In the course of my onward homage to Bacchus and frenzied consumption of Jean-Paul Satre, it occurred to me that I’ve shamelessly neglected my blog. Time has lapsed and during the course of my philosophical meanderings, I’ve even had my sense of humanism put on trial. Nevertheless, in the midst of this existentential angst, your erstwhile blogger returns from nether world to ether-world with a renewed sense of defiance.
At present, the news media in Britain are focussed on the Chilcot Enquiry. Its primary aim is to determine the legitimacy of UK’s involvement in the conflict in Iraq. In 2003, Prime Minister Tony Blair committed this country to a war based upon a dubious legal premise and downright lies. Yesterday, he was told to justify that decision. There’s been much speculation as to whether he made a pact with President Bush prior to the ‘regime change’. But who knows what really happens in the corridors of power? Perhaps the likes of Bush and Blair might explore other means to cement their coalitions?
Coalition
The events in the following story are (of course) entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or are purely coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an adult or you have a healthy respect for politics and those who purport to represent us.
“Say Cordelia, how long is it now?”
“Beg pardon Mr President…? Oh…he’s been waiting nearly forty five minutes, sir.”
As ever, the President tried to conceal a smug grin but with only partial success. “Who did you say this chump was again, darlin’?”
Cordelia cringed at the over-familiarity. “He’s the Prime Minister of England, Mr. President."
The President called to mind recent picture book illustrations shown to him of England during a briefing. It depicted omnibuses and quaint rustic villages with horse drawn carriages wending their way through bewildered flocks of sheep. “Hey, that’s near the Middle East, right?”
Cordelia gave an exasperated sigh. “Kind of, sir, but it’s nearer Europe.”
The president pulled his all-to-familiar, befuddled expression. “Say, they got any oil there?”
“I believe they have North Sea oil - but they’re one of our staunchest allies, sir,” Cordelia explained.
“Aw shucks. So we can’t go in there and whoop some ass?”
“No-can-do, Sir.”
“Damn it Cordie. You know how I just lurve grabbing myself a piece of ‘black gold’.” He winked at her clumsily. Cordelia winced at the repulsive memories of performing felatio for ‘Rodeo Joe’, as he liked to be known. He had presented his hideous alter ego in full cowboy garb during a late night briefing session in the presidential suite. Since then, the President would often resurrect his gun-toting cow farmer and role-play with an horrendous assortment of related props.
There was a time when she’d very much admired the man during his governorship of that god-fearing state in middle America. Moreover, despite having borderline literacy skills, he’d still managed to scrawl his monica on well over one hundred death warrants and thus despatch large numbers of troublesome African Americans. The President’s predilection for dealing out judgement and death (despite the occasional mitigating circumstances) proved quite a formidable aphrodisiac for her. However, during his presidency, she had come to realise that he was in fact possessed with the mental faculty of an imbecile. His low IQ might have been considered quite respectable for the average primate, but not for a leader of the so-called free world. Besides, she was beginning to tire of his monkey business. Her forthcoming posting overseas would be quite a blessing. It was a constant irritation to her that despite years of fastidious legal studies, she presently held the dubious honour of being little more than a glorified presidential ‘fluffer’.
It was well known in White House circles that the President liked to read from his autocue with a sturdy erection during press calls. The secret of his very stiff, unyielding foreign policy rested on her lips. Without such intervention, resistance to the various foreign axis of evil would soften and the free world might wilt into anarchy.
“Hey watch this Cordie!” The President fired a jellybean from an oil-well shaped dispenser and caught it in his mouth mid-air. He proceeded to champ on it like some gormless steer. “Guess you’d better show this guy in.” he slurred between chews, “but he can hit the road by four. That’s when I got my prayer meeting.”
The sight of the jellybean conjured up another hideous memory for the president’s aid. During their role-play of ‘vet and mule’, he had blown one of them up her back passage with a party straw. Although perfectly aware how veterinarians administered medication to ruminant beasts, she’d never envisaged the possibility of her rectum being used for target practice. Quite fortuitously, during his second humiliating attempt, an impromptu bout of wind had put-pay to this veterinary ‘ass-pirations’. Indeed, his suppository fetish had rather backfired on him. The violent coughing fit that ensued as he choked on a jellybean had dampened his enthusiasm to make further attempts at turning her sphincter into a candy dispenser. Thank heavens he hadn’t attempted anything larger - like a pretzel, for instance.
Cordelia left the room and returned with the Prime Minister in tow. She tactfully excused herself and retired to the relative sanity of the library.
The Prime Minister stared enviously at the grandeur of the office, before strolling up to the large leather-topped desk. The President stood, thrusting out a hand, smirking inanely. The Prime Minister bowed rather obsequiously and extended a hand, surprised at the near crushing grip that threatened to dislocate a knuckle. Mustering all his considerable reserves of smarminess, he traded smiles with his superior counterpart.
“Hi. I’d just like to say what a tremendous honour it is to meet you again. I think that this meeting will prove to be a truly momentous day in history. I would just like…”
“Just park your ass down, Timmy. Let’s move on and get this show on the road.” The President butted in, unimpressed by the excessive display of fawning. He kicked the opposite chair out from under the desk, got up again, and strolled over to the drinks cabinet, fixing a couple of huge bourbons.
