The Down Low Brother That Knew Too Much

A farce based on Dante's Inferno, Rosemary's Baby and Star Wars by KrayZ.  All First Amendment and common law rights and protections reserved.  This is a work of fiction written as a parody of life in these  Kray Z times.

FROM:  eijackson.osi@dhij.us.gov
Deputy Director Jackson.  Office of Special Investigations
TO:  director@dhij.us.gov
Director, Department of Homeland Information and Justice
SUBJECT:  FW:  Requested information on Edward X. Williams
DATE:  7.07.2007 16:49
Mr. Jackson:  
Here is the transcript of the statement that Edward Xavier Williams gave to the U.S. Attorney in Chicago.  Let me know if there is anything we should do.  Will see you in Washington next month.  
Elliott
			OFFICIAL   DHIJ   TRANSCRIPT
Transcripted 11 November, 2002 
by Nedra D. Klouge, Certified Legal Transcriptionist, DHIJ Office of Special Investigations
Tape Starts 11:10 a.m. 
Uh, hold the tape...want me to start from the beginning? 
Tape restarts 11:12 a.m. 
O.K.?
My name is Edward Xavier Williams. I was born August 7, 1971 here in Chicago and except for the time I spent in a downstate juvenile facility and my fourteen months in Joliet, I have never lived outside of the city.  I never had nothing to do with ACORN, politics or anything like that before I met Barry.  He got me the jobs at ACORN and with the City of Chicago and I been employed by The City for four years without any problem. My adult conviction related to a bad check ring I got set up with and they got me executive clemency from Governor Blogojevich so I could take the city job.
When the reporter ask (sic) me how a South Side boy with no college diploma and out on parole can go from a being a car detailer to a City Department Head making $167K a year, I didn't didn't want to say anything about that.  But I have something to say about it now.  The truth be known is this: It's not who you know, but WHAT you know that counts in this old world.  When I seen how those two punks spent money, I had to look into what they had going on and get a piece of it for myself.
Squeekie Cleane
It all started about eight years ago.  I had been out on parole a few months and working full time at the Squeekie Cleane Carwash on Halstead Street, so I needed to catch a break.  I was detailing cars when a thin, light skinned black man I hadn't seen before brought in his Chrysler 300 to be washed and detailed.  
 He was young and sharp looking in his Magic Negro suit. He looked like a State Street lawyer or an Alderman.  I was right about that and he turned out to be friendly when I wrote up his work order. Call me Barry, he said, and shook my hand.  The man said he couldn't wait for his car and agreed to pick it up around five.  He returned regularly and usually asked for me.  Most times, an older man pick him up and come back with him around five-thirty.  
He had kids.  I knew that cause they had video players in the seat backs and  little toys and some old French Fries in the rear seat area.  I usually vac the front first, spray some treatment on the carpet and start on the back.  One day I pulled up the seat to get all the little stuff the kids dropped back there.  I found some coins and dropped them into my pocket when something else caught my eye.  
There was a flat zippered plastic pouch hidden under the seat.  The bag had a bank logo on it. Money?  Dope?  You never know so I opened the bag and looked at the stuff inside.  Skin magazines, all gay, The Advocate and some political pamphlets for a party I never heard of.  
That Nigga go down low for sure, I thought to myself.  And my johnson got hard from thinking about that fine, light skin black man sucking dicks.  Not that I'm gay or anything.  I had plenty of bitches, but not in the joint.  State of Illinois don't have no conjugal visits.  But inside or outside, sometimes a brother just dig a brother, that's all. 
Started out in Juvenile when I was about 11. We beat each other off after lights out an sometimes the smaller boys would have to...uh, know what I mean?
Lot a brothers that way, on the down low, even when he's a daddy many times. It's the way the crackerman mean it to be―prison for the black man while he puts cream in the coffee. Never knew all a that until I met Barry and Jerry.  Jerry was Barry's friend.  He have it all figured out about the crackerman and the Jews but man that rap of his got old after a while.  Goddam this and goddam that, goddam jews.  And he never gave it a rest.  No matter what we were talking about, he always steer the conversation back to “the goddam white devils and the goddam Jews.”  He said that the Jews controlled everything and that most rich white people worked for them one way or the other. He had a lot of friends in the Nation of Islam, for sure.
You're thinking that I'm bi or a chi chi man, but I'm not. My girlfriend don't want me giving out her name because of all of this, but we get together all the time at her mother's house and Vonnessa is a fine woman.  But maybe once a month I go over to Pickle Park to get my skeet out and if the dude has money,  we get a six and go to a motel to fuck around. That's all.  Sometimes a brother just dig a brother.  Or need the money, either way.
Getting To Know You
When Barry came back, the same older dude dropped him off.  I had his ride done and walked him out to look it over.  Right there, I decide to  see what was up with the magazines.  As we walked around his car, I said there was a scratch on the side, “down there.”  He bent down and my dick hardened  as I looked at his fine ass.
Where' is it??  I don't see it,” he said.  Down there, I pointed.  “Down low...”  It got real quiet and I was worried about losing my job, which could see my black ass in Joliet again.  Barry straitened up and grinned at me.  He had a great smile, I suppose that's why people take to him like they do..
“I guess you found my skin magazines,” he said.  “Yes, but it alright.” I tried to sound a little ghetto.
“Uh, look.  I'm important to the community, you know?”  I already knew Barry was a local celebrity, so I said, “I understand.  I'm not gay, but I like to go down-low once in a while too...have you ever been to the Ruby Slipper Lounge?”  
The Ruby was a well known elite Gay Bar off Clark Street, maybe a dozen blocks from the car wash, and home to a lot of rich gay lawyers and business men.  They had dancers there and the place was hot on Friday nights with white men looking to pick up  young, mostly light skinned black men for sex.  I couldn't get in there because  I don't look hi-polloy.  It was the place for the rich chi chis in Chicago and has been since Jane Byrne was mayor.
Barry said that he hadn't been to the Ruby Slipper, but had wanted to go for a while.  He been to a couple other mostly chi chi establishments more toward The Loop. Deluxe places where they won't let a brother in unless they know you at the door. He also said he had gone to Fosco Park a few times.  Me too, but I didn't remember that I ever seen Barry.  He told me that his wife and kids were down in California and that he was free the following evening after work.  We made plans to at 6:30 p.m. on Thursday.
The Ruby Slipper
Thursday was a slow day and at lunch I scored an eight ball of dama blanca from the Mexicans down at the corner.  It was more than I could afford and I hoped that Barry would want to buy some so I could pay my rent.  Turned out, he did.  It was 7:00 p.m. strait up when he drove up in his Chrysler.
Barry had come from his office and asked if he could use the restroom to change clothes.  I let him use the inside restroom because it was cleaner.  He went in as Barry, suit and tie, and came out wearing tight jeans and a tank top, even though it was April.  Dam he looked good! Barry the attorney looked just like a black Freddie Mercury.  I changed and we split the eight ball. Barry paid me more than he could have for the blanca because it was shit.
We each did a big ya-yo in the restroom and walked out to Barry's ride.  
“Do you have any better clothes?” Barry  held his nostrils together and coughed on the bitter, numbing post nasal drip from the Blanca.  
“Some, back at my crib.”
We drove to my sister's house by Jackson Park.   I lived there with Jannelle and her teenage son and I didn't want him to see her janky apartment. Barry waited outside while I went up to change out a my work clothes. I changed quick and borrowed some cheap bling from my nephew. 
When I came out, Barry was in the passenger seat and he say to me that the only way we can get in to the place together is if I be his driver and bodyguard and when we got to the Ruby Slipper, I had to open the door for him, turn the car over to the Valet and then walk ahead of him to the door.  Once inside, I was supposed to mean mug anyone who came up to him so folks would think I was his crew.  I said I could do that it and he said we have one more place to go.  He ask if I know where Nambla was, and I never heard of it, so he told me where to go and we pull up to an office building on Clark Street.  
Barry got out of the back, went in the place and a few minutes later he come out and introduced me to an older white dude name Alan.  They seemed to know each other well and they got in the back seat together.  I asked Alan what Nambla was and he said,  “NAMBLA is a 401-3c organization that advocates the liberalization of laws against sexual relations between adult and underage males and resolves to end the oppression of men and boys who have freely chosen mutually consenting relationships".  That's what it said on the back of his business card, too.
He looked like a Jew and I guessed he was a lawyer too.  I didn't know what all a that stuff he said meant at the time, but it sounded like some kind of down low thing to me.   I drove on to the Ruby Slipper, which was maybe ten minutes away from NAMBLA.
The Door Man was a boi named Quentin. Dude looked like he had a salami in his draws and he saw Barry and waved us in without checking I.D. or scanning for weapons.  It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the lights and noise in the Ruby Slipper.  Men, women and the two-spirited were sitting and standing everywhere and every body seemed to know Barry and they all wanted to shake his hands so we just walked through the crowd.  Barry was smiling,  shaking hands and yelling to folks because it was so damn loud in there.  It was hard to mug all them people so I cross my arms and tried to look mean all the time.
Barry sat down at a table with a white guy named Bill and with a middle age brother name Jerry that I recognized from the car wash.  They seemed to be expecting Barry and he introduced me as “EX”, his new friend and driver.  Barry say Bill was a professor at the college, but he didn't say what Jerry did.
I shook Jerry's hand and said hello. Bill said something but they they didn't make room for me to sit down in the booth.  Someone got me a chair and I sat off to the side by Barry and practiced  mean mugging anybody who looked our way.
A tranny waitress got us drink menus and I saw they had a lot of drinks called BareBack, FreeBall and Commando that cost more than $10 each.  Barry ordered a Buttered Nipple for me and paid for it with a $100 bill.  Butterscotch and brandy.  I tried to be sociable, but nobody seemed interested in talking to me so I sat there bored. Barry,  Jerry and Bill had a good time laughing and drinking.  After a while, Bill leaned over and said something to Jerry, who said something to Barry who leaned over and said we were going to Bill's house for a while and I needed to bring the car around front.
The Glory Hole Basement
It took a half hour to drive to Bill's crib in Hyde Park because of an accident on State Street and we had to wait for Bill and Alan to catch up an while we waited, Barry asked if I wanted some brain.  I didn't know what he meant by that and  but the way he look at me I just unzip my pants and he sucked my dick in the car. I was afraid that the police might see us and I shot almost immediately.  I was just cleaning up when Jerry and the two crackers parked behind us.  I didn't have time to blow Barry, so we just got out and walked up to the doors.
An old cracker with a foreign accent let us in an Barry said his name was George.
Bill had a fly house in a nice neighborhood.  He was married, but he said him an his wife have an open marriage for many years and that she was probably off with her other radical womens. 
His house was real nice inside too, and the walls were covered with paintings and he had a statue of some guy's head on the table.  I ask who those guys were.  Alan said that the “bust” was of “Fidel” and the paintings were of Karl Marx, Comrade Lenin and the paintings of the soldiers were all scenes from the “1918 revolution.” 
I rub my chin and looked at the stuff and pretend to be interested.  Alan an George went on and on about how “The fat cats will get theirs when the revolution comes!”  I remember George, he say “the streets will be red with blood.”  Dude got to talking crazy and I kept away from him the rest of the night.
I said to Barry, “Your whoadie talking some communist shit or something.”  Barry was quiet for a minute and then told me, “We don't call ourselves Communists or Socialists anymore.  It doesn't pay. Instead, the National Commintern has decided to refer to us a Progressives, and we are all part of the Progressive Movement.”
He explained that nobody in their right mind would vote for a candidate who admitted being a Communist or pedophile, but everyone wants progress...”progress can mean anything or nothing, it all depends...”  Before I could ask anything else, Bill pull out a little tray with a mirror and some glass straws and Barry dumped his little bag of blanca onto it.  
Alan and Bill each snorted  lines, then Barry and Jerry took a turn.  They didn't offer me none and I was kind of upset about it, but I had my own and after we went downstairs to the basement “rumpus room”, they gave me a rum drink from the bar while Bill threaded up an old movie projector.  It took a minute before Alan shut off the lights and sat down on the couch.
The movie was called “Up Your Kilt Boys” and was from Scotland, so all of the mostly white actors had an accent.  There were a couple of brothers in it, an I couldn't  understand the Jamaica they was saying.  I sat down on the couch, by the bar, in back of the room.
My eyes adjust to the dark and I took a look around.  Jerry an Bill have their cocks out and were jerking off real slow while they watch the movie.  The movie flickered and made them look jerky.  It was mostly S an M, B an D, shit like that an one of the white dudes got tied up an hit with a paddle in the story.  Before the movie got done, Bill said something to Barry and he say to me real excited like, “We're going into the dungeon!”
Alan open a door behind the bar an there was two rooms behind it.  When someone turn the light on, I could see all kinds of shit:  a stage with a couple couches, a bench, plywood ping pong table with some handcuffs on it, pegboard walls that had whips, some more handcuffs, a mask, hoods and stuff I couldn't recognize.  I decided to keep my eye on the whips cause I didn't know their plans.  Ain't no way a black man should ever let his self be tied up and whipped.
Barry say they want to do the “glory hole” first.  I never heard of no glory hole before but it turned out to just be the wall.  You stand and stick your cock through a hole in the drywall, just like in the gay booths at Morrie's Adult Book Store on  East Lawrence.  Bill and George wanted to go first an they told Barry an Jerry to sit on the chairs and suck their dicks. 
The old crackers stuck their cracker cocks through the holes in the drywall and that was all I could see from where I was.  Alan brought me another drink while I waited and watched the action from behind.  They didn't take long and Alan said they all wanted to watch while I got a BJ through the glory hole.  'Bout time is what I thought, an I walked over to the wall and checked out the hole.  
It looked like somebody cut it out with a pocket knife and put duck tape on the edges.  The bare drywall was wet where one of them shot his nature onto it an I could see a lot of old cum stains dried on the wall below the hole.  I was afraid at first, but I heard Barry say, “come on, EX, were waiting on you man.” So I stuck my johnson through the hole and  in a second somebody, I don't know who, grabbed my cock and started sucking it.  
I took a long time to come because I was nervous and had just got “brain” from Barry not an hour before.  It felt like two, maybe three guys sucked on my cock.  
One of the guys, I think Jerry, had his big hand around the base of my cock an I could hear George an I think Bill telling him “do this an do that.”  I look over my shoulder; George seemed to like what he was seeing cause he was pulling his meat and drooling in his director's chair by the stage, where he could see the action on both sides of the wall.
The tension it build up in me an I finally come, the jism welling up from deep inside my balls an I come into the dude's mouth and he choked a little for a second until the come slow down and stopped.  Whoever was there licked the tip of my cock twice after I stopped cumming and was going soft.
