The Ratfuck Bastard Conspiracy, Part Twenty-Nine

      An election looms, said to be the most important one in our lifetimes.  Thus was the same said about the one in 2020, and the one in 2016.  An eccentric podcaster quips, "I suggest that this 2024 election is the least important in our lifetimes."  Why?  Since President Parris and Don Richman are equally repulsive, what does it matter who wins and who loses?  Others suggest that if Richman loses, his base of angry red meat eaters will have another four years of outsider-based bitching about the status quo to look forward to.  However, if Parris loses, her supporters will hype the fear of fascism they readily associate with Richman, ignoring the fascism embraced by Democrats.  To link, as Benito Mussolini said, corporate power with the state, is fascism.  Clarifying, he said that fascism should more properly be called corporatism, but no rich person or politician benefitting from the U.S. corporate state wants to call attention to the true nature of a political philosophy so in line with past fascist dictatorships, like that of Mussolini's Italy or Hitler's Germany, both of which benefitted and flourished from generous contributions from Wall Street.

     What of former President Moe Lieden?  The campaign to recover his presidency having failed, he's closed his political office in Scranton, Pennsylvania, let go of his staff of young women with fragrant hair, and shut himself up in his Wilmington, Delaware home, calling his estranged wife, Dr. Amanda Lieden, every day, always getting her voicemail.  He leaves messages like this:

     Moe Lieden: (Sighs) Another voicemail.  Shucks Amanda, I'd give anything to just hear your real in the present time frame voice telling me everything is all right between us and I can come to you like a happy bridegroom, eager to lie on top of his wife.  Are we ever going to make love again?  Do I have to hire a prostitute?  There are escorts available in Wilmington.  I've checked on the internet.  I could have one over here tonight if I wanted one.  But I don't!  I want you!  Dammit, baby, I miss--(Beep!)--you!

     Moe: (To himself) They never give you enough time to say everything you want to say.  (His phone rings) Hector?  What do you want?

     

     Moe Lieden's dirty tricks man, Hector Farrbarrhuber, cut loose from the Lieden 2024 campaign, has issues with his former boss.

     Hector: I want to know how my favorite out of work politician is doing.

     Moe: Don't rub it in.  I feel useless.  Out of step with the times.  I don't receive daily briefings.  I don't ride on a huge airplane at taxpayers' expense.  I've been fucked over by certain traitors in my own party, the party I gave blood and sweat to since the early seventies.  How do you think I'm doing?

     Hector: Bitterness, an easy pill to swallow but difficult to cough up.

     Moe: Make sense, jackalope!

     Hector: Do you understand the concept of owing someone for work completed?

     Moe: I don't remember what you're talking about.

     Hector: Don't old man me.  You remember.  You and General Beak hired me to kill Sam Spade.

     Moe: Who?

     Hector: Sam Spade, the imaginary private detective character dreamed up by Dashiell Hammett, somehow walking around in our reality.

     Moe: That sounds familiar.

     Hector: We're getting somewhere.

     Moe: Did you kill this phantom?

     Hector: He exists now only in The Maltese Falcon.

     Moe: So he still exists.

     Hector: In fiction, yes.

     Moe: I see.  I never understood metaphysics, or literature.  

     Hector: The point is, Sam Spade no longer exists in our reality.

     Moe: How did you kill him?

     Hector: With a magic spell. 

     Moe: Do tell.  Say, are there any other fictional characters walking around in our reality?  What about those two shrimps?  One of them was spying on President Parris for us.

     Hector: Hobbits.

     Moe: What?

     Hector: That's what they call themselves.  Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins are also safe and sound in The Lord of the Rings where they belong.

     Moe: This book talk gives me a headache.

     Hector: There are two more, though.

     Moe: Hobbits?

     Hector: Human.  Nick and Nora Charles, from Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man.

     Moe: Are they dangerous?

     Hector: He's a detective, drunk a lot of the time, but sharp when it counts.  She's a lovely thing.  Myrna Loy played her in the movies.

     Moe: I remember her.  Hubba hubba.  Does this version have good hair?

     Hector: The best that Hollywood can style.

     Moe: Find these people, Hector.  I've got a job for this detective, and I'd like to meet his wife.

     Hector: According to my sources, you attended one of their parties.

     Moe: I'll take your word for it, but get on it.

     Hector: You still owe me money.

     Moe: I"ll wire you 60,000 dollars.  Will that satisfy you, you greedy pest?

     Hector: As a down payment.  I want another 50,000 for hooking you up with Nick Charles.

     Moe: And the wife!

     Hector: What's the job you want Nick to do, and why can't I do it?

     Moe: I'm diversifying my options, you nosy troglodyte!  Now get out of my phone--I need to call my wife again!

     Oval Office.  President Dinah Parris, Secretary of State Arthur Sneffen, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General William Bomb, U.S. Air Force.

     President Parris: General.  I've got an election to win.  Democracy is at stake.  We need to move forward so we don't move backward.  No progress can be made if we stand still, or give in to the hopelessness of the last decade.  Don Richman destroyed the spirit of this country with his pussy-grabbing comment to that Billy What's-His-Name.  The entire world looks to America to save it from itself.  We must leave behind those solutions that did not work, embracing the future with open hearts.  Are we going to war with Iran, or what?

     General Bomb: It is the group opinion of the Joint Chiefs, even of that scoundrel General Beak, that going to war, directly that is, with Iran, would be disastrous for this country.

     Secretary of State Sneffen: Cowards.

     General Bomb: I've been to war, Mr. Secretary, I've killed men with an M-16, what have you done along those lines?  

     Sneffen: I don't dirty my hands with the blood of inferiors.  I'm a Harvard man.

     Parris: (Laughs) He's calling you an armchair warrior, Arthur.  

     Sneffen: So?  Did Napoleon ride into the fray at Austerlitz?  The superior ones, the strategists, are too valuable to send into battle.  Without such planners, would there be war?  

     General Bomb: You know nothing of any worth when it comes to war.  Moron!  Do you think a mountainous, oil rich country, so important to Russia, would be easy to defeat?  

     Sneffen: That is my position, yes, and you'll never convince me otherwise.  I'm a Neocon.

     Parris: Gentlemen.  I'm flexible.  I'm capable of many positions.  From behind, underneath, on top, side by side, what have you--(Intercom buzz)--Yes, Tina?  

     Marjorie: It's Marjorie, Madame President.

     Parris: Oh yes, I fired Tina's ass last Friday.  What do you want?

     Marjorie: The First Gentleman is here and would like to speak with you.

     Parris: I'm meeting with the Secretary of State and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  We're trying to decide whether or not I should order the destruction of Iran.  (The door opens, in comes Doug Gard, the President's husband).

     Sneffen: Hail to the Chief's dumbbell!  

     Doug Gard: (To Sneffen) I will not be intimidated by your scorn.  (He kisses his wife on the cheek).  Darling.  For the first time I beat Senator Bunch at racketball.  I'm still sweaty, but it's honest sweat.  

     Parris: I'm happy for you, honey.  Is that what you came here to tell me?

     Doug Gard: Yes.  Also, the bottled water machine outside the racketball court on White House Sub-Level 5 doesn't work.  

     Parris: Thirsty?  (Doug Gard nods.  She opens a door in an ottoman by the fireplace.  A mini-fridge holds waters and soft drinks).

     Doug Gard: Thank you, dear heart.  You're the best!  (He drinks the entire bottle, burps, gazes fondly at the leader of the free world, and hands the empty plastic bottle to Sneffen).  Don't say I never gave you anything, Arthur.  (Exits).

     Sneffen: (To Parris) You recycle, I assume?

     Don Richman, in mid-bowel movement, sits on his gold-plated toilet in Richman Tower, New York.

     Richman: (Praying) God.  Great God in the sky.  You are very mighty.  Mightier even than your humble servant, Donald Ronald Richman.  I'm an old man, seventy-eight years young, but I'm three years younger than that fossil of an ex-President, Moe Lieden.  My mind works, his doesn't.  He's a demented ape.  He should be in a zoo, but that's for you to decide.  Angie Crook, the ex-Speaker of the House, is eighty-four.  If you make me President, I'm going to push for term limits on these old motherfuckers.  God, would you like it if Congress and Senate people had term limits?  I'll do it, I swear I will if it be your will.  God, would you like me to turn America into a theocracy?  I'll do it!  Watch me.  I'll be your Pope.  Prez-Pope Richman the First!  Oh Jesus, I got shit on my finger!  Hang on, God.  I need to do a careful wash.  Maybe seventy-eight is too old to be the President, but eighty-one is definitely too old.  Wouldn't it be clever of me to convince Moe Lieden to endorse me?  He must hate Dinah Parris for stealing his job.  Right before he ended his 2024 campaign for the nomination he put on a red Richman hat.  He smiled like a drooling moron, so maybe he was joking around, but there could be something there.  Should I call him, God?  Should I?  Give me a sign.  (He dries his hands on a 9,000 dollar towel)  You're thinking about it, aren't you, God.  "What's the buzz?  Tell me what's a-happening."  Remember that one, God?  It's from Jesus Christ Superstar.  That's a rock musical about your son.  Too bad what happened to him.  I guess it was your choice to let him die like that.  Speaking for myself, I would've intervened if any of my three sons were condemned to die, but you work in mysterious ways, so I'm told.  (One of the light bulbs above the sink's mirror flickers).  The sign!  All right, God.  I'll contact Moe Lieden.  A lot of people sympathize with him since he got screwed over by Dinah and Angie Crook, and General Bomb.  Plus, they feel sorry for him, what with being ancient and having a memory like a dead computer.  I'll get building maintenance to change the light bulb because I assume you wouldn't be able to do that yourself.  Thanks God.  You're a solid guy.

