else! Have you ever wondered how great it is to meet Oprah?
Frodo: How great is it?
Parris: It's better than great. If this were a musical I'd break into song about now. My hand glowed with the contact of having shaken hands with Oprah. I tried to pass that glow to as many as I could, this was pre-Covid. Oprah's hug enlivened my soul. Oprah's interruptions of my speech didn't bother me. I was being annoyed by Oprah, it was good.
Frodo: You going to ask her to run with you when you run again?
Parris: What makes you think I'm running, short man?
Frodo: Not a Man, a Hobbit, or Halfling, I guess. I prefer Hobbit.
Parris: How do you feel about a trip to the broom closet?
Frodo: I'd like to see what's in there.
Parris: What happened to your hand?
Frodo: A wretch named Smeagol bit off my finger to gain possession of the One Ring.
Parris: Oh yeah, that's on the bottom of Page 7 of the PDB.
Frodo: This is a large closet.
Parris: To a shrimp like you, I'll bet it is. Take off your clothes, let Madame President view the Fourth Estate.
Frodo: I'm leaving my under-trunks on.
Parris: Off with them, then climb on top of me. I'll make it worth your while.
Frodo: Attempting to do as you say. Really, I'm a bachelor. I have no sex drive except right now I do. Came upon me rather suddenly. Yes, that's all right! Thank you, Madame President, I'm enjoying this! Frodo, Master Cock of the Shire! Yoo-hoo!
Parris: Get over yourself, tiny boy! Thrust, thrust!
Frodo: Thrusting. Thrusting. Spending. Oh dear.
Parris: I've never had Hobbit sperm inside me.
Frodo: Perhaps you'd like to try my servant, Sam?
Parris: Yes, but not tonight. Bring him around tomorrow at one, just after lunch.
Frodo: First or second lunch?
Parris: You have more than one lunch?
Frodo: Two. And two breakfasts, and two dinners, and snack times in between. We love to eat, you see.
Parris: Just like Tribbles.
Frodo: Tribbles?
Parris: Never mind. If those start showing up, the planet'll be covered in Tribbles, a soft furry death world.
Frodo: Are you speaking of something I can turn into a scoop?
Parris: Forget it, runt. Get dressed. Your little penis is actually very nice, so don't have a complex about it.
Frodo: You are remarkable.
Parris: Not only am I President. I'm a woman. I have needs, and I have a crazy husband I can't do anything with. I can't divorce him. He knows too much about me.
Frodo: The hit man option is out?
Parris: Listen to you! Hobbiton not so innocent a place, eh?
Frodo: We had one homicide last year, none the year before.
Parris: Drug war. That's what you need to liven things up. Flood the town with weapons, introduce an addictive drug, make it illegal. Gang slayings, torching homes and warehouses. What do you think?
Frodo: I'll say no.
Parris: How did you get into this reality?
Frodo: I woke up in a room at the Capitol Hill Hotel on C Street. I found I was paid up for two weeks. I've been hanging out by the White House because I figured if I could speak with the leader of this nation I could find a way home. I wandered in with some correspondents and there was an abandoned mike. I picked it up and pretended to be a reporter from the Shire. Oh, there is a newspaper, I just don't write for it.
Parris: That might be a crime in the Shire, but here it's definitely a crime, but since you put your Hobbit spunk inside me and it was a novel experience and you're an interesting little fella, I'll just pretend you're an accredited journalist. Your press pass is fake?
Frodo: The first one I removed from a man's lapel while standing on a side table.
Parris: I could use you as a sneak--hey! I could employ you as my own Bilbo Baggins! Want to do some thieving and other illegal activities for the President, baby?
Frodo: If you'll endeavor to get me back to the Shire, yes.
Parris: We'll work on the Shire problem, but in the meantime, get ready to go to work for the best employer you'll ever have. My employees love me!
Slack needed, so thinks Douglas Gard. Walking around the Presidential bedroom in a toga made from a silk sheet made love upon by the President and himself the night before, Ah, romance of the night, Doug muses, bending a chrysanthemum stem into a circle, What light upon yon window breaks, tis the East and Dinah is the star of Bethlehem, oh Holy Bride of God mine...
Dinah Parris comes into the bedroom wearing her slip.
Dinah: Playing Tiberius again?
Doug: No, good woman. Master of Saturnalia!
Dinah: Get into the suit I picked out for you. The blue one. You look so distinguished in that shade of blue.
Doug: A blue toga, perhaps, but not this modern suit you're proposing for my wear. Give me time to think. I'll consider the suit, try it on, perhaps, look in the mirror, see how I look. You know?
