After Lucky and I left the meeting, I discovered we were checked into La Reserve Eden au lac Zurich. It was a cozy 2-bedroom suite with a fine view of mountains. Lucky ordered the chef to prepare lightly grilled calamari with quail eggs for me. She rejected all offerings on the menu, telling them that nothing would do but a caviar omelette topped with creme fraiche and a side of berries. Further, she said her butler (news to me) would fetch our meals and expected them as soon as they were completed, not after they had turned cold.
About 15 minutes later, her butler, who looked more like a guard to me, brought the food. She ate and fell straight away to sleep. The day had allowed me to refresh myself napping at Lucky’s feet. I turned on the telly to watch cartoons. Oh, how I love Stewie. I do think Family Guy would be a better show if the producers insisted Brian, the alcoholic dog, be replaced by a cat. Alcoholic cats are every bit as funny as drunk dogs.
I was on the verge of new sleep when I felt a swat on my head. To my left sat Chaucer. He sauntered over to my repast and started cleaning up my plate. He complained that while he has excellent taste, he no longer gets filled by food. He soon sailed into to a lecture on what a bonehead I was.
In particular, Chaucey thought Wolverine was getting too much leniency. As Chaucey saw it, Wolverine should have been worm food by now. Instead, he was traipsing about Zurich in fancy duds whilst eating fine food and drinking top drawer whiskey.
For example, had I ever seen him drinking anything but the finest American and Japanese whiskey? According to Chaucer, Wolverine was now drinking more Pappy Van Winkle in a month than the average billionaire would in 3 lifetimes.
“You should have assassinated him in Missouri, but you have no initiative. I can count the number of scoundrels you’ve murdered on less than one hand.” Chaucey jumped up and slammed a ghost paw down on my head.
When I awoke with a headache the next morning, I used the front door’s European door knob to let myself out. Down to the lobby I went.
I was in the hotel lobby when a jet black gentleman approached me. He said his name was Mohammed Wiredu. After introducing himself, he asked my name. I played dumb. So, he continued by saying he was a Nigerian PI. Wiredu said a secretive client had hired him to investigate nasty doings that had led to the death of a visiting pervert in his villa, the murder of several native Nigerian nwoke akwuna, several of them underage, in a nearby brothel. Then, too, there was the murder of a gang of heavily armed cutthroats on the road to Abuja. This ensemble of felonies made Wiredu’s boss think the evildoers were not ordinary criminals. As the PI’s boss saw it, all these events fit together into a bigger puzzle.
Further, a certain notorious Americaine of very loose morals and connections to English aristocrats also had to be a suspect. According to cops at Interpol, body counts soar in any neighbourhood where this Americaine resides. He had heard her name was “Constance.” He stared at me. I continued to play dumb.
Having established that I was saying nothing, he mentioned that witnesses at the brothel insisted that the killers there were all Chinese or some sort of Asians. He added that the consensus was that they were rude enough to be Chinese, rather than Japanese. I kept my poker face.
He added that he was in Luxembourg because he had friends who told him that Constance, her Englishman paramour, a known chiseler of genius, as well as a pair of conniving Munitions Galore execs were all in Luxembourg. Mr Wiredu conjectured it was impossible not to wonder why this collection of criminals, not to mention a known Chinese enforcer named Ms Ming and several of her musclemen, had all come to Luxembourg via Zurich or, in Constance’s case, from Geneva.
I gave Wiredu a closer look. He wore a blue suit with a yellow shirt. He had on brown wingtips. His hair was close-cropped. In his shirt pocket, I could see a package of Lucky Strike straights. Despite his tobacco habit, he had white teeth. He was tall. As I left the lobby, I heard him speaking French like a Sorbonne prof. He was a fancy guy for a Nigerian PI. His English, though it had foreign accents, had an Oxonian flavour.
I returned to my suite. I had had enough of Wiredu’s company. Lucky had already put out a breakfast of lox for me. Since I wanted to show I was worth my keep, I began to regale her with my intelligence of Wiredu. Lucky was keen to know what he looked like. She asked how he was dressed. Her questioning had a predatory tone to it, as if she were readying for a hunt. She did express disappointment that I had not done more to point the paw of blame at Constance for the murders in Nigeria to Wiredu. I disagree. I thought it smartest to play dumb.
I had barely finished my brief when a big shot arrived. She knocked on the door. When she entered she was dressed in a western rose business suit. Lucky referred to her as “ma’am” throughout their conversation. I don’t know if I had ever seen Lucky so differential. They chattered in Mandarin a mile a minute. From time to time, I caught references to Lithuania, Archangelst, Lithuania, Ice-10, and even Wiredu. I tried not to let all this biz talk spoil my breakfast.
The gods are merciful. Lucky and her guest decided to survey the Lobby to learn more about PI Wiredu. As soon as they left, I got on one of Lucky’s laptops to contact Fielding. You could call her at any hour, as it was a near certainty that you would wake her. She is always resting up for her next fight.
Lazy as she is, she does stay connected to a vast network of Kitty informants. So, when I reached her, I asked her if she had any scuttlebutt on somebody hiring a PI named Mohammed Wiredu to investigate the evil doings in Nigeria.
Fielding chuckled. “Do watch your back, Crocky. Those killings in Nigeria have the gang of Paedophile Polar Bears that runs Holland up in arms. The fattest, most perverted of them is growling for blood. He feels the brutality with which that Chinese gang treated paederast soulmates of these perverted bears was sheer prejudice. One reason the Polar Bears took over Holland was because Holland was a spawning ground of NAMBLA.
Uninformed people, deceived by NAMBLA’s full name, take it to be a North American, surely New York of San Francisco, franchise. But NAMBLA was the Dutch creep Edward Brongsma inspiration. Brongsma got it all going after he did time in Holland for buggering a boy. He then made out that his love of boy flesh was just one among many defensible sexual object choices, provided it’s voluntary. The f-ing guy is funnier than Peewee Herman. Don’t you read anything? Brongswma, or is it Dongsma?, even got himself elected to the Dutch senate, albeit with covert Polar Bear finances. And don’t get an account of what I’m telling you from your loony-toon Right chums. They’ll carry on about the Jews or the Arabs, but that’s Bravo Sierra, of course. Your righty friends need to broaden their list of conspirators. “
“But how did Bears catch on to us?” I asked.
“Constance, you idiot, Constance. She’s as subtle as a brick to head. She got hauled in for questioning by the Nigerian flics, and proceeded to rat on Lucky and her gang, though she was just guessing. Nevertheless, Connie has superb woman’s intuition. The Nigerian flics then sold the info to the fat Bear.
“And, by the way, whatever people say about the Paedophile Polar Bears, don’t believe anybody who tries to tell you they have no killer-bots, Ice-10, or don’t control of the swishy Konikligke Landmacht. The only thing that army has ever been good at is being targets for the German Heer. They’re ‘soldiers’ in hairnets. The Dutch officers did, though, ease matters for the bears. When the bears started to stock their arsenals with bots and Ice-10 bought from all those Munitions Galore hide-the-money-and-source firms that Binky set up for Lord Caligula, the Dutch officers were making the orders and taking their cuts. Anyway, be careful when you’re around Lucky. Wiredu is a dangerous guy, and not just when you’re breathing the second-hand smoke from his Lucky Strikes. If he is a PI, then so are the Seals, Delta Force, and their helpmates that tracked and rid us of bin Laden. But beware! The bears are preaching there will be blood.”