     Senate Confirmation Hearings for Secretary of Defense nominee Buster Twickenham, former editor of Strategic Defense Magazine, major shareholder in SEEKS, a missile-maker contributing righteously and profitably to war theaters in Ukraine and Israel.  Twickenham also contributed 490,000 dollars to Gay Paree PAC, a political action committee supporting President Dinah Parris's 2024 election bid.  Buster Twickenham lacks the ends of his index and middle fingers on his right hand.  An ex-girlfriend wielding a knife chopped his fingers and threw the ends into Long Island Sound during a yachting trip to Block Island.  Blaine "Buster" Twickenham, a Yale man, class of ninety-three, is fifty-three.  His father, a self-made millionaire, was fatally poisoned during a yacht trip by his mistress in 1994.  Buster has a net worth of 880 million dollars.  He owns three satellites.  He eats animal brains.  He even has time to read.

     Senator Colon (Republican, Arizona): Mr. Twickenham.  You contributed a great deal of money to a PAC promoting President Parris's 2024 election campaign, did you not?

     Twickenham: I did.

     Senator Colon: This same candidate nominated you for the position of Secretary of Defense, did she not?

     Twickenham: That's why I'm here, yes.

     Senator Colon: How much money did you contribute to the...wait, I have it here...to the Gay Paree PAC?

     Twickenham: I don't know offhand, sir.

     Senator Colon: You don't know?  Would you like me to tell you how much of your money you contributed to this PAC?

     Twickenham: Senator, I don't understand how this has anything to do with anything.

     Senator Colon: 490,000 dollars.  That's a lot of money.

     Twickenham: Is it?  

     Senator Colon: It's more than I make in a year, for sure.

     Twickenham: That's too bad.

     Senator Colon: It's more than President Parris makes in a year.

     Twickenham: That's a shame.

     Senator Colon: Does this not represent a conflict of interest on President Parris's part?

     Twickenham: I don't follow.

     Senator Colon: She nominates you to be Secretary of Defense after you contribute nearly half a million dollars to a political action committee dedicated to getting her elected President.  I can't make it more clear.

     Twickenham: Senator.  Making a contribution to a PAC is not illegal, nor is it immoral.  If you're implying that I was motivated to part with a mere 490,000 dollars so that I could grab a cabinet level position in a near future Parris Administration, you're way off base, or not.  Personally, I haven't thought about it as deeply as you have.

     Senator Colon: Mr. Twickenham--

     Senator Gavel (Democrat, Georgia): The Senator's time has expired.  Senator Roger Bucks, you're up.

     Senator Bucks (Democrat, Virginia): Thank you, Mr. Chairman.  Mr. Twickenham.  You've done a fine job enduring the innuendoes of some of my colleagues.  They accuse you of buying an important position in our great nation's government.  Do you think that the job of Secretary of Defense can be bought with just half a million dollars?

     Twickenham: Not even half a million dollars, sir.  Ten thousand less than that.  No, to answer your question, I don't.  I would think it would require at least a hundred million or more to purchase such an exalted position, but does the job of running this great nation's military machine have anything to do with money?  I think not.  

     Senator Colon: Mr. Chairman--

     Senator Gavel: Let the witness speak, Senator.  Continue, Mr. Twickenham.

     Twickenham: My father was a great man.  He foresaw America's role in quelling conflicts, in fighting the looming disease of terrorism.  In his self-published book, America Must Destroy To Create Opportunities For Herself, Or Wither, my father argues that success for our military is inextricably linked with unlimited supplies of cash, a veritable hose of money, turned on full blast.  490,000 dollars?  I scoff at such a pitiful amount.  It's an insult to suggest that pocket change of that sub-middling value could come close to swaying the mind of a great leader like President Parris.  No, I continue to scoff at any and all attempts by Senators on this committee who would like to pick apart what I do with my spending money.  It's my money.  Some of that pile of my personal fortune has benefitted twelve members of this committee.  Sour grapes, ladies and gentlemen, oft lead to a desire to upset someone else's apple cart.  For those Senators here who have not received campaign contributions from me, well, tough.  I am the master of my money.  I am the dragon perched atop my hoard.  I could buy all of the rest of you.  Maybe I will, someday.  

     Senator Gavel: Senator Del Vyburg, you're up.

     Senator Del Vyburg (Republican, North Dakota) Mr. Twickenham.  Why did your ex-girlfriend, the socialite Bobbie Jean Belmont, chop off two of your fingers?

     Twickenham: (Holding up his right hand) As you can see, she only managed to sever the ends.  Still, it hurt.  That she threw the finger pieces over the yacht's rail hurt even more.  I could've had a helicopter come to pick me up and take me to a hospital in minutes.  Reattachment surgery, you know.

     Senator Vyburg: Instead, you assaulted Bobbie Jean Belmont--

     Twickenham: I had to get the knife away from her.

     Senator Vyburg: --and broke her nose, gave her a black eye, and threw hot soup on her chest.

     Twickenham: Self-defense, Senator.  It's in the police report.  I did nothing wrong!  She recovered! All eight of her fingers and both thumbs are intact!  Look at this! (Holds up his maimed fingers, forming an unintentional peace sign).

     Senator Vyburg: Miss Belmont claimed you started the fight when she refused to perform a certain sexual act on your person.  

     Twickenham: Yes, that's true, but I didn't ask her to perform it on my person.  I asked her to perform it on my dick.  What of it?  She'd done it to me before.  She said she wasn't in the mood.  Not in the mood, eh?  Bobbie Jean, have you refused all the gifts I've given you?  The Ferrari not good enough for you?  The penthouse overlooking Central Park some kind of a dump not worthy of you?  Put down the knife, Bobbie Jean!  Oh, you're sick of my demands, are you?  My fingers!  My fingers!  No!  Now they can't be sewn back on!  You'll pay for this, Bobbie Jean!

     Senator Vyburg: Mr. Chairman, I yield the balance of my time.

     Senator Gavel: I think this would be a good time for a recess.

     Governor James Ames, Vice Presidential candidate, meets with his running mate, President Dinah Parris, in a McDonald's in Alexandria, Virginia, the very one where Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon planned the Christmas 1972 bombing of Hanoi.  The place is closed to everyone except the two candidates, Secret Service guards, and a few vetted fast food workers.  Would-be customers and random gawkers peer in at the windows, turning the place into a panopticon, with the leader of the free world and her avuncular running mate, with his open-minded opinions about abortion and federal marijuana legalization.  They eat and drink Big Macs, fries, and Cokes.

     President Parris: Now Governor--

     Governor Ames: Call me Jim, or Jimmy, or James, or Jamie, or if you wish, in honor of my favorite author, Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim.  

     Parris: I'm not going to call you Lord Jim, Governor.  Jimmy is what I'd call a little boy.  Jamie strikes me as a girl's name.  Jim is a bit too familiar.  James works for me.

     Ames: Sounds great coming out of your historic female woman of color mouth, Dinah!

     Parris: (Coldly) You may call me Madame President.

     Ames: Of course. (Hunches down, bites into his Big Mac).

     Parris: Okay.  As I was about to say, here's Israel. (She dips a French fry in ketchup and draws a line on the table).

     Ames: It's a shame so much blood has been shed for such a small country.

     Parris: (Eats the French fry, dips another) Over here is Iran. (She draws a few curving lines).  Now James, what are the chances Israel will be able to successfully strike Iran?  Iran's all the way over here by the edge of the table.  They'll have plenty of warning from Russia that a strike is coming.  Plus, according to the buzz I'm privy to because I'm the President, Russia has supplied the Ayatollah with anti-missile missiles, pretty good ones, too.  (She eats the fry).

     Ames: You're saying that Israel's fine American aircraft will be shot down?  Their missiles will be batted away as readily as the Cyclops slaps down spears chucked by Sinbad's crew?

     Parris: I guess so, if I understand you correctly.

     Ames: Come to think of it, a spear or two penetrates the horny hide of the Cyclops in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad.

     Parris: James, are you going to make me regret picking you to be my running mate?

     Ames: Me?

     Parris: You.  Do you understand what's at stake here?  I'm not talking about some Ray Harryhausen fantasy movie.  

     Ames: It's a very good film.

     Parris: I don't dispute that.  In this reality, though, we're not using spears.  Missiles, anti-missile missiles, airplanes with the firepower to devastate cities, not some one-eyed lump of clay made animate through sophisticated stop motion film techniques.  Take this seriously, Governor!  (She holds out her soda cup to one of her Secret Service men).  Rick!  More Coke!  

