Stinking of his favorite Jade East cologne, Florida Gov. Ronnie DeShifty screamed into the cell phone he held with one hand while combing his thick black hair with the other. DeShifty loved the spit-shined impression of himself he saw in the mirror. Dull, dapper, demented and short, even while preparing for a make-it-or-break-it public policy argument, he always got conservatively groomed. An American flag decorated with dollar signs replacing stars adorned the red, white and blue silk necktie he chose to wear at home that morning.
This confrontation was personal.
“I’m gonna be the next president of these United States!” the governor said with a bravado normally expressed by boot camp drill instructors. “On day one at the White House we invade Mexico.”
On the other end of a bad connection Meester Beeg sat parboiling in a hot tub at his Shangri-Lago resort master bedroom, struggling to keep from dropping the phone, holding on with short, stubby fingers lathered with greasy double cheeseburger drippings. Cradling the gold-plated device in the thick crease of his soft shoulder and flabby neck, he gnawed around the edges of the bun looking for the last hunk of juicy meat in the gross sandwich he gripped with both hands.
“No, you soft spoiled grapefruit, you, I’m gonna be president,” he roared. “I’m gonna personally invade Mexico.”
“Your alien wife is a floozy communist,” the governor said. “With all her plastic parts she looks like Mrs. Potatoboob.”
Meester Beeg retaliated.
“Your wife is a bargain basement concubine and nude fake news centerfold,” said the former president.
“You dye your pubic hair orange,” the governor said.
“You’re a closet Mickey Mouse,” said the former commander-in-chief.
DeShifty sputtered.
“Listen to Mr. Trans Man – a neutered transactional free market fraud.”
“Yeah, well you’re a one-man drag show.”
“You are.”
“No, you are.”
The telephone call went on like this for 20 minutes. Two exasperated FBI agents monitoring the conversation, Michele Delany and Donnie Driscoll, hung up before the presidential debate ended. Both federal law enforcement officers continued to use plastic forks to dig into cartons of cold Chinese food.
“Do you believe these clowns?” Driscoll said, adjusting his black watch cap and scratching an unruly red beard.
“Have you seen the pee pee tapes yet?” asked Delany, slurping beef lo mein noodles and splashing sodium free soy sauce down the front of her body armor.
“No,” Driscoll said, “but I hear the tapes are hotter than this extra spicy moo goo gai pan. Does Meester Beeg really dance the watusi in an edible red licorice thong to that James Brown song ‘Sex Machine?’”
Delany wrinkled her nose like somebody put real poo in her pu pu plater.
“As a grand finale the Russian hookers eat the thong,” she said.
“Like a Black Sea shark frenzy,” Driscoll said.
“I’ll make you a copy,” Delany said. “I’m showing the tapes at my bachelorette party Saturday night and giving a thumb drive copy to each of my bridesmaids.”
“Where’d you get the tapes, anyway?” Driscoll asked.
Delany gloated.
“RayRay Gigliardi is an old guy who owns a bar in Clearwater Beach where I drink when I’m up there,” she said. “He plays drums in the house rock band, slams shot glasses into a corner net with a hockey stick and drinks cocktails with his pet parrot.”
“Sounds nuts,” Driscoll said.
“RayRay said he found a plastic bag washed up on the sand marked TOP SECRET,” Delany said. “Wild man but good citizen that he is, RayRay knew right away he had to turn his discovery in to the government. He said he never opened the bag he just called me.”
A flickering light about as big as a Bic lighter flame went off in Driscoll’s head.
“Will your bridesmaids keep the tapes secret?”
“They won’t have to,” Delany said. “I already sold them to HBO.”
“Pardon the pun, but that exposure will ruin him,” Driscoll said. “Nobody will ever take him seriously again.”
Reaching for a fortune cookie, Driscoll chuckled when he read the fortune out loud.
“Confucius say man who keep feet on ground have trouble putting on his trousers.”
Delany laughed so hard she spit a mouthful of miso soup across the surveillance van.
“What does that even mean?” she snickered.
Driscoll waved a leftover egg roll in Delany’s face.
“It means Meester Beeg should keep his presidential pee pee in his pants before somebody chops it off.”