Before we ended the call, I couldn’t resist asking what Lord Caligula knew about this.
“Everything,” cried Fielding, “Everything. The man has smart tentacles everywhere. Do you imagine he doesn’t put bugs in his bots or pay whoever he can buy for info?”
My head was swimming. I got off the line without knowing what to do. I was nervous about telling Lucky any of what Fielding told me. Lucky had a cat’s sense of justice: It is better than 1,000 be wrongly killed than that one guilty operative go free. In fact, 1,000 may put the number far too low. I also felt sure that the Paedophile Polar Bears and PI Wiredu knew that about Lucky and were no more going to be caught off guard than Lord Caligula. These folks were all forever en garde. I’d rather be back with Roberta and mike than with Lucky when she starts a war.
Once in Abuja, the Rover went straight to the aeroport. Lucky instructed the guards to find something Binky could wear. Her first thought was to bring a tailor but she thought better of it. Observing how battered he was and remembering how battered he was, Lucky told them to find a kaftan to cover him. She then verified that Binky had the brains to have a passport on him, ideally one showing German citizenship. Voila, Binky did have one. Instead of Dalrymple, his German name was Vogel.
Lucky felt somewhat better when her guys returned with a kaftan that fit Binky. They had shown initiative. The garment was cut and then hemmed to accommodate Binky’s diminutive stature.
As it happened, Lucky, Binky, and I had to take a first-class Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt. The ticket called for us to continue to Zurich, but Lucky opted to deplane at Frankfurt.
Somehow a Chinese driver arrived and he drove us straight to Stuttgart. The driver took us to the Zauberlehrling. She told her driver to take Binky to a safe house, and then return with him tomorrow morning at 10. As soon as we settled into our room, Lucky bathed. She emerged in her birthday suit, but soon put on her comfortable casual clothing. She limited her arms to a Spyderco knife and a Walther PPQ M2 that the driver gave her. She shoved another Walther into a pillowcase on the bottom side of the pillow and restored it to the well-made bed. Off we went.
A taxi took us to Hupperts restaurant. Ordering in impeccable German, I soon had a portion of fresh halibut placed in a bowl at the right of her foot. They had poured cream into a separate bowl for me to drink and the halibut had a marvellous butter sauce on it. Meanwhile, Lucky had begun to tuck into her food. A beautiful selection of bread arrived. She had a creme of celery soup, and a succulent duck with a portion of spaetzle. For dessert, she had what appeared to be a Buche de Noel, but didn’t offer me any.
Perhaps halfway through our meal, a guy approached the table. In Mandarin, which is never easy for me to follow, he told Lucky that her “friend from England” would meet us at a bank in Zurich. They planned to meet at Pictet & Cie’s Zurich office.
After dinner, we returned to our room at the Zauberlehrling. Lucy got the PPQ from under her pillow and put it on the nightstand next to her. She put the other PPQ on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. For reasons I don’t know, she left the Spyderco in a sheath attached to her right calf. Her work makes her cautious. We went to sleep.
When we woke, Lucky made a call. Within an hour, a driver arrived with Binky in tow. Binky was now wearing a blue triple-piece blue suit. It didn’t fit well, but it looked less ridiculous than the kaftan. Binky still had a bruised, swollen face. He wasn’t too agile either. Lucky had ordered us a room-service breakfast. She got a soft-boiled egg with toast. I had an order of ham that Lucky carved into bite-sized pieces with her Spyderco. When she finished her cutting, she walked over to Binky and proceeded to wipe the grease from the knife with Binky’s hair.
Binky asked, “What am I getting to eat?”
Lucky scrunched her face up. “You? You’re fat enough without breakfast.”
The driver carried Lucky’s possession to the car. Binky was in her grasp. I was allowed to walk along with them. The car was a stretched Audi. I noticed it had diplomatic plates. Before we got in, Lucky told Binky it would be a 3-hour drive from Stuttgart to Zurich. Then she asked, “Can you hold it, or must I ask the driver to diaper you? If you pee in my car, I’ll promise to cut your wee-wee off.” Binky assured her he had excellent bladder control.
The car was soon heading south towards Zurich.
Pictet and Cie is an ancient family of thieves that thrived in Zurich. My guess is that they have always had the morals of hyenas, but their offices are handsome to behold. You can feel the luxury. Everything about the Pictet’s digs screamed wealth and we weren’t even in its HQ in Geneva. The office had tasteful rooms with decent art, lots of pricey wood, and modern, but not too modern, furniture.
Lucky, Binky, and I walked into a room with a Pictet flunky. In the room sat Lord Caligula in immaculate dress. His suit was black silk with a red kerchief and a gold silk tie. He had a Roger Smith watch on his wrist. With him sat Jerome Quisling. Quisling was a legend as the greatest cryptologist and an applied mathematician. He had done his bachelor in mathematics at Cambridge. He took a Ph.D. in maths from Stanford, but also took courses in Stanford’s Graduate School of Business. Over the years of his meteoric rise, he had built an impressive portfolio of clients whose specialties were mega crimes. Mr Quisling also added rogue regimes.
During an interview with Bloomberg TV, a reporter had the cheek to ask Quisling why so many of his clients were criminals and corrupt dictators. Grinning, he volunteered, “They all pay rather better than American presidents or EU ministers. Besides, Putin has a sly sense of humour, as does Emperor Xi. But you’re old enough to be past age to prefer moralising to money. Why not ask me questions that are worthy of my intelligence, and even yours?”
Quisling’s presence meant Lord Caligula and Lucky needed somebody at ease with code and numbers to deal with Binky’s books. It also meant they had stopped trusting Binky.
Lucky sat down opposite Lord Caligula. “You’re looking fit Cliggy. Being away from Constance suits you.”
“Constance is near. I’m rather surprised you two didn’t meet in Nigeria. It was almost as if you avoided her. But I know how scary she is to some.”
“Oh, I thought we missed each other because she was getting slow as the years roll by. I even worried she might be convalescing from all her recent doings.”
“Not at all. I left her in Geneva to swim.”
During this period, Binky had provided requested information to a Pictet stooge. He returned with a folder that he handed to Binky, A young woman brought Binky a cucumber sandwich and tea. She asked if anybody else wanted anything. Lucky accepted an offer of tea. She had some smoked salmon brought to me and asked that it have a side of fondue to accompany it. When she returned, I was shocked when Binky shamelessly attempted to help himself to some of my fondue. As he reached in, he earned a sharp, loud slap from Lucky. “It’s for Crockett, pig. Leave it be.”
“Are you hungry, Mr Dalrymple?” asked Lord Caligula.
Lucky stared at Lord Caligula. “Look at Mr Vogel. He’s obviously not hungry. Perhaps you’re confusing him with Mr Dalrymple. He too has an unregulated appetite.”
“Indeed he did. Irascible Lawless complained about it to me after a mutual visit. Still, Mr Vogel looks almost as hungry as Mr D sometimes does. But one must not overeat. The cucumber sandwich is plenty.”