     Ames: I heard on the news that Israel has agreed to limit their strikes against Iran to military targets.

     Parris: Yes, that's what they said, but we in politics lie.  Thank you, Rick.  Hey Rick.  Keep a close eye on that youngster pressing his nose against the glass.  He's giving me the evil eye.

     Rick: The little boy in the green shirt?

     Parris: That's the one.  At least go stand over there and block his view of me.  (Rick obeys).  How's your Big Mac, James?

     Ames: I love American food.  My favorite outdoor activity is a barbecue with relatives, friends, and neighbors, and a Vikings game to enjoy.  What's your favorite outdoor activity, Madame President?

     Parris: A political rally on a beautiful sunny day, convincing the fools that I'm on their side.

     A luxury suite in Wilmington's The Bridge Hotel.  Former President Moe Lieden meets Nick Charles, a private detective.  An urbane man, likes to have a drink in his hand.  Hector Farrbarrhuber has arranged this meeting between Lieden and Charles.  He sits in an armchair watching the two.  Charles perches a cheek on the polished writing desk, while Lieden perches a cheek on a couch end, holding a can of Coke in his hand.

     Moe Lieden: I like to drink this stuff sometimes because it perks me up, makes me feel energized.  I don't drink alcoholic beverages.

     Nick Charles: A pity.

     Moe: Don't pity me, Jack.

     Nick: Nick.

     Moe: Okay, whatever you say.  Do you ever nick yourself when you shave?  I do.

     Nick: I have, on occasion, but back home in San Francisco I have my regular barber shave me.  He's skilled with a straight razor.

     Moe: You trust him enough to have that deadly blade on your throat?

     Nick: I give him generous tips.

     Moe: I never tip my Secret Service man, Howard.  Maybe I should.  He might care more about protecting me.

     Nick: Hector here tells me you're not exactly in the poorhouse.  You could hire a competent and Herculean bodyguard.

     Moe: Like Steve Reeves?  Or Kevin Sorbo?

     Nick: I don't know who they are--

     Hector: They're actors who played Hercules, Nick.

     Nick: I see.  As actors, they might expect lucrative compensation.  As an ex-President you could hire a loyal muscle man for far less.  A gorilla in human form, for example, who comes to depend on the money you dole out to him.  Find a man with a gambling debt, or a sick mother.  

     Hector: Supply him with hookers, too.

     Moe: You're a degenerate, Hector.

     Hector: Yet, you employ me.

     Nick: Mr. Lieden, you summoned me here for a reason.

     Moe: I want to hire you to investigate my wife.

     Nick: Why?

     Moe: I want to find out why she ignores my calls.  I want to know what she's up to.  Who she spends time with.  Is she cheating on me?  Is she thinking about it?  Does she laugh at my expense?  Does she have more than one iPhone?

     Nick: Ah yes, the portable communication device.  Dick Tracy would've been impressed by that technology.

     Moe: You know Dick Tracy?

     Nick: No, but I've seen one of the movies and I've enjoyed the comic strip.

     Moe: That Madonna.  She's weird, but she's so sexy in that movie.

     Hector: Madonna's a singer and sometime actress, Nick.

     Nick: I was referring to the picture with Morgan Conway and the lovely Anne Jeffreys.

     Moe: You really are a throwback, aren't you, Charles.  Tell me.  Did you really emerge from a novel?

     Nick: (Shrugs) That could be.  Everything could be fake for all we know.  I've seen a few--what do you call them?--videos about how we all might be living in a simulation.  Strange idea, but fun.  Now, as for this job you want me to perform.  I can find out if she has more than one phone.  I can follow her to find out who she meets with.  I can find out if she's cheating on you.  I bought a Graflex camera in a pawn shop near my hotel in Manhattan.  I have a knack for taking photographs of adulterous couples engaged in coitus.  It's more of a tedious job of work obtaining such images than it is stimulating, believe me.  I would like to suggest that your wife ignores your calls because she doesn't want to talk to you.  How long have the two of you been separated?

     Moe: Since forever.

     Nick: Can you be more specific?

     Moe: A year, maybe.  Two years.

     Nick: Hard cheese, old man.  Has she shown any interest in reuniting with you?

     Moe: She used to talk with me on the phone.  She'd tell me about her life, about her friends, about her new dog.  A Schnauzer.  Little Bruno.  I think the college kid who walks Bruno on the weekends is having an affair with her.  My son Happy told me that.

     Nick: Does your son keep an eye on his mother's activities?

     Moe: She's his stepmother.  She doesn't like him.  Doesn't approve of his crack cocaine habit, even though he's switched over to just snorting cocaine.  

     Nick: I'm sorry to hear that your son's an addict.

     Moe: DON'T TALK ABOUT MY SON!!!

     Nick: Fair enough.  I'll need her address and a list of her friends and acquaintances.

     Moe: Hector will provide what you need.  How much is this gonna cost me?

     Nick: Let's say two-thousand dollars a day, plus expenses.

     Moe: Steep.

     Nick: You care about your wife, and you're a millionaire, money shouldn't be a problem for a successful man like you.

     Hector: Nick's good, Moe.  He'll get results.

     Nick: I can't guarantee the results I believe you're hoping for, Mr. Lieden, but life is often harsh.

     Moe: If she is screwing that college kid I'll have another job for you.

     Hector: Nick doesn't kill people, Moe.  I'll handle that one, if it comes to it, if the price is right.

     Nick: (Finishes his drink) Gentlemen, I did not hear what you two were just now talking about.

     Don Richman on speaker phone, practicing his putting in his office at Vrooom!, the sprawling resort in South Florida with restaurants, a mall, amusement park, casino, golf course, chapel and meditation hall.

     Richman: Mr. President?

     Moe Lieden: Mr. President?  Boy, it feels good to hear those words from someone who isn't mocking me.  How are you, you number one threat to democracy?

     Richman: I'm doing fine, I'm doing fine.  I put in a shift at McDonald's, my favorite restaurant.  They had me working the French fries station.  Hot oil.  Hot.  I served food to a customer at the drive through.  He's going to vote for me.

     Lieden: I suppose there was a chance a Parris supporter would drive up.

     Richman: Nobody likes her, let's face it.

     Lieden: I certainly don't.

     Richman: You have every reason not to, Moe.  May I call you Moe?

     Lieden: It's my name.  Actually, it's Morris, like Morris the Cat.  Remember the finicky orange cat on television?

     Richman: Of course.

     Lieden: I wasn't named after no cat, though.  Robert Morris.  He was the American Revolution's financier.

     Richman: Never heard of him

     Lieden: Don't know your American history?

     Richman: Who cares?  Look, I called because I'd like you to do me a favor to help me defeat your number one enemy.

     Lieden: Number one enemy?  You mean that college kid who's been sticking his dick in my wife?

     Richman: No, not him.  Sounds like an interesting story.  No, I mean Dinah Parris.

     Lieden: Oh, her.

     Richman: I saw how you put on a red Richman hat.  Did you do that because maybe you support me over Parris?

     Lieden: No, I just did that because the man asked me to put on his hat.  If he'd been wearing a clown wig I would've put that on.  I like to be nice to the constituents, especially since my political career is shot to hell.

     Richman: Just imagine four more years of Dinah Parris.  

     Lieden: Just imagine four more years of you, Jack!

     Richman: Okay, the hat was just a fluke.  But you must want to get back at Parris.  She humiliated you, removed you from the job you wanted all your life.  

     Lieden: That's true.  General Bomb was the instigator.  Boy, I'd like to see him fired.

     Richman: How about this, Moe.  When I'm President, on day one, I'll shit-can General Bomb.  

     Lieden: I'd like to see that.  What do you want from me?  This is like a quid pro quo, right?

     Richman: A what?

     Lieden: You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

     Richman: I see what you mean.  In return, you go out on the campaign trail with me during these last weeks.  You talk to the people about President Parris, what a terrible person she is, how she's bad for this country, how she did nothing to stop the gush of illegals.

     Lieden: Have you ever smelled her hair?

     Richman: No.

     Lieden: It's the only good thing about her.  Man, if I could go back in time and not pick her to be my running mate in 2020 I probably wouldn't do it.  I'd go back to the 1960s and play the stock market, knowing what to buy and what to sell.  I'd be as rich as you now.

     Richman: You'll join me on the campaign trail, Mr. President?

     Lieden: Mr. President?  Sign me up!

     New York, Madison Square Garden.  Thousands of Richman supporters attend a rally likened by hostile news media to a 1939 Nazi rally held there.  It's a reach to make such a comparison, but the Democrats feel the cold breath of a Republican victory on Election Day seeping into their expensive suits and dresses, so they feel an even greater need than usual to make shit up when they're being interviewed on cable news programs.  Before Candidate Richman comes on, former President Moe Lieden takes the podium.