“Err, actually my name’s…”
“Hey, let’s cut to the chase, Timmy. You got ten minutes and I got a busy schedule.” The president took a large gulp of his drink. “And don’t give me none of that Kyoto Protocol crap this time. We Americans love our gas guzzlin’ automobiles. You want us to go back to a goddam horse and cart like you guys?”
“Well, no, but the reason I came is so that we might discuss my proposals about ways to increase homeland surveillance. I am sure we agree that the threat posed by…”
“Listen, cut the crap, Timmy. I ain’t got all day.”
The Prime Minister became flustered. His toothy grin faltered momentarily. He opted for a change of tack. “May I say Mr. President that I have always admired the strident tone of your speeches. So magnificently outstanding and upright. I mean, I could learn so much from your oratorical spendidness.”
The President began to tire of his counterpart’s gushing compliments and outpourings of flattery. He decided to bring matters to a swift conclusion. “Listen, I got one thing to say to you, Timmy. If you really want to be my buddy, then you gotta learn how to stand tall. Take things like a man.”
“Of course, I understand your majesty, I mean your grace, I mean…”
The President tilted back in his sumptuous leather chair and glanced at the B52 models suspended by wires from the ceiling. “Tell you what Tim, I’m gonna cut you some slack here. Whadda you say we get down to a bit of horse-play?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr President?”
“Oh, come on now, Timmy. You’re a man of the world. Hell, you guys still owe us for saving your ass in the First World War.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I fully understand the ramifications of what you’re implying, Mr. President.”
“Okay, this is how things work around here. You tickle my back and I scratch yours.”
The Prime Minister speculated about the somewhat sinister inference that now reverberated about his mind. He tried to conceal a growing sense of unease as he gazed pensively at veiled window, squirming at the direction the conversation appeared to be taking.
The President continued regardless. “Hey! Don’t go all shy on me Timmy. You ain’t no blushing belle. You’re the leader of a whole cotton-pickin’ island for God’s sake!” As the President went on, he retrieved a silver cigar case from a desk drawer and put one in his mouth. “These cigars sure taste funny. Must have been left here by the last guy. Always knew there was somethin’ fishy about those Democrats.”
“Perhaps your predecessor couldn’t find an ashtray, maybe he had to improvise...?” The Prime Minister suggested speculatively.
A plume of mottled smoke ascended towards the B52s like some vast detonation and wafted towards the Prime Minister making him cough nervously. His paling face became possessed by a series of facial ticks as he shifted in his chair self-consciously. He had had enough of ‘flawed intelligence’ back home without having to confront its very embodiment. “I am not quite sure if I can continue this meeting Mr. President. In actual fact, I have to use the lavatory quite urgently.”
The President reached under the desk and began to make vigorous shuffling movements. He blew a puff of smoke directly at the Prime Minister. “Got to say Timmy, the moment you walked through that door, I couldn’t help noticing what a mighty pretty rear end you got yourself there. Sure would like to impeach that lil’ peach ‘o yours. I’d be much obliged to if you’d permit me to saddle you up. I mean, I’ve ridden a few mares in my time, but I think you’d be trying to buck me like a hog with a flea up it’s ass!”
“Erm, with the greatest respect, Mr. President, I’m actually very happily married. In fact you must meet my lovely wife very soon…yes, very soon. I’m sure we can…erm…consider alternative ways that we might cement our coalition...?” The Prime Minister stammered.
“Sure we can Timmy, but from where I’m sitting, it figures like this. I call the shots around here and right now, I got an awful lot of goodwill to plough into your special relationship.”
The Prime Minister squirmed in his seat. “Well, naturally, I’d value a closer dialogue with you Mr. President, but there must be other avenues that might present themselves. I mean, I happen to know several members of my cabinet who’d gladly accommodate the point that you’re banging on about. I mean, gosh, it’s been my experience that they’ll swallow just about anything.”
“Did I say I gave a hoot ‘bout cabinets? Hell, I don’t even like all that prissy English furniture. Just hold your goddam horses and wait there!” The President commanded, rising to his feet. The Prime Minister averted his gaze as the President swaggered manfully towards a set of drawers wearing a grotesque leer. He retrieved a pair of flared, weather-beaten leather chaps and a holster. To the Prime Minister’s relief, he disappeared through a side door and closed it behind him.
The Prime Minister’s cell phone began to ring but he decided to ignore it. The tiresome theme tune of ‘Things can only get better’ hardly seemed apt in his present predicament. Things were, in fact, taking a turn for the worse. He took a swig of bourbon and coughed. His mind drifted to thoughts of his wife. He would probably have to impregnate her again soon in order to bolster his flagging popularity back home. The latest opinion polls suggested that the electorate was beginning to tire of his increasingly autocratic style.
From the adjacent room, he heard the president singing a hoedown. After several angst-filled minutes, the President emerged like some monstrous parody of John Wayne. The Prime Minister’s mind reeled as he absorbed the full horror of what confronted him with an almost out-of-body detachment:
Atop the President’s head was a Stetson, cocked at a jaunty angle. A pristine, chequered scarf concealed his mouth, accentuating a chiselled jawline. Its neat triangle steered he eye past a tasselled leather waistcoat, highlighting a portly, slightly hairy midriff. Framed within leather chaps and a holster belt was a colossal, fully erect prick that looked nearly as leathery and worn-in as his knee length, spurred boots he was wearing. However, even more terrifying was the red-hot branding iron that he appeared to be brandishing. The torture device bore the glowing insignia of a confederate flag.
