If I have learnt anything from my years as a journalist, it this: Don’t take professions of concern by the rich for the well being of others too seriously. In fact, don’t take anybody’s profession of concern for the well being of others from anybody too seriously unless you’re dealing with a dog. 

Dogs are morons.  Who but a a dog would drape himself over his handler to keep the him from being shot in battle?  Who but a dog will run into a cave infested with terrorist find out if it is too dangerous for the handler and his cronies to enter?  During the Battle of Guam, idjit German shepherds delivered messages between command posts, running through minefields and murderous enemy fire to do it.  They have a monument there because so many died.  There are no cats that dumb; hence no battle monuments to them.

So, when I sat near Lucky licking up one helluva meal, I knew there were no crazed altruists in that group.  There wasn’t a dog in sight. Instead, Lucky, I, Lord Caligula, Constance, Peregrine, and Wolverine were all guarding our self-intested.

Alas, I fell asleep when the group started talking, often in veiled terms, about money and estimated holdings of Ice-10 and fleets of killer-bots by many competing parties.  I’ve no head for numbers.  What finally woke me was the foot of a chinaman, who had helped transport Mr Wiredu, nudging my back. 

He was whispering in Lucky’s right ear.  Lucky whispered something back.  The guy pulled a booklet of Adlon Hotel matches from his pocket.  Lucky opened it.  From a hidden pocket, she pulled an Anita Tan pen. The gold pen was a marvel. I hopped into her lap to see what she was writing with it.  What else can a journalist do?  I was able to read “Wiredu, Charite, RM” but was unable to read the room number.”  She returned the matchbook to her man with a word of instruction.  He took it to Constance.  When Constance opened the matchbook, she gave Lucky a toothy grin whilst blowing her a kiss.  

I must have looked surprised.  Lucky scratched the crown of my head as she said, “Professional courtesy, darling, professional courtesy.”  When I muttered, “Is that wise?”  Lucky squeezed my paw.  “Trust me, my roast, Constance is going to tell us who pays Wiredu.”  Of course, I knew that Constance would also delight in having time to torture Mr Wiredu for his having the chutzpah to kidnap her.

Indeed, Constance didn’t take long to excuse herself from the table.  “Cliggy, why don’t you go keep at our business.  I think I could do with some night air.  Also, there is an old friend of mine that I simply must visit.”  

At that point I was certain that today Wiredu had seen his last dawn and sunset.  As an obligate carnivore, I couldn’t help but think of the various organs and appendages Constance would give a chewing to aid Wiredu’s memory of his paymaster.  He was in for a bad, bad night.  

Meanwhile, after another 30 or so minutes, everybody was getting up from the table.  Lucky asked if I would mind staying in the Lobby until she gave the hotel a good study.  I did.

What good fortune I had in the lobby.  I strutted into the lobby to find Melania sitting in the bar alone.  I made a run to her, hopped into her lap, and then commenced to knead her full, succulent breasts.  Let’s face it.  Female Slavs got a lot my chest weight than Chinese ones.  Lucky, probably for professional reasons, had never augmented herself.  Then, too, Lucky was only in her late 20s.  She hadn’t had as much time to fill out as Melania.  

Melania scratched me after she was done moaing with pleasure from my playing wiht her boobs. She stroked me back.  As she let her wine relax her, she babbled about how much better I was than Donald.  She explained she was in Berlin on business, complaining that many American failed to realise she was rich with or without Donald. Knowing her as I did, I avoided any remarks about her orange Doughboy.  I shuddered when I recalled what Stormy Daniels said about his toadstool penis of ordinary dimensions.

As Melania and I chatted, I noticed hovering secret service agents.  They were speculating about how much longer before “Rapunzel” passed out into the Land of Nod.  It wasn’t too long.  Pehaps I listened to Melania snoring for 5 minutes before I heard a familiar voice.