     Moe Lieden: How do you do?  Big crowd.  Give yourselves a hand!  (Cheers and clapping).  Too bad you didn't give me a hand when President Parris, then Vice President Parris, stabbed me in the back and stole my job!  She's a usurper!  That's why I support Don Richman, my former opponent.  (Cheers).  We've kissed and made up.  Well, we didn't kiss, but we smoked the peace pipe.  Not an actual pipe.  We sat down and buried our differences.  Not with a shovel.  We got together and broke bread.  That actually happened.  It was in the vast dining room in the penthouse suite in Richman Tower right here in New York.  Just the two of us, and the servants, of course.  Don--I call him Don because that's his name--Don took a little loaf of sourdough bread freshly baked and broke it in half, gave me the slightly bigger piece, mighty generous of him.  I lathered butter on that bread and it was damn delicious.  Boy, I could eat that sourdough with every dinner.  I had dinner a little while ago.  Sub sandwich from the Subway in Richman Tower.  The bread was okay.  Not as good as the sourdough.  Can't always get what you want, I guess, but what I need from you all is to vote Richman.  (Cheers).  President Parris is no good for our country.  She stole my job!  I guess I already mentioned that, but it sticks in my craw!  I'm bitter.  I'm eighty-one years old.  I'm bitter, I've got a nasty and mean temper.  I hate!  (Pounds the podium).  I seethe!  I want, I so want my job to be like it was!  I had a strong chance of beating Richman again!  (Boos).  I beat him in 2020!  I coulda beat him again! (Louder boos).  I coulda!  I've been beating my opponents ever since the swimming pool in Wilmington, when I told Cornpop to get off the diving board.  I took on Cornpop and his mean dudes with just a chain in my hands.  I was a regular Marlon Brando in The Wild One.  I didn't own a leather jacket, though, and I didn't own a motorcycle.  With my lifeguard salary I couldn't even afford sourdough bread.  They didn't have Subway then but I doubt I could've even afforded one of their mediocre sandwiches.  I was broke.  I did all of my own auto repair work.  When I'd go on a date with Mary Sue Craddock I'd take her to the park and try to get my hands up her skirt.  Never worked.  Mary Sue had a strong right jab.  But I tried.  I'm persistent.  A teacher in those days told me once that I was just crazy enough to someday run for president.  I took him at his word.  Well, Mr. Flanker, I did it.  I beat Richman in 2020 (Boos).  

     Don Richman steps on stage, the crowd goes nuts.  All smiles, he approaches Moe Lieden.

     Don Richman: Thank you so much for that wonderful off the cuff speech.  We had something written for you on the teleprompter but I guess you didn't need it.  President Moe Lieden, everybody!

  

     Richman holds up Lieden's arm.  They both make Nixonian peace signs, the only rehearsed bit followed by Lieden.  The crowd applauds and cheers for the peace symbol, if not for peace itself.

To be continued

Vic Neptune

       

          

     

       

The Ratfuck Bastard Conspiracy, Part Twenty-Eight

     Don Richman, winner of the 2024 Iowa Caucus, meets in his home office in Wealth Gardens, Florida, with his sons, Don Richman, Jr., and Erick Richman, along with special advisor, Michael Brainbox, a longtime Republican operative, pundit, suspected crime lord, and restauranteur.

     Don Richman: What about my chances in New Hampshire?

     Erick Richman: The Granite State, Dad.  During campaign season news media and politicians refer to states by their nicknames.  

     Don Richman: I been taking that for granite and have already absorbed that information, Erick.  I'm a savant in the memory game.  I remember June third, 1972, first time I saw a dead body in a car trunk.  A sixty-four Chevelle.  Big man, squeezed in there like his killers packed parachutes during World War Two.  

     Don Richman, Jr.: Erick, once again you bring up a good point but as your big brother, it's my role to call you a dickhead.  

     Erick: Diarrhea breath!

     Don Jr.: You're lame.  Dad.  You're going to crush Sumagee Dailey and Konrad Mantis in the Granite State.  Why is that clown still in the race?

     Michael Brainbox: He wants to be President.

     Don Jr.: He's delusional, then.  The Richman name dominates in the polls.

     Don Richman: The polls matter.  I used to say they don't, but I lied.  I was campaigning.

     Michael Brainbox: And you're a liar

     Don Richman: I never lie.

     Don Jr.: He doesn't lie, Michael!

     Michael Brainbox: I'm here to tell you, Mr. President, like it is.  I'm not a family member, much less two of three products of your marriage to a former aspiring Olympic skier.

     Erick: Don't say anything bad about our mother!

     Michael Brainbox: I wasn't going to.  She tried to get onto Czechoslovakia's Olympic team but she just wasn't good enough.

     Don Jr.: You've never seen her ski.

     Michael Brainbox: Nor have the millions who have watched televised skiing events for the past fifty years, since she never achieved fame, nor did she win medals.

     Erick: She's my Gold Medal!

     Don Jr.: I suppose she's my Silver and our sister's Bronze?

     Don Richman: I remember April twentieth, 1987, your mother made bread with Gold Medal flour, so I'd say she's Gold Medal-adjacent, but she's not your Gold Medal, Erick.

     Michael Brainbox: All you have to do to win New Hampshire, the Granite State, is talk about immigration, the Parris administration's terrible foreign policy--how she botched Ukraine--and her handling of the Houthis.

     Don Richman: She's been bombing them, what's she doing wrong?

     Michael Brainbox: The core issue is Israel's treatment of the Gaza and the West Bank Palestinians.  

     Don Richman: Israel has the right to defend itself. 

     Don Jr. It has the right to exist.

     Erick: I was gonna say that!

     Don Jr.: Shut up.

     Erick: You shut up!

     Don Richman: Settle down.  Whose side am I on, I mean, leaving all the campaign contributions from pro-Israel groups and individuals aside?

     Michael Brainbox: You're smart enough to know the answer.

     "One often hears government officials mentioning the 'Rules-Based Order.'  It seems appropriate to capitalize the words.  President Richman and President Bongo, President Arbusto, President Blade and President Arbusto Senior, and of course, the deity, the movie actor, General Electric shill, California Governor, and once-husband of Jane Wyman, a more significant actress than the second wife, Nancy Davis, Ronald Wilson Reagan (1911-2004), a lifespan encompassing two world wars as well as the Third World War he prepared the country for by spending gobs of money on nuclear weapons production to outspend and bankrupt the Soviet Union.

     "The Rules-Based Order mantra is invoked when American officials speak of other nations not resisting U.S. exploitation, for having an aversion to the lethal delivery impacts of the United States Air Force and the United States Navy.  Destroying from a height, as did, I'm sure, if it happened, Jehovah burning, pounding, crushing, earth-salting the wicked city of Gomorrah.  I wonder if these same judgmental American officials contemplate the same divine punishment for Washington, or London, or Brussels, or...well, many other places from which emanate the bloodthirsty decisions of corrupt evil men and women.  The assumption that consequences will never manifest from their actions is, I suppose, a sign of hubris.  It's natural for resistance to intolerable conditions imposed by governments to be commonplace.  The higher powers must assume, for they are capable of making observations, that the masses know by now that the uppermost elites don't care about most of humanity.  Humanity, to these wealthy individuals, is the problem.  Malthusian solutions are tried out.  But even Raid doesn't get rid of all the ants.

     "These elites find themselves faced with multiplying problems worldwide.  President Parris's country seems to be getting squeezed out; not part of the BRICS organization; tied to numerous wars, occupying Syria illegally, giving Israel an endless supply of bombs while offering paltry aid to the Palestinians the bombs are murdering.  Every dying civilization must enter a point of rampant absurdity, and of telling more and more lies to its people.  Corporate news at this time lends itself willingly to propaganda distributed by the U.S. government, by Israel, by Ukraine, by NATO.  In Cold War days, American intellectuals proud of their country's freedoms, condemned the Soviet newspaper Pravda, which means "truth."  The paper, of course, was full of lies.  Now, the New York Times, the Washington Post, MSNBC, CNN, Fox, the three old main networks, PBS and NPR, are all full of self-serving lies, government influence locked in through careful cultivation of journalists."

     From the chapter, People Who Talk About 'Core Values' Probably Don't Have Core Values

Samuel Busk, Ball Point Thoughts, Good Day Press, 2018

     

     President Parris sits in her office, reading a trade paperback, the one quoted from above.

     Parris: (in soliloquy) Damn!  I need to carve out more time for reading!  I'm rusty, and these paragraphs are thick.  This author Samuel Busk, I'd like to hear his ideas in person.  (Buzzes her latest secretary)  Honey?  Good, you've figured out how to operate the intercom.  Take this down.  I want a lunch with Samuel Busk, the author.  Entice him, say it's on the President's dime.  Dime?  Yes, dummy!  Dime!  Money!  I'll pay for the meal with Mr. Busk out of my personal four hundred thou a year.  Four hundred thou!  I'm thinking about signing an executive order raising my pay, oh, one point two million dollars per month?  Honey, you just heard a presidential interior thought, not an executive order.  How much do you think I should make?  Ten million a day?  You're sucking up to me because you think I think you're a dummy.  Track down Busk.

     (Muttering to herself) I should read more of Busk's book.  I'll do it while I do my daily Kegels.  I control Doug with my daily Kegels.  Heck, I control men with them.  My breasts have also received compliments.  Just last night at the Rwandan ambassador's party five men stared at my boobs.  I had a pushup bra on.  The whole world stares at my boobs.  No one absorbed the information the Rwandan ambassador said, "Yes, the 1994 genocide was even worse than the Palestinian one in terms of numbers killed thus far, but we must oppose Israel's genocide of Palestinians and America's support of that genocide." 

