Soon after I went back to the suite at the Pierre, I sneaked out.  I made a beeline south down 61st street.  then made a a left onto 3rd Avenue going east.  Once you make the left, voila, there is the monument to vulgarity.  I hit the lobby and saw Kellyanne Conway stepping onto an elevator.  I thought it weird that she would drop by to suck up  the Orange One when Melania was at home.  What’s the Oval Office for?  

I kept a low profile and scampered in as the door stayed open for Kellyanne.  We hit our floor.   I ran as fast as I could to jump into Melania’s loving arms. You know Michelin-Boy Donny never got a welcome like I get. Of all the people I know in Donald’s entourage, I’d say Melania is the least impressed by what Don wants and Kelly-Anne among the most.   Kellyanne will sing lies without end for him.

Once I was in Melania’s lucious arms, she began to koo to me as she ran to the dining room to tell the cooks to get me something to eat. I acquiesced.  No wise cat turns down a free feed. You never know where you’ll be having the next one.  I asked Melania what Kellyanne and Donald were chattering about.  “They have to figure out what lies she is telling next week.  Donald so loves being her ventriloquist.  He knows I’m hopeless at trying to keep up with his bull shit, but Kellyanne gobbles it up.”  

Melania went on to tell me she thought she should lie like an expert.  Life as a fashion model is all about fantasies and about one’s body and one’s god-given, camera-loving looks.  The modeling industry would, according to her, perish without airbrushes, makeup, breast molds, and plastic surgeons, and anorexics.  Slavic models, I learnt, get by without creating the illusion of having big boobs because Slavic women all have big boobs.  Maybe not as big as Donald’s, but big.  The hard part for Slavic model is how to keep from running to fat as the years pass.  The will to starve of an anorexic fades with time. And lots of models go to seed because they love drugs and booze every bit as much as Kate Moss used to. “Let me tell you, Crocky, Kate had a hard on for dope and booze. ”  

Right about then, I heard a knock on the door.  Within a minute, I felt nauseated as the stench of Prez Trump’s Big Macs and fries wafted into the dining room.  Melania, ever attendant to my states, carried me into her bedroom.  She stripped, climbed onto her bed, and invited me to walk on her.  I had to remember that she didn’t like as much claw as Lucky. Lucky likes it rough, as one after another of her bruised, weeping lovers soon learnt.

I’m a soft touch lover.  Often I fear that my skill in love stems from a history similar to Lord Varys on Game of Thrones.  Recall, gentle readers, I once lived near Martinez Creek and the San Antonio Zen Center after my cruel, creepy, thieving servants cast me out of my car to die in a kitty concentration camp near the creek disguised as a flood plain.  I am a master tactician.  I survived.

But survival was not without suffering.  By the time I arrived at Roberta and mike’s house next to the Zen Center, I had been savaged repeatedly.  The Battle of Martinez Creek was the last of the catastrophes.  My friend, the vagabond master of the neighbourhood, Walt, carried me away during the Battle of Martinez Creek to what he took to be an aid station.  My left eye was close to gone for good.  I had  broken ribs.  I lay on the mike and Robert’s porch expecting death’s kiss.

Instead of death, radiant Roberta became my angel, carrying me into the house to nurse.  All seemed well.  She spent the money necessary to save my wrecked eye. Beaucoup bucks later, I never had to fear looking like Polyphemus.  Little did I know that as I lay recovering, Roberta was scheming against me.  If only I had learnt the lesson of Thanksgiving.  And I was humiliated when I thought I had got suckered as bad as any turkey ever had.

Roberta took me to a gelding factory.  Whilst she went off to drink fine wines, a pack of butchers cathandled me.  Yes, king, gentler eaders, this pack robbed me of my manhood.  To make matters worse, they ignored elementary precautions.  I was dumped into Roberta’s car before I had recovered my ability to pee.  I began to bloat.  My pitiful whimpering alarmed Roberta.  Guilt forced her to take me to a real vet.  I figured that even with care, I was a goner, but when the vet anesthetised me, I felt my bladder let go.  So close to the doorstep of doom was I that I didn’t even bother to protest as this competent vet let me lie in a pool of my own piss.  

As a Love Machine, all this abuse diminished my masculinity.  And so, like a Lesbo, I’ve had to please my lovers with my dexterous paws or, if you prefer, my kitty hands and feet.  Since I always tend to look at the sunny side of life, I like to imagine that my misfortune keeps me from terrifying women with a fear of satyrs.  I can look safe, but, behold, I am a King of Lovers.  It’s all in one’s technique.  

No wonder Melania adores me.  

I never recall her checking to see what Kellyanne.   Just as well. She ran the risk of being blinded by the sight of them.  Kellyanne, after all, had reached the of feminine rapacity.  Once the risk of pregnancy passes, women are shameless libertines and worse than men.

The next morning I had a panic.   Melania had switched the telly on for me, but failed to tune in the toons.  Perhaps she switched on Fox news to keep Don from rushing in to change the channel.  Perhaps not putting on the cartoons proves how smart Melania is.  If you put a cartoon on, you run the risk of Tubby Trump wandering in to watch the toons with you.

Anyway, the telly’s screen showed the front of the Pierre Hotel.  Swarms of reports slithered about it.  The typical Fox reporter–a tall, thin blonde of the Megan Kelly school–wailed about crime Nancy Pelosi had caused in all parts of the city.  Not even the Pierre was spared!  Early in the morning, as the Kelly clone told the story, Charles de Guerre, a person whose life should be respected even though he is French, was mauled.  The cause of death was unknown, but, she smirked, the Frenchy was slashed and it appeared he had been fisted by a cruel homosexualist with long, strong nails.  This assault, surely sexual, had left Monsieur de Geurre eviserated.  By now Kelly clone was breathing heavily and had rather heavy eyelids.

I hoped for Kelly clone’s sake that Constance did hear the assailant described as a homosexualst with sharp nails.  Clearly, I had to get back to the Pierre.  

And what luck I had. Kellyanne came stumbling out of Trump’s area of the Penthouse looking rumples, and  not just ditzy, but dizzy.  Out of I ran between her legs.  I think she was so practised about what goes between ses jambons ou cuisses that she’d never notice me.

Faster than the Flash, I was back in the Pierre at my suite.  Lord Caligula was lecturing Constance for her lack of self-mastery.  He feared the trouble that a dead de Guerre would cause.  

“You couldn’t let his insults slide off you, eh?  So, you sneak out to even up with him.  You had the cheek to use a glass cutter to get into his room by scaling walls.  Once in, you made short, nasty work of him.  You know this won’t be free.  You know that French prick keeps bad company.  If he is at the Pierre, do you imagine that the chink Lucky isn’t here or on her way?  And he and Lucky never work on a project like this alone?  More problems!  Nothing but expense and blood will come of your revenge on this dangerous wanker.”

Constance looked embarrassed, “Aw, Cliggy, you know I could not just let him insult us.”

Lord Caligula began to thunder, “Indeed I do know what you cannot abide.  So what?  What matters is what, in the name of profit and wisdom, you should abide!  Look at all the insults and bull shit I endure for the sake of money. We’re not a charity, Constance.  The money matters.  Bills must be paid!”  

Constance then asked, “If I let you bugger me will you let this go?”  This offer got her a dirty look and. a firm “No.”

At the mention Lucky’s name, I trembled.  She would indeed not let de Guerre’s bad end interfere with their mission, but she would want to settle that score after she had done her paid work.