Lord Caligula was still in a silk paisley bathrobe at 10.00.  He scratched his left arm pit.  When he walked to to door and opened it.  As if by magic, a bellhop handed him a Bloody Mary.  His Lordship surveyed him, and then told him to return at 11.00 with a Ramos Fizz.  

He walked back into the suite, plopped down onto a club chair, then told me, “Women, Crockey, a man has no traction when a woman decides to do as she pleases.  Constance is not going to stop killing people she can’t stand just because it costs me money. Last night I should have had one of my lads warn de Guerre, but then there still would have been war in the Pierre  Piss on them both!.”

I strolled over to him, hopped up onto the coffee table before him and just sat.  Nobody had clued me yet about what was going on.  

Now it turned out, two or three days back President Trump had made a speech that represented President Putin as a Christian, a Man of Peace, and a champion, just like Trump himself, of oppressed people everywhere, especially in central Africa.  Then the President, as if to prove his point, said that President Putin, Emperor Xi, the Jap leader, and assorted European kingpins were coming to NY to speak on Arms control.  The president claimed everybody wanted to stop a new threat from a new weapon that threatened world stability.  President Putin’s speech was to be this evening.

When suite’s fine old clock chimed 11, his Lordship sent a bodyguard to the door to pick up his Ramos Fizz.  The bodyguard took the Fizz to his Lordship.  His lordship gave me a pat on the head, then clicked on the telly.  ‘Check this out, Crockey.”

The screen showed the man that mike always calls “Senator BS” bellowing, as usual, about the billionaire class and the 1 percenters.  Thank god I’m a one percenter.  the distribution of wealth that Senator BS saw as orchestrated by the billionaire class and illustrative of white privilege, I saw as illustrative of luck.  I had had plenty of luck in my life. As mike puts it, do you see anybody in BS’s crowd rushing off to give away any money he hits a bit lotto? 

BS was giving one of his typical full-throated sermons on the billionaires and their bloodthirsty habits.  Within 15 or 20 minutes, BS had his gangs of college students hootin’ and howlerin’ about the billionaires the 1 percenters killing their right to free college and free public transport, and how it was these same greedy bastards whose love of money was strangling the hopes of the poor. The 1 percenters were the cause of homelessness.   What’s more, the privileged were war mongers.  They were coming to New York to decide how to divide up their loot with looters about world to preserve their privilege.  They were in New York with their henchmen to consolidate their privilege, not to build peace.  

All of the sudden, I got a nudge from his Lordship.  “Check it out, Crockey.”   At first I saw nothing.

Granted, Central Park had been adorned with lots of cabanas that I thought were public facilities put in for this occasion.  Over the years, I’ve notice that most human beings, most especially the female ones, refuse to enjoy a piss in plein d’air.  But it was not that.  The structures popped open.  Swarms of servants carrying stuff I was unsure about rushed into the crowd.    When I looked over my shoulder,  an enraptured Lord Caligula, his blue eyes blazing, screamed, “It’s martini’s and caviar.  My undocumented citizens are going to stuff these scheming crybabies full of gin, olives, and caviar with, I suppose, a slather of vermouth as well.”  

Senator BS looked at loss.  His staff briefed him.  BS resumed his rant.  “This is manna from heaven, children.  the food stuffs of the billionaire class are ours at last.  Caviar and martinis should be free.”  

But the pace of the giveaway was unsustainable.  I noticed a throng of Princetonians had closed in on the cabanas to gobble up caviar and guzzle martinis as fast as their lily-white Episcopalian hands could hoover them up.

But don’t believe for a second that the men and woman of Harvard, Columbia, Penn, or Dartmouth were going to let these goodies all go to Princeton.  The violence of Dartmouth students in defence of their right to huge shares was awesome, to borrow his Lordships word for their rapine.  Perhaps not going to Princeton, Harvard or Yale put a chip on the shoulders of the rustics from Dartmouth.  

The scene was getting ugly.  I then saw what I thought was a thinly disguised Peregrine.  He was in a Harrovian school boys uniform, including the stupid boater, but he has also carrying a gleaming tanto.  I heard an Etonian voice from the telly scream, “The bums are stealing our caviar.”  At that the tanto sliced through a homeless chap’s forearm.  A girl in a Mount Holyoke hoodie with a Sanders button on its chest ran to the bum. Her mouth foamed spittle as she pulled his head back.  Peregrine wasted no time. His tanto slid in just below the guy’s Adam’s apple.   

The Holyoke girl and a buxom brunette in a Smith t-shirt knocked back their martinis, then rushed to Peregrine in a state of orgiastic ecstasy.  The Smith girl began to lick the blood from from Peregrine’s blade like a true vampire. To think anybody wonders how to spot future hedge fund managers.  Both she and Holyoke passed Peregrine matchbooks with their telephone numbers scribbled inside of them. 

And the bloodlust didn’t stop.  Peregrine began slashing bums, but from an opposite direction, Wolvereine, dressed like somebody fresh from Woodstock, wearing nothing more than a loin cloth and sandals, was slashing his way through clouds of pink mist into drunken tramps with a katana.  Film in the evening news, showed Wolverine was chanting “Gonville and Caius, Gonville and Caius” as a war cry, as if he had bothered with with university after Eton.

Again, I looked back from the telly, Caligula was laughing so hard I noticed he had wet himself.
The crotch of his robe was soaked with his pee.  I just wished with all my might that he would not try to pet me.  Yuck, double yuck!

As I looked back at the telly, gangs of Ivy leaguers were beating down the homeless, and then taking away their caviar and martinis as trophies.  This ultra violence crescendoed into an old-timey orgy of college lads and lassies hard at the  ancient art of raping and pillaging the unprivileged. Bottomless homeless men, women, and nonbinaries were lying ravaged about the park. I turned form the telly to watch as his Lordship began to bellow.  He took a napkin from the table to wipe his face.   Beaming told me, ‘You know, Crockey, whatever they say, people just don’t change. Real fuckers one and all!”

