As the CV-22 thumped-thumped-thumped its way to Kampala, I kept giving the bot the evil eye.  I had formed a profound, irrational hatred of him.  As I saw it, he should have stayed on the ground in the detonation zone to protect me.  What’s it to him?  It’s not as if he has feelings.  Second, if you ask me, he took up a lot of space for a do-nothing.  He’d helped tow the stealth bomb to the detonation spot, but then he hightailed it back to the Osprey. 

Even worse,  he didn’t use his death eye to kill any of our foes.  Somebody should have programmed him better than that.  I kept hoping Lucky would take a can opener to him.

After several hours we got to Kampala’s Entebbe aeroport.  Everybody went their separate ways.  A crew that looked rather Anglo=American removed the Russian insignias.  I heard that when the Israelis left the Osprey, this crew got on.  Wolverine had arranged a private jet to get Fielding and Bart back to the states.  Nobody told me that.  Instead, I let Lucky bag me.  None of the Chinese guys at a gate that seemed reserved just for Lucky tried to stop us.  We then went straight to the KLM gate.  Lucky got us boarded and she had reserved 2 first-class seats.  Less than 1/2 a day later, we were in Amsterdam.

The Mossad gang had taken a chartered flight, which I assume landed in Israel.  And I’m not so blind that I didn’t notice a Chinese chap take a USB drive from Lucky’s camera.  It, I’m sure, had an Emperor Xi viewing in its near future.

I was relieved to discover Lucky reserved a suite in the Hotel Twenty-Seven. I liked it.  I liked it more when Lucky asked for and scored a plate of exquisite Dutch Schmaltz herring just for me.  She ordered a bottle of Sancerre and a plate of chevre for herself with a baguette.

I thought it an odd order for a China chick, but Lucky was, after all, a true cosmopolite.  Long ago, she had transcended every bit of Chinese parochialism in her.   No wonder the two of us got on so.

Lucky did pull a dirty deed at Hotel 27.  She drew herself a bath.   I was watching Dutch cartoons on the telly to relax.  As I unwound, she swooped in on me, burritoed me, then plunged me into the tub.  After a ferocious struggle against her aggression, I emerged shampooed and sopping wet.  As she released me, she swatted my bottom and said, “What a tiger you are, darling.” 

To add insult to injury, she then drained, washed, and refilled the tub before sinking into it herself.  I could have killed her as I saw her small, dark nipples making appearances above the soap bubbles if I wasn’t too frightened to mess with her.  She had a long soak, then stood up and shaved her legs, and, deft with her razor, recreated her landing strip.  One wrapped in a towel, she climbed onto the bed.  

We let bygones be bygones.  I climbed on to make biscuits on her body, which she adored.  You could hear her sigh as I did my work. I’d have kept at it but stepped on the click-y and caused a channel change.  

Voila, behold the pasty creep.  Putin’s face filled the page.  He was protesting an enormity in Somalia.  As he carried on, I figured it out.  He was talking about the al Shaboobies were had exterminated.   From what I heard, Emperor Xi had blamed that killing on the Russians. According to Puti, the Chinese wanted Africa all for their own exploitive ends.  Imagine it.  Not a single word was muttered about the Israelis.  At least for now, they had got away with it.

Nora O’Donnell, one of my favourite Catholic journalists to look at, was describing the maggot-infested bodies of a Russian General and a few enlisted guys.  About her, bodies of terrorists littered the site.  

If you believed her, she had got photos of the incident and its location from a nameless source (China, of course).  Worse than anybody had imagined, the site provided evidence of a new secret weapon that her sources told her was a product of Russian collaboration with an unknown munitions company headed by an English Lord. 

Unknown? I thought. Only if you’re a journalist who has done no homework.  Further, Ms O’Donnell got grave when she deplored the lack of security in Putin’s Russia.  All one needed to do was to inspect this scene to learn that a renegade Russian unit with a General rank officer in charge had swiped the secret weapon, a weapon with the power to freeze human beings at temps way above freezing.  

When the camera panned to show many bullet-riddled al Shabaab, Ms O’Donnell built a fantasy of a cataclysmic firefight between the al Shabaab and Russians.  She added that the Russians apparently had the advantage of teams of fearless cobras that were left dead on the field by the Russians after the battle.  She speculated they had used a helicopter to wage battle whilst leaving scouts and cobras to die.  The General had apparently fallen from a great height.  Hence the helicopter and cobra/scout teams hypotheses. 

I knew Nora had majored in philosophy at Georgetown before turning to journalism.  No wonder making up facts to order was second nature to her.  it’s a philosopher’s specialty.  Philosophers like to call this inference to the best explanation.  It’s easy to spot. Human beings wear sunglasses.  Sunglasses rest on noses.  So, somebody, perhaps God themself, created noses to support sunglasses.  

Lucky looked bored as Putin continued.  “You’re going to kill me from boredom with this rubbish, my love.  Couldn’t you find us some porn to watch.”  Fear gripped me.  I was in no mood to have to spend God know how long chewing and licking Lucky’s toes as Lil’s Miss Multiple got herself off again and again.  Nevertheless, I knew the routine.  To protest is futile.  The resist is suicidal.  

Besides, we were in Holland, a country with no moral standards.  The Dutch turned their red-light district into a tourist attraction.  You can guess what’s on the Dutch telly from that fact alone.  Even worse, the stupid fuckers running Holland learnt nothing from President Trump.

  The streets swarmed with loafing refugees. The Dutch never even consider leaving the idling poor on the street to starve.  Heaven forbid!  Instead, the Dutch reward loafers with benefits that include extra cash when these moochers are due for a vacation. 

Praise the Lord, nobody can get his greedy mitts on the Krugerrand I have in the Caymans to pay for such nonsense.  Anyway, I had no trouble in such a country finding rich offerings of free porn for Lucky.  Oh, well . . .  Not all countries can achieve America’s high moral standards.

When Lucky awoke the next morning, she was in a better mood.  She ordered a bowl of fresh fish in cream, with the chef given permission to select what he thought looked best for me.  For herself, she ordered a caviar omelette topped with smetana.  She requested potatoes and asparagus as sides.  She also got a croissant with a framboise confiture to go with it.  What I got, the fresh fish swimming in cream, was a foretaste of heaven.