Dinah: Be in the Lincoln Room in ten minutes or I won't give you any sex for two weeks.
Doug: The torment would be exquisite!
Dinah: Five years, then.
Doug: You don't mean it.
Dinah: Nine minutes to get into that suit and into the Lincoln! (Departs to her dresser, Connie Heard, a sixty year old wisecracking broad who's dressed Presidents going back to Jorge Arbusto, Senior).
Dinah: Connie, sometimes I don't know what to do with a husband!
Connie: Sit still, honey. Have you tried reasoning with him?
Dinah (snorts) With Doug? The crazy stuff that makes it to the news media is nothing compared to what he does off camera.
Connie: My Herb, I just slap him when he gets out of hand.
Dinah: Oh, that's violence, I can't commit violence.
Connie: One less village from that drone bombing in Somalia.
Dinah: Actual in your face violence, Connie, you scamp! A slap is personal. Long distance bombing is like eating a good breakfast.
Connie: I'd like to fire a rocket at Herb's butt to get him to do the taxes without waiting till the last three or four days. Maybe you could lay off the fast food, Madame President. The seams in this dress may give while you're toasting, or dancing, or interacting with guests.
Dinah: Time to suck in the gut. Yes, yes, you're getting it. I feel like I'm twenty-five! Ready to rumble! Listening to Poison...
Connie: That hair band!
Dinah: We both like Styx so we don't have to argue about music.
Connie: You like only some of REO, I like all of REO.
Dinah: I think that Hi Infidelity isn't a very good album and it represents a downward direction REO Speedwagon then took.
Connie: You're crazy.
Eight minutes later, President Parris and Doug arrive in the Lincoln Room at the same time from two different doorways. Parris glares at him because he was supposed to enter with her. She was in the right corridor, he got into the wrong one somehow. Only Doug could fuck that up, she thinks.
She notices he has a wreath in his hair, a circle of a flower stem with a single white Chrysanthemum on the right side of his head at a jaunty angle. Everyone looks at him and smiles then looks away, murmuring, some laughing.
President Parris goes to her husband, doesn't remove the flower and stem though she wants to.
Doug (to the crowd): Friends! Washingtonians! Congressonians! Lobbyistonians! Spooks! Lend me your ears! Maybe put the iPhones away while I speak, good people of this room. In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. The Atlantic Ocean. I remember a vacation with Dinah, my wife, in Hiltonhead, South Carolina. We played volleyball with Billy Boy Blade. Cassandra was there, she was First Lady at the time. She didn't play volleyball. Can we picture Cassie Blade running about in sand? Wearing a swimming outfit? Are you all grossed out by the picture I've painted for you? Not sorry! The Blades are a worse menace than how they look. She, Cassandra, stands to receive a good share of delegates in twenty-four. And what of Gaby Bongo? How will she upset the Blade-Parris face-off? I would call the upcoming contests between these distinguished women cat fights, but these are serious times. Anyone laughing right now, and I've heard titters and talking throughout my speech, throughout my--I'M TRYING TO CLUE YOU IN, PEOPLE!!!
President Parris: Doug, I think they get what you're saying. Thank you. We know the Blades represent a formidable opponent for the coming nominating process.
Doug: So calm you are, my dear. (To the group) Is this woman not calm?
Second Lady Rachel Vanidestine: Calm as a day on a glacier!
President Parris: Well, I would like to say what I have to say, if that's all right, Doug?
Second Lady Rachel Vanidestine: Let the ruler of the land talk, Doug!
President Parris: Okay, um, we're at a crossroads. The American people are onto us. The Covid secrets are leaking out. Doctor Grauchi has his backup plan in full swing, to emigrate to New Zealand if the authorities come for him, and many who will be investigated have their plans, too, for escape from justice. Me, I'm for America. No matter what. My country tis of thee. I think my inner sex twist came about from reading John Irving's The World According to Garp. This nurse, played by Glenn Close in the movie, so picture Glenn Close. She wants a baby but doesn't want a man to go along with it as a hubby, can't remember why. She rides a wounded man's penis. He doesn't have a face, he can just say "Garp." Garp gives Glenn Close the baby she wants, the father is a plank of wood lying in a hospital ward, and I thought when I read it in high school...that is one twisted sex scene, John Irving! It's really a rape, because Garp doesn't have a choice in the matter. Maybe he got rigid involuntarily. Maybe he didn't want to get balled by Glenn Close? Who does? I don't know. Who here can tell me they'd bang Glenn Close?
Male Voice: I know of a certain senator who dated Glenn Close's niece.