But the Caviar Riot was indeed transformational.  If you trust your memory, you’ll know that Senator BS went on to blame it on 1 percenters and Pentagon warmongers.  Many said that some relation of that great patriot, General Flynn, was behind it, but nothing came of that.  And you didn’t hear that from me.

Of course, President Trump lost no time in blaming Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton.  Nothing came of that either.  

And Peregrine and Wolverine, after cleaning up, laughed themselves silly talking about it over a mixture of Dubonnet, Gordon’s Gin, mixed in ice with a bit of cointreau and Grand Marnier,  with a squeeze of lemon.  

Wolverine asked Peregrine what he proposed to do about the randy Holyoke and Smith girls.  Peregrine replied he sent the girls one of his delectable stud bodyguards.  “They’ll enjoy riding him. Why should I meet them. Neither of them looked ready to shave and play a boy for me.”  

Wolverine shook his head.  Poor Peregrine, he can’t shake his Etonian heritage.  Who can fathom Peregrine’s suspect lack of sexual versatility?  As Wolverine theorized Peregrine’s case, Peregrine was getting too old to be a near exclusive  homosexualist, especially since he wasn’t, in Eton slang, a beak.  If Peregrine didn’t shape up, he might have to spend his whole life eating at White’s and lesser clubs with his fellow sodomites

The Caviar Riots also had, as I’ve mentioned, a predictable impact on Senator BS.  He fumed that caviar and martinis with olives were not free from the beginning of time..  He blamed the Ivy leaguers as well.  If the crazed students had attended the University of Chicago, like Sanders, they would have behaved better.  Still, one must never shirk the duty to blame all rottn behaviouron 1 percenters. The unprivileged are as immaculate as the Virgin Mary.  Thus sprake Bernie.

The Caviar Riots also set off a chain reaction in the security world as protective services of attending countries beefed up their VIP protection whilst pressing for delays in scheduled activities.  Emperor Xi and President Putin had their delegations tell the Americans that speeches on Arms Control at the UN  would be impossible until the Americans regained control of their streets.

President Trump got. right on it. He showed up on the telly by evening to damn the New York dems for their inability to restrain the AntiFa bastards whose bad acts had made two great men, Putin and Xi, afraid to keep their public appearances.  This language led to a protest, as both Putin and Xi testily informed the Americans that they were not “afraid” but doubted that the Americans knew how to deal with their criminals to keep things quiet enough to give a hearable speech.

It was sometime in the afternoon that Crockett saw Lucky on the telly.  Chris Wallace was interviewing her on Fox, a great favourite with his Lordship.  When he asked what the Chinese position was, Lucky wasted no time.  ‘The Chinese people have asked me and my staff to assure the safety of our delegation.  Let me assure you and your viewers, Mr Wallace, that nobody coming as a guest to China need fear a Caviar Riot or streets littered with the bodies of public drunkards. We Chinese still have standards, perhaps Confucian, but standards nevertheless of decency.”

Glaring into the camera, Lucky continued.  “And these boozing and caviar clashes had a sad prelude.  At the Pierre Hotel early this morning–a supposedly safe luxury hotel that, despite its alleged good repute, has a bandit Arms dealer and his murderous concubine occupying its finest suite–somebody murdered Charles de Guerre.  I so hope this Ms Lawless, a known escort, had nothing to do with my dear, disabled friend’s Charles de Guerre’s murder. 

” It is a scandal when a man who spent his life fighting for peace is murdered in the bed of 5 star hotel  within a mile of where the Chinese people planned to have our beloved Emperor speak on building a durable peace.  Instead, we have a murderous prelude. As usual in this lawless land, no arrests have been made.  But the Chinese people do wonder why Constance Lawless has not even been brought in for questioning.  Perhaps the cops here knew she needed time to clean the blood off her claws.”  
Lucky said all this in an even voice.  Behind Wallace, I could see Snarlson trying to make himself look smaller than a Yorkshire terrier.  But Lucky wasn’t through.  “Maybe your dear friend Snarlson, Mr Wallace, has something to says on behalf of law and order.  I always like to hear his bons mots , especially when he isn’t distracted by his wife or boyfriends.”  Wallace whitened, then chirped, “Ms Ming, in the US we don’t say such . .” 

Lucky cut him short, “Maybe in the United States you refuse to mention what is plain to all, but in China, let me assure you, healthy people do mention it.”  

I couldn’t believe it. Behind Wallace, Tucker was blushing.  He got up and walked off the set, but the mic picked up Lucky muttering, “He runs away to let his wife change him.”  At that point, Lucky was off the air.

Lord Caligula was staring at me when I turned to see his response.  He was squealing laughs so hard that tears flooded his cheeks.  He motioned to a bodyguard and the gent brought his Lordship a very large glass of Pappy Van Winkle.  

“You know, Crockey, it wasn’t cheap to hire all those undocumented Citizens as servers or to buy that much caviar, olives, gin and vermouth, but it was worth every penny.  Lucky’s funnier than Sarah Silverman.”  I noticed both Wolverine and Peregrine were laughing too.  Peregrine had put on a bowtie and was lisping an imitation of a Snarlson rant on crime and buggery.  

At that point, Constance walked out of the suite’s bedroom naked as a jaybird.  She wiped sleep from her eyes.  “What so funny,” she asked the laughing trio.  I stayed on the coffee table watching Constance cross her arms to ease scratching her nipples.  Knowing all the parties, I doubted that this show was going to end without tears.