I sat on the futon and finished my drink while George an Bill talked about what they plan for next and I started to see that I was just the hired help at least to the white dudes, especially Bill and Alan. 
The Director's Cut
George had his own chair with his name on it near the stage.  He never spoke a word to me, he just tell Barry or Jerry what he want.  And now he wanted me to “birch Barry while (he) watch.”  I didn't know what that meant, but all of them including Barry was real excited an he laid down on the plywood bench an Jerry fastened the leather cuffs and put cuffs on his ankles too.
Alan brought out a bunch of sticks that were tied together with some string an duck tape on the end to make a kind of handle.  He handed it to me and the two of them drop the end of the board so Barry was bent over.  “Go ahead, hit him” Alan said.  I shrugged and hit him easy across his bare ass with the sticks.  That was when George yelled at me. “Lay into him neeger or you vot be da nex vun dat get flogt!!”
“Uh-oh, better hit him harder!”Bill whispered.  “It's OK, don't worry.  It's what George likes to see.  Just let him be the Director.”
I didn't like that foreign cracker calling me a nigger, but it motivated me to hit Barry harder and harder while Alan and Jerry cheered me on.  George kept yelling at me and the sticks whistled through the air and left welts where they landed.  Alan and George were both jacking off and Barry gasped and moaned with each stroke of the birch sticks. Pretty soon, George and Alan were cumming and Barry's ass and thighs were raw...  
George ordered, “Dat's enuf!  Yew ken let hem op now.”  
Jerry helped me get Barry on his feet while the others joked around and when we got him up, I saw that there was a puddle of jism on the wood where he had been laying. Barry was a little unsteady on his feet and  Jerry helped him over to  sit down on the sofa but George  insisted that Barry sit on the towel they had just used to clean up their own jism, rather than stain the sofa.  
Barry eased himself down onto the couch and leaned to one side to take the pressure off of the raw welts.  A minute later, George sat down next to Barry and started kissing on him! I hear him say, “Yew make me do dees un-plesent tinks cause you not do vot I tell you like good servunt.”  George was petting Barry like a dog and I turned away, embarrassed to see that going on.
Barry and Jerry didn't seem to think anything about it cause they did that sort of weird shit all the time.  They were treating the whole thing like some kind of a party. Then it was Jerry's turn.  They had me help handcuff him to the table, face down but they didn't want me to hit him―this time.
Bill had been silent most of the time and was just standing there doing something to the video camera. “Turn on the lights and get the ball gag on him,” he ordered.  I didn't know what that was, so Alan got one off the wall and showed me how to put the red ball in Jerry's mouth and fasten the buckles in back so that he couldn't spit out the gag.  
Bill nodded and Alan showed me a lever under the table.  He pull on it and the table folded up forward so Jerry was bent over, his mocha ass exposed,  Jerry didn't look scared.  I saw his cock was rock hard against the green plywood and saw that his ass had a triangle of thick hair starting from around his ass hole and up on the small of his back, above his tail bone.
Alan told me to pay attention to what he was doing cause George didn't want to train another guy. Jerry say something, but I couldn't make it out cause of the ball. Alan went into the bar, open the fridge  and come back with a big clear plastic bag full of water, maybe a whole gallon.  He hung it on a hook near Jerry.  The bag had a clear hose attached and a metal clamp kept the water from coming out the hose.
“Vot you get all clean,” George said and Alan showed me how to stick the hose up Jerry's ass, eight or nine inches and to turn on the water, which traveled right down the tube into Jerry's ass.  When he felt the icy water Jerry make a sound, moaning like, and George yelled at him, “You pussy!  Hold it in!  Dun't you giff up or I haf you flogt too!”
Bill and Alan were working the lights and video cameras, while Barry, still sitting over on the cum soaked towel called to Jerry, “C'mon man, you can hold it!”  
George was sitting on the sofa and had pulled his own cock out of his pants.  The size of his “manhood” really grabbed my eyes.  I had never seen a smaller cock on a grown man, except on a midget kid I met once in Juvenile Detention. George fingered the head and shaft of his pencil dick while the water went into Jerry's ass. 
Jerry was getting full of the cold water and he started shaking and moaning around the ball gag.  A little brown water seeped from his asshole around the hose, and when George saw that, he hit Jerry twice with a thin bamboo cane and yelled, “I say vot you holt it or I beat your black ass!”  Jerry clutched the tube as hard as he could with his puckered and hairy asshole, but a minute later the tube and about a gallon of brown water shot out of his ass onto the gray painted basement floor.  “Clean him up!: George said to Alan, who nodded to me.
I used a hose that was hanging on the basement wall by the furnace to spray Jerry's ass and legs.  I could see red welts on his thighs where George had hit him. I used the hose to make the water and shit run downhill to the floor drain and Alan handed me a towel and I dried off Jerry's ass.  “You, vot clean him goot,” George said to Alan.  Alan looked at Bill.  “He wants someone to give Jerry a rim job,” Bill said.  Alan and Jerry looked at me, but I didn't move.  No way was I licking that carmel brother's hairy asshole.
“I'll do it, Mr. George!”  Barry jump up from the bench where he had been sitting on the damp towel.    He knelt down on the wet floor and started licking Jerry's fat ass, sticking the tip of his tongue in as far as it would go, tickled his wet hairy asshole and licked him down to his balls and back.  Jerry was excited by the rimming and his cock was hard as a rock.  Barry had a hardon too, and I thought that maybe Barry would fuck him.  Instead, George exclaimed, “Barry!  Dat's enuff!  Now you rem me, too!”  
George laid back on the couch and raised his legs, exposing his puckered old asshole and skinny dwarf cock.  Barry knelled down on the  floor and started licking the cracker's asshole, balls and finally, just for a minute, his cock, before George pushed Barry away and went to the bench that Alan or Bill had put behind Jerry.  He grabbed Jerry by the skin on his ass and stuck in his skinny-ass dick.  George was so excited that it only took like fifteen seconds for him to come.  
He pulled his stick out of Jerry and said to Bill, “Now yoo fel-ose can haff your turn.”  Jerry's asshole was lubricated with Barry's saliva and Georg's jism.  Bill went first with an enormous strap on cock that he took off the pegboard.  The plastic  cock was much larger than George's needle dick, and Jerry screamed around the ball gag and struggled against the handcuffs when Bill pressed the plastic salami against his slimy man-cunt and pressed it in. Jerry was lucky the plastic was smooth and his asshole so slick. He grunted with the initial effort, but in a second, Bill was whaling away in Jerry's asshole and calling out shit like,“Is this what you want―you want more of this?  Huh, boy?!”   
I sure wished I could get out of there before they decided to tie me up and whip my ass, too.  Being part of Barry's posse was sick. No way was Barry and Jerry going to help me out.  No, those niggers did what George, Bill and Alan told them to do.  In a minute, Bill jerked himself over Jerry and shot his nature all over, all over Jerry's ass and up the crack. Then it was Alan's turn.  
Once I found out about NAMBLA, I knew Alan was a chicken hawk, but I never saw no man lick  come off another dude's ass, not even in prison, but that's what he did.  Then he stuck his cock into Jerry and fucked Jerry's man-pussy too, but real rough while Bill video tape the action.  
It surprised me when George yelled, “Cut!”  Bill turned off the camera and lights and  Alan asked me to take the ball gag off Jerry and turn him loose.  Jerry had a hard on and George said something to Bill that I couldn't hear. He led Jerry away while we worked.  Alan was showing me where to put things  and I had started to clean up when I noticed Barry, Jerry and George over on the couch.  
George was sitting with Barry again, only Barry was sucking George's dick while Jerry fucked Barry from behind.  Bill could have taped that, too, but he didn't because George didn't tell him to.  I thought about all them important men being chi chi boys, and the way that the white dudes act like they are friends with Barry and Jerry but treat them so disrespectful that my old job at the car wash didn't seem so bad, except for the pay and the hours.  But after I drove  him home, Barry gave me $600 and the rest of the eight ball for my trouble.
I gave my mother $200 and my nephew a few dollars for loaning me his bling and I told my sister some of what had happened.  My nephew, he was too young to hear all that and my sister said I was going to get in trouble again, real soon.
Full Time With Benefits
We got together, mainly Barry and me, to cruise the gay bars in Chicago and I drove him around the state; over to St. Louis and up to Madison, Wisconsin on business, though we usually found time to cruise bars that Barry always knew about.  
The perks accumulated and before long I had an apartment, car and my drivers license back. 
Jerry managed to get me off my parole obligations except for public service hours, which I completed by working for Barry as a Community Assistant.  They had been paying me under the table before, but once I was on their payroll, I got $1500 a week no matter what I did or didn't do, and I enjoyed the moolah. I saw Jerry and Bill off and on, but didn't see Alan again until we went to a conference in Nicaragua a year later. 
The Party At Chappaqua
The next time that I saw George was at a get together at president Clinton's Home in Chappaqua, New York.  Barry, Jerry and some guy named Lincoln Chaffee drove out there together in Jerry's limo because none of them wanted any airline record that they had traveled there.  Jerry gave me $2800 to hold for expenses, coke and gas.
It took two days to drive to New York with a stop in Youngstown, Ohio, where we stayed overnight in a hotel with the most fucked up looking little faggot I ever saw: Dennis Kucinich.   Mr. Chaffee had been to the hotel before and that was a good thing because they only had two rooms left because of  the holiday. 
I thought it would be another night where the Progressives whipped and force fucked Barry and Jerry again, but this time it was different.  They don't have no dungeons in The Ambassador Hotel. Linc and Barry stayed in suite 543, while Jerry and Denny stayed in 545.  There was a door they could open between the suites and they let me sleep on a couch in a sitting room when they weren't sending me out for liquor, cigarettes or pizza.
I was tired from driving fourteen hours strait, so I laid on the couch and tried to get some rest while they all took turns fucking Denny.  I had heard of poppers before, but never saw one.  Linc had a little brown bottle of some butyl nitrate that he got out because Denny was crying that Linc was hurting him.  I heard Jerry say to inhale it so Linc could get his cock in and he must have done the butyl because Linc pounded the hell out of Denny.  I was just dozing off when somebody called me over to help.  
Denny had been drinking heavy  and was in a stupor when he threw up on the bed. He seemed to have trouble breathing and coughed up some brown stuff, like he vomited.   I wanted to call 911, but Barry said no, that it would look bad, besides, Linc hadn't come yet.  By the time that Linc pulled his cock out of Denny's ass, Denny had caught his breath and started coming around.  I clean the puke up with a towel the best that I could and pulled the sheet off the bed while Jerry and Barry tried to walk Denny around the room.
Linc said “gimme that towel, I want to wipe off my dick.”  So I hand him the towel, he used it even though it had puke on it.  Then he twirled it up and hit Denny right on the ass as he walk by with Jerry and Barry.  It made a loud smack and they all laughed at Denny, who cried like a little bitch.  Then it was Barry's turn for “sloppy seconds.”  He had no trouble getting his cock in, of course, because of the pounding that Linc gave him. Denny's asshole made a sound when Barry slid his cock in and nearly everybody laughed.
Nothing there involved me at that point and I was dog tired, so I went back to the couch and tried to watch T.V.  Jerry had climbed onto the bed and tried to get Denny to suck his dick while Barry pounded away from the rear.  They were all high and having some trouble getting it done, so when Barry finally came, Denny wiped his ass and sat on the floor at Jerry's feet and gave Jerry a long, slow BJ.  That little queer reminded me of one of those little wooden birds you used to see in bars bobbing up and down on the edge of a glass as he sucked off the naked big man with the hairy patches on his back and around his man cunt.
I woke up a  while later, all alone in 545.  The door was open a crack and I could smell ganja, but they didn't offer me any or come back into the room.  Later I found out that Linc brought the ma-jong and they had been watching the Adult Pay-Per-View channels, fucking, sucking and drinking until after three.
The four of them were hung over the next morning and I had a hard time getting them all started.  I cleaned up the clothes laying around and saw Linc was in bed with Jerry and Linc had on a woman's  nightgown. They were hard to wake up and none of them wanted to get anything to eat.  I had to grab some food from the Continental Breakfast set up off the lobby when I brought down the luggage.
When I came back up to the rooms, none of them had gotten fully dressed and I had to help them get their shirts and pants on, then pack away the dirty clothes in a trash bag.  Barry, he was sitting naked on the toilet, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he was pulling his meat.  He slammed the door kind of angry when I looked his way, so I got the rest of their stuff together and carried it out to the parking lot.  The limo was real quiet and they all just dozed while I drove, which was fine by me.
About one, Jerry said he was getting hungry and I pulled off the Interstate at an exit marked with the restaurant sign.  We drove maybe five miles to another intersection where there was a convenience store and restaurant, so I pulled in for some gas while Dennis and Linc argued about the restaurant.  The attendant was a hairy, overweight bald guy.  He told us that the restaurant was good and he ate there all the time.
We, that is Linc, Jerry, Dennis and me took our time at lunch but Barry finished early and excused him self back to the car to lay down.  When we finished and got back to the store, the door was locked and Barry was not in the car.  We were all talking concerned that the place was robbed and Dennis started crying again.  There was no cellular service out there, so Jerry went one way around the old gas station and I went the other to look for Barry while Lincoln consoled Dennis.  
As I rounded the corner, the men's room door opened and Barry came out, followed by Chuck, the store clerk, who was tucking in his uniform pants.  Barry smiled and Chuck looked away.  Without a word of apology, Barry got into the limo and we continued on our way to New York.  Linc tried to joke about the incident and I pressed the button to raise the window between me and the passenger section so I wouldn't hear them unless they wanted to say something to me on the intercom.  
It was almost dinnertime when we got to the Clinton mansion on Olde House Lane in Chappaqua, New York.  Man, we were a long way from the South Side of Chicago!  The Clinton home was bigger than Barry or Jerry's houses, bigger than even Bill's house had been, or even the old Playboy Mansion.
The Secret Service saw Linc and waved us right through.  I let the passengers out in front of the mansion, parked by the other limos and carried in the bags with help from Nigel, an older English guy who was the Clintons' butler.  We walked across the back yard to the gardener's cottage house where the limo drivers had a place to sleep.  We walked past  several people from a catering company setting up  in the back yard with help from the Clinton's maid from Mexico.  Nigel said her name was Consuelo and she hardly spoke English at all.
I was real excited to meet President Clinton, because the man had opened an office in Harlem and somebody had called him our First Black President.  I shook his hand but he hardly said a word to me and I was disappointed by that.  Mrs. Clinton was greeting people at the door and just glanced in my direction as we passed by.  I did shake the hand of a short old woman standing next to Mrs. Clinton. Nigel shrugged when he told me it was Justice Ginsberg, but that her friends call her “Saul.”  