     Yeah, okay, sure, Mister, you try to run a country!  

     I looked straight into the camera and said Hank Killinger was a good man, my eyes in a dead stare, how could I be lying to you?  I am woman, feel me bite.  Dinah the snake, watch out for my fangs.  I smell with my tongue.  I slither, I'm Dinah Parrissssssssssssss.   Parrissssssssss.  (She gets down and crawls on the floor, sinuous like her snake persona, saying "Parissssssssss, Parisssssssssssss")

     Arthur Steffen, Secretary of State: (upon entering the Oval Office) Have you gone crazy this early in the job?  Wait until election time, you'll be a nervous wreck, or I'll be.

     

     Dinah flips her body (she does yoga) into a comfortable cross-legged seated position, patting the floor beside her.

     

     Dinah: Come on, Artie.  

     Artie: So, you're a lizard person?

     Dinah: No, I'm a strong Black woman.  I rule the country.

     Artie: You don't.

     Dinah: Who does?

     Artie: The people who control the money.  We are middle management, my dear.  I say this knowing my preferred candidate, Gabrielle Bongo, the elegant one to vote for, she's on the cover of Vogue this month--

     Dinah: I saw.  She looks like a First Lady.

     Artie: The cream and pale gold banded pillbox Jackie K.-style hat supports that look.  In her brow one can see determination.  She will seize the nomination from you, Madame President.

     Dinah: I scoff.

     Artie: In an alternate reality you have nothing to fear from the Bongos, or from the Blades, but in this reality you must fear them.  Their connections go deep.

     Dinah: For they are corrupt.

     Artie: As are we all, honey.

     Dinah: Who is my greatest enemy, Artie?

     Artie: Cassandra Blade and, to a lesser extent, Billy Boy Blade.

     Dinah: How are your relations with the Blades?

     Artie: Mostly non-existent these days.

     Dinah: You feel no loyalty to them?

     Artie: (laughs through his nose) Nor to anyone.

     Dinah: Would you help me involve them in a scandal?

     Artie: Sounds fun.  When do we start?

     Dinah: We'll use Doug.  He'll make a good unwitting player.  Doug is close to the Blades.  Doug went to Terry Stein's island.  He said he played ping pong with an underage girl but he had no statutory rape sexual intercourse with anyone, except someone slipped him a mickey.  He woke up naked, covered with animal grease, the skin of a sacrificed deer nearby, a naked girl sleeping on a cot.  Terry Stein was more than a practical joker.  Terry and I were lovers back when I was about twenty-one, twenty-two.  Insatiable he was, still is if you ask me.  I think a double got killed in place of Terry.  I'm blathering on about secrets, aren't I?

     Artie: It's my favorite thing that you do.

     Dinah: So that means Terry Stein is alive, if not well, well enough.  He's changed identities, changed his face maybe, his hair, his gait, his way of holding a fork, his method of tying his shoes, his preference for twice morning sex over thrice evening sex, all changed.  He is the same man, but his outward ways are strange to his old self.  My, I feel slightly high.  I think that mild bud finally kicked in.  

     Artie: Creeper, Madame President?

     Dinah: Night of the Living Creepers.  How come we never fucked, Artie?

     Artie: I can't stand you.

     Dinah: Right.  There's nothing about your body that I find appealing, either.  Your face looks twenty-one but your visage looks fifty.  Your eyes are hard and mirthless.  You have no warmth.  Ray Holroyd has warmth.  You are a cold fish.  I prefer my men cooked.

     Artie: Funny you should mention Holroyd.

     Dinah: How do you mean?

     Artie: He's getting together a presidential campaign.

     Dinah: Holroyd for president?

     Artie: Delusional, yes?  I think he wants the attention.  He's got a book coming out, too, with interviews and punditry slots.

     Dinah: I'm going on the internet to let everybody know I do not endorse Roy Holroyd for president.  

     Artie: How could you since you're to be running against him?

     Dinah: What you said.

     Roy Holroyd in the back of a Defense Department limousine, a stretch 1985 Cadillac, with Terry Stein, who hasn't done anything to his face or changed his gait, or his hair, or his way of holding a fork.  He doesn't use silverware anymore.  He eats with his hands and plenty of napkins. 

     

     Terry Stein: We still have Operation Morbidity to discuss.  Tell me about its progress, and tell your driver to drive around, not aimlessly, but avoid the area near the police station.  Now, Roy, my friend, my good friend.  You know I have your back.  Of course you do.  You can share anything with me, including your wife, Sandra, how is she?  Last time she bit my nipple pretty hard.  I thought it would fall off but one of my nursing students glued it back on with Gorilla Glue.  Did you know that Gorilla Glue will hold together two wooden planks?  Just try to separate them.  Go ahead, try.  Yes, Gorilla Glue makes for some sticky business.  Just three-ninety-nine per tube at Zetotz and Liebling, I like to give them business, your proverbial mom and pop store.  Small time capitalism.  Not me, I'm big time capitalism where it interfaces with criminality.  Zetotz and Liebling, free bag of movie theater style buttered popcorn every Saturday, around noon till closing, first come first serve.  Need a screw?  Need a cellophane-wrapped set of six blank VHS video tapes?  Need a pink gumball?  How about a snow shovel?  Tampons?  Yes, sir, they have tampons.  Spark plugs?  Yes, of course, Aisle 3, Zetotz Junior will take you directly to your plugs.  They have teat dip, too.  

     Roy Holroyd: Terry, have you malfunctioned?  You seem to be reliving memories of this hardware store?

      Terry: I worked there in high school and in summers during college.  The Elder Zetotz looked like Jack Albertson.  He wouldn't allow even BB guns in the store, but after he died Zetotz Junior sold guns.  Tom Liebling took over, retaining the Zetotz name but not the Zetotz soul.  Liebling fired nine employees, three of whom worked there for more than thirty years.  He trimmed down the organization, got rid of the quirky not very often bought items, but that was part of the store's charm.  No charm for Liebling.  Liebling, I'd like to sic one of my mind-controlled teenagers on him.  Compromise the fool.  Give him a taste of his own mistaken life.  Tell me about Operation Morbidity.

     Roy: You startle me with your abrupt change of subject.  I woke up the other day and said, Roy, you better run for president.  Dinah Parris can't be president anymore.  Don Richman?  Ugh.  Cassie Blade?  Yikes!  Gaby Bongo?  Too inexperienced.  Moe Lieden?  An old fart who smells like old farts, way too uninspiring.  Plus, he's crazy.  To save the republic, I will run.  

     Terry: And have the same luck as Alexander Haig.

     Roy: Haig didn't have the internet!

     Terry: Colin Powell had the internet and he never ran, though there was talk.

     Roy: You cannot depress me into disbelieving in my chances at becoming the leader of the free world.

     Terry: Oh, I believe in you, Roy.  You're the last stroke of color that completes the painting.

     Roy: Would you be my campaign manager?

     Terry: To be president you have to make smart decisions, and asking me a question like that indicates you're not smart.  Do you want a campaign manager who's in hiding?

     Roy: Oh, I know people at Justice.  They'll take care of your legal situation, reinstate you, resurrect you, no problem.  After fifteen to twenty days everything will be fine for Terry Stein.  Do you want to keep your name or do you want to try a new one?

     Terry: I have aliases.

     Roy: So do I.  I use it at a brothel I frequent.  Toy Lippers.

     Terry: Cute.  Are you drunk, Roy?

     Roy: No, not drunk, I've had several drinks, maybe ten, but I'm steady as a rock.

     Terry: I'll take your word for it.  You must stop drinking if you wish to become president.

     Roy: I want to stop drinking but I also want to not stop drinking.  Do you have any money?

     Terry: I only have Euros.

     Roy: We can go to a branch of my bank, the drive-thru.  Have you ever been through one?

     Terry: Yes.  I have this idea for a drive-thru chain where you pick up girls, maybe burgers too, they get loaded into your car.  I'll have the short blonde with the tall brunette, and the chesty redhead for dessert.  Have you ever considered the state of your soul?

     Roy: I'm not on an immortality quest as you are, but I believe my soul is pure and good, and no matter what I do in this life, I will go to Heaven.

     Terry: Who knows, who cares?  I'm a nihilist.  I expect the black endless shadow wherein Morgoth gnaws on the memory of his defeat.

     Roy: Since you're officially dead, I can kill you and not be charged with murder.

     Terry: Now I'll be one step ahead of you.  

     Roy: Did you ever bang President Parris?

     Terry: No, I banged with a president. 

     Roy: Billy Boy?

     Terry: Billy Boy.

     Roy: I've banged President Parris.  She's quite the hottie.  

     Terry: Is she your first--  

     Roy: --Black woman?  Oh, I've had many Black women.  Thirty at least.

     Terry: I happen to know, from video evidence, that you're exaggerating.  

     Roy: I think banging the President counts for multiple bangs of other women.

     Terry: I'll give you that.  Does the husband know?

     Roy: No, or I guess not.  He's friendly with me, but he seems oblivious to reality.