For a moment, the Prime Minister wondered if he was getting a flashback from his LSD experimentation during the late sixties. A blind panic arose in him as he realised that he was hyperventilating. All of a sudden, he became light-headed and then darkness took him.
* * *
The PM stirred and felt a jab of searing pain on his right buttock. The twanging chords of ‘Stand by your man’ rang in his ears. He found himself slumped face down in the chair with his trousers around his ankles. Hands were grasping at his flanks. There appeared to be some kind of restraint over his mouth. He balked as something large and fleshy struggled impatiently to intrude into his tightly puckered anus. As he turned in horror, he witnessed the maniacal grin of ‘Rodeo Joe’, eyes burning intently into his. He struggled to extricate himself from the uninvited tryst, but restraining hands tightened their grip.
“Oh!…what…what’s going on?” Came his muffled whimper from behind the muzzle.
“Now just you simmer down. I’m gonna take you for a ‘lil mosey on round the ranch.” Rodeo Joe jerked on some reigns boisterously, jarring back the Prime Minister’s head. He reapplied pressure to the unyielding sphincter.
“This is absurd! Oh gosh!… No!… For God’s sake man!”
“Now quit your belly-aching! You’ll get your sugar lump soon enough, so just you stop your frettin’.” The President angled his manhood with an exacting precision. As the Prime Minister inadvertently unclenched his buttocks, he thrust home his grizzled chopper. “Think you’ve been saddled up before.” The President remarked accusingly as he eased his knarled beef-bayonet into the warm recess. A peculiar tingling pleasure began to eclipse the discomfort in the Prime Minister’s traumatised rectum. It grew in him as the unyielding cow-prodder continued its relentless journey towards an oblivion of pleasure.
“Giddy up now boy, giddy up.” Rodeo Joe reached for a small bottle of motor oil and decadently doused his inflamed shaft with it as he proceeded to bury the remaining inches. “You gotta whinny for me, boy. Whinny like a mule.”
“Nay… nay.”
The lack-lustre, clipped English vowels failed to impress the salacious sausage jockey. “Damn it Toby, you ain’t even trying!” Rodeo Joe drew himself out then rammed himself to the hilt, bringing tears to the Prime Minister’s eyes and making him yelp.
“Naaaay! Naaaay-he-he!” The PM whinnied, desperately re-entering into the spirit of transatlantic co-operation.
“That’s it, Tammy. I’m go’ drill you hard - just like Alaska.” Rodeo Joe gasped. “I’m gonna sink my drill head and pump you till I drain off every last drop. I heard you like spin - well spin on this with that peachy ‘lil white rump ‘a’ yours.”
The Prime Minister felt his senses gorging on a delicious delirium of forbidden fruit. He could barely speak as a hand grappled ineptly at his block and tackle, and started to jerk it. “I must…impress…upon you… not a word to the wife about this… you must promise?”
“Don’t you fret now. I know how to keep these things under my Stetson.”
Rodeo Joe started to plunge faster, bringing a renewed and escalating delight. “Say…you got a bit of manure in your tail pipe!”
* * *
Meanwhile, in the library, Cordelia sat gazing absently at the President’s well-thumbed children’s edition of Joseph McCarthy’s memoirs. Perhaps she should have listened to her mom and avoided politics. How could she have guessed that the President would interpret their ‘de-briefing’ sessions in the Oval Office quite so literally?
It seemed that her relationship with the President was becoming increasingly volatile. It was not the fact that he lassoed her, and all the uncomfortable associations with black American history that this seemed to re-enact. It was not even his occasional dribbling or complete ignorance as to methods of foreplay. No, it was more the sheer ingratitude of the man that aggrieved her. It was the way that she was obliged to clear up his messes - whether diplomatic or otherwise. It was she who’d had the foresight to order the leather-bound copy of ‘Mein Kampf’ for the forthcoming Papal visit to the White House. What thanks did she receive from the President for such devotion to duty? Absolutely none! Even though he had a fearsome reputation for barbarism that even Ghengis Khan might have envied, he lacked the magnanimity to reward even his closest allies.
Cordelia left the library and wandered into the pantry, opening up the freezer. Her large collection of DNA-soiled dresses that occupied it was beginning to raise eyebrows amongst the domestic staff. Perhaps she would always love the President, whether he was incumbent or recumbent, but in the dog-eat-dog world of politics, she thought it prudent to keep an insurance policy should things turn ugly.
* * *
Meanwhile, back at the proverbial ranch…
“Oh my word, this is splendid. Faster!” The Prime Minister’s head was in a spin as he worked his booty up and down the shaft like a back-street pole dancer.
“Always pump my bore holes at around forty r.p.m., Tammy - same speed as an oil well.”