“There you are, Darling.  How kind of you to keep Mel company.  Notice how she sleeps with her mouth shut, her thighs tight together and her butt salmmed to her chair’s surface to cover her overused rear hole.  Wise, very wise indeed, given what her husband is.”  With that, she swept me up, leaving Melania to the Secret Service, whose agents, all in earshot, were snickering.

I had spent more time with Melania than I knew.  Constance had returned from Charite looking, as Lucky put it,  like a well-fed vampire.  “Her mouth oozed red, red kroovy.  I could imagine Wierdo’s screams as Constance broke him.”  

In no time, I had the new news.  Constance established that a Dutch Major working for the Polar Bear Paedophile-in-Chief had hired Wiredu.

According to the now dead man, the Polar Bear had got enraged at  the murder of Binky’s twin, whom he thought was Binky himself, for preferring the silky smooth skin and non-castration-anxiety provoking baldness of a latency-age boy’s delectable member.  Their is nothing like a Rush prepped boy to shield a castration-fearful-polar-bear from the terrifying prospect of a female Polar Bear in heat.  Wiredu claimed  male Polar Bears imagined a future where they sustained their breed with artificial insemination.  Female Polar Bears were simply too dangerous to deal with.

  Let docs manage their impregnation.   Since the bears’ covert takeover of Holland, the bears had launched a programme to be fruitful and muliply. Dutch labs were first rate at buildng this reproductive programme into a reality.  In fact, the Polar Bear Paedophile-in-Chief was even rewarding the first Dutchman to clone multiple copies of him.  As that bear saw it, he was the crown of creation.  

Lucky and I got back to Das Stue late. I began to piece together some of the current worries about the mad Lithuanians because of Lucky’s talks with a stream of late night visitors.  What was up?

From what I heard, rightwing Lithuanias had obtained a stash of Ice-10 and perhaps a Mr Clean bot.  The righties were blaming Russia for initiating a war against Lithuania when it “iced” the Lithuania hostel.  These righties did not have the support of the Lithuania government, as those bureaupaths preferred to keep its eye on the ball of commerce.  A war on Russia, even if the Lithuanians didn’t get blamed, threatened brisk commerce in the Baltic.  Hence the Lithuania government opposed it.  

The righties didn’t care or listen.  Instead, as the Munitions Galore folks saw it, the crazy Lithuanias had curried the support of the Paedophile Polar Bears and their bootlicking Dutch auxiliaries.  Lord Caligula, claimed Lucky,  vigorously argued that the city of Arkhangelsk was probable site of a Ice-10 attack with a simultaneouss\ invasion of Dutch and bear force.  “They will come from the north,” cried Caligula, “the north is the touchstone.”  

Now some of his Lordship analysis seemed cracked.  When Lucky and even Wolverine asked why Arkhangelsk was a better target than Murmansk, his Lordship complained that neitherof th had any poetry in them.  

Lucky told me his Lordship put on the air of an Eton beak when he reminded the table that “Arkhangelsk was the very place that the archangel Michael had crushed an invasion by Satan.”  

 When Peregrine sneered, “You believe that drivel?,” Lucky said his Lordship suggested, “It’s rather easier to believe in the fable of a victorious archangel than that I am your sperm donor.  By the way, should I request a rubber donought for you. You’re in a bad temper.”  Lucky thought that was funny, but she was never a Peregrine fan. 

And so he lot of us, enemies though we be, were going to form a league of necessity against the menace from the North, their Dutch lackeys, and Lithuanian dupes.  

Out league got off to a bad start.  It was not effective in guarding the suite of Peregrine and Wolverine, a suite east of Eton.  My multiple sources told me the suite was a shamble.

Whilst we all dined in the Esszimmer, a band of banjo and flute playing bears carried boys into the suite of Peregrine and Wolverine.  The bears left a layer or two of bottles of Baltika, Stoli and Rush.  The suites rooms were splattered red, soaked with boy blood, as the bears had ravished each of the boys and then used their bodies as so many orders of hors d’oeuvres. Photos showed nude half devoured boys lying in all manner of positions with their white, young skins glistening in the rooms lights in stretches of boy flesh not covered in the black remnants of dried blood.  