     Terry: It would be fun to fuck with Doug Gard.  

     Roy: Play a practical joke on him?

     Terry: Yeah.  Kidnap him and hold him on Paradise Island, my newly acquired personal country somewhere near South America.  Doug would go for a young girl, I think.  He's a weak man, a typical man, a waste of a man, an enfeebled man.  Hey, there he is!  Let's give him a ride.  Mr. Gard!  Would you like a ride in the Defense Secretary's limousine?  Wouldn't it be nice to come in out of the rain?

     

     Doug Gard enters, apologetic about being wet.

     

      Doug: My wet hair must look awful.  I'm glad I'm not about to go on camera.  My wife, the President, likes to restrict the number of appearances I make on television, radio, newspaper, and web media.  But here I am with Defense Secretary Holroyd.  Hello, Mr. Secretary.  I'm afraid I don't know you, sir, but you look familiar. 

     Terry: Rich Katz, First Observer of the Star Death.

     Doug: The star death?

     Terry: Betelgeuse.  I saw it explode from much closer than here.  

     Doug: You've traveled in space?

     Terry: We're traveling in space now.  But yes, I've traveled.

     Doug: Rich Katz?  Where have I heard that name before?  Do you know my wife?  She's the president.

     Terry: I know of Dinah Parris.  A handsome woman.

     Doug: Yes, I also find her very attractive.  I've had sex with her many times.  Oh, many many times.  Yes, we enjoy the benefits of married sexual intercourse, not as often as I'd like, but I compensate by whacking off three to five times per week.  

     Terry: I thought I was forthright about my sex life.

     Doug: I'm lucky to have such a tigress for a wife.  She can order assassinations!  She gets turned on when she kills, her juices overflow.  My sex organ benefits from her long distance murders.

     Ray Holroyd: She's a gorgeous piece, Doug, a gorgeous piece. (Lifts his glass) I salute...her bottom.

     Doug: Ray, you're talking about my wife!

     Ray: Dinah, yes.  Dinah vagina.  Dinah dynamite, Dinah vagina--

     Doug: Roy, you better stop!

     Roy: Do you want to fight in the limo?  Wouldn't you rather drink?

     Doug: I warn you, my wife is gorgeous, but you stay away from her genitalia!

     Roy: No vagina for Mr. Secretary?

     Doug: No Dinah vagina for you!

     Roy: I have an announcement to make.  I'm retiring from my post effective today.  Yes, I'm going to quit in front of President Dinah.  She'll be dismayed that I'm going to run against her for the nomination.  She'll be turned on.  Powerful men and risk-takers turn her on.

     Terry: If you want to be a risk-taker, try faking your own death.

     Roy: Someday I may have to.

     Doug: Roy, if you think my wife will bang your brains out if you do this you're sadly mistaken.  Dinah is my loyal steed.  When I mount her, she does as I command and I commanded her on our wedding night to be loyal and steadfast, to fuck no other cock besides mine, to content herself with my unremarkable average cock.  "Stay true to my cock, Dinah," I said, and she said "Yes!  I will!"  By the looks on your faces I'm suspecting I overshared?

     Roy: (To Terry) It's a joke of destiny that such a magnificent Catherine the Great-type woman is saddled with such a specimen.

     Doug: Roy, you don't say such a thing to a friend!

     Roy: You're not my friend!  No one is my friend!  I am Caliban!  I am Smeagol!  I am Timon of Athens!  I merely wish to bang Dinah one more time, then I'll stop cuckolding you, Doug.

     Terry: Gentlemen, let's step back for a bit.  Roy, you seem to want to hate-fuck the President, am I right?  You feel let down because she didn't give you the extramarital relationship you were hoping for?

     Roy: That about does it.

     Terry: Doug, you love Dinah, you love her more than life itself.  You and she would be nothing without the other, or so you believe.  I suspect she'd do fine without you, but that's my opinion.  In college I majored in opinions, and here's another: you're smothering your wife.  Be there for her, give her room, she'll come to you on her own and she'll better enjoy the time together.  Be gentle with her, because she has the power to destroy the world.  

     Roy: Like Kali.

     Terry: Yes.  Kali Dinah Parris.  When I get back to my place I'm going to drink some mead I got from Denmark, along with fourteen blonde girls and another heifer for the island.

     Doug: Now I know!  You're Terry Stein!

     Terry: Keep it to yourself, Doug.  I have video of you from your trip to my former island.  

   

     Press conference, White House Briefing Room, not as cool as the briefing room where Kirk would consult with Spock, with Spock at the computer, which spoke in a woman's voice, predicting Siri.  

     President Parris and Secretary of State Sneffen stand to the side as Boodles McJoy, the latest press secretary in a string of them--Gabe Feldner, Brooke Halstead-Myers, Beach Montgomery, and Abe "Two Fingers" Jackson, a veteran wounded war correspondent.  He brought scotch to the press briefings, swore at his colleagues, imitated a dragon, acted crazy whenever the cameras were on but like a sedate gentleman when they were off.  

     Boodles McJoy, fresh from a six month stint on The View, was captain of her debating team in college and a member of the sorority Tau Beta Gamma.  If you don't know the significance of that sorority you are not in the know.

     Boodles McJoy has no college degree.  She dropped out to marry a rich man, the gasoline corporation heir, Boots Harriman.  Picture Scott Glenn in Urban Cowboy.  Boots was mean, vicious and terrible to anyone who questioned his authority.  She moved his shoes on their wedding night.  He went ape.  Boodles had bruises, one on her left cheek.  Lying about Boots's character gave her practice for lying as a White House Press Secretary.  "He's a wonderful man is my Boots."  No one would ever know Boots Harriman is a wife beater.  High-strung Boodles McJoy got her last name by divorcing Boots after only eighteen months.  She married her attorney, Gus McJoy.

     

     Boodles: And without further ado...oh, I wanted to mention something.  Some of you are asking questions that are above my pay grade.  I don't want to sound ignorant, or like I'm concealing the president's position when I obfuscate, which is often, I admit.  My purpose is to speak for the president, I am her mouth.  Think of me, as a big Dinah-mouth.  I can't do her laugh (chuckles) but I can deliver the heart message.  She cares.  Every death her administration causes is prayed for and felt deeply for a few seconds or minutes, or not at all.  There are so many deaths.  "Please try to minimize civilian casualties" we say to a certain country, and that certain country says "No, we're just going to continue our murder campaign as we see fit, so butt out of our business and keep the weapons flowing, chumps."

     Reporter: When will the President speak to us?

     Boodles: Trying to get rid of me? (Laughter in the room) Aw shucks.  Without further ado, here is President Dinah Parris.

     Dinah: Thank you, Boodles.  I love that pin!  It's been ages since I've seen you in person!  You look good.  Well, you look tired.  I'm going to level with you, honey, you don't look well.  Are you eating enough?  Are you going through early menopause?  Are you pregnant?  Did you become a lesbian?  Do you still want to be a man?  You'd make a cute man.  Keep that hairdo. You look like a doll.  (Child's squeaky voice) Hello dolly!  What's your name?  My name's Dinah.  I'm the leader of the free world.

     Boodles: Madame President, I cannot accept this humiliation.  I hereby resign my position as your fifth press secretary.

     Dinah: Look at Miss Sensitive over here!  Okay, McJoy, you're done, I'll find someone else.  Maybe I'll do the job, how hard can it be?  You there, reporter, what's your name, whom do you represent, and what is your question?

     Reporter: What do you think of the new Hot Wheels movie?

     Dinah: I haven't seen it.  I watch movies if I'm interested in the subject matter.  Like last night, I saw a TV movie, Mama, Come Home, starring Oprah Winfrey and Vittario La Das.  Takes place in Ireland in 1897.  Tom Hiddleston plays Dracula.  This morning I was thinking about how John Kennedy died of a suspicious head injury.  That's a joke, people!  Some hit man motherfucker blew his brains out!  Who paid him?  Who contracted him for the job?  Where is Corsica, anyway?  And why did Jackie Kennedy climb onto the trunk of the presidential limo?  Where is sanity?  I'm proud to announce the launch of a new podcast: Dinah's Corner.  I plan on getting some celebrity guests, as well as political types and news media employees.  I might even interview the occasional poor person working two or three jobs to not even make ends meet.  My first guest will be my husband, Doug Gard.

     Reporter: Will Mr. Gard be a regular guest, a co-host perhaps?

     Dinah: No, not likely.  I might have someone like, oh, Cassandra Blade on, sitting by and reacting to my jokes with her distinctive laugh.  She'd make a great Ed McMahon.  (Feels through her pockets)  Oh shit!  I seem to have lost my lighter.

     Secretary of State Arthur "Artie" Sneffen plays solitaire on his desk in his office in Foggy Bottom, State Department headquarters.  The view through his three wide windows is one of dense fog, of opaqueness, symbolizing the long-term goals of State.  He takes his data-armored phone, courtesy of McDonnell Douglas, from his belt phone holder.

     Sneffen: Mrs. Bongo!  Good to hear from you.  I was planning on calling you later today.  Work work work!

 

     He places a black queen on a red king.