The couple’s thrusting bodies started to work up quite a sheen. Rodeo Joe gripped the PM’s shoulders as he knelt, energetically plumping the yielding love-pillows. The smell of sweat and ageing leather proved a heady mix for the Prime Minister. The electric tingling began to erupt into a molten magma of ecstasy.
Behind him, Rodeo Joe’s leather chaps continued to slap against his rump, steady as a metronome.
“Don’t you try bucking me off before I’m done, boy,” Rodeo Joe wheezed huskily with booze-laden breath. “Hell yeah! That’s it. I gotcha good. Get ready for it…”
The Prime Minister pushed back and forth in time with the President’s steady piston action as reigns lashed at his rosy flanks.
“Hell yeah, Mustang, that’s it! Oh Bessy, swish that tail, oh yes, buck me, whinny for me…oh God…gonna spur you on back home now missy. Oh Kissenger, oh Nixon…oh lord…oh Mommy!…Yeeehaaar!” As he climaxed, the President unholstered his cap guns and fired off several rounds as he shot from the hip. For the PM, however, the image that the president’s mother conjured up had all the allure of a Chieftain tank stranded on a couple of gargantuan tree stumps.
For a few precious moments, they slumped, exhausted, in a tangle of limbs. The Prime Minister savoured the delicate afterglow of being buggered by the most powerful man on the planet. The President retracted himself and nuzzled his faithful mount tenderly. In all his long years of marriage, the PM had never felt so liberated, so carefree. He felt like a dizzy debutante skipping through prairies of daisies. “Mr. President, I feel compelled to say that that was truly wonderful. I’ve never felt so unfettered…so alive...”
The president yanked playfully at the reigns. “Well, just remember who’s boss round here, Terry,” came the nasally reply.
“I could almost shout our love from the roof tops…”
“Now just you hold your horses right there. I’m much obliged to you, an’ all, but I ain’t ready for nothin’ serious. I don’t wanna give anyone no achey-breaky heart, but I was born under a wandrin’ star.”
Despite the charming lyrical cliché, the Prime Minister’s smile faded.
“’Least I ain’t lying to yer...” The president offered.
“But surely we could make the people understand? There’s plenty of my people who bat for the other side. One only has to think of the diplomatic service…”
“Well from where I’m from, we sure as hell don’t like queers! Hell, if my mamma heard ‘bout this, she’d yank my nuts off and griddle ‘em for breakfast.”
“Well, obviously we need to consider all possible permutations of our special relationship, but, well, I don’t know, I’m ready for another ‘transatlantic tryst’…”
“Well, that’s as maybe - but I’m a busy guy. Heck, I still got places left in the world I haven’t invaded.”
The Prime Minister’s face dropped. He felt the melancholy wrench of disappointment. “But you invaded me. You conquered me!”
The President’s half-cocked smile returned. ‘Sure I did, but now that I’ve planted my flag pole, I gotta find new territories to conquer.”
“But what of our special relationship?” the PM implored “I thought that it meant something to you! We have a coalition! Gosh, I think I’m falling for you, Mr. President!”
“Listen, I’m gonna level with you. I think you got a honey pot sweeter than molasses, but I gotta roam. I know plenty of mares who wanna be sired.”
“But I…erm adore you…love you, Mr. President.”
“Lurve? My ass! I don’t believe I’m hearing this horseshit. Heck, you don’t even know your fanny from your fetlocks.” The President unbuckled the harness and stood over the Prime Minister masterfully.
“I will see you again…won’t I?” The PM gazed up plaintively.
“Guess you just might at that, Talbot. ‘Sides, I might just want you to visit my ranch. We can let our womenfolk get better acquainted while we go for a long hard ride. We could even share a spit-roast with my neighbour Hank.
“I’d be delighted to…”
All of a sudden, a door swung open. “Mr. President, the Reverend Whitmore is here to see you and…. Oh my God!… You bastard!” Cordelia stood at the opened door, rooted to the spot. Her jaw dropped, as did the dossier she was carrying. Her blood-chilling wail trilled over the country and western sound track with an almost operatic magnificence. The President took his gun and expended the remaining caps in rapid succession. The trio stared at eachother as acrid wisps of gun smoke drifted in the storm-charged air.
The President stood and faced his now statuesque subordinate. “Who in the hell d’you think you are? Barging in on us like some headless turkey with its ass on fire! Ain’t you never heard about privacy, goddamit?” He bellowed.
“Now erm…I think…er…I should explain,” The Prime Minister blustered falteringly, “I’m actually here in my official capacity as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and…”
Cordelia, meanwhile, stared at the Prime Minister’s semi-naked form with revulsion. Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned and fled, slamming the door behind her.
The Prime Minister struggled to draw up his trousers, wincing as they passed the swelling blister on his buttock. “Now, erm… I realise this is a somewhat sticky situation…but I think it might be prudent to try to reason with your…erm...?”
“Hogwash! My guys have been diggin’ the dirt on that lil’ missy’s family for years now. If she so much as farts in a near a newsstand, I’m go’ haul her ass right over the barbecue.
“How very shrewd of you, I must say. Hmm, now, getting back to the question of the integrity of my internal security…”
* * *
In the pantry, Cordelia wept as she gathered up some slightly crisp, soiled dresses into a large attaché case. Yes, she’d teach that bovine-bum-bandit not to mess with her affections! Who did he think he was - riding roughshod over her feelings like that? Well, now he’d certainly rue the day he ever came across her.