There were a bunch of other hoy-polloy there, including a foreskin faced old cracker name Arlen, but I only recognized Harry Belafonte and  Jesse Jackson.  I didn't get to talk to them because Mrs. Clinton told Barry I had to wait in the kitchen with Nigel and Consuelo unless I was helping out. 
I helped Nigel pull some bottles of wine from the downstairs storage area and we talked while we loaded the wine cart.  Nigel asked where I was from and I told him Chicago and Nigel said he had been to Chicago, but only O'Hare airport to get a connecting flight, but nowhere else.  He told me that he was born in Scotland and moved to England to serve Sir William Mosely before being brought over here by the Clintons.  He said that the Progressives got together somewhere for a party three or four times a year and this was only the second one at the Clinton home because they had moved there recently so she could run for the Senate.  He said some of them had an orgy out by the pool at the house warming a few months before.  
Buddy, We Hardly Knew Ye
An orgy...those people?  Nigel opened a bottle of some hundred year-old wine and poured from the dusty bottle into styrofoam cups.  The grape  got Nigel talking and he told me that I should steer clear of the Clintons and anybody close to them because they had the power to have someone killed, “like poor old Mr. Foster.”  I didn't know who Foster was, but Nigel sounded serious and I dug his accent.
“Be careful. doont goo ter th' noows!  Keep yer trap shut or the Clintons wull 'av yaouw ded of suicide an' yaouw wull be crack in Marcie Park loike the other felloo.”  I had a hard time understanding him at first, but what I understood scared me.  He went on and on as we drank the Clintons' old wine and I tried to change the subject to something safe; the President's dog.
“Yaouw knoo she killed Bill's doog, Buddy! She did it ert of anger. Stomped an' clubbed him ter deeth with a gof dreyfer giv'n too Bill by a Sheik. When the club 'ed bost off, she stabbed him with the shaft. Thr shaft coot through 'un side an' ert the other. Blood was everywur. All the servants er afraid of 'er.  Youw never knoo when someone wull disappear.”
He explained that the President and Mrs. Clinton were in a terrible fight one night over a cocktail waitress.  The bitch threw some things―Nigel and Consuelo hid out in their quarters when they heard Mr. Clinton leave and slam the door on his way out.  They heard Mrs. Clinton screaming and when they came out, she was holding the bloody shaft of the golf club and the dog was in the middle of the formal room floor, still twitching and bleeding.  
Nigel said that she made a couple of phone calls and some Secret Service men came by and took the dog out to the highway and dumped him.  The Clinton's' secretary told the news media the dog got hit by a car and that the “Clinton family is devastated by his accidental and untimely death.” I didn't know whether to believe Nigel's story or not, so I asked him about some of the other guests I had seen.  He knew most of them by sight and he mentioned some guy named Harry Reed, a Senator who always disrespected the servants.
“The geezer is dickless. Ee 'as naaa penis atawl. Saw it muself when ee was stayen overnoight with the Clintons.  I heard that it rotted oof  frum aa sooshial disease. All ee 'as is a lickle hole in front with a wee tube sticken ert of him.” That was all my ears could take. I pushed the wine cart over to the elevator and pressed the up button.
When the door opened at the first floor, I pushed the cart out into the hall by the kitchen and into the dining room.  Consuelo was there putting out silverware and glasses.  She said something in Spanglish and pointed to the bar area, so I left the cart behind the bar and helped her set the table.  Real silver silverware,  monogrammed with a gold C, and we had to put the knives and forks down on the cloth napkins in the right order or, “Senora Clintone get real mean...” 
Nigel came back up and said there were more guests arriving and I should take a cart out to get their luggage.  When I followed him out front we passed some men talking in the hall that I had seen on TV: Senator McCain and Vice President Gore.  I nodded to the Vice President and he said hi in his Washington cracker accent.  It sounded like, “hiii-eee thayer-rr.”  I recognized some more black guests, Reverend Sharpton and an actor, Shawn something that played a retard so natural in a movie I had seen.  We stacked their shit on the luggage cart and wheeled it inside.
I passed Barry on the way in.  He asked me to “get some blow” from the limo, which I did as soon as we got the luggage up to the rooms.  “Here you go...uh, isn't Senator McCain a Republican?  What's up with that?” I asked Barry as I handed him the blanca behind his back.
“Oh, he's not the only one here.  There's Senator Spector, and that woman there is Senator Snow, and see that guy?  Governor Petacki of New York.  We have them on board because having them on our side weakens the Republicans.”  I didn't see how that could be, because George Bush had just been elected President the year before and I knew he was a Republican, but that's what Barry say to me so I minded my own business.
Those Who Can, Do.  Those Who Can't, Teach.
It didn't take long for dinner to be ready and I put on a white jacket that Nigel brought me.  It was too tight and I couldn't button it but Nigel thought I looked pretty good as he taught me how to help him serve the guests.  I pushed a food cart out into the dining hall. There was a guest of honor who sat in the middle of the table between George and the Clintons.  George said something to Mr. Clinton, who banged a spoon on a wineglass to get things started.  
The guest speaker was Alfred Chancre from the Teachers Union.  He started his speech like this, “How fortunate for governments that the people they administer don't think.” Then he went on and on with communist shit while Nigel, Consuelo and me served food and alcohol.  He told everyone that the plan to dumb down public school was a big success, that the rate of teen pregnancy was “through the roof, even for white kids.”
I will say that those hi-polloy types do eat good while they save the world or whatever they do.  I never ate hearts of palm in my life, and those little lamb chops sure smelled good.  I hadn't eaten since we left the hotel that morning and I was starving. 
Chancre went on and on about how education is revolution and culture change and he said that the Teachers Union had control the minds of children and planned use that to “collectivize the U.S. economy and form of government, The Redneck's Constitution be Damned.”  That got him a lot of applause and I used the distraction to grab a bite.
Consuelo saw me take a roll from a basket and scolded me when we were alone.   “No señor! No! Sólo comer cuando el comunista y la gente está terminado quitar los platos! No ira la Sra. Clinton, te lo ruego! " 
Nigel walked past and whispered, “Noo we have ta wait laddie.”  So we played waiter/waitress for a while as the guests finished dinner and headed out to the patio to smoke or stand in the drink line. We cleared the tables as guests finished eating, had a quick bite and were almost finished with the dishes when we heard a woman shouting in the private ante-room, behind the dining room and kitchen.
First Black President
“Goddammit Bill!  There are way too many of your male friends here tonight and the hookers are waiting to be picked up!  Do you know where they are waiting?!!  At your goddamn office in Manhattan, that's where!!  You've fucked up again!  Haven't you!?  Haven't you!!?  Look at me when I'm talking, mister!”
We heard President Clinton say, “If you say so, honey-b-u-u-u-nch.”  Nigel put his finger to his lips and Consuelo looked at me, bug-eyed with fear.  After a couple of seconds, Mrs. Clinton said, “You're just going to have to go into The City and bring them back here!  And don't think you're going to take the Secret Service guys, either!  They have to serve drinks out on the patio.  Well!  What are you waiting for?!  Get your drunk ass in gear!”
She continued, “Bill you pussy!  You're afraid to go into Harlem, aren't you?”  More silence, then, “Look, just take Jerome, whatever the fuck his name is, that black guy that Barry brought.  He'll protect you!”
“Aye, that's yew, Lad,” spake Nigel.  Moments later, I was at the wheel of a limo, driving into NYC with President Clinton.  And I was all excited about meeting him, too.  It was a good thing that Mr. Clinton knew the area, and that traffic wasn't heavy cause I did not know the way.  We pulled up to his office building, which the former president explained “isn't really in Harlem.”  I thought I heard on T.V. his office WAS in Harlem.  He answered what I was thinking. “But close enough to claim it's in Harlem.  Saying it is can only help Hillary's political career.”  
The ladies were waiting in the lobby, five of them and the Bellman herded them out to the limo.  Two were black, two white and a Puerto Rican girl.  Not high class, not crack hos either, and I could tell several were high when I opened the door to the limo.  One girl had an enormous set of fake breasts, too big for her body.  President Clinton gave her tit a a squeeze as I helped her get in the big passenger door.   
President Clinton used the intercom to get us headed back to Chappequa on Highway 684, then raised the dark dividing window for privacy. We were driving past an airport when he buzzed me to pull over, “right away.”  He was having some problem and wanted one of the girls to sit up front.  I pulled off the highway and stopped the limo by a convenience store.  
It was the Puerto Rican girl.  She got out the back and into the front passenger seat and started fumbling with her seatbelt.  I could see that her makeup was smeared and she was crying.  I was about to help her with the seatbelt when President Clinton suddenly yanked open her door.  He snatched the girl right out onto the pavement by her hair and started slapping her.  I jump out, run around to that side and yelled at him to stop.  “Hey...hey man!  You can't beat someone up like that! Stop! Stop! What the fuck's the matter with you, anyway?  What's the matter with you?!!”  
“The bitch disrespected me,” was all he said.  
“You better get in the car before someone call the cops, man!”  Mr. Clinton glared at me but got in the front and slammed the door. 
I gave the PR girl $150 for a cab and she went into the convenience store as we drove off.  I thought for sure the Indian guy at the store called 911 by then, so I floored it back to the on ramp and drove away as fast as I could without attracting attention. Mr. Clinton was silent for the ride back, except to give me directions.  We got back at 9:30 and I let the girls out.  
Mr. Clinton held back, cleared his throat and handed me some money.  He said we should, “just keep this between us, O.K. my brother??”  
My brother??!   
“Sure, man.  No problem,” When he turned to go into the house, I looked at the cash.  Eleven dollars. I parked the Limo and went in the side door.  They had a DJ that was playing some old-school music and the hos were blended into the crowd. A bunch of the congress people had stripped and were naked in the pool.  I found Nigel and Consuelo in the kitchen. 
It was around ten o'clock and I hadn't eaten since lunch. They were stacking containers of washed dishes into a big commercial sterilizer.  Nigel said they had to do that because Mrs. Clinton was afraid of germs.  Consuelo had saved me a plate of the lamb chops with stuffing and hearts of palm. Nigel poured me another glass of the 100 year old wine and I sat down at the table and tried not to eat too fast.   When I finished, all that was left was the three little rib bones from the chops.  I scraped them into the trash and helped Consuelo hand wash the rest of the silverware before it went into the sterilizer boxes.
Since I was there to help Barry, I thought I'd better find him, so I headed out past the bar and stage.  They had a comedian doing his act, what there was of it.  His name was Al Franken and he started out by saying, Hi there Progressives!  I'm Al Franken!  It was quiet for a few seconds until the Secret Service guys held up ping-pong paddles with “CLAP”on them, and the crowd applauded.
He went on for a half an hour with a bunch of  America-is-a-bad-place jokes and the crowd applauded whenever the Secret Service held up their signs.  The only time they showed any interest in his routine was when he said,  “How BOUT that Bush!  George Bush can...suck...my...COCK!”  The Secret Service guys stood slacked jawed after that one, and the crowd went wild.  The people at the party all seemed to hate President Bush and most of them talk like they hate America, too.
I found Barry in the smaller crowd out by the patio.  He was at a a table talking with some guy that looked like the big dude on The Adams Family, a show I seen on cable at my sister's house.  Barry introduced him as Senator Kerry from Massachusetts. I shook the dude's hand.  It was sweaty and he had a real weak handshake. Barry told me he'd call my cell phone if he need anything and said I should make myself comfortable at the party.  I got a drink at the bar, and came back to the table, but  Sen. Kerry said I shouldn't sit down right there, but go over to the stage area instead where I could dance whenever I wanted to.
I Want To Thank My Manager...
They weren't dancing; it was like “America's Got Talent” on TV.  The first to go up there was an obvious drag queen that called his self Arlene Spectator.  Arlene pranced around with a pink parasol, played the piano some and told a few real old jokes.  It was sad cause the crowd groaned as much as they applauded. I think the ones that  applauded only did it because they liked it when the scrotum-faced old man made a fool of himself, or because he was finally finished.
Arlene Spectator was lame, then Mrs. Clinton and Rosie O'Donnell got up on stage with some actress.  They were all wearing black leather.  With their cankles and  ghost white skin, the whole group looked like a bunch of penguins marching up to the stage.  They butchered two songs, “I am Woman, Hear Me Roar” and “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”, but the people watching gave them a standing ovation after each song, even though they were terrible.  I don't think I saw Aretha Franklin there.  Good thing she wasn't!
Boy George and the C.E.O. of Old Scratch Records got up on the stage and said a few words about how he was pleased to do his part to advance the Progressive Cause and how he was happy that his company had, through their association with California street gangs,“ the biggest stable of the most violent and most depraved gangsta-rappers in the business today,”.  Boy George leaned over to the microphone grinned and said, “Heroin.” And nothing else.
The man from Old Scratch Records didn't seem bothered by Boy George's short speech and they had stood around to have their pictures taken with Harry Belafonte and the Clintons.  They handed out some CDs of his newest acts to people down front.  The man talked and dressed like he was ghetto even though he was an ex ACLU lawyer.  I was glad when the band was done with their break.  The band came out, plugged in their instruments and then waited for Mr. Clinton.  He was pushing his way through the crowd of guests and I could see that he was leading some skinny old guy up toward the stage.  
I recognized him as...uh...Mick Jagger, the singer from the Rolling Stones.  He is another self important used-to-be, like Harry Belafonte.  Neither one has had a hit in thirty or forty years. I always heard that Jagger was two-spirited, but just look at that mouth; the cracker was born a chi-chi baby and come up to be a chi-chi man.  Jagger and Clinton climbed up to the stage and waved to the guests.  
President Clinton had his saxophone and he said something to the band.  They started out with Harry Belafonte's old song, “Jump Down, Spin Around.”  Belafonte kept forgetting the words of his own song and President Clinton had to keep him facing the audience.  It was sad.  Then Mr. Clinton started playing “Louie-Louie”.  That's an old tune, but it was an improvement over anything from Harry Belafonte.  
Mick was yelling from the stage that people should sing along and after a couple of false starts, Mick and Boy George had organized a Louie-Louie sing-a-long at the Clinton Mansion.  I walked around the outside of the crowd and found little knots of people standing together getting high on weed and snorting lines of coke in plain sight of the Secret Service.
The band and President Clinton sounded pretty good together and the crowd knew the words.  I didn't see where it started or who started it but in a minute, Harry Belafonte, some Teachers Union and ACLU people, a few Congressmen, some of their staffers and pages were up dancing and formed up a conga line. 
Maybe the naked people got out of the pool, but pretty soon most all of the people up dancing were naked or mostly naked.  Old Senators, Congresswomen, young staffers, hookers and all were marching around the dance floor.  
Louie Louie, oh no!
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby!
Me gotta go