A single, very drunk beer was still in the room when Peregrine and Wolverine entered.  He was a teen bear bereft of common sense, perhaps because he was drunk on Stoli, Rush,  and boy flesh.  His demeanor infuriated Wolverine.  With a slap of his paw, a Mr Clean entered this scene of ruin.  The bear, or so I am told, gave the bot a quizzical look.

The bot then gave him the Cornpone treatment.  The death ray spurted from the Mr Clean’s robotic eyes.  The contumely bear toppled over.  Mr Clean rolled through the debris field before stopping before the unanimated teen bear.  The cleaning process began.  Design improvements made this edition of Mr Clean faster at dismembering and incinerating bods of most any size.  

By then, Wolverine was on the telephone talking to Lord Caligula.  Soon several bots arrived to make the bloody den of beer and Stoli sodomites and their victims spic’n’span.  When Lord Caligula and Constance arrived for a look-see, they found Wolverine grinning as he copulated with Peregrine’s mouth.  His Lordship was displeased. “Connie, would you like to peg Peregrine gurl whilst we’re here?  You and Wolvy could show us what a proper spit roast looks like.” 

In Lucky version of the story, Peregrine tried to get up, but Wolverine was holding his head too tight for him to get away, which Lucky described as an hilarious “embrace.”  

Despite this epilogue to an orgy, the bots had the suite in fresh condition in no time at all.  Lucky, cackling, told me that Constance, still reeking of Wiredu’s blood, didn’t miss the chance to fill Peregrine’s bottom.  “I swear,” chuckled Lucky, “I’m surprised Peregrine isn’t preg-o or at least in need of a name change.  Perhaps Peregrinette will do.”  

Not all of this was good to hear.  The price of most of the info was having to endlure to one of Lucky’s boring sermons on how Marx predicted western decadence. When she gets going like that, she is prone to spout nonsense.  She told me, for example, that Asia has no LGBTQ+.  I couldn’t resist saying, “Not even in Bangkok, eh?” 

Lucky hated being contradicted.  Instead of admitting to telling whoppers, she said, “Those ladyboys and such you see in Bangkok are not Asian.  They are leavings of French colonists. The gays you imagine yourself seeing in Asia are all English, French, German, or American poufters, or ancestors of them,  that took to dressing up as Asian women to feel tough.” 

When I rolled my eyes, Lucky got pissed off, “Darling, you need larger ears.  You seem unable to hear Truth!” 

“Maybe so, but I recognise bravo sierra when I hear …”  In a flash, Lucky grabbed me and had me under the suite’s shower.  I tried peeing on her, but that just earned me a spanking and more soapy, hot water.  As she washed me, she carried on about wanting to wash the bougie bravo sierra out of me. 

In a way, it did.  I shut up fast.  Mike had warned me against trying to sober up anybody drunk on Marx or other lefty bosh. Why didn’t I listen?  That said, I’m pretty sure this is the type of commie behaviour that the FBI’s first drag-queen-in-chief, Mr Herbert Hoover, had in mind when he wrote his great book, None Dare Call it Reason or was that “Treason”?  In fairness, mike pointed out to me that a moron named John Stormer wrote the treason, reason fiasco.  Nowadays, Ann Coulter would have bragged about writing it, if people only had shorter memories.  I did once write a story explaining that John Stormer was one of Princess Hoover’s pennames.  

Anyway, I played my ace. I shivered and squealed. I made a big show of it.  I carried on until Lucky’s guilt slammed into her like a Tsunami.  She ordered me seafood treats in melted butter, told me she had been a naughty girl, and promised to watch her temper in the future.

 When we did got to bed, I felt pleased in noting my shower had cost Lucky a scratch across her thin, muscled abdomen.  Despite that, she pulled me to her.  I fell sleep hearing what a “darling love bug” I was.