© Edwin Black
Thanks for reading,
E.B.
At present, the news media in Britain are focussed on the Chilcot Enquiry. Its primary aim is to determine the legitimacy of UK’s involvement in the conflict in Iraq. In 2003, Prime Minister Tony Blair committed this country to a war based upon a dubious legal premise and downright lies. Yesterday, he was told to justify that decision. There’s been much speculation as to whether he made a pact with President Bush prior to the ‘regime change’. But who knows what really happens in the corridors of power? Perhaps the likes of Bush and Blair might explore other means to cement their coalitions?
Coalition
The events in the following story are (of course) entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or are purely coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an adult or you have a healthy respect for politics and those who purport to represent us.
“Say Cordelia, how long is it now?”
“Beg pardon Mr President…? Oh…he’s been waiting nearly forty five minutes, sir.”
As ever, the President tried to conceal a smug grin but with only partial success. “Who did you say this chump was again, darlin’?”
Cordelia cringed at the over-familiarity. “He’s the Prime Minister of England, Mr. President."
The President called to mind recent picture book illustrations shown to him of England during a briefing. It depicted omnibuses and quaint rustic villages with horse drawn carriages wending their way through bewildered flocks of sheep. “Hey, that’s near the Middle East, right?”
Cordelia gave an exasperated sigh. “Kind of, sir, but it’s nearer Europe.”
The president pulled his all-to-familiar, befuddled expression. “Say, they got any oil there?”
“I believe they have North Sea oil - but they’re one of our staunchest allies, sir,” Cordelia explained.
“Aw shucks. So we can’t go in there and whoop some ass?”
“No-can-do, Sir.”
“Damn it Cordie. You know how I just lurve grabbing myself a piece of ‘black gold’.” He winked at her clumsily. Cordelia winced at the repulsive memories of performing felatio for ‘Rodeo Joe’, as he liked to be known. He had presented his hideous alter ego in full cowboy garb during a late night briefing session in the presidential suite. Since then, the President would often resurrect his gun-toting cow farmer and role-play with an horrendous assortment of related props.
There was a time when she’d very much admired the man during his governorship of that god-fearing state in middle America. Moreover, despite having borderline literacy skills, he’d still managed to scrawl his monica on well over one hundred death warrants and thus despatch large numbers of troublesome African Americans. The President’s predilection for dealing out judgement and death (despite the occasional mitigating circumstances) proved quite a formidable aphrodisiac for her. However, during his presidency, she had come to realise that he was in fact possessed with the mental faculty of an imbecile. His low IQ might have been considered quite respectable for the average primate, but not for a leader of the so-called free world. Besides, she was beginning to tire of his monkey business. Her forthcoming posting overseas would be quite a blessing. It was a constant irritation to her that despite years of fastidious legal studies, she presently held the dubious honour of being little more than a glorified presidential ‘fluffer’.
It was well known in White House circles that the President liked to read from his autocue with a sturdy erection during press calls. The secret of his very stiff, unyielding foreign policy rested on her lips. Without such intervention, resistance to the various foreign axis of evil would soften and the free world might wilt into anarchy.
“Hey watch this Cordie!” The President fired a jellybean from an oil-well shaped dispenser and caught it in his mouth mid-air. He proceeded to champ on it like some gormless steer. “Guess you’d better show this guy in.” he slurred between chews, “but he can hit the road by four. That’s when I got my prayer meeting.”
The sight of the jellybean conjured up another hideous memory for the president’s aid. During their role-play of ‘vet and mule’, he had blown one of them up her back passage with a party straw. Although perfectly aware how veterinarians administered medication to ruminant beasts, she’d never envisaged the possibility of her rectum being used for target practice. Quite fortuitously, during his second humiliating attempt, an impromptu bout of wind had put-pay to this veterinary ‘ass-pirations’. Indeed, his suppository fetish had rather backfired on him. The violent coughing fit that ensued as he choked on a jellybean had dampened his enthusiasm to make further attempts at turning her sphincter into a candy dispenser. Thank heavens he hadn’t attempted anything larger - like a pretzel, for instance.
Cordelia left the room and returned with the Prime Minister in tow. She tactfully excused herself and retired to the relative sanity of the library.
The Prime Minister stared enviously at the grandeur of the office, before strolling up to the large leather-topped desk. The President stood, thrusting out a hand, smirking inanely. The Prime Minister bowed rather obsequiously and extended a hand, surprised at the near crushing grip that threatened to dislocate a knuckle. Mustering all his considerable reserves of smarminess, he traded smiles with his superior counterpart.
“Hi. I’d just like to say what a tremendous honour it is to meet you again. I think that this meeting will prove to be a truly momentous day in history. I would just like…”
“Just park your ass down, Timmy. Let’s move on and get this show on the road.” The President butted in, unimpressed by the excessive display of fawning. He kicked the opposite chair out from under the desk, got up again, and strolled over to the drinks cabinet, fixing a couple of huge bourbons.