I was getting into it myself.  “Louie Louie, Oh no!”    
I recognized Senator Kerry up there too, dancing naked behind a nude woman that I recognized.   I had seen her earlier when she was confusing Consuelo with some old high school Spanish. Her name was Diane Feinstein, and you couldn't forget that old raisin because she got on your nerves.  She has a New York City accent that sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. 
Kerry had his big hands on Diane's naked hips and I saw that he had a tan colostomy bag swinging against his stomach as they louie-louie'd  their way around the dance floor.  His cock was hard and at one point, he bump into her backside and they both laughed. I tried not to look as Jagger and the crowd sang:
Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home
Shit!  It was hard see the dude with the colostomy and the wrinkled old congresspeople because the dance line snaked around the room!  One of the staffers tried to pull me into the line just ahead of Sen. Kennedy.  He was naked except for the lampshade he had over his head.  The sight of those Progressive Democrats and Rhino Republicans, men and women , old and young, cracker, brother, sister dancing together without clothes bothered me and I didn't want to be part of it.  I have some self respect and couldn't believe that those clowns had actually been elected to something.  That fact made me doubt everything I thought I knew about how things worked. I slipped away from the crowd and headed back to the service area in case the staff needed help.
The crowd made it hard to walk back toward the kitchen because the men and women kept grabbing at me, either to pull my clothes or to get me to dance with them or both.  I had a hard time hearing anything and had to stand facing the wall with a finger in my other ear to hear my cell phone.  It was Barry and he was all excited to tell me he had been invited to the UMSAAP (La Unión de Marxistas, Socialistas, Anarquistas, Activistas Ambientales y Pederastas) “Reunión Anual.”  It was a meeting they had every one or two years and Barry was pumped about being invited, because he was going by invitation from George, the foreign guy I met at Bill's house, and from Dieter Kurprinz, a mysterious associate of George that neither of us had met at that point.  
 George and Dieter were both from Eastern Europe somewhere and the way Barry said, they were in charge of the whole Progressive Movement because they controlled all of the money.  The UMSAAP meeting was to be held in Managua, Nicaragua in about eight weeks.  I enjoyed traveling with Barry but didn't expect to go because I didn't own a passport or anything.  
It was hard to hear Barry over the music so I walked over to where he was hanging against the side of the pool talking to some old white dude on the deck. It was quieter there but I still had to stoop so I could hear what he was saying.  Barry introduced me to Chuck Schumer, a Senator and former ACLU lawyer that had a tattoo of a bunny on his back.  And a little devil tattoo above his groin. Chuck slid into the pool next to Barry and wrapped his legs around him. “The water is sooo cold,” Chuck cooed. 
“Jump in, the Secret Service has heated towels for everyone,” a woman croaked.   It was Justice Ginsburg of the Supremes, yet another former ACLU lawyer.  She was sitting at a table near the pool smoking a Pall Mall unfiltered.  There was an ashtray full of butts and the judges robe she was wearing had burn holes on the front. She had spoken to me so I introduced myself to her.  
She was short and polite.  I noticed her skin had a pale, plastic look, except for her fingers which were brown from smoking.  Her Adams-apple was kind of big and her arms a little muscular for a woman. She exhaled thick tobacco smoke from her nose and asked me if I was a friend of Bill Clinton. After all that had gone on, I said no and it would be the truth.  I ask why her friends call her Saul, which is a man's name.  She chuckled and explained it to me.   Her original name was Saul Alinsky.  She said that she had been a  writer and published several books in the 1950s and 60s that sold well.  Saul had become filthy rich but never gave up his radical ideas to turn America into a communist country.  
But Saul  “wasn't comfortable living life as a man and...felt like a woman trapped in a man's body.”   I couldn't understand what he, I mean she meant by that. Even on the down low you know who you are and  “Saul” said she “tuned in, turned on and dropped out.”  After a life changing LSD experience, Saul abandoned his old identity, had breast implants and took hormone pills to become “Ruth” and went to law school at Harvard as Ruth Bader.  
I asked her if she had her johnson cut off and a hole made.  She said no and opened her judges robe to show me that she had fake breasts, a cock and balls, but no hair.   I supposed that “she” shaves  off the hair, which would have covered the little red devil tattoo above her groin. 
She went on to describe how she felt years younger than her age because of a macrobiotic diet and told me how she had plastic surgery maybe fifteen times, starting around 1960 and felt like she could live forever.  I found out that “Ruth” was always thinking and talking about her health and in maybe ten minutes I knew more than I wanted to about her daily bowel movements and that sort of thing, so I tried to excuse myself.  
“Ha ha ha!  Look at Carville!  What a card!”  I looked to where Justice Ginsberg pointed; at a bald guy in the conga line behind Boy George and Alec Baldwin.  “Look at his head!”
The Carville guy had used some makeup or something to make his head look like the head of a white man's dick.  I laughed about that and then slipped away while “Saul” was recovering from a coughing fit.  
Like I said before, being part of Barry's Crew is perverted and  I thought ot might be smart to quit as soon as I could.  By that time, I had a nice apartment and didn't want to go back to the Squeekie Cleane Carwash, so I decided to see what happened with the trip to Nicaragua before I made a decision.  I was walking back through the kitchen exit toward the servants' quarters when Consuelo pushed the door open.  
“¡Oh! Hola Senorita. Usted me sorprendió.”  I had a year of high school Spanish and never learned all that much.  In Joliet about a fourth of the inmates are Mexicans and it pays to learn Spanish.
Consuelo smiled and said, “Usted habla español! Maravilloso! Ahora podemos hablar.” (You speak Spanish!  Marvelous.  Now we can talk)
We went back into the kitchen where we found Nigel.  He had opened the big stainless steel fridge with one hand and balanced a tray of leftover snacks and a green bottle of vintage Merlot with the other.  “ Yaouw knoo thel be uh whale.  Lissun too thum...buggery!” 
The door swung back and forth. Mick Jagger and the crowd blared, “Y-M-C-Ayy-yay!!!” Nigel was tight and started encouraging Consuelo, who couldn't understand the words, but tried to sing along anyway. I was laughing at them and tried to show Consuelo how to make the letters.  I said the letters in Spanish: “Eme...Ce...A....” Nigel and Consuelo did the best they could to make the letters with their arms.
Nigel opened the Merlot and poured us each a generous glass.  We sat around the prep table and mocked our “sophisticated” employers as the band throbbed outside.  We toasted the Clintons, the Progressives, The Village People, the man who wrote Louie-Louie, all of them.  And we ate their food.  And laughed some more.  And we opened another thirty year old bottle of wine.  
Consuelo could do a dead on Spanglish impression of “Mee-suss Cleen-tone.”  Standing with her hands on her hips, she scowled, waved her finger and harangued the imaginary servants.  Probably it was the grape, but all at once, Consuelo went silent and her eyes welled up.  I looked at Nigel. He shrugged.  “She wunts to goo hoom ta Mexicoo, lad.”
I put my hand on her arm and asked, “¿Por qué no acaba de salir de aquí entonces?”  That roughly means, “Why don't you just leave?”
She used a paper napkin to dry her eyes and said, “La Senora. Clinton tomó mi pasaporte. Ella dice que no puedo salir hasta que mi trabajo fuera de la deuda.”  Confused, I asked, “Dinero?”  She shook her head.  Mrs. Clinton had taken Consuelo's passport and was keeping her as a servant to pay some kind of debt.  She had no family outside of Mexico and her bed was a pile of old linens under the basement steps. They told her she would be put in jail or be hurt if she left, and Consuelo believed them.
After what Consuelo said, I was shocked and felt lucky to have a room and bed in the guest cottage, even if I had to share it with other limo drivers.  And we could leave in the morning or when ever Barry and the others got up.  The caterers would clean the patio and pool in the morning and Barry was on his own. I didn't think I would ever see Consuelo or Nigel again. So I hugged Consuelo and shook Nigel's hand good night and goodbye.  
It was past time for some rest and I trudged over to the guest cottage.   Only one of the limo drivers was sleeping in there and he was snoring softly.  I took the twin bed furthest from him, turned over and covered my head with the pillow.  I must have been asleep for a half an hour when Ryan, one of the Secret Service men, shook me awake.  
“Come on, man.  Wake up!  Uncle Teddy fell out on the front lawn and the Clinton's don't want him there when the sun comes up!”  I sat on the side of the bed and rubbed my eyes.  Ryan wasn't a dream.  “Get your shoes on.  It's going to take all of us to get him off the lawn!”
We hiked around the big house to the front of the property.  There was a little group of people standing around a man who was laying on the ground beside a tree.  I heard one of the women say, “Give it to him sister!  Bear down girl!”  Another, her voice slurred from booze added, “yeah Shhhhaappaquidick on hish ashh!”
I realized they were taking turns pissing on the older man, who wasn't moving. One of the hookers was straddling him, trying to get out a few last drops or...Ryan started to run toward them and yelled, “Secret Service!  Secret Service!”  The hooker standing over the man jumped off and the little crowd moved back.
Ryan lifted the man's head and said, “You OK, Senator?”  Senator Kennedy mumbled something and when I bent down to hear what he said, I could smell alcohol real strong, and urine.  He reeked.  His face was bruised and it looked like someone had written something on his head with lipstick but we couldn't make out the words.  “Better call 911,” I said to Ryan.
“No fuckin way!  He's drunk again and if it hits the media HRH will be all over me! Let's just get him inside.  We can carry him up to his room through the side stairwell.”  And that's what we did.  Nigel brought around a lawn tractor with a utility trailer.  We grunted and lifted Uncle Teddy onto the trailer and hauled him around to the side entrance.  Then we―that is, Me, Ryan, Nigel and some other Secret Service agents strained to carriy him up the stairs.
Mrs. Clinton was already in the room when  Arnold Schwarzenegger came from the elevator.  Mrs. Clinton was furious and told us to get Uncle Teddy undressed and cleaned up before we put him in bed.  She sent away the Secret Service men, spoke to Arnold for a minute, then she left too. I waited with Nigel while Arnold made a telephone call out in the hall.  He was keeping his voice down low, but I heard him exclaim, “Alright! Alright! I do what the foats say!” 
To his credit, Arnold wouldn't let the sixty-something Nigel help lift Uncle Ted.  He hitched up his pants, stood over the Senator and picked him up by his collar and belt;  then carried him over to the bath tub.  I held Teddy's shoulders while Arnold pulled the pants off; then we stripped him of his stained underwear, urine soaked shirt and tie. The undershorts had us both gagging as we struggled to get him undressed. Sen. Kennedy started coming around when we boosted him into the tub.  Arnold tugged off his shorts and threw them into the trash as we swung his legs over the edge into the cool water.  I saw that the Senator had a devil tattoo above his groin, like the others, only faded and blurry, like it had been there a long time.
Nigel brought a Presidential Robe, one of the souvenir types they give out to guests at the Whitehouse.  It was a royal blue and had the Presidential Seal sewn onto the left side.  We pulled Uncle Teddy out of the tub and dried him while he sat on the toilet and stared at us, disoriented.  His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stunk like shit mixed with gin.  
We put the robe over the Senator and Arnold sighed that it was “all wrong that he never got to be president.”  We left the Senator kneeling in front of the bidet, because it had no seat or lid to fall on him as he kneel there, retching and heaving.
My shoulders and back were aching from carrying luggag bne and wrestling Uncle Ted.  It was a long walk to the Limo Drivers' room and I lay down for the second time, dog tired and went to sleep right away, without undressing. It was getting light out when I woke up.  The limo driver was sitting on the side of his bed smoking a cigarette.  “Your folks leaving?”  I asked.
He stared at the floor as he spoke.  “I guess...at 9.  I have to drive Rosie O'Donnell and Barbara Streisand back to their hotel across from Central Park, then take Ms. McKinney and Ms. Brawley all the way back to Atlanta.”.  He scratched his hair and continued.   “I've been with this Limo outfit for three years and since the Clintons moved in, I've taken people from out here to Gracie Mansion, Times Square, all over.  You ever noticed how these politicians and their friends are all fuckin' weirdos??”