Parris: That's not what I'm talking about! Go on with the party. This is a fundraiser for my 2024 campaign, we should all feel generous tonight. You never know what I might do for a few hundred thousand dollars. One might get a private meeting with the President. Meow!
Doug: You there, little man!
Frodo Baggins: I am not a man. I am a Hobbit.
Doug: Oh dear, I misgendered you. I probably got your pronouns wrong!
Frodo: I am male, like you, but unlike you, I am a Hobbit.
Doug: So, male like me, eh? I bet I've got you beat in the penis mass department.
Frodo: Perhaps, though your wife didn't object to my girth.
Doug: My wife, eh? Are you implying something about my wife?
Frodo: I enjoyed her body, indeed, I lost my virginity, in that closet. There's plenty of room in that closet to store implements of washing and cleaning, and also one can fuck in there.
Doug: You say you fucked my wife in that closet?
Frodo: I did. It was her idea. She's a cheater, Mr. Gard.
Doug: I could pick you up over my head. I work out. I could throw you against yon wall, concuss your head filled with Hobbit brains onto yon bust of John Quincy Adams.
President Parris: That's James K. Polk, honey. Great expander of the country.
Doug: Good old Jim Polk! Seems like the type to know his horseflesh. I'll bet he predicted horse races with uncanny ability. Good old Jim. I see him before me asking for money. Seems he's gone broke, nobody remembers him, he's trapped inside this bust of iron.
Parris: Bronze.
Doug: Metal. Jim, bust out, emanate from bronze like a fart from a sleeping President!
Parris: Okay, Doug, you're acting weird again. Take that flower off of your head!
Doug: Carried away am I by poetic feelings welling deep inside me where the hair on my soul grows in coils, rising to a cone shellacked with paste, the best paste. I ate too much paste in Kindergarten, and in twelfth grade, on a dare that was. Does the paste affect me still?
Next day, Oval Office.
General Bomb: Your man Sneffen was noticeably absent at the fundraiser, as was General Beak.
Parris: Artie Sneffen is for Gabrielle Bongo. General Beak, as you know, is for Moe Lieden, God help him.
Bomb: Are you still employing that private eye?
Parris: If I am, I won't tell you. If I'm not, I won't tell you.
Bomb: When you see him, tell him to not work for Moe Lieden, that you'll double his pay.
Parris: If I'm paying him anything now.
Bomb: If. Madame President. I have photographic evidence showing a Moe Lieden contract employee, Hector Farrbarrhuber, with Congressman Mitchell-Strong, in the Rocky Rococo restaurant.
Parris: This Farrbarr-what?
Bomb: Farrbarrhuber.
Parris: Farbernoffel. Whatever he is, he's with Moe? So he's sitting with the Congressman when the hit happens?
Bomb: Yes, that's what the photos show.
Parris: What did he do after the hit?
Bomb: He walked away.
Parris: No one talked to him?
Bomb: No. He used the feeling of shock lasting a couple of moments to walk out of the nearby exit, into the parking lot where he made a phone call.
Parris: These pictures sound exciting. Bring them to my office tomorrow at 7: 15 am.
Bomb: That early?
Parris: We'll look at the pictures for fifteen or twenty minutes and then we fuck. Do you object to an early rise? Okay, good. Hector Snabberswancher, what a weird name. I bet he's a weird man. Have you met him?
Bomb: I? No! I do not consort with mere murderers. I'm a genocidal push button man! Long distance, that's me. The spear, the arrow, the bolt, the missile, the cluster bomb, the arsenal of democracy, the weapons storehouse of God!
Parris: You're turning this gal on!
Bomb: Let's take advantage of each other!
Parris: (intercom) Hold my calls and appointments for the next fifteen minutes!
Moe Lieden and Happy Lieden in the Lieden Campaign Headquarters, Scranton, Pennsylvania. Happy's wide eyes and eager beaver demeanor speak of a crack habit never quite surmounted.
"I love crack, Dad. What's more, crack loves me."
Old Man Lieden overlooks his son's lapses. Happy has many business contacts in other countries. Happy helps the Old Man prosper with the monies not reported. Good, sneaky monies. Monies working for the Lieden clan, not for Uncle Sam.
Moe Lieden: You only sold that red and blue painting for three-hundred and fifty thousand. You expect me to spend more than an hour with the guy who bought it?
Happy Lieden: Come on, Dad, I know it's not the required four-hundred to get one hour with you, but this man has the best crack in the Greater L.A. area.
Moe Lieden: Crack again. You on the stuff?
Happy Lieden: When I can be. I'm so busy with so much to do. I'm sitting on five boards, I'm on Zoom calls every gosh darned day. Dad, I need a vacation.