“Err, actually my name’s…”
“Hey, let’s cut to the chase, Timmy. You got ten minutes and I got a busy schedule.” The president took a large gulp of his drink. “And don’t give me none of that Kyoto Protocol crap this time. We Americans love our gas guzzlin’ automobiles. You want us to go back to a goddam horse and cart like you guys?”
“Well, no, but the reason I came is so that we might discuss my proposals about ways to increase homeland surveillance. I am sure we agree that the threat posed by…”
“Listen, cut the crap, Timmy. I ain’t got all day.”
The Prime Minister became flustered. His toothy grin faltered momentarily. He opted for a change of tack. “May I say Mr. President that I have always admired the strident tone of your speeches. So magnificently outstanding and upright. I mean, I could learn so much from your oratorical spendidness.”
The President began to tire of his counterpart’s gushing compliments and outpourings of flattery. He decided to bring matters to a swift conclusion. “Listen, I got one thing to say to you, Timmy. If you really want to be my buddy, then you gotta learn how to stand tall. Take things like a man.”
“Of course, I understand your majesty, I mean your grace, I mean…”
The President tilted back in his sumptuous leather chair and glanced at the B52 models suspended by wires from the ceiling. “Tell you what Tim, I’m gonna cut you some slack here. Whadda you say we get down to a bit of horse-play?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr President?”
“Oh, come on now, Timmy. You’re a man of the world. Hell, you guys still owe us for saving your ass in the First World War.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I fully understand the ramifications of what you’re implying, Mr. President.”
“Okay, this is how things work around here. You tickle my back and I scratch yours.”
The Prime Minister speculated about the somewhat sinister inference that now reverberated about his mind. He tried to conceal a growing sense of unease as he gazed pensively at veiled window, squirming at the direction the conversation appeared to be taking.
The President continued regardless. “Hey! Don’t go all shy on me Timmy. You ain’t no blushing belle. You’re the leader of a whole cotton-pickin’ island for God’s sake!” As the President went on, he retrieved a silver cigar case from a desk drawer and put one in his mouth. “These cigars sure taste funny. Must have been left here by the last guy. Always knew there was somethin’ fishy about those Democrats.”
“Perhaps your predecessor couldn’t find an ashtray, maybe he had to improvise...?” The Prime Minister suggested speculatively.
A plume of mottled smoke ascended towards the B52s like some vast detonation and wafted towards the Prime Minister making him cough nervously. His paling face became possessed by a series of facial ticks as he shifted in his chair self-consciously. He had had enough of ‘flawed intelligence’ back home without having to confront its very embodiment. “I am not quite sure if I can continue this meeting Mr. President. In actual fact, I have to use the lavatory quite urgently.”
The President reached under the desk and began to make vigorous shuffling movements. He blew a puff of smoke directly at the Prime Minister. “Got to say Timmy, the moment you walked through that door, I couldn’t help noticing what a mighty pretty rear end you got yourself there. Sure would like to impeach that lil’ peach ‘o yours. I’d be much obliged to if you’d permit me to saddle you up. I mean, I’ve ridden a few mares in my time, but I think you’d be trying to buck me like a hog with a flea up it’s ass!”
“Erm, with the greatest respect, Mr. President, I’m actually very happily married. In fact you must meet my lovely wife very soon…yes, very soon. I’m sure we can…erm…consider alternative ways that we might cement our coalition...?” The Prime Minister stammered.
“Sure we can Timmy, but from where I’m sitting, it figures like this. I call the shots around here and right now, I got an awful lot of goodwill to plough into your special relationship.”
The Prime Minister squirmed in his seat. “Well, naturally, I’d value a closer dialogue with you Mr. President, but there must be other avenues that might present themselves. I mean, I happen to know several members of my cabinet who’d gladly accommodate the point that you’re banging on about. I mean, gosh, it’s been my experience that they’ll swallow just about anything.”
“Did I say I gave a hoot ‘bout cabinets? Hell, I don’t even like all that prissy English furniture. Just hold your goddam horses and wait there!” The President commanded, rising to his feet. The Prime Minister averted his gaze as the President swaggered manfully towards a set of drawers wearing a grotesque leer. He retrieved a pair of flared, weather-beaten leather chaps and a holster. To the Prime Minister’s relief, he disappeared through a side door and closed it behind him.
The Prime Minister’s cell phone began to ring but he decided to ignore it. The tiresome theme tune of ‘Things can only get better’ hardly seemed apt in his present predicament. Things were, in fact, taking a turn for the worse. He took a swig of bourbon and coughed. His mind drifted to thoughts of his wife. He would probably have to impregnate her again soon in order to bolster his flagging popularity back home. The latest opinion polls suggested that the electorate was beginning to tire of his increasingly autocratic style.
From the adjacent room, he heard the president singing a hoedown. After several angst-filled minutes, the President emerged like some monstrous parody of John Wayne. The Prime Minister’s mind reeled as he absorbed the full horror of what confronted him with an almost out-of-body detachment:
Atop the President’s head was a Stetson, cocked at a jaunty angle. A pristine, chequered scarf concealed his mouth, accentuating a chiselled jawline. Its neat triangle steered he eye past a tasselled leather waistcoat, highlighting a portly, slightly hairy midriff. Framed within leather chaps and a holster belt was a colossal, fully erect prick that looked nearly as leathery and worn-in as his knee length, spurred boots he was wearing. However, even more terrifying was the red-hot branding iron that he appeared to be brandishing. The torture device bore the glowing insignia of a confederate flag.