Meanwhile, Constance was enjoying a swim in the well-regulated waters of Lake Geneva. She had removed her skimpy garments at the water’s edge and slid into the lake’s chilly waters. She later told Lord Caligula, who later still told me, that swimming is risky for her. It excited her appetite. She considered eating one of her junior fellow bathers, but she remembered what sticklers the Swiss were for law and order. Unlike the Somalians, if you ate so much as one luscious teen girl, you’d have untold numbers of Swiss cops trying to catch you. The same if you ate a boy. The Somalians tended to be too busy killing one another to let a single devoured teen get in the way of killing one another in numbers. So, she regained the shore hungry, let the sun dry her, and then put her skimpy clothing back on her sleek bod.
None of this interfered with Mr Quisling’s work in Zurich. His fingers sailed over his laptop making calculations and notes. From time to time, he scribbled notes with his Japanese maki-e fountain pen. I liked looking at the cranes on it. Sets of equations would appear as Quisling’s maki-e flowed across sheaves of quality paper. At key moments, his brow would furrow. He would then use a pencil to create and write undiscovered math truths when he was using yellow legal pads. On and on he churned. I got to eat and sleep as he worked.
I was awakened when Wolverine and Peregrine entered the room. As soon as Peregrine sat down, he prodded me with his boot’s tip. Wolverine laughed. He said something to Quisling. Quisling handed Wolverine a number of his sheafs. Wolverine passed these to Peregrine. “I’m a classicist,” he said.
Whatever his moral failings, Peregrine was numerate. After an hour, he set down the sheaves and asked Mr Quisling a series of questions that I didn’t understand. Peregrine asked a direct question.
“So, we are able to identify the buyers of Ice-10 and Mr Cleans with certainty. Nevertheless, am I correct that the US, UK, Canada, Germany, France, Holland, Russia, Japan, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Israel, India, Pakistan, China, Singapore, Taiwan, Lithuania, South Africa, Italy, Spain, Turkey, and an uncertain number of buyers that are nations or private parties have spent in excess of a trillion dollars on Ice-10 and killer bots?”
Quisling nodded. After he cleared his throat, he added, “Mr Vogel or Dalrymple or what his name is today has created a lattice of companies for collecting and laundering funds. Munitions Galore is the chief beneficiary, along with. you, Lord Caligula, and Wolverine. I won’t be able to know more about the identities until we collect more account information at Julius Baer Group where Mr Vogel has yet another safe deposit box. Also, as you all suspected, Binky has been rather generous with his cuts .” I noticed Binky squirm at this revelation. Lucky put on finger at the perpendicular on her lips. With her other hand, she drew a finger across her throat. Binky shut up.
Quisling continued, “I will meet you at BCEE bank in Luxembourg. I’ll be at Le royal.”
We were leaving when I saw Lucky place her hand on Binky’s shoulder. As we left the room, two Chinese gentlemen approached, both of them powerfully built. Lucky handed over Binky, saying “Be sure to bring him to me with a car tomorrow. We’ll be going west in the morning.”
Lucky got me up early. A breeze was streaming off the Atlantic, its vast grey waters visible from our room. As I walked on the porch to await my breakfast, the warm sun, a warm breeze, and dazzling light from white walls all hit me. I located a patch of shade to rest and await my breakfast.
Instead of breakfast, a fat Chinaman through the hotel’s entrance. Lucky had called him. He worked at China’s embassy. When he got to the room, he handed Lucky a Spyderco Police model and a compact FN 509. He also turned over a compact Walther PPQ.
Lucky decided it was time to dress, so she put on panties, skipped a bra, and put on a summer-weight suit that had enough pockets for her to arm up. She strapped the Spyderco to her right thigh. The FN went into a custom pocket on the jacket that kept it from printing. She put her Walther in a holster that she put behind her right buttock. As she did this, I got the sad, indeed alarming, idea that she had not ordered us breakfast
I was right. She stepped onto the balcony, whooshed me up, and put me in a carry bag. “We eat later, darling. I had to fight to suppress my desire to howl my pain. Lucky was impossible in mission mode.
Meanwhile, a couple of bodyguards from the embassy showed up to guard the room. She briefed them. I had already learnt that since London she had begun to tell guards they must never play go for money with me.
The driver and another guard sat up in the front seats of a Land Rover. Lucky and I sat in the back. We sped down streets of Lagos out to the bush. It wasn’t too far. I guess Binky would never have rented digs in an estate without an ample supply of boys at hand.
We got to the estate in good time, considering that Lagos has a population of close to 24 million. The place we got to had teak, banana trees, poison trees, acacias, water hyacinths, and oil palms. It was handsome. A pool in the backyard had a Gaboon adder sunning by it. None of us cared. We weren’t here to swim.
The inside of this large house with a huge veranda was of teak and tiles. I noticed plenty of venting for AC, which I yearned to have turned on. This area has a tropical climate. The Floor was littered with papers and all manner of books and curios. Near the door, the floor had a large blood stain where, I guessed, the irate mother finished Binky.
Lucky sent her boys to search through the estate’s debris. She plopped down on a zebra skin sofa in the living room. She had spotted a copy of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. She had the cheek to ignore me. Where was my food? Instead, of feeding me, she was fast into that book. I did my best to push between her and its page, but she fended me off.
In a short time, her men brought her sheaves from account books. She put down the de Laclos to look at them. Her men also gave her a flash drive and a laptop to read it. Within 30 minutes, Lucy pronounced it bull shit. “Could,” she asked, “the morons at Langley believe they had Binky’s real records? Look harder!” After a couple of hours of structural damage to the house, including searches for buried treasure, nothing turned up.
Lucky became peeved. She complained that Binky was a sneaky weasel.
We left the estate. I was still starving. Lucky got us to stop at several farmhouses. She wished to know where men that loved boys went for trysts. At first, everybody pretended the idea of it was a scandal. As soon as Lucky offered Franklins for knowledge of child prostitutes surfaced. Lucky got an address for the poshest place $500 in bribes later.
When we all got to the brothel, Lucky went directly in. There was plenty of hooting. Suddenly, we heard screams. A bloodied chap with peacock feathers sticking out of his bottom came flying out the door. Lucky walked behind him. She grabbed his tiny penga savagely, slapped him, then demanded with menace, her Spyderdo now in hand, to know where Binky was.
She didn’t use Binky’s name. She described him as a small, rolly-polly, white pervert. When the snivelling chap claimed he didn’t know, Lucky hit him so hard he lost his upper central incisors. Crying louder, he told her to check a particular room. Lucky released him but instructed her guards to cane him. “Not more than 4 whacks. I mean it!. Let him taste my mercy.” She had clearly told her men, as if it was necessary the chap that the chap was aa gladiola. They gave him 4 with gusto.
Despite the commotion, Lucky discovered Binky in the named room. He was smoking opium. A heavily painted naked boy was feeding him figs. I had raced catch up, despite my extreme hunger. When I hit the room, I saw that Binky had a sawed-off shotgun, a nice looking Beretta, to his right.
“Hello, Lucky,” he purred. “Would you care to touch some young, smooth flesh? Don’t be offended. time has not coarsened you too much yet.”
Lucky stood with a hand on the handle of the PPQ over her right buttock. She glared at Binky.
“You know,” continued Binky, while stroking his boy’s buttocks with his left hand, “my twin brother Beau was such a careless man. I never take up with a boy in a place like that estate without bribing his mother. In poor countries, a mother’s love is fungible. Beau never figured that out. Now he’s dead. Of course, I blame Putin and his ridiculous moralizing, a popular method to grandstand in Africa. The hoi polloi love the self-righteous.”