     Sneffen: Oh, I've been on your campaign like a bloodhound scenting after an abductee...No, President Parris, unfortunately, has gained a point in popularity.  You lost a point...I disagree, Ma'am...You needn't raise your voice...I'm doing all I can as Secretary of State, my actual job, plus fundraising for you and gathering influential supporters for you.  The Queen of the Netherlands has endorsed you...I know, but it should inject confidence in you...that you're calling me while in such a needy mood speaks to your insecurity...Are you sure you're up to the challenges of the campaign, not to mention the Office you seek?...Okay, you're able, I believe you...eight years of watching your husband be the president taught you how to be the president...yes, that's how it works.  Being president through osmosis.  Of course, dear former First Lady, use your innate wisdom, your heart, to win the Democratic nomination.  You're likely going against Don Richman in the fall, if you win the nomination...now, please, Mrs, Bongo, I'm just taking account of the frequent harshness of reality.  Cassandra Blade was convinced she'd win in 2016, but Richman, yes, Richman!  He has a following, if not a soul.  Oh, well, I didn't mean to get into a Christian discussion of the soul, but I'm an atheist...Don't worry about my post-life, I find Heaven to be a good steak, a horror movie on my big screen tv, and, when I'm in the mood, a date, someone between twenty-five and forty...no, I'd rather not join your prayer circle...What can I do for you before the next debate?  I can prep you, I mean I can play Don Richman, or maybe we could get Don Richman to stand in for Don Richman?...Offer him ten thousand dollars and he'd probably do it...Yes, a practice debate, for Richman as our guest and for yourself...I know you can't stand the man, but you have to behave like an adult and do something you don't want to do...Do you think I like working with Dinah Parris?  I do it because my goals are on a horizon rather than up close...I'm not going to sabotage President Parris...No...I can't make her into a vengeful enemy, and she is vengeful, like a rabid she-cat...Now, Mrs. Bongo, my place in your administration, if it comes to pass, is secure?...As much as any job is secure? what does that mean?...When I dance I like to have the choice of many partners?  Is that a metaphor?  Are you talking of dancing or of your appearance on Dancing With the Stars?...Why not bring that up?  You did well enough.  You were clumsy and your timing was off in your last performance, but maybe that experience showed you that being on such programs is beneath you...Yes, I really believe that.

 

     Arthur Sneffen chuckles silently to himself, eyes on the cards.

     After a pause of months, I, the author, unlock these imaginary characters so that they may live again.  The election nears, the campaigns of Richman and Parris--Holroyd's attempt fizzles--assault Americans with propaganda.  One ad shows Richman's AI-assisted face making expressions in time with claims of his psychopathy.  A Republican congressman who addresses the Democratic National Convention says, "Don Richman is literally insane."  Putting the words literal or literally in front of a word like insane does nothing to modify the word insane.  It's simply a lazy way of talking that makes this author weary.  During President Parris's interview with CNN's Comet Crush, her running mate, Governor James Ames of the "great state of Minnesota" blames his false claim of carrying "weapons in war" on his "grammar," something his wife admonishes him about, or so he says--he makes things up to be liked, like politicians tend to do when they want ordinary people to regard them as human.

     Speaking of human, none of the four top knobs from the two major parties running for President and Vice President are wholesome or appealing.  Sure, their followers in the political racket claim that they're admirable.  Dinah Parris has her shit together, supposedly.  All she has to do is not say something outrageous, or laugh about human suffering.  James Ames looks like a pale hairless teddy bear, and he loves the fuck out of Israel.  Don Richman's going to "drain the swamp."  He didn't do it when he was President for four years the last time, but who has a memory?  His running mate, K.F. Cliche, says in an interview that there's something wrong with childless women, proving he has a knack for securing votes from single people and married couples who basically just don't want, or like, kids.

     Meanwhile, the American empire continues to die while these four idiots pretend that it's as strong as ever and will become even more muscular.  President Parris, in her DNC speech, boasts that she wants the U.S. military to be "the most lethal fighting force in the world," a declaration to make arms dealers ejaculate and foreigners to prepare means of thwarting such ambitions.  After all, the United States military couldn't defeat the Taliban.  But who cares?  Human lives are cheap to people like Parris, Ames, Richman, and Cliche.  

     There's a good reason why Jesus of Nazareth didn't bother to try to secure meetings with political figures.  As a prisoner, he had to meet with Pontius Pilate, an important Roman official, but he didn't give a fuck about the Emperor or the Pharisees or the Sadducees.  He wouldn't bother with someone like Ronald Reagan or James K. Polk, or Liz Truss.  Jesus knew, I assume, that such ambition-filled people are lost souls.  The rich man who wanted to join Jesus's following couldn't do it because the condition of giving his wealth to the poor was too much of a condition.  Had Jesus been charging for a course in self-help and miracles at the Esalen Institute the rich man in the New Testament would've signed on, undoubtedly.

     A debate approacheth.  Richman versus Parris.  Old man versus middle-aged woman.  Parris wants the microphones on at all times.  James Ames doesn't understand the First Amendment.  He claims that hate speech isn't protected by that most important of Amendments, even though it is.  Misinformation, he claims, also isn't protected, even though it is.  His grammar's fine; he's just an authoritarian.  Richman is not insane, but he is a billionaire, a special tiny class of human being lacking any real experience with what it's like to work hard and never get ahead.  K.F. Cliche has receded into the background of Richman's campaign.  He makes dumb statements.  He could vanish from the ticket and no one would notice.  

     None of these assholes give a shit about Palestinians getting mass murdered, nor do they care about the hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians fed by NATO into the monster mouth of the war with Russia.  In this century it's considered by corporate news journalists, pundits, and politicians to be a pitiable abnormality if one is a humanitarian.

     Two debates, presidential, the other one vice.

     ABC moderator Joseph Bumphouse and Calindra Meaner, belonging to the same sorority that produced President Dinah Parris.  Former President Don Richman has noted how much taller he is than President Parris. A full eleven inches!  That's almost one foot taller!  In the Parris-friendly press, Dinah Parris is said to have "tall energy."  This is how tabloid journalism meets Orwellian propaganda.  Tall energy, like a highly caffeinated beverage in an elongated cylindrical aluminum can, nutrition content, zero.

     Bumphouse: Because I'm the man here I'm going to ask the first question.  Mr. Richman.  You've said you could end the Russia-Ukraine War in under twenty-four hours.  How would you do this?

     Richman: Look.  I have a great relationship with Vladimir Putout.  I have a good relationship with that other guy, the Ukrainian comedian.  I gave him Javelins if you'll recall--

     Bumphouse: You delayed the shipment--

     Richman: That was for just a brief time.  All those weapons have exploded by now, what's the point of going over it again?  I love the Ukrainian people.  I want the killing of those proud people to stop.  I want Russians to not be killed by NATO.  By the way, NATO's a bad organization.  I'll pull out, we don't need NATO, NATO needs us.  Fuck NATO.  Can I swear on ABC?

     Bumphouse: We're live, so we'd prefer that you didn't.

     Richman: Okay, whatever.  NATO, the European Union, what would they be without America?  F them.  F them up their asses.  Can I say ass?

     Bumphouse: You may say ass, but you can't imply anal sexual intercourse.

     Richman: Fair enough.

     Bumphouse: Madame President, will you respond, please?

     President Dinah Parris: I'd like first to say that NATO is a bulwark against the menacing might of the Soviet Union.  

     Bumphouse: May I remind you, ma'am, that the Soviet Union hasn't existed since 1991.

     Dinah Parris: I know that!  I was twenty-six, a full grown woman when it fell, but I was working at McDonald's when the red Communist empire was still around, though on its last legs.  I admired and still admire Ronald Reagan.  He outspent the Soviets on nuclear weapons.  They just had to keep up.  What with their war in Afghanistan at the time, their economy went kaput.  See, I've read some history.  I'm also well-versed in pop culture.  You know, the first time I saw a Boy George video I didn't know if he was a man or a woman.  Boy, have I learned to tell the difference, and to not judge cross dressers or transgender American citizens.  We need to open our arms to accepting all sixteen sexes, to changing basic grammar to accommodate the they/them pronouns.  And I will say ass just for the sake of saying it.

     Calindra Meaner: President Parris.  First of all, let me give you a Sisters' hand sign only you and I here understand the meaning of.  

     Parris: Oh yes!  I know that one!

     Meaner: As you know, the border isn't secure.  You were appointed Border Czar by former President Moe Lieden.  

     Parris: Oh, that was one of President Lieden's tactics.  I don't know anything about the border.  He knew that.  See, it's a common practice in government to appoint unqualified people to important positions for the purpose of degrading those agencies.  When I was a teenager, before I worked at McDonald's, President Reagan appointed James Watt to be Secretary of the Interior.  Watt went on buffalo hunting trips.  He was a fundamentalist Christian who believed in the imminent end of the world, Book of Revelations stuff, right?  He didn't care about nature or the material world--he was completely unsuited to be Secretary of the Interior.  

     Meaner: Mr. Richman, will you respond?

     Richman: She's right that she doesn't know anything about the border, or the immigration crisis, or anything else except sleeping her way to the top.

     Meaner: Mr. Richman, please!  