For a moment, the Prime Minister wondered if he was getting a flashback from his LSD experimentation during the late sixties. A blind panic arose in him as he realised that he was hyperventilating. All of a sudden, he became light-headed and then darkness took him.
* * *
The PM stirred and felt a jab of searing pain on his right buttock. The twanging chords of ‘Stand by your man’ rang in his ears. He found himself slumped face down in the chair with his trousers around his ankles. Hands were grasping at his flanks. There appeared to be some kind of restraint over his mouth. He balked as something large and fleshy struggled impatiently to intrude into his tightly puckered anus. As he turned in horror, he witnessed the maniacal grin of ‘Rodeo Joe’, eyes burning intently into his. He struggled to extricate himself from the uninvited tryst, but restraining hands tightened their grip.
“Oh!…what…what’s going on?” Came his muffled whimper from behind the muzzle.
“Now just you simmer down. I’m gonna take you for a ‘lil mosey on round the ranch.” Rodeo Joe jerked on some reigns boisterously, jarring back the Prime Minister’s head. He reapplied pressure to the unyielding sphincter.
“This is absurd! Oh gosh!… No!… For God’s sake man!”
“Now quit your belly-aching! You’ll get your sugar lump soon enough, so just you stop your frettin’.” The President angled his manhood with an exacting precision. As the Prime Minister inadvertently unclenched his buttocks, he thrust home his grizzled chopper. “Think you’ve been saddled up before.” The President remarked accusingly as he eased his knarled beef-bayonet into the warm recess. A peculiar tingling pleasure began to eclipse the discomfort in the Prime Minister’s traumatised rectum. It grew in him as the unyielding cow-prodder continued its relentless journey towards an oblivion of pleasure.
“Giddy up now boy, giddy up.” Rodeo Joe reached for a small bottle of motor oil and decadently doused his inflamed shaft with it as he proceeded to bury the remaining inches. “You gotta whinny for me, boy. Whinny like a mule.”
“Nay… nay.”
The lack-lustre, clipped English vowels failed to impress the salacious sausage jockey. “Damn it Toby, you ain’t even trying!” Rodeo Joe drew himself out then rammed himself to the hilt, bringing tears to the Prime Minister’s eyes and making him yelp.
“Naaaay! Naaaay-he-he!” The PM whinnied, desperately re-entering into the spirit of transatlantic co-operation.
“That’s it, Tammy. I’m go’ drill you hard - just like Alaska.” Rodeo Joe gasped. “I’m gonna sink my drill head and pump you till I drain off every last drop. I heard you like spin - well spin on this with that peachy ‘lil white rump ‘a’ yours.”
The Prime Minister felt his senses gorging on a delicious delirium of forbidden fruit. He could barely speak as a hand grappled ineptly at his block and tackle, and started to jerk it. “I must…impress…upon you… not a word to the wife about this… you must promise?”
“Don’t you fret now. I know how to keep these things under my Stetson.”
Rodeo Joe started to plunge faster, bringing a renewed and escalating delight. “Say…you got a bit of manure in your tail pipe!”
* * *
Meanwhile, in the library, Cordelia sat gazing absently at the President’s well-thumbed children’s edition of Joseph McCarthy’s memoirs. Perhaps she should have listened to her mom and avoided politics. How could she have guessed that the President would interpret their ‘de-briefing’ sessions in the Oval Office quite so literally?
It seemed that her relationship with the President was becoming increasingly volatile. It was not the fact that he lassoed her, and all the uncomfortable associations with black American history that this seemed to re-enact. It was not even his occasional dribbling or complete ignorance as to methods of foreplay. No, it was more the sheer ingratitude of the man that aggrieved her. It was the way that she was obliged to clear up his messes - whether diplomatic or otherwise. It was she who’d had the foresight to order the leather-bound copy of ‘Mein Kampf’ for the forthcoming Papal visit to the White House. What thanks did she receive from the President for such devotion to duty? Absolutely none! Even though he had a fearsome reputation for barbarism that even Ghengis Khan might have envied, he lacked the magnanimity to reward even his closest allies.
Cordelia left the library and wandered into the pantry, opening up the freezer. Her large collection of DNA-soiled dresses that occupied it was beginning to raise eyebrows amongst the domestic staff. Perhaps she would always love the President, whether he was incumbent or recumbent, but in the dog-eat-dog world of politics, she thought it prudent to keep an insurance policy should things turn ugly.
* * *
Meanwhile, back at the proverbial ranch…
“Oh my word, this is splendid. Faster!” The Prime Minister’s head was in a spin as he worked his booty up and down the shaft like a back-street pole dancer.
“Always pump my bore holes at around forty r.p.m., Tammy - same speed as an oil well.”
The couple’s thrusting bodies started to work up quite a sheen. Rodeo Joe gripped the PM’s shoulders as he knelt, energetically plumping the yielding love-pillows. The smell of sweat and ageing leather proved a heady mix for the Prime Minister. The electric tingling began to erupt into a molten magma of ecstasy.