I remembered Nigel's warning and told him I didn't know “nothing about nobody's bidness but my own, no sir!”  He looked up at me for a second, thinking.  His cigarette bobbed as he spoke.  “You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!”  We both laughed and the subject changed to the weather.  After Mark from Lotus Limo left, I dozed until my cell phone rang.  
It was Barry.  He was in the main house upstairs, and thought we could take Barney Frank and some of his male escorts “...back to Boston with us, on the way to Chicago.”  We had plenty of room he said, because Jerry, Dennis and Link had hooked up with Boy George and Al Sharpton.  We would pick them up again in Binghamton, New York.  I told Barry it would be OK, that I had to check the maps and would come for his things in a half an hour.  “No hurry,” he said.
I was hungry and there was a crumpled bag of day old donuts on the cabinet. I ate one.  It was dry, but the sugar on the outside tasted good, so I had another and drank some water from the sink before I headed over to the big house for Barry and the boys.
Barry was staying in room on the second floor.  While I was waiting for the elevator, Mrs. Clinton came by.  She was showing a woman around the house and I heard her introduce the woman to one of her aides as “Nancy Pelosi, Congressperson from San Fransisco.”  They were standing behind me when the Congresswoman said, “You know Hillary, I just love your servants, Consuelo and Nigel.  Of course, Consuelo's Mexican, or something and Mexicans will work for peanuts. At least you don't have any blacks working for you!  You know they want too much pay and they all steal.  Every one of them.”
My neck got hot feeling and wanted to turn around to confront them, but I kept still.  Mrs. Clinton continued, “So Nancy, you and Paul have white servants?”
“Oh no!  They'll only work five or six days a week and want even more than the blacks.  The Chinese people we have in San Fransisco work for peanuts too, but do a much better job than Mexicans.  Believe me, I've had it both ways!”  The women both laughed at her little play on words.  
Congresswoman Pelosi went on to say that the Chinese servants “ran off once in a while,” but she had found a way to get more and it turned out to be a great business opportunity.  She took her yacht out to ship off the coast by San Fransisco.  The boat was from Southeast Asia and they could pick from the healthiest undocumented immigrants on the boat.  They had nowhere to go in the U.S., so the Congresswoman could threaten the immigrants with deportation or worse if they left her house.  And besides their “pick of the crop,” the Congresswoman was getting a cut from the human traffickers on the other Asian illegal immigrants.  Slick.
Barney The Dinosaur
My phone rang while I was waiting for the elevator.  They were ready.  I took the stairs up to the room and knocked.  A lisping old fag opened the door.  “Oh! Hi! You must be Barry's guy!  Come in! Come in! Don't mind the dog.  He's just naturally friendly like that.”   I pushed the dog off my leg and looked around. The room was filled with empty liquor bottles, and dirty dishes. Barry was sitting on the couch.  He was wearing a dog collar and so were the three young gay escorts.  “Call me Barney!” the man said and I shook his hand.  His palm was real sweaty and I dried my hand on my pants when  he looked away.  I nodded to the boi on the bed and saw the luggage scattered around the room.  The dog came back and tried to hump my leg again.
“Get down, Lyndon!  Bad dog!! Sorry.  He needs more training.”  One boi dragged the dog away.  Barney lisped on about his dog.  “The Portugese Water Dog is the perfect pet for a gay man!  First of all, they're black and their coat looks like a Jerri Curl...and they are always eager to please!  I named this one after President Johnson. You know that LBJ and me were friends,  and for two glorious years, lovers.  That was when I was first elected to Congress.”
“Ugh, I'd better get Barry's things...” I said.  
“Oh!  Puleeze let the guys help you.  They're all so buff.  Just look at those abs!”  The Senator snapped his fingers twice and the first boi picked up a suitcase, then the others did the same.  They were wearing speedos and people smiled as I led the three of them down the steps and out the parking lot side entrance.  I noticed Mark standing against one of the Lotus Luxury Limos with his arms crossed.  I told the escorts to put the bags in the trunk of the Mercedes and walked over to see why Mark hadn't left.
“Hey man!  Whassup??!”  He motioned me over and put his finger to his lips.
When I was close enough Mark whispered, “Streisand and O'Donnell are having a little thing with Cynthia McKinney.  Here, I left the window down.  You can see them in the monitor!”  I bent down so I could see the dash mounted security monitor.  It displayed pictures in turn from inside and around the car.  The dark glass separating the driver from the passengers was up and the first four pictures on the monitor were from the outside of the car.
Mark continued, “One minute they were kissing each other goodbye, and next thing yuh know, I have to wait 'til they're done before I can freakin' roll.” Then the backseat view came on monitor.
I couldn't see the person's face, but it was a large woman with a lot of body hair and masculine tats.  She was moving around a lot and when she move I saw the Senator's fat bootay from the rear and when she turned, I saw she had on a big strap on dick.  When the monitor shifted to the other back seat camera, I could see a old white woman laying on her back with her legs spread and the big white woman was eating her out. And the older woman had the devil tattoo, just above her thin, gray pussy hair. The fluid glistening on her pussy lips shined into a black hot spot on the monitor, and as I watched the next picture rotated and could see the upper half of the big woman and saw her face all distorted.  The monitor view went to six small pictures, then the parking lot and so on, and I turned away.  
Mark was standing there when the camera view turned away from the women in the limo.  He looked at me and made the finger in the mouth “gag-me” sign, I laughed so hard I almost pee my pants.  Before I could sneak another look, Barry and Barney bounced down the front steps to the limo. “Sorry I'm running late.  Do you have any gum?  I had to blow Harry Reid and Joe Biden before they'd let me leave.”  I held open my hands, “Can't help you.”
Sen. Frank had his dog on a leash and the escorts brought the two remaining bags and they put them into the trunk.  “We have to wait for Olympia,” Barney said, and he motioned toward the house.  There was a woman talking to Mrs. Clinton on the front porch like they were old friends. They kissed and kissed again before Olympia started down the stairs.  
Olympia asked me if she could ride up front, “Since I'm getting out at La Guardia airport.”  I open the door for her and she got in.  We were on the main highway heading into New York City when Miss Snow started making small talk about the weather and shit before she got to what was on her mind.  “You know those men in back are all gay, don't you?  I thought that was a pretty strange thing to say, considering where we had been.
“Uh, yes”.  I answered, not sure where she was going with it.  
“That's why I wanted to ride up here with you.  Those swingers and deviates give me the creeps!”
“So why you come to the Clintons' party then?” I asked.  She bit her lower lip and looked thoughtful for a minute before she told me about Rhinos.
She said that she was one of several members of Congress who were nominal Republicans but, “We don't really believe in low taxes, smaller government or the Free Enterprise System.”  She came to the Clinton party from Maine because she thought that the Progressives were going to take over and she wanted to be on the winning side, without giving up her home voter base.
“I can't stand the Clintons, but I'll suck up to the Democrats because it helps me politically.  If I wasn't in Congress, I'm not sure what I'd do for a living.  I've never had a real job or anything.  After Susan Collins and I voted to acquit President Clinton on the perjury charges in the Lewinsky affair, I didn't have a friend in Washington except for the Democrats and a few other Rinos”  She explained that Rino meant Republican In Name Only.” 
The name fit, but I still couldn't understand why she sold out her own party.  Or why I saw so many Rinos at these Progressive events. The more I learned, the more uncomfortable and determined I was to get away from Barry, Jerry, the other perverts and the communist shit they spewed.  It would be easy to feel sorry for Miss Snowe, but to me, it was like she sold out the people in her state by going along with something that she knew was not what her own party stood for.  And why do the other Republicans put up with shit like that?
The Long Road Home
It took more than an hour to get to the airport and drop Senator Snowe at the V.I.P. Gate with her bags.  Then we doubled back north to get Sen. Frank, his dog and the escorts back to the Senator's crib in Boston.  We made one “potty stop” on I-93 because the Senator had to “tinkle.”  I waited in the Limo while the whole bunch went inside the rest stop.  It took them 45 minutes to finish their business, then another half hour to his crib, where we met the Senator's “husband” and partner in their escort business.
Senator Frank was late for a business meeting with two other men, Russ Finegold and Franklin Raines and they were all waiting for him in the parlor.  It took an hour and a half to meet, greet, unload and say goodbye to his crew.  By then it was almost 3 p.m. and we were due back in Chicago on Friday.
Barry sat up front on the way back.  He was excited because he had been “so well accepted by the Progressive leadership,” and because Sen. Frank invited him to a “boy's week out” with Barney, his husband and his friends at his vacation condo at Gay Head on Martha's Vineyard.  Barry planned to fly to Boston and take a ferry out to “The Vineyard” and he needed to think of some way to get his wife and kids to go somewhere else that week.  
I had overheard Barry and Barney talking about Barry's aunt, who lived in Boston, not far from Sen. Franks office, and an Uncle,  Jomo Kenyatta, who lived there, too.  “You could visit your Aunt Hututsi while you are there, “ I suggested.  Barry said, “oh, no.  She lives in the projects down in South Boston.  It's not safe to go there.  Not if you don't want to be mugged.”
“Well, what about your uncle?  Maybe he could go pick her up and you could buy them a good dinner.”
“Naw, no need.  They haven't seen me since my father brought them to see me in the nursery at Nairobi Women's Hospital.  I wouldn't even know what they look like. Barney helped arrange for them to get into public housing here ahead of a lot of other people and it may be a dump, but it's still better than the hut they were living in back in Kenya.  And besides, we don't know what happened to Uncle Jomo since he got evicted from his apartment in The Projects.  He's real old and I don't even think he can drive.”  
I couldn't think of a thing to say about that let Barry doze until it was his turn to drive.  We had to go back through Cleveland to pick up Jerry because he had gone on ahead with Denny Kucinich, Al Sharpton and Alsee 
The waitress came around and asked if I wanted anything “to go.”  She said I couldn't stay there unless I bought a drink, so I handed her $15 from the expense money and went back to sleep.  I don't know how much time went by when Jerry woke me up and said it was time to go.  I brought the limo around to the front door.  Jerry, Barry and Alsee piled in the back, but not Rev. Sharpton.  
“Go see what's taking that nigga!” ordered Jerry, so I got out and hustled inside.  Al was arguing with the bar maid and the bartender and some bar patrons were standing around talking loud too.  I ran up to where they were by the juke box and yelled, “What's the problem here??!”  I looked as mean as I could at the moment and the bartender said, “Your home boy here stole our tips off the bar, that's what!”  Then he added, “I'm calling the cops!”
“Whoaaaa, Wait!  Wait man!  How do you know he stole your money?”  
“Because I saw him, that's how!  And I should have thrown the whole bunch of you out when I had the chance! Look, it's on the security cam, everybody knows he did it!”
I looked at Al, but he wouldn't look at me in the eye, so I offered the bartender and the barmaid $100 each to forget the whole thing.  They gladly accepted the money and the crowd-if you want to call four drunks a crowd, went back to their shots and beers. Al walked ahead of me toward the door and I gave his drunk ass a shove as we exited because I was already on my last nerve and had enough of his stupid ass-ed shit.
I told Jerry what happened and I could hear them arguing for a while even with the divider up between me and them.  Barry reneged on driving and because of the late hour, we stopped at a motel outside of Toledo.  I insisted on a room by myself and they didn't bother me until 7:30 the next morning.  We went through the drive through at a Micky D for breakfast and I drove strait through to Chicago.  
A Meeting of Minds