     Bumphouse: It would be appreciated if we could refrain from personal insults.

     Richman: Whatever you say, corporate Democrat lackey.

     Bumphouse: Moving on to foreign policy.  Mr. Richman.  Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?

     Richman: Of course I do.  I'd be a fool not to, considering how much I've been paid by Israel lobbyists.

     Bumphouse: Madame President.  Same question?

     Parris: What was the question?

     Bumphouse: Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?

     Parris: October seventh was the most heinous act of terroristic violence in the history of humanity.  My husband is Jewish.  I married a Jew.  I love Jews.  I love Jerry Seinfeld.  I love Sid Caesar.  I love Shecky Greene.  I read a Bernard Malamud novel in college.  I watched Schindler's List.  Israel can do whatever the F they want to defend themselves.  They are America's essential strategic partner in the Middle East, an aircraft carrier with our expensive fighter jets on it.  

     Bumphouse: Mr. Richman, do you have a response?

     Richman: I agree with what she said, except I never heard of this Bernard Malamud fellow.

     Bumphouse: Moving on to Ukraine.  Mr. Richman, what is your plan to end the war there?

     Richman: Two phone calls, firstly to Putout.  I have a good relationship with him.  Then I'll call the comedian, tell him he has to stop.  Plus, I'll offer him free five year memberships in all of my country clubs.  I'll also introduce him to the Republican actors I know.  He's friends with Democrats, like Ben Stiller and Sean Penn, but, as far as I know, he's never hung out with Jon Voight.

     Bumphouse: Madame President?  Do you have a response?

     Parris: Honey, I could talk celebrities all night, I'm a California politician, but I have a feeling people are tuning in to hear about inflation, the economy, and how two deranged would-be assassins have tried to kill my opponent but no one in mainstream news media talks about it anymore.  I want to add that there's no place for political violence in America, even though it's happened a bunch of times.  

     Bumphouse: Mr. Richman?

     Richman: My ear from that bullet doesn't hurt anymore, but I'm thinking about hiring my own bodyguards.  I have a few billion dollars, I guess I could get some pretty good people.

     The great debate between Governor James Ames and Senator K.F. Cliche.  Jamie Joyce and Peggy Reasons of CBS News moderate.

     Joyce: Good evening, gentlemen.

     Ames and Cliche: (Greek Chorus-wise) Good evening, ladies, if you're as fair as you both look, we have no doubt we will both be treated fairly.

     Joyce: (Laughs) Did you rehearse that?

     Ames and Cliche: No.

     Ames: I've been married, happily mind you, for thirty years.  When I said the two of you are fair, as in beautiful, I did not mean I'm attracted to you.  I am only attracted to my wife, Gertrude.  My eye does not wander.

     Joyce: All right.  Senator Cliche, we'll start with you--

     Cliche: I love my wife.

     Joyce: That's good to hear.  A husband should love his wife.

     Ames: Amen to that.

     Joyce: Senator Cliche.  Do you support Israel's right to defend itself?

     Cliche: Yes.

     Joyce: Governor Ames, same question.

     Ames: October seventh was the worst terror attack in history.  Jamie--if I may call you Jamie?

     Joyce: Go ahead.

     Ames: We Americans have a special obligation to defend Israel no matter what the cost.  As Vice President, I will support that nation's bombing and killing policies no matter how cruel and irrational it may get, and I suspect we haven't seen the worst of it.  I wake up screaming sometimes from nightmares  about the horrors Israeli Defense Forces have visited upon Palestinian women and children since October seventh.  We must defend Israel's right to kill and blow up residential structures and refugee camps, for those acts also constitute America's right to do the same.

     Joyce: Senator?

     Cliche: I agree with everything the governor said, except that I haven't had a nightmare since I was three years old.  There was a werewolf in that one.

     Peggy Reasons: Senator Cliche.  What about abortion?  

     Cliche: Am I against it or for it?  Against it, obviously.  I'm a Republican.  Governor Ames is pro-abortion, that is, pro-child murder.  His running mate, President Parris, supports sex change operations for prisoners.  What kind of policy is that?  She thinks every man should be turned into a woman and every woman should be turned into a man.  Peggy?  Would you like to become a man?  I think you look fine as a woman.  In fact, if I weren't married, I'd screw up my courage and ask you out, but I am married, happily, for ten years.  I know it's only one third the length of time of the Governor's happy marriage, but a decade constitutes a milestone.  Ten whole years.

     Reasons: Governor Ames.  Abortion?

     Ames: Well, my mother told me she considered aborting me, but I think she was kidding.  I was a bit of a scamp as a teenager.  Under peer pressure, I intimidated an awkward kid named Felix.  (Looking into the camera) Felix, I'm sorry.  I hope you've forgiven me, and I hope President Parris and I have your vote.  And Ted Vanderbright.  I'm really sorry I stole your bike.  Then there was Linda Gorgeous.  Yes, that was her name, except she wasn't gorgeous.  Rather, she was plain and shy.  I was merciless to her.  I'm so sorry, Linda.  She rebuffed me at our ten year high school reunion in 1992, called me a word I can't say on television, although it rhymes with click.  Ironically, Linda blossomed over those ten years since high school.  I daresay she came to live up to her surname.  I was drunk when I tried to engage her in conversation.  I asked her for a date.  She laughed at me.  

     Reasons: Governor, your position on a woman's right to choose is, like President Parris's, considered extreme by Republicans--

     Cliche: I'm against it.

     Ames: Women need to be able to choose, just like men choose to get inside women and make them pregnant.

     Jamie Joyce: Senator Cliche.  You've opposed Democratic Party calls for stronger restrictions on gun ownership rights.  In light of school shootings and two assassination attempts on your running mate, how do you reconcile your position?

     Cliche: Jamie.  I believe in the Second Amendment.  I have it printed in red ink on my office wall in Washington.  Guns don't kill people.  People kill people.  Hammers don't pound nails by themselves.  A magnifying glass is useless without the eye to utilize it.  Shoes don't tie themselves.  A wedding ring doesn't go on the finger of a loving, devoted bride all by itself.  Kids don't get made without loving state-sanctioned sex between a man and a woman, not a trans-man and a trans-woman.  I've seen some strange things since I got into Washington.  My opponent, Governor Ames, and his running mate, the President, represent all that is filthy and immoral in America.  It's disgraceful.  They want to take away our guns.  They want to shred my red-inked Second Amendment parchment signed by Charlton Heston.  They want a country without borders.

     Jamie Joyce: Governor Ames.  Your response?

     Ames: I believe in the Second Amendment.  Heck, I own guns.  I kill animals.  I don't kill people.  Even when I was in the National Guard I didn't kill anybody, except mosquitos and other pests.  I'm a hunter.  I can imitate a duck.  I'm willing to do it, but I'd rather address my opponent's accusation that the President and this Governor, that's me, represent everything that's filthy and immoral in this country.  No, we don't.  For instance, I never flew on Terry Stein's plane.  Yes, in tenth grade I got to second base with Teri Fichtlinger, but I'd hardly call that an immoral act.  Teenagers mess around with each other.  It's a matter of satisfying urges and curiosity.  (Looks at the camera) Teri, if you're watching, I hope President Parris and I can count on your vote.  As for Senator Cliche's charge that the President and I don't want our country to have borders, that's just not true.  We have two borders, a southern and a northern.  It's a lot of ground to cover.  I'd like to point out that President Richman had four years to solve the immigration crisis, and he didn't, so what makes any rational person believe he'll come up with an effective solution if he gets another chance to mess up the country for four more years?

     Peggy Reasons: Governor Ames.  You've claimed you were in Hong Kong during the Tianenmen Square massacre of 1989.  In fact, you were in Nebraska at the time.  Why did you fabricate this story?

     Ames: Look, I'm a patriotic American.  I'm from a small Nebraska town.  I was a paperboy.  I ate Wheaties.  I mowed lawns for comic book money.  My favorite characters were the X Men and Iron Man.  The Fantastic Four.  I dated Teri Fichtlinger for two months.  I helped her with her geometry homework.  I joined the National Guard when I was seventeen.  I learned how to fire a rifle effectively.  I developed a love for guns at that time.  Over the years my love for Israel grew, too.  I learned to hate tyranny.  Tianenmen was an atrocity.  Sure, I wasn't in Hong Kong then, but I imagined I was.  I like to create facts, and once I create a new fact, I believe it.  

     Reasons: The massacre happened on June fourth, 1989.  You didn't go to China until August of that year.

     Ames: Yes, that's the objective truth, Peggy.  I remember it differently, but I'll accept your formulation.  I saw the coverage of that terrible day on television, in Nebraska, yes, but when I see something on television--news stories, a sitcom, a police drama, what have you--I join mentally, with geometric logic, with that depiction, fictional or otherwise.  I become part of the program.  The same thing would happen when I read my comic books.  I was Tony Stark, the Iron Man!  I was Mr. Fantastic!  He can stretch his mutated body all the way to Beijing, so why can't I?  It all boils down to me being a knucklehead sometimes.  

     Reasons: Senator?  Do you care to comment?

     Cliche: I can't top what he just said.

To be continued...

Vic Neptune