Behind him, Rodeo Joe’s leather chaps continued to slap against his rump, steady as a metronome.
“Don’t you try bucking me off before I’m done, boy,” Rodeo Joe wheezed huskily with booze-laden breath. “Hell yeah! That’s it. I gotcha good. Get ready for it…”
The Prime Minister pushed back and forth in time with the President’s steady piston action as reigns lashed at his rosy flanks.
“Hell yeah, Mustang, that’s it! Oh Bessy, swish that tail, oh yes, buck me, whinny for me…oh God…gonna spur you on back home now missy. Oh Kissenger, oh Nixon…oh lord…oh Mommy!…Yeeehaaar!” As he climaxed, the President unholstered his cap guns and fired off several rounds as he shot from the hip. For the PM, however, the image that the president’s mother conjured up had all the allure of a Chieftain tank stranded on a couple of gargantuan tree stumps.
For a few precious moments, they slumped, exhausted, in a tangle of limbs. The Prime Minister savoured the delicate afterglow of being buggered by the most powerful man on the planet. The President retracted himself and nuzzled his faithful mount tenderly. In all his long years of marriage, the PM had never felt so liberated, so carefree. He felt like a dizzy debutante skipping through prairies of daisies. “Mr. President, I feel compelled to say that that was truly wonderful. I’ve never felt so unfettered…so alive...”
The president yanked playfully at the reigns. “Well, just remember who’s boss round here, Terry,” came the nasally reply.
“I could almost shout our love from the roof tops…”
“Now just you hold your horses right there. I’m much obliged to you, an’ all, but I ain’t ready for nothin’ serious. I don’t wanna give anyone no achey-breaky heart, but I was born under a wandrin’ star.”
Despite the charming lyrical cliché, the Prime Minister’s smile faded.
“’Least I ain’t lying to yer...” The president offered.
“But surely we could make the people understand? There’s plenty of my people who bat for the other side. One only has to think of the diplomatic service…”
“Well from where I’m from, we sure as hell don’t like queers! Hell, if my mamma heard ‘bout this, she’d yank my nuts off and griddle ‘em for breakfast.”
“Well, obviously we need to consider all possible permutations of our special relationship, but, well, I don’t know, I’m ready for another ‘transatlantic tryst’…”
“Well, that’s as maybe - but I’m a busy guy. Heck, I still got places left in the world I haven’t invaded.”
The Prime Minister’s face dropped. He felt the melancholy wrench of disappointment. “But you invaded me. You conquered me!”
The President’s half-cocked smile returned. ‘Sure I did, but now that I’ve planted my flag pole, I gotta find new territories to conquer.”
“But what of our special relationship?” the PM implored “I thought that it meant something to you! We have a coalition! Gosh, I think I’m falling for you, Mr. President!”
“Listen, I’m gonna level with you. I think you got a honey pot sweeter than molasses, but I gotta roam. I know plenty of mares who wanna be sired.”
“But I…erm adore you…love you, Mr. President.”
“Lurve? My ass! I don’t believe I’m hearing this horseshit. Heck, you don’t even know your fanny from your fetlocks.” The President unbuckled the harness and stood over the Prime Minister masterfully.
“I will see you again…won’t I?” The PM gazed up plaintively.
“Guess you just might at that, Talbot. ‘Sides, I might just want you to visit my ranch. We can let our womenfolk get better acquainted while we go for a long hard ride. We could even share a spit-roast with my neighbour Hank.
“I’d be delighted to…”
All of a sudden, a door swung open. “Mr. President, the Reverend Whitmore is here to see you and…. Oh my God!… You bastard!” Cordelia stood at the opened door, rooted to the spot. Her jaw dropped, as did the dossier she was carrying. Her blood-chilling wail trilled over the country and western sound track with an almost operatic magnificence. The President took his gun and expended the remaining caps in rapid succession. The trio stared at eachother as acrid wisps of gun smoke drifted in the storm-charged air.
The President stood and faced his now statuesque subordinate. “Who in the hell d’you think you are? Barging in on us like some headless turkey with its ass on fire! Ain’t you never heard about privacy, goddamit?” He bellowed.
“Now erm…I think…er…I should explain,” The Prime Minister blustered falteringly, “I’m actually here in my official capacity as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and…”
Cordelia, meanwhile, stared at the Prime Minister’s semi-naked form with revulsion. Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned and fled, slamming the door behind her.
The Prime Minister struggled to draw up his trousers, wincing as they passed the swelling blister on his buttock. “Now, erm… I realise this is a somewhat sticky situation…but I think it might be prudent to try to reason with your…erm...?”
“Hogwash! My guys have been diggin’ the dirt on that lil’ missy’s family for years now. If she so much as farts in a near a newsstand, I’m go’ haul her ass right over the barbecue.
“How very shrewd of you, I must say. Hmm, now, getting back to the question of the integrity of my internal security…”
* * *
In the pantry, Cordelia wept as she gathered up some slightly crisp, soiled dresses into a large attaché case. Yes, she’d teach that bovine-bum-bandit not to mess with her affections! Who did he think he was - riding roughshod over her feelings like that? Well, now he’d certainly rue the day he ever came across her.
© Edwin Black
Thanks for reading,
E.B.