He said that each group was responsible for their own set up, but that it wasn't hard work because the employees of the Hotel de la Revolution took care of the heavy work.  It would be exciting, he said, “because Jerry is giving the main presentation at the Scion Breakout Session,” whatever that was.  
I was excited about traveling to another country and had a lot of questions about the arrangements.  I asked him about a passport and he say not to worry, because they can get documents for anyone.  He call later in the day with directions to an office off  West Laurence.  It was filled with Mexican people and when I went to the window and said who I was, they took me right to an office in back.  
A man took my picture and in a few minutes, I had a was holding a small black passport book and an envelope full of papers for me, Jerry, Barry and his wife.  The book had my picture in the front and a bunch of foreign stamps on the pages.  “All you need senor.  Gracias,” the man said as he hand me my passport.  He wouldn't let me give him any money at all.
―the ) 
Muchas gracias señor! Su gratuidad es tan generosa! Perdóname. Pensé que estaba en primera Progresivo. Progresistas son tan baratos!” I got five star service during my whole stay in that place.
I changed into the clothes I brought for the warm climate and went down to the Centro de Convenciones to check out the situation.  The Centro was one big convention hall just opposite the  entrance doors, with smaller meeting rooms in a rectangle going all the way around the Gran Salón de la Revolutión.  People were inside unpacking supplies and setting up rows of tables and chairs.  I walked past the small meeting rooms and read the signs on the wall next to each door.  It took a few minutes to find Room 7;  El Scion Africanos de Ancianos.  My boxes were already inside.
 The lobby was getting crowded with arriving Progressives from all over the world.  I saw a few people wearing Arab clothes and some with berets.  I saw some Chinese people wearing little green uniforms with matching hats which had a red star on front.  And there were more cops there, too. All swarthy types in plain clothes with dark glasses.  And machine guns.  While I was pushing through the crowd, a group of soldiers and police came in with a thin, bearded older guy and some other people.  Everyone recognized the Castro brothers and some yelled, “Fidel! Fidel!”  I heard the man at the desk tell the bellman to take them up to “El Conquistadore” suite.  The police escorted the Arabs, Chinese and the Castros  to their rooms.
The next morning start early on my job.  I put handouts at each seat and double checked that there was enough notepads and pens for all the attendees at the Scion of African Elders meeting room, then headed to the Grand Salon to help set up there until Jerry & Barry's plane come in.  The hotel had lunch set up on a table in back of the Grand Salon for the outside help like me.  It was just rice and beans , with some shredded pork, sweet plantains and strong black coffee. 
I was waiting at the airport when the came in from Mexico City.  It was the most of the American Delegation and there were about thirty American attendees to be picked up, including Barry, Jerry, Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi and several others that I had seen and met through my association with Barry.   There was three or four chartered Lear jets on the runway and someone said they were for Hollywood people.
I helped the driver load their bags into the Mercedes limos and sat up front with him as we sped off through the narrow streets and Managua traffic to the 
There was a reception and keynote address with open bar at seven, so I took Barry and Jerry up to their room.  They had to get changed into tuxedos, so I went back to my room until 6:30, when Barry called to say they were ready.  We walked downstairs together and found seats at a table near the podium.  The keynote speakers were the two white lesbian actresses that adopt kids from Africa and bring them here to raise.  You know the ones.
The delegates ate a nice dinner and were dancing when Fidel Castro came in with his brother, Raul and some securidad people.   The crowd gathered around him so tight that he could hardly pass and the Policia Nationale had to push them back.  They directed Fidel and his brother to sit in the last remaining seats―at our table.  
Barry and Jerry were enthralled and tried to talk to Fidel.  I was surprised to learn that he spoke a little English. When he found out we were from Chicago, he teased us about the Cubs and said that he played some baseball in the US back in the 1940s, but that he never had any minor or major league tryouts when I asked him about that.
I translated for Raul mostly, because he does not speak much English.  There was a group of delegates from the Peoples Republic of China at a nearby table and a couple of them came over with their translator, a cute Chinese girl, to say hello to Fidel and Raul, to shake their hands and have pictures taken together.  Hillary Clinton was nearby too.  She kept staring at us and I thought she was steamed because Fidel Castro was seated at the Scion of Africa table.  
The wait staff brought out a bottle of rum and our table had several rounds when the talk turned to the tradition of El Unión de Marxistas, Socialistas, Anarquistas, Activistas, Ambientales y Pederastas having parties the night before the big event.  Fidel said that some of the Chinese guys wanted to get together in their suite after the reception and he told me I should get the details from Raul.  
Jerry and Barry were pumped about partying with the old revolutionaries and said to tell them that it would be a “great honor” to visit their room.  Jerry said to work it out with Raul, so I did, going back and forth between Raul and Jerry.  We would get together in Raul's suite after ten.
Chaca Chaca
“¿Puede usted traer prostitutas a las habitaciones?” Raul asked.  “¿Prostitutas?”  I had to be sure I understood. I did.  If I couldn't get the goods―some hookers, I knew that Jerry and Barry would lose face with their Progressive comrades.
“Si, Queremos hacerlo con un par de grandes senos prostitutas,” Raul Castro replied.  I told him that I would check with the hotel and get back with them.  I excused myself and headed for the front desk, where I found Miguel, the guy that took my bags up earlier.  
“Hola Miguel. ¿Pueden ayudarme a encontrar las prostitutas que llegan a el hotel?”   Miguel agreed to help us out and we were soon in another run-down taxi headed to a bad section of Managua.  It took maybe five minutes to drive the mile or so through the trash filled unpaved streets to La luz roja distrito (the red-light district).  