During this time, I was uneased by Binky having followed the great Randy Newman’s advice. Binky had. Aside from a pith helmet, he hadn’t a stitch on but he had left his hat on. Being a fat man, he also was sweating like a pig or horse on a hot day on the track. You could see rivulets of sweat running down his short, pudgy legs to his feet or splashing onto the floor.
Lucky later told me that if she had not wanted Binky’s records so bad, she’d have shot the motherfizzucker dead right there and then. In the background, I could hear Master Peacock screaming from his caning. Perhaps somebody was tending his wounds.
“Where are the records?” Binky’s answered by tapping his skull. “Good bookies have good memories.” Thus pretended Binky.
Lucky would have none of that. “Do you expect me to believe the likes of Lord Caligula will trust his cut to invisible books kept in your head? Where are the books?”
“Oh, you mean the accounting. Swiss banks have those books in vaults. But you can’t expect me to just write down the names of all my clients by name. Who buys what is a trade secret.”
Lucky exploded at that answer. Faster than a champagne cork, she hopped on the coffee table before Binky. Before he could touch his Beretta, she had kicked him in the forehead. The blow put an end to his buttock fondling. The naked, smooth, well-painted, big-eyed boy jumped back. His cries sent another shaved boy wearing just a codpiece scurrying in to see what was up. What he saw of Binky made him turn tail and flee.
Lucky was standing on the couch with Binky under her. Her right foot was obstructing Binky’s airway. “Will that help your memory?” she hissed. He waved a sign of submission. When she moved her foot, he began trying to kiss her feet, which earned him two resounding kicks to his gynecomastic chest.
Between gaps, Binky managed to ask, “If you’ve got that out of your system, let’s plan. I suggest we get out of here whilst the getting is good. if we make it to Ibadan, we can drive to Abuja in about 9 and a half hours. Abuja has the Nnamdi Azikwe Airport, the best in the country. Be forewarned. The road from Ibadan to Abuja is dangerous. A lot of criminal elements prowl it.”
Lucky broke out laughing. “And you imagine those criminals are more dangerous than me and my gang? ”
Binky didn’t lose a beat. “Constance. Friends told me Constance was coming. They weren’t sure why. She had a meeting in Langley is all I know. She won’t expect you to go elsewhere by way of Abuja. We’ll confound her.”
I doubted Constance was so easy to confound. However, Abuja had a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt that connected to Zurich. Abuja also had a lot of diplomats, meaning opportunities to mooch rides.
Lucky made the command decision. After that, we headed out. I must have looked panicked. We left Binky’s room after Lucky summoned a few boys to carry him to our car. We emerged from the room into a lounge with a big bar. I understood why Binky got no help. Lucky’s guards stood in the room smiling and smacking their own palms with canes.
On the floor, I spotted a brawny Nigerian with his head cracked open. Another Nigerian lay on the floor looking rather badly beaten down. Everybody else was at the bar, drinking and trying to pretend that nothing had happened. The gods were kind because Lucky remembered me. She asked what food they had that would appeal to me. I got some local fish chopped into tiny pieces. At this point, I think I’d have eaten a rat if they had tossed it to me. Ordinarily, I don’t care for rat. The shit on them is off-putting.
All the same, I liked the fish. I ate fast. In a jiffy, we all sat in the Ranger Rover with tubby Binky tossed with a thud into the back. He groaned
Everything seemed to go well. We rolled down the highway. Once we had been several hours on the road from Ibadan to Abuja, five armed men blocked our progress. I’m unsure what they wanted, as Lucky declined to even start to negotiate, nor were her guards.
What happened next? I can only say that Lucky was the first to step out of the Range Rover. She held a FN 509 in one hand and her Walther PPQ in the other. her guards stepped out pronto. I hid in the back seat. I don’t know what happened. After about 10 shots, it was all over. We were rolling again. Lucky and her boys started telling jokes about how “wide-eyed with surprise” the wussy highwaymen looked. “Nigeria has lots of armed folks with no respect for law, eh boys?” He guards pretend pistols of their hands. They agreed with her. Several hours later we were on the outskirts of Abuja.
Lucky and I got to Heathrow on a private jet arranged by a friend of Lucky at Huawei. The flight was lovely.
When Lucky and I got to London, troubles started. Somebody at Heathrow told Lucky her visa was no good. We waited thirty minutes in a room without character. At length, a trim woman with red hair joined us. She sat down in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the room. As soon as she entered, Lucky whispered MI-5 to me.
The redhead told Lucky that there was a hold on her entry into the country. Lucky said nothing. Instead, she requested to call her embassy. When the redhead said, she did not know if that was necessary, Lucky contradicted her. “It’s necessary. ”
The redhead ignored what Lucky had said. In lieu of being responsive, the redhead told Lucky of a problem that had occurred in Lagos. Perhaps Lucky knew somebody whose names included Binky Dalrymple. Lucky kept to her silence.
Mr Dalrymple, the redhead told us, had an unsavoury history that included working for the CIA when he could spare time from molesting children. The redhead spoke of Mr Dalrymple’s gifts as a money launderer. Lucky’s face was a model of a tabula rasa.
The redhead kept going. She wondered if Lucky had heard about Mr Dalrymple’s change in status. President Putin had sent an emissary to central Africa to talk about the degradation of morality in Africa as various parts of Africa had had an influx of perverts from godless states in the EU and in North America. The emissary then offered a Jeremiad from President Putin on the need for Africans to reclaim their moral heritage by relying on self-help justice. He took the liberty of mentioning Binky by name and added that Binky was practising his nasty habits in Lagos.
An enraged mother was aware of Binky’s presence but had not understood that he was buggering her son. When she questioned her boy, she learnt he had been among Binky’s sex snacks. She then went to Binky’s house and pretended to be carrying a meal in for him, which got her by Binky’s lax, pretty security squads. Once with Binky, she used a chef’s knife to gut him. He never saw it coming, or so I imagine.
The redhead gave a lengthy summary of Lucky’s alleged misdeeds in England, especially the Reading Rumble, as well as commentary on Lucky’s alleged involvement in wetwork across several continents. As the redhead went through what she supposed, probably accurately, what Lucky had been up to the past 5 or so years, we heard a knock on the door.
When a guard opened the door, a man said something in Mandarin to Lucky. Lucky said something back. The guy then began to explain in Oxbridge English that it was an outrage that MI-5 was attempting to interrogate Lucky, whom he described as an inveterate tourist and travel reporter for Xinhua. The insult of Lucky’s detention made both her and the Chinese government unwilling to submit her to further smears from MI-5.
The guy surprised me. He was wearing, despite his education, a suit that looked like it was bought off the rack from a Third-World street vendor. He needed braces to hold the pants up. The jack puffed at the shoulders. Sleeves of a white shirt several sizes too large extended almost a forearm length below the awful jacket. In theory, the jacket and trousers were indigo-coloured, but the dye was poor so there was no uniformity of colour. The shoes were risible black clodhoppers and his feet were covered with white socks. But whatever the guy lacked in fashion, he made up for with his eloquence.
After a few telephone calls, Lucky was headed to a new jet with me in tow. I asked where we were headed. “Lagos. I want to find out what secrets leaked from that sorry paederast Binky. To get the sources I need, I can go to Lagos or Amsterdam. Lagos has the advantage of a free arena of operation or at least compared to A-dam it does.