Moe Lieden: Sell another painting, for a lot more than three-hundred and fifty! Then I'll send you to Thailand. A working vacation. I got a guy there, Joe Chong, but that's not his name. A pseudonym, you see, he's on the CIA payroll plus he works for Thai intelligence and he's a triple agent working for the Chinese, nobody really knows who he works for, great guy. Joe Chong will introduce you to the fleshpots of Bangkok. He'll set you up with Madame Cling. She was born in Bucharest of Japanese and Dutch parents. She took a train to Shanghai. On the way she was kidnapped by bandits, became their queen. Anyway, she's sixty-five now, has an insatiable appetite for the male species if you know what I mean. I want you to pleasure Madame Cling, no, don't worry, she's an attractive lady. If I weren't still devoted to Amanda, your step-mother, I'd give Madame Cling a go, haul my eighty year old ashes. I can still cum, son.
Happy Lieden: I'm happy for you, Dad. Yeah, I'll sleep with Madame Cling, why not? Dad, you know I have no standards, right? I'd bang a five hundred year old mummy if you asked me to. Come to think of it, the last woman I banged was ninety-one. I had to bang her, remember? She made that crucial contribution in 2020.
Moe Lieden: That you were willing to fuck that old broad helped me purchase a ton of ads in Louisiana, Texas, and Arkansas.
Happy Lieden: Anything for Team Lieden, Dad.
Moe Lieden: Well this time I give you permission to bang as many Thai women as you please. Throw cash at them, fuck nine of them at the same time, live it up. Crack, prostitutes...you're my son and I love you.
Happy Lieden: I love you, too, Dad. If I kill someone in Bangkok will I get a quick luxury airplane ride out of the country?
Moe Lieden: Like the last time? Of course. Nothing's too good for my son. You've never done anything wrong! We all make mistakes. Crack is addictive. You can't help your addiction. Your extramarital affairs are just the privilege of a rich, horny, dynamic man. Follow the will of your penis, son. You can never go wrong with that advice.
Happy Lieden: I follow that advice every day, Dad.
Moe Lieden: Oh, Beak. Back from Washington.
General Beak: Happy, how are you? Mr. President, I have here a file that I must show to you. In private.
Moe Lieden: No secrets, Beak. Happy is just as qualified to hear about whatever that is as I am. Take out the papers and make your presentation, Man of Space.
General Beak: Sir, I mean, in absolute terms, that this information cannot be shared with anyone except for yourself and myself.
Moe Lieden: Not Happy?
General Beak: No, sir.
Moe Lieden: Fruit of my loins, wait out there with the secretaries. Carolyn the redhead doesn't have a boyfriend. Give her the old Lieden charm, she just might be ridin the Lieden tonight.
Happy Lieden: Thanks for the tip, Dad.
Moe Lieden: Close the door, knucklehead. So Beak, what's so important?
Beak: This. These documents point to an alien civilization called the Gorka, lurking in the Outer Solar System.
Moe Lieden: Is this a war game?
Beak: It's real, sir. Look at the imprimatur.
Moe Lieden: It could've been faked.
Beak: I had my man in the Pentagon check it. It's the real thing.
Moe Lieden: It's the real paper used anyway. So these Cork-whos are going to invade or what?
Beak: Gorka. What's more, they have agents on Earth, as many as fifteen have been identified, two caught and interrogated by the DIA.
Moe Lieden: Where are they being held?
Beak: In the CIA Director's basement. He has his own interrogation and torture facility underneath his mansion.
Moe Lieden: I've visited it.
Beak: The aliens thus far haven't been tortured.
Moe Lieden: Play Faith Hill twenty-four seven and see how long they can take that.
Beak: This aliens report fits with my theory about how they've observed us for an unknown number of years, for centuries, perhaps.
Moe Lieden: Maybe they have footage of Jesus getting nailed to the cross?
Beak: Maybe they have proof that the Moon landings weren't faked?
Moe Lieden: Whatever the case with these nasty aliens, we have to continue with our work on Earth. I must get elected. We must execute your programs. You have a plan to defeat these Gorks?
Beak: Gorka. No, not yet. I'm waiting for a report from my man in the FBI.
Moe Lieden: Look, this could be phony. Something to distract us, get us sloganeering about something that turns out to be a fiction? Is it possible to pull the wool over your eyes, Beak? I think it might be.
Beak: I have never been fooled, ever! These aliens are why we need the Space Program. We will have it, by Space!
Moe Lieden: Looks like Happy's making good time with Carolyn. I'm Happy for Happy.
To Be Continued...
Vic Neptune
No comments:
Post a Comment