In half an hour I had negotiated a price and paid a woman I guessed was the Madam out of the $7000 expense money Jerry gave me to hold.  Her brothel was a crude house with lumpy blue painted mud  interior walls and a bare metal roof.  There was a crucifix on the wall in every room, right above the grimy beds where the whores plied their trade. 

We all crowded into the taxi, a 74 Chevrolet, and drove back with the four hookers from the establishment, plus the Madam, Miguel and me.  I got to sit in back with the four hookers, two of them on my lap and the heat and humidity almost suffocated me.  I tipped Miguel $100 for his trouble and the taxi driver got $40.  I took the hookers in through the back service entrance and strait up to the Conquistador Suite.

I didn't think to go to La Pharmacia for Profilacticos, because I had never even been to South America and hadn't thought to get some. Barry and his friends always went bareback back in Chicago but Raul looked over the hookers and sent me right back out for rubbers.  It was late and Miguel took me to three pharmacies before we found one open for business.  I bought two boxes of ten Seguros De Latex, paid for them with American money and drove back to the hotel. 

When I got up to the suite, room service had delivered some bottles of champaign.  Barry and one of the Chinese guys were in bed with what looked to be the oldest prostitute.  She was on top of the Chinese guy and Barry was behind, balls deep into her poop chute while the other hookers, Jerry, Fidel and Raul watched and cheered them on.  They had paired up with the hookers based on (I guess) seniority.  Fidel sat on a leather chair with the youngest & cutest one sitting on his lap. Raul  had a young perky-tittied one with her blouse off on the couch, while Jerry, Barry and the Chinese guy took pot luck with the stankiest ones.