Little at that time did either of us know that Constance had been chatting to boys from Langley about Binky. She argued his murder was a scheme out of China. She viewed the alleged Russian role as pure misdirection but was also not willing to rule out an Israeli plot. Constance never let an opportunity to entertain the possibility that any instant calamity was the work of lefties or Jews. She could be persuasive. She left Langley with a ticket and visa to Lagos.
Lucky and I flew into Murtala Muhammed International airport, an architectural study in concrete and glass, ahead of Constance. Lucky had booked us into a suite at the Casa Mae, a hotel saturated in whites. One might have gotten the impression Malevich of White-on-White liked to paint here.
We went from our suite to the Avenida restaurant. Lucky ordered me some prawns in garlic butter sauce (delicious!) at the Talindo Steakhouse. She had truffle fries, seafood soup, and a mixed grill with steak, prawns, calamari, chicken garlic mayo and chili sauce, and sauteed vegetables. When we got back to our room, we went to sleep. Lucky expected a busy morning.
I’m not better with time than I am with counting. Time is a slippery notion, even Saint Augustine admitted that. As long as you don’t ask me, I know how to get on in time. Once you ask me what time is, well, I’m stumped. What I know is that I eat breakfast before lunch, lunch before dinner, and go to bed before getting up. I even know that yesterday occurred before today or tomorrow.
In the fulness of time, the big shots gave their UN speeches. Bebe Netanyahu kicked off the show.
Bebe promised that nobody loved peace more than Israel or loved it less than Palestinian terrorists and their paymasters in Tehran. Even if it would not hurt the cause of piece if, heaven forbid, a bomb obliterated Iran or this so-called Ice-10 froze all the Mullahs out of the Holy City of Qom.
In short order, leaders of the UK, France, Italy, Germany, and Japan praised pacifist policies, insisting their nations would never use nuclear weapons or Ice-10 if there is such a thing. Italy, Germany, and Japan proclaimed they had never recently initiated war on neighbours in any form.
When the time for President Putin to mount the speaker’s podium came, he pulled on a long face. He rehearsed some facts. It saddened him to have to doubt the claims that none of the prior speakers had used weapons of mass destruction. Had not the US used atomic bombs on Japanese cities? Had ot the Germans, or perhaps some other party, tested Ice-10 in Lithuania? If only, Putin lamented the Lithuanians had had the wisdom to stand fast with the Russia, rather than fall into the arms certain western powers like a temple prostitute. The result was plain to all. Lithuania was just a space, ein Raum, where Nazis and the like could test weapons. Angry shouts rose from the German and US delegations. The Brits and French were shaking their heads. The Scandinavians were rolling their eyes, though the Danes also wondered when they could go smoke.
Putin showed no signs of easing his harsh words. He reviewed suspected instances of Ice-10 use in the Congo, in Somalia, and in China. The peace-loving people of Russia took grave offense efforts to frame them for attacks in Africa. Nobody should hasten to blame anybody, though Russians knew better than anybody that only fools ignored the possibility the Jews, especially the Zionists among them, had a role. Netanyahu made a point of screaming “bul drek,” “fignya,” and “bull shit,” amid repeated calls for order. Not far from Putin, I saw Emperor Xi shaking his head. I felt a jolt when I noticed Lucky stationed like the watchdog she was behind him. She exuded a menacing alertness as her eyes scanned her surround.
When Emperor Xi took the podium, he confined his remarks to the expression of the Chinese people’s determination to contain all weapons of mass destruction. Further, the Chinese people did not anticipate ever using weapons of mass destruction except in self-defense. He knew nothing about the rumoured superweapon Ice-10.
As a watched the telly, Lord Caligula nudged me. “Old Xi knows very little about Ice-10 for a man who bought more of it from Munitions Galore and subsidiaries than the Americans. The dear man made me a rich, rich man.”
The best bit came last. When all the prattlers had had their say, President Trump stood at the podium to speak. To nobody’s surprise, he expressed his total confidence in President Putin. Rumours that the Russians had had anything to do with alleged Ice-10 attacks, which were probably all fake news, never showed the Russians did anything other than aid peace. President Trump expressed sorrow that his own intelligence agencies had released groundless analyses that concluded Russia had a role in attacks on the Congo, northwest China, and Lithuania. The President promised the American people that he trusted President Putin and believe his denials of warlike activities. It was about this time that screens at the UN flickered and then showed grainy footage of a man that looked just like President Trump, but naked, in a fancy hotel. Some pretty, naked, young women were jumping up and down on a bed with snowy white sheets.
They giggled in accented English that President Obama and his wife had slept in this very bed. Then the Trump double blurted out, in a voice just like President Trump’s, “Well, piss on it then.” At that the girls began to tinkle. At first it was two small streams, but they began to piss like horses when the spitting image of image of the President slid like a beaching walrus toward the pissers. They jumped to straddle him. To my astonishment, two immense streams of pee came splashing down on the walrus’s immense buttocks. One girl feel over backwards. She yelled, “Urine is sterile” as she sent a golden shower splashing into the President Trump’s doppelganger smiling face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he responded with an orgasm.
By now, Lord Caligula was pounding the arms of his club chair. Constance was clapping her hands. Both of them were exhorting the wet Walrus with “Go, Donald, go!” Of course his Lordship told me that he didn’t think Donald had that in him.
Lucky i saw had a grin bigger than a Cheshire cat’s. Rumours of this tape had surfaced during the presidential campaign. To my knowledge, Trump never said it never happened. Instead, he had argued it could not have happened, since he was a Germophobe. But even the slut on the tape knew urine is sterile.
Now I will say this about Mr Trump. He is never incapable of the big lie. With the evidence getting sent across the globe, his first observation, once he had seen what was going on, was that it must have been hard to find an actor so handsome. But he said the voice was wrong, and then volunteered it was all stupid. “If I want somebody to pee on me, Melania would be happy to do it.” That was something I believed. She might even have been willing to bring in a whole line of Rockettes to pee on him.
By the next day, the White House had filled the news outlets, especially Fox and Epoch Times, with denials. Sean Hannity spent over an hour explaining why, as Commander-in-Chief, President Tru p would never let a Russian girl pee down on him. And it wasn’t our President’s fault if some women get so happy to see him that, like puppies, they pee themselves with job. So, don’t believe the lying tape at the UN. It was all fiction, and even if it wasn’t fiction, it was photoshopped to make it look as if the girls were peeing down instead of up.
But Hannity did not stop there. He showed pictures of Lucky. He described her as a wicked spy and a tsarina of video misinformation. He lies are legend among those who know her and her dark arts. Was her presence at Emperor Xi’s speech an accident? That beggars belief. She was there to fill the UN with a lying video based on lying intelligence. The great Orange Jesus, President Trump, was again a victim of a sinister hoax.
Mind you, several hateful commentators, Rachel Maddows comes to mind, on channels like MSNBC did all they could to spread lies about the President being a twisted, racist pervert. They should be ashamed of themselves. In fact, the President was so horrified when he first heard rumours of himself being golden showered that he had stopped peeing. He paid Don Jr a bonus to pee for him.
At the time, I felt I had to find Lucky. I missed her.
