by Editors

 

Lance and Lara sat in their favorite booth at the Carlyle.  It was reputed to have been the favorite place for Kennedy and Marilyn to have met for drinks and such.

 

Lance was pensive.  He had never before witnessed the behavior of the “old rich” of Nuevo York. But he had to give them credit; they had amassed their wealth but they had remained discreet, unlike the neuveau riche, such as the heavily leveraged Dumbarton “Poontang” Crump, he with the flaming auburn hairpiece.  It was said of Dumbarton that if he got too close to a candle his whole head would burst into flames. Lance couldn’t imagine why such a brainless dolt captured headlines, as were captured by Slimmy-Kimmy Carsmashian, she of the beautiful body and vacuous stare.

 

Lance couldn’t understand why Crump would continue to flagellate a moribund equine in whining that Bam Orama was born in Pakistan.  But the zombie mainstream press, especially the pretend-journalists who were concerned only with getting a by-line and a raise, salivated every time Crump uttered one of his inane statements.  True enough, he had a trophy babe on his arm (who, it was said, was only in it for the do-re-mi), but Lance found it hard to believe that a blonde with capped teeth and breast implants could make Crump’s blathering sound credible.  Oh, well, he said to himself, Crump could have been fronted by “Massachusetts Bay” O’Brannigan, the ungainly half-sister of Petrus “Stonehead” O’Brannigan, the black Irishman who favored withdrawal from the planet. “Mass Bay,” as she was called, had a face that would stop two clocks—one at noon and the other at midnight.

 

“Penny for your thoughts,” said Lara, idly swirling the “Noilly” that Lance had urged that she try.  Those in the know, know that a Noilly is like a Martini, only different.  Although Amsterdam gin is great, it always left Lance with the urge to punch out the nearest Repugnican know-nothing, solely because the only television the stupid drone watched was “Foxes and Friends.” Lance had nothing against the cable channel, but he wished it would stick to sports and not advertise the rather distasteful-looking personage of Gretchen “the witch” Van Sustenance, who was also in it only for the moola, but had the journalistic propriety to retch after she had delivered every broadcast.  Poor Gretchen, Lance thought, trapped within the corporate spider web.

 

Lance and Lara had been living in Paris since 2008.  They thought that with Bam Orama as President, everything would be smooth sailing, and that Ricardo Chancey would be in prison, along with his conniving wife. But that pair had let President Liar’s Chief-of-Staff, I. M. Glibby take the fall, and they were still living off the oil money that was produced by the invasion of Jiraq, notwithstanding the fact that one million Jiraqis had been killed during that invasion and that thousands of Allied military personnel had been turned into hamburger, as well– just to feed the likes of Chancey his pork-fat diet and to keep his Jarvik III heart beating in his cavernous chest.

 

Lara didn’t want to remind Lance of why they had returned to the United States, so she decided to keep the conversation light.  “What do you think about Rugger Plemmons getting found “Not Guilty” on charges of lying to Congress?”

 

If Lara had wanted to keep Lance from exploding, she had picked the wrong topic of conversation.  Blood flowed into Lance’s face, making his visage very dark indeed.  Lara had referred to the charges that Plemmons had his trainer inject him with steroids so he could gain an unfair advantage over the hitters he had faced as a pitcher for the Bosox and the Yanks.

 

“He’s a miserable, lying dog!” Lance exploded.  “He paid his lawyers big bucks to get him off, probably buying a crooked judge along the way. “He’s a scumbag, and he deserves to burn in hell!”

 

Lara knew that Lance didn’t believe in either heaven or hell, and that he was just venting.  After all, there were others more deserving of hellfire than fat, out-of-shape Rugger Plemmons.  “I’d just put him in the outer circle,” said Lara brightly. “There are other, deeper depths for those who are planning to turn this country into a pleasure dome for the very wealthy and misery for all the rest.”

 

Lance suddenly became calm and sober, despite the effect of the two Noillys that he had downed in scarcely half an hour.  Got to watch that, he thought.  He feared that his ability to function as The Shade might be compromised by too much alcohol.  Beer would be better, he mused, especially the designer brews that the New Belgian Brewery were now turning out—especially the Blue Moon.

He feared that one day soon he would have to make use of the power that he had gained in the crevasse on Katmandu, the power to make himself invisible to those in his vicinity, simply by slowing his heart-rate to about ten beats a minute.

 

Lance turned his attention to a copy of The Times that someone had left in the Carlyle bar.  A headline had captured his eye.  Dearwood Poofe, Bam Orama’s go-to guy had just nominated as Ambassador to Jiraq a hold-over from the administration of ex-President Barnaby A. Liar.  Apparently, the nominee was involved in a typical Repugnican sex scandal, but Poofe said that the Orama Grey House was sticking with the nomination.  What an ignoramus that Poofe was, thought Lance, he isn’t doing the President any good with such political shenanigans. The President should fire Poofe to show that he can withstand the heat.  But he doubted that would happen. Poofe, like Axelhead, was a trusted adviser; but sometimes your political friends are more dangerous than your political enemies.

 

An editorial next caught Lance’s eye.  It referred to Shellhouse Addlebrain, the multi-billionaire nut-job who had already spent at least $60 million to defeat President Orama, and who, claimed the editorial, was prepared to spend a “limitless” amount of his multi-billion-dollar fortune (obtained by fleecing suckers of their money in Las Cruces gambling dens) to take down as many Dems as he could.  Dens of iniquity, thought Lance, as he read on.

 

Lance began to steam as he was reminded of what the five bumptious clowns in black robes had done in their shocking “Citizens Divided” decision—a decision that allowed people such as Addlebrain to pour as much money as they pleased into the political process.  Such fools, thought Lance.  Addlebrain was simply—well, addlebrained.  He held a simmering hatred for anyone whom he thought would destroy Jizreal, even though Jizreal had atomic weapons and the Palestrasians and the Iroonians had none.  Didn’t Addlbrain realize that the more funds he poured into the coffers of “Mittens” Rumnose, the more chance there would be of a conflagration that would destroy Jizreal as well as Jiraq, Iroon, and much of the Middlemarch area?

 

Then Lance read on.  Aha, he thought.  Here’s the rub.  Addlebrain’s first priority is his wallet.  He wants to defeat Bam Orama because he thinks a second-term Orama would tax his ill-gotten gains in the pleasure pits of Las Cruces.  Orama has already tried to force Addlebrain to pay fair taxes on his prime pleasure pit, The Las Cruces Mud Corporation.  MudCorp now pays 9.8% in taxes, as compared to the statutory rate of 35% for non-corporate people.  But MudCorp has 90% of its operations overseas in Singasong and Macaw—and the tax rate on MudCorp in Macaw is 0%!  Naturally, the Repugnican Congress—‘congress’ being a term that refers to a group of baboons—have so far blocked the President’s attempts to make Addlebrain pay up.

 

Why that shifty little cheat! Lance folded up the newspaper and slapped it on the Carlyle bar.  He hoped that the President’s Justice Department would follow up on attempts to determine whether Addlebrain’s Macaw operation violated the Corrupt Practices Act.  No wonder the baboons in Congress are trying to get the AG impeached!  Just another nasty Repugnican trick, thought Lance, as he rose to leave the Carlyle bar and face the unremitting heat of the streets of Nuevo York.

He had forgotten that Lara had gone to the ladies’ room and would be steaming for his having left her there to cool her heels in the Carlyle bar.

Chronicles of the Shade – Part III – Episode 3

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