Barry pulled his cock out of the hooker's steaming hole just as he shot his wad.  Streams of jism shot all over her ass;  around her still gaping bung hole and down her hairy crack.  The Chinese guy came a minute later and the ho who called herself “Lolita” turned over and I saw her real “charms”. She was so skinny and sick looking that I could count her ribs. She had bad teeth and breasts that hung like socks full of sand.    I put the rubbers on the table nearest Raul.  He glanced at Lolita, opened the box, pulled out a four or five and told me to hand  out the remainder to the other guys.

Dígale al joven negro que Fidel le quiere.”  I answered, “Perdón?” Fidel was looking intently at Barry. Raul thought for a second and said, “Él quiere que Barry le fuera a chupar.”  He said Fidel liked Barry's looks and want a BJ from him.  I told Jerry who told Barry who looked over at Fidel and smiled.  Fidel, who already had his cock out, stood up and dropped his pants.  He wasn't wearing any underwear and he too had a small devil tattoo above his groin.  

Barry walked over to Fidel and kneel down in front of him. He reached out for Fidel's cock and stroked it a couple of times to get him fully hard, then eased the foreskin back with his other hand.  Fidel smiled and leaned back, enjoying the experience as Barry first kissed, then licked the head of his hard tool and pressed his mouth over the dictator's cock.

His thin lips were stretched tightly around Fidel's thick cock and as he worked,  Barry gently rubbed the old revolutionaries balls while he slid his mouth up and down the turgid salchichón.  Fidel was breathing faster and it looked like he was about to bust his nut.  He murmured something to Barry, “Estás listo para mi negro de semillas? Voy a disparar en breve.”  (I'm getting ready to come) Barry suddenly pulled his mouth off Fidel's thick cock and coughed forcefully as jism shot over  his face.  His caramel face turned red from coughing and jism dripped from his nostrils to the carpeted floor.

The Castros laughed and Fidel slapped Barry hard on the back several times to help him catch his breath.  Barry was on his hands and knees coughing, and when he straitened up, his eyes were red and tearing from the Marxist's facial. Jerry offered him a drink and I tossed him the cloth that was wrapped around the champaign bottle.  Barry wiped his face, blew his nose several times and sucked in a few breaths of fresh air. “Whew!” he exclaimed.  “That was the biggest load I ever took!   El Presidente must not have gotten off in a while!”

Raul & Fidel laughed again and the whores giggled, too.  “Goddam that was hot!” exclaimed Jerry.  And the Chinese guy said something nobody but he could understand.  A few minutes later the youngest Nicaraguan whore was straddling El Presidente de Cuba, her feet between Fidel and the sides of his chair, demonstrating her considerable talents on his latex wrapped tool.  She was pretty and had brown puffy breasts.

I thought that she looked like one of those native Inca people  from the wall mural at the Mangua airport, with her sloping forehead and large, strait nose.  Her eyes and hair were jet black and she could have been anywhere from fifteen on up, it was hard to tell.  Her tits were firm and perky and puffy like I said and she had a nice flat stomach and round booty,  but not any kind of bubble-butt. When you are El Presidente for life, you get your choice of women, or men, if that be what you're into. Fidel Castro swings both ways.

Jerry was stuck with the Madam, a middle aged Nicaraguan mujer, maybe forty;  it was hard to say how old because  life in the slums of Managua is so hard that people there seem old at maybe thirty- five.  Prostitution is the only thing not owned by the government and is an economic resource always open to women in slums.  Since the whores usually made less than two dollars a trick, working the was a lucrative change of pace for the Nicaragua's poontang-for-hire.

Raul didn't get involved right away with things goings on, but while we were watching Fidel and the young hooker get it on, Raul said, “Quiero que el mocoso.”  He meant Barry, so I motioned him over.  “Puestos en la gorro,” he ordered, and pointed to the condoms and his own cock.  So Barry unwrapped a prelubricated Escolta brand condom, jacked Raul's cock to make it fully hard and rolled on the profilatico.  Raul made a circle in the air with his index finger and Barry turned around obediently.  I could see that he had a hardon too, and he grimaced in pain as Raul forced his cock into Barry's tight ass.

Fidel and the young hooker were really getting into the spirit of things and the girl was grunting, “aye, aya, aye” with each thrust when someone knocked on the door.  Jerry stood up to get it, but one of Fidel's security detail beat him to it.  The man looked through the peep hole and opened the door for a tall, dark haired man and a swarthy fat guy.  “Hola Fidel! Cómo estás?” the first man exclaimed.  They were obviously on good terms.  Observing Fidel and the young hooker, the guy asked,  “Cuántas es esta noche? Tres, o cuatro?”  (How many times have you fucked tonight?  Three or four times?)

Fidel and Raul laughed again and Fidel replied, “Sí, tres hasta ahora! Yo soy la ametralladora!”  (Three or four; I am The Machine Gun!)  They all had a good laugh and the guy introduced himself to me as General Daniel Ortega, former President of Nicaragua.  Then he introduced the other guy as Col. Hugo Chavez, the President of Venezuela.  “Ella tiene un magnífico culo!” (She has a magnificent ass) he said, nodding at the young hooker.

“Veo que trajo el  pajero.”  (I see you brought the guy who pulls his meat), commented Raul dryly.  It got real quiet for a minute as Mr. Chavez and Raul glared at each other.  I could hear people breathing as the security people stepped closer to the Cuban President and his brother.  I looked over at Barry and Jerry.  Barry was still impaled on Rauls cock, but Raul had stopped thrusting during the confrontation.

Fidel broke the tension:  “Basta de esto!”  (Enough!)  It was obvious that there was bad blood between Raul and the Venezuelan president, and Jerry told me to find out about it, so they could either use the information, or at least avoid getting involved.  I asked Julio, one of the Cuban security detail when I got the chance.  

He was proud to tell me that there has been a story going around for years where Col. Chavez used to jerk off after lights out in the barracks when he was a cadet at the Venezuelan Military Academy.  Then one night he was caught jerking off onto other Cadets beds when they were asleep.  After that, the other cadets beat him up, often.  The story came out in the newspapers during his presidential campaign.  Some guy confessed that he had been working for Raul Castro just before he “committed suicide.”  

And if that wasn't bad enough, Fidel made one of Chavez' wifes pregnant during a meeting in the Dominican Republic in 1975.  They divorced and she moved to Spain.

Julio told me that things got worse after Mr. Ortega was driven from power by the Americanos, and Chavez was elected President of Venezuela.  Apparently, Ortega then switched sides out of jealousy.  When Ortega took up with Mr. Chavez, Raul was furious.  Fidel used a machine gun to stop violence between them at a Pan American conference in Mexico, but ever since they had bad intentions between them.  

Raul pulled his soft dick out of Barry's ass and said to me in Spanish, “Tell him to suck on it to make me hard again.”  I told Barry and he end up giving Raul a blow job while the others watched.
Things were quiet as Barry slid his tongue up and down Raul Castro's cock.  Mr. Ortega used the silence to change the subject, saying in Spanish,  “We came here to see if the new guys want to go into Managua to the Pollo Escuela (chicken school) with Hugo and me.  Kim Il-sung is waiting for us in the limo, so you must hurry.”  

I stayed behind while Barry, Jerry, David and Hugo went to the Chicken School in Ortega's limo.  I talked to the limo driver the next day and he told me the “school” was really a brothel in the shadow of government buildings near downtown Managua.  The place caters to important “Progressive” pedophiles from around the world, Nicaraguan politicians and official visitors from other countries, assorted American actors and  ACLU lawyers that come down for gay sex vacations.  That explained why Managua, Nicaragua had replaced Quito, Ecuador as the site for the 

The  meeting officially opened with a Welcome Ceremony the next day and I had some time to kill once I had the materials set out. I back to my room on the seventh floor of the hotel and took a hot shower, my first since I got there the day before.  Room service brought up some food and I went to bed early.  My phone ring the next morning just as the sun came up above the mountains.   It was Jerry.  “Goddammit EZ, get your black ass up here to Barry's  room!”  So I pulled on my pants and carried my shoes as I hurried to the elevator and punched the button for service.  While I waited for the elevator I sat down on a bench and pulled on my socks and shoes.

The elevator car made a thud when it stopped at the seventh floor and when the doors opened, Michael Moore was in there alone, sitting on one of those motorized scooters that old fat people use in the mall.  The dude was disheveled, with at least three days growth of beard and he was wearing the grimy baseball cap you see him wearing all the time.  I stepped in and the doors closed behind me before I could back out.  Michael Moore is a real slob and has terrible body odor.  I tried to hold my breath.

 When the doors opened there were several people waiting to get on.  It wasn't Barry's floor, but I got off the elevator anyway and took a breath of fresh air as the others got on, grabbed their noses and got back off.  Moore started yelling something to the  people who got off and everyone ignored him and headed for the stairs.  They had six floors down to the ground level for the 

When I got to Barry's room  the door was open a crack and I went right in.  Jerry and Barry were both in the bathroom and I heard Barry say, “It feels like I'm pissing razorblades, Jerry! I...I've never had anything like this before.  Well, maybe just once or twice!  You gotta get me to a doctor before the conference starts!”

“He have the goddam clap.” Jerry said.  “And there's no way we can call the House Doctor because too many people will know.  We have to take him to a doctor in town.”  I thought for a minute and said, “I don't think that he could be well by tonight.  My cousin told me it always take a couple of days to feel better, even after they give you the shots for it.”  Barry looked up at us like he was pleading and said, “I've got to be at the Conference!  If I'm not there, I'll never become a member of the Inner Sanctum!”  I looked at Jerry and he looked at me.
“I better call Alan and Bill,” Jerry said.  “They're backing us for membership.  They'll know what to do!”  He used his cell phone to call Bill down in his room.  They talked for a minute and Jerry handed the phone to me.  “EX, it's Bill...Ayers.  Look, you've got to fill in for Barry at the Commintern General Meeting this morning, and maybe the rest of the day!”  I was stunned.

“But I don't look anything like Barry!”  
Bill said, “Don't worry, they won't notice the difference.  Alan and I agree, you all look alike to them and as long as you keep your hood up and keep away from people you have already met, no one will ever know.  Now put Jerry back on!”
Jerry took the phone back and talked to Bill, then Alan for a minute or two.  Jerry got some long white hoodie style robes out of the closet.  He handed me a name badge that had Barry's name on it, and also, underneath his name it said New Prospect.  Jerry had the same thing, but his badge said Presenter and his name.
Two guys in white coats came to the door with a wheelchair.  I told them in Spanish that he was sick  and they took Barry to Managua Hospital De Revolution in an ambulance while Jerry and I put on the robes.  The elevator was crowded and still smelled like Michael Moore had been on it just before.  When we got down to the lobby, there were hundreds of people milling around some coffee pots and tables laid out with food.  All free, just get a plate.  Jerry found Bill Ayers and Alan Ginsberg and the five of us just form a little circle so nobody could see me.
“Look, here's the situation