As all my readers know, I am, like Daphne on the old Frazier show, “a little bit psychic.” I had sensed Lucky’s presence. My Lucky antenna told me that Lucky was very near. Then I knew. Lucky was at the Sherry Netherland at 781 5th Avenue, less than 300 feet from the Pierre. Once I entered the ornate art deco lobby, I could feel Lucky’s vibe. It was less luxurious than she often took for digs, but it was near the Pierre.
Not being a shy guy, I asked for Ms Ming’s room. An impertinent clerk dared to question me. I wailed until she rang Lucky’s room. Within a minute or so elevator doors opened. Lucky strolled into the lobby, which reminded me of the bar at the Netherland Hotel in Cincinnati. Lucky walked to me and scooped me up. “Darling, where have you been? I wondered if you’d ever get here.”
Under a sable overcoat, I could feel Lucky’s familiar Walther PPQ M2 strapped below her rib cage. I would also notice the handle of her Spyderco police model just protruding from the top of a higher-than-normal Chelsea boot.
We made it to her King Suite with a city view, she shed her sable coat. She stood naked in her boots with a custom holster holding her Walther against the side of her bare tummy. She pulled the Spyderco from her left boot placing it on the fireplace mantle. I noticed her landing strip was recently shaved, neat against her mons and jet black. Her body was as muscled as Simone Biles’, but Lucky’s looked able to carry more weight. She did have an assortment of scars, but none of them were new to me. Once in the bedroom, she put her Walther on a nightstand adjacent to the right side of the bed.
Without losing a beat, she grabbed her telephone. “Yi-fei, be a dear. Go down to Harry Cipriani. I want the artichoke heart salad and avocados and a plate of the fillet of sole alla Carlina. Bring some warm cream so that I can fix it to make it very nice for Crockey.” I licked the sole of her foot and purred. I’m nothing if not appreciative.
Yi-fei returned within a half hour. He placed the food on a cart in front of Lucky’s door, and. then rang her. A second call from another guard assured her the hallway was clear. Lucky then retrieved our meal.
Lucky wax relaxing. Her detail to the UN to guard Emperor Xi had ended. She succeeded in her work. Now she had time to relax.
We listened to jazz. I sat on her lap as the music played as Lucky read Marquez’sLove in the Time of Cholera. Hours must have passed. She worked me with a stroke to the head. She asked a direct question. “Darling, did you see Charles any time in the 24 hours before somebody murdered him?”
Trapped, I admitted I had. Lucky ordered me to tell her, as exactly as I could recall, what happened when I saw him. I told her that he approached Lord Caligula, Constance, and me at the Pierre’s bar and was not polite. After Lucky obtained a blow-by-blow from me, Lucky shook her head. “Poor Charles. He had too much passion in him. If I had been there, I’d have muzzled him.
“You can’t insult a warrior as powerful and proud as Constance without wagering your life. I know Bart and Fielding would know better than that.”When I said we didn’t know if Constance murdered him, Lucky looked at me as if I was the dumbest kid in the class. “Oh, please. We’re not lawyers. We know what we know. We’re not here to prove anything. Who had the skill to murder Charles by biting his penis off, by fisting him with her cruel claws spread, and leaving his eviscerated corpse in his bed for all who know these matters to know the truth? Constance, Crockey, Constance.”
As I heard the Grosse Fuge in the background, Lucky surprised me. Words from the Old Testament undammed from her, “To me belongeth vengeance and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.”
As she turned from me to go to bed, I saw her dark watery eyes have their dam break up. Tears streamed like waterfalls over her high cheekbones. I heard her pulling a tissue from a Kleenex box. Soon, I heard a honk from her nose. When the light clicked off, she told me we would go to London tomorrow. We have much to do there.
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.
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.
When you relax at home, you know that sooner or later, your destiny will catch up with you. All you must do is wait.
On bright Tuesday morning as I watched Saint Louie Squirrel stealing crops, I heard somebody at the front door. By the time I got to the living you, there stood Lord Caligula with Constance wrapped inside his left arm. I noticed Fielding and Bart were giving them the evil eye. Chicago and Quine had rushed off to hide in the basement. Roberta was at the uni and mike was in GLWACH, which housed his clinic at Fort Leonard Wood.
When his Lordship noticed I looked puzzled about his entrance, he reassured me. “Look, Chaucer. I carry a bump key and other tools wherever I go. People have stopped trusting their fellow man. Sad, very sad. This little key let me right in. Constance and I came to Saint Louis to fetch Wolverine. The lad has been gathering materials at NGA and the latest news from CBRNE at Fort Leonard Wood. It occurred to me that you might like to join us.”
Constance broke from Lord Caligula’s arm. Without losing a stride, she scooped me into her arms. I got a kiss on the head as she told me how much she loved “her little piglet, her little roast.” Whisked in seconds into a stretched limo in the house’s driveway, Constance and his Lordship sat down with me. Within 10-minutes, the limo pulled in front of the Southwest Diner. Wolverine sat at a table inside sipping coffee as he devoured a plate of sopapilla. When we sat down, Constance ordered country fried steak with two eggs home fries. His Lordship ordered the Grits on Fire, described as cheesys stone ground grits topped with carne adovada, red chile, corn, two eggs and queso fresco. After they ordered, Wolverine demanded the Southwest Slinger: two quarter-pound burgers, home fries, two eggs, chile, and longhorn cheese. They all asked for a big plate with sopapilla and calabacitas. Finally somebody thought of me. She ordered me a poached egg with thick sliced bacon that she sliced into bite-size pieces for me. I also got some vanilla milkshake, but felt disappointed that the place didn’t have fried-check on offer. Lucky would never have taken me here unless she planned to force them to get me whatever She decided I wanted. When it came to knowing and catering to my wants, Lucky has no equal. At least Constance was trying.
As breakfast ended, we went onto the pavement where we promised to meet up soon in Manhattan. Wolverine bragged to his Lordship about the quality of the intelligence and associated images he ha wrangled or stolen at the Fort Leonard and NGA. His Lordship, despite the good intelligence, decided he would do well to check with old associates at the UN. Besides, when in America insist on the best bagels and lox. Everybody ignored my request to go back to Webster. ‘Nonsense, lad, you’ll have a jolly time in Manhattan. You’re with me so you know fun is around the corner. And, even better, you have fans in Manhattan.”
I felt offended. I have fans everywhere. So, the limo took me, LC, and Constance to the aeroport where a private jet awaited. I felt better about it when John Travolta walked in wearing his pilot’s getup. Who doesn’t want the experience of having Travolta fly you somewhere. As you all surely know, the man has a hard-on for piloting jets. Once he took his seat, he tended to the work, and then sent us hurtling down the runway and into the Missouri sky. After he hung a uterus, we headed east across the Mississippi toward La Guardia.
I slept under the cabin’s bed for the whole of the trip. I woke when I was being placed into another limo. The driver got us to The Pierre where his Lordship had reserved the residential suite. I must say the joint was swank. As soon as Constance saw I needed a snack, she had smoked salmon with creme fraiche sent to the suite. It was tasty enough that I softened on the choice of a Mexican restaurant for breakfast. Constance also asked that Oysters on a half shell be sent up. I disliked that she gave me two and kept four for herself.
Meanwhile, Lord Caligula was chugging Pappy van Winkle bourbon whilst he spoke to Peregrine on a coded video call. Peregrine is shameless.
Behind him on the screen, i could see an Etonian uniform strewn about the room. A naked, hairless boy of about 13 or so lay strewn on the bed, but with 10 pound notes all about him. He looked hard used. Lord Caligula looked annoyed that Peregrne himself had done little to cover up. “Is this what you do with your money?”
“What of it, ” came the sassy answer.
“I’ll tell you what of it,” screamed his Lordship, “you’re a disgrace. Those young boys are for the six formers, not for the jaded likes of you.”
Peregrine stood his ground. ‘If you had learnt to read Latin and Greek when you were at Eton, you’d know that boys are for gentleman of all ages. For older boys, they’re just a pre Oxbridge convenience for the older boys.” Peregrine then carried on about how parochial his sperm donor’s attitudes were for an educated man. Besides, if you run with the likes of Constance, you’re unseemly expert on morals.”
When Caligula looked over his own shoulder, Constance was waving her pantiless, well-oiled bottom at him whilst wearing a red and black merry widow. She clenched a cat-of-nines in her teeth. Containers of superglide littered the bed. You might not imagine it possible, but his Lordship blushed. Constance began to giggle, let go of the whip for the moment, and then murmured, “Such a shy boy is Cliggy.” She then bit back down on her cat-of-nines
With that, his Lordship concluded he should get back to doing business and drinking bourbon. Peregrine had the high ground Ethics was such a struggle for his Lordship. Money was not.
About an hour later, “Cliggy” and Constance had finished their depravities. It came as no surprise that they wanted a drink, though I wondered how either of them was by then capable of anything more strenuous than sitting battered bums on thick pillows. But the Pierre’s Two E Bar is a handsome room. As I looked about, I felt my eyes pop when at a table near an exist, I saw a tall, thin man in a midnight blue Brioni suit whose left leg was amputated below the knee, though he had a prosthesis. Our eyes locked. After a moment, he put down his copy of the salmon-coloured FT he had been seeming to read, and made his way over to me. “So, good to see you, Crockett. In this dangerous world, you look spectacular. Alas, as you see, I had a mishap.” I stared at the left leg.
“Perhaps you don’t recall our meeting. Je suis enchante’ de refaire ta connaissance. Je m’appelle Charles, Charles de Guerre.”
His eyes swept around the table, turning to hard gaze as he surveyed Constance and Lord Caligula. Charles recommenced, “Est-ce qu’ils sont ces amis, mon ami? Quand tu visites monsieur et madame, tu engages une liaison dangereux. Tes amis sont sales. Ils sont aussi fous.”
His Lordship whispered a translation of Charles words into Constance’s ear. She smiled at Charles. “So nice to see you again, even if you’re now short a leg. You should learn to fight better if you make a habit of trespassing. If you keep at it, you may have no legs and all . . . perhaps no tongue at all either.”
Constance was being rude, but Charles had, after all, called them both dirty and crazy, which was not very continental of him. I also felt my anxiety alarm ringing when Constance but her hand in her handbag. If you know her as I know her, she never had a handbag without a pistol or straight razor in it. When his Lordship placed his hand over Constance’s, I heard him say, “How nice to meet you in a sedate place, Charles. May I buy you a drink?”
Charles declined. He wished to go back to his copy of the FT and he also wanted to read a column I had written for Le Monde Diplomatique. It was a think piece that Peregrine had dictated and I had signed.
Just in case you don’t know, both Presidents Putin and Trump, as well as Emperor Xi read anything with my byline. They adored my wry wit and comprehensive comprehension of world diplomacy. Nobody had a richer Weltanschauung than I. Kissinger’s day is past. I’m the future.Before Charles walked away, he turned to me and remarked, “
C’est curieux. Il y beaucoup de tes amis à New York. Pourquoi, mon ami, pourquoi?”Okay, I admit it, that comment scared me. What was Charles in Manhattan and at the Pierre. What had he said many of my friends were here. I wondered if Melania was at the Trump Plaza. It’s less than a half-mile walk from the Pierre. Could dough boy, Trump himself, be here? More generally, though, what was going down? Why were his Lordship, Constance, Wolverine, and maybe even Peregrine all in or bound for Manhattan.
Life at home is a life of leisure. I write, of course, but I spend endless hours watching Saint Louie Squirrel on the balcony as he gorges himself on tomatoes he stole from Roberta’s garden. The rascal is a master thief. You can imagine how often I have yearned to meet Saint Louie face-to-face, but Roberta won’t allow it. She worries he will steal my heart away.
When I’m not relaxing I do write. Often I write under a nom de plume, because, if the schemers at the IRS get a clear on your identity, they love to tax you. It’s maddening. Our forefathers preached “No taxation without representation.” Think of it. Do I have a vote? Kitties are treated in civics as if they were nullities; however, if a kitty earns any money, the IRS robbers want a cut. So, I use various names. My Krugerrand go to unnumbered accounts in lands of freedom like the Cayman Islands. From time to time, I request photographs of my holdings. Often I imagine myself sliding down a mountain of gold coins.
Snarlson’s endorsements of my latest columns and magazine features sent my earnings into the stratosphere. I had to be secretive about my holdings. Quine and Chicago are nothing but two rats in kitty suits. They’d find about anything they knew I had to Bart and Fielding. Those two, even though they love me, would beat any wealth I had out of me. I always kept a few accounts I could turn over to them to make them think they had it all. Frankly, they don’t count any better than I do. And keep in mind that I have parietal damage.
When I am home, I try to let Roberta know she should think more about my grub. When with Melania or Lucky, I eat the finest, freshest, well-prepared dishes. In Webster Groves, I feed on Friskies and Nutro dry food, supplemented by whatever better victuals I can steal off Roberta’s plate. You should have seen her the day I swiped a fresh-from-the-over pork tenderloin from her. She had got it at Schwab’s, the best!
Because it was to my advantage, I convinced myself that the Paedophile Bears called all the shots that mattered in Holland. It was inevitable. Beatrix was the leader from 1980 to 2013 when he “abdicated” (a fancy word for quit) to let her imbecile son Willem-Alexander (Just look at how he spelled “William” if you suspect him or his mum to be of ordinary intelligence).
Nothing could have flabbergasted me more than when he married one of my love slaves, Maxima Zorregulieta Cerruti. It doesn’t take long walking around A-dam to figure out that the Monarchy had the country made over to a paedophile’s delight under the accursed, ever compliant Dutch Monarchy.
The Dutch King tried to make himself look like a smartypant by having somebody ghost write a doctorandus on de Gaulle’s decision to leave NATO. Willem is about as likely to have written it himself as King George is to be the true author of the Declaration of Independence. Don’t fall for that story about Thomas Jefferson.
Notice too that the Beatrix never did anything as energetic as runningto off to Africa to live a debauched life with Elvis. She claimed like all forms of sodomy too, but didn’t have the knees for it. Before the King, she said, one must kneel and serve. To that I say, “Bosh!” She could have taken youthening drugs, but didn’t. She was a lazy woman with no libido. She’s no Constance and no Liz either. Hence Elvis had to make do with native girls until sexy, swinging Liz arrived.
If you want to know, Liz is looking in her 20s and can’t keep her hands off Elvis’s youthened body. Of course, Liz was always a closet nympho. With Elvis, she can get down and dirty without Anglican shame. When you’re rolling naked in the mood on the banks of the Zambezi river, the call of the wild is strong.
Incidentally, English women have an undeserved reputation for propriety and chastity. What nonsense. If they had the chance, they’d all move to Mississippi to live in trailer parks and dream of living in perpetual nudity and filth as the youthened erstwhile queen does with Elvis in their hidden African mansions.
Perhaps it will come as no surprise that my stories were always popular with the Qanon crowd. I owe my vast holdings to them, Munitions Galore, and Putin.
In truth, my routine repetitions of what Putin and Wolverine wanted me to write led to general confusion about what happened in Somalia. A great fog also dropped over who did and did not have Ice-10. Some thought the Brits, Russians, Chinese, Americans, Germans, Japanese, Israelis and French had arsenals of Ice-10. All this speculation was rubbish. Anybody who knew Lord Caligula the likes of Wolverine or Peregrine would know Munitions Galore would sell its goods quietly to anybody and everybody with the ability to pay. Binky Dalrymple, after all, had set up a network of shell companies to get as much Ice10 that needed a traceless transaction as can be imagined.
All of the principals were growing rich and everybody else was sinking into a conspiracy mindset. I was collecting more and more Krugerrand as a result. I’ve even begun to think I’d like to add a US Double Eagle to my collection.* I’m not ever going to sell anything from my hoard of gold. It’s too pleasurable to hold in my gaze or to run paws over. Occasionally, I get a yen to climb on top of it all and obscenely posture whilst chanting “fuck communism” or to howl with job, “I’m a rich banker.” I know, I know, nobody’s perfect.
* Since the most recently sold 1933 Double Eagle sold for over $18 millions, perhaps Crockett’s phantasies about his coins induced a gold madness. Being gold mad is a known phenomenon, watch “Treasure of the Sierra Madre” to learn more.
Let me assure you that Carl, when not destroying companies, is a wonderful, saintly man. At Princeton, he studied philosophy. He even wrote his senior thesis on Hume, one of mike’s favourite philosophers. Carol is proof that there are oceans of money to be made in philosophy provided you have the right one.
He got me to National. He even got me to the White House where Melania was paying one of her rare visits to her putative husband. Once I got in, I can assure you she spent the night with me. Donald prefers to sit up watching Hannity and other Fox trash spouting nonsense on his presidency whilst Donald feeds on Big Macs and fries. The stench of hamburger gases is think in the air whenever Don’s about.
So, it was I who snuggled between Melania’s succulent Slovenian breasts before heading on to Saint Louis. And I did make it back the next day. As usual, I had to stay clear of Bart and Fielding to escape my mandatory beatings.
My time home allowed me to work on articles blaming the Jews, Chinese, Krauts, and Frogs for the death of terrorists in Somalia. I had strict instructions not to blame any Ivans. I was to insist the bodies of dead Russians on-site were a team of bad apples, loathsome malcontents in Puti’s loving eyes. I knowk, I know. What I won’t I do for more Krugerrand.
Wolverine and Peregrine had wasted no time writing iOperas that lambasted anybody impugning the motives of Putin and the splendid people of Russia. In one they borrowed lavishly from the Who’s ancient rock opera, Tommy. Putin was cast as that deaf, dumb, and blind guy who fought for peace for all.
I had a huge advantage when it came to writing puff pieces about Russia. During the time I’ve spent in Russia, I have stayed in luxury Hotels and eaten in Michelin Restaurants. For example, I liked sitting in the White Rabbit with Lucky. I adored the joint’s decor (loved all the bunny pictures), and Lucky ordered for me, being sure that the chef attended to my kitty tastes.
Now let me tell you the truth. If your visits to a country consist in stays at its 5-star hotels and meals at its finest restaurants, you may get a distorted view of the place. The clearly problematic, knuckle-dragging citizens are easier to spot on mean streets than are megathiefs whiling away hours in luxury hotels, posh bars, and Michelin star restaurants contemplating their next crime.
I brooded about what Lucky did to him. What if I needed a favour? To make up with him, I wrote a piece blaming Holland’s woes on its covert rule by paedophilic polar bears from the north. Lax Dutch immigration policies had left the country at the mercy of assorted northern marauders. Had the Dutch learnt nothing from their Viking problem during the Dark Ages?
Now the polar bears were flooding the country with protitution, trans, decline to state, and non-binaries, as well as drugs whilst working to close the country to tobacconists, Christians, and soldiers with short-hair. A red-blooded American man can scarcely walk into a bar without having the paedophilic polar bears unleashing a domme on him. It’s a scandal. Is it true? Like I should care.
Within a day, Tucker called me. He praised my insight, since not everybody was wise to what the depraved polar bears were doing in and to Holland. He then asked me what I knew about a story bubbling out of NATO HQ from an unknown source that the Russians were framed by the Jews and Emperor Xi for the Ice-10 devastation in Somalia. Unlike me, Tucker was too slow to detect the lying maw of Wolverine.
So, I sent him copy of my coming story on what Our Putin was doing to save the African people. Everybody knew that Russians did all they could to rescue Africans from the sneaky plots and wicked machinations of the Imperialisst in Washington, Jerusalem and Beijing.
Tucker praised me effusively, telling me, “I hadn’t known half of this shit.” I, I’d add, didn’t know any quantity of it. That evening, Tucker Snarlson’s one hour of content in just 3 hours of show bombarded his audience with my fantastic conjectures.
Of course, Tucker interlaced his own crazy speculations into the mix. He repeated my lie that the Germans had committed the atrocity in Lithuania, but he added that they were aided by a cabal of paedophilic polar bears whose MO was to operate out of Dutch Rijsttafel joints. No doubt the bears molested a fresh boy or girl after every course. And what a sinister strategy for hiding that is. How many people would link polar bears to Indonesia? It’s a deep, deep cover indeed.
In a flash, the not-quite-Nazi FvD party endorsed Snarlson’s “scoop” as authentic news, calling for investigations, since there was “something rotten in A-dam.” By the next evening, Hannity was complaining that nobody was paying enough attention to the paedophilia link and all Putin had done over the years to combat it. Fair observers, according to Hannity, knew that the size of the average Chinaman proved the Chinese lust for little people and children. China is a country of paedophiles and midget rapers.
Must Putin endure slanders on his kind, Christlike nature just because the Chinese had thrown in with the Jews to smear Russians? Again, any fair-minded person knew the Jews were working to destabilize democracy in Russia. Putin = Love.
Hannity did express sorrow for having to reveal this sad truth about the Jews, especially since they had done so much for the world running a pest control operation against the Palestinian and any Arabs unwilling to face facts about whom God had bequeathed lands in the Near East. He added it was a sign of the times that the Jews hadn’t taught the Iranians some much needed lessons. Would King David have been so gentle?
If I understood the oblique insinuations in Hannity’s and Snarlson’s show that night, it was that those paedophile polar bears that Bart and Fielding detest who had gained undue influence in Jerusalem. Israel would do nothing to stop rampant child molestation in Iran and China because the polar bears had gained an upperhand in the Knesset. They were working out plans to sell those kids into white slavery.
By the very next day, when President Trump got asked about the recent allegations, he said, “It’s hard to quarrel with facts.” He then started to rant on how the CIA, NGA, and the entire Intelligence apparatus of the US was spreading Hence it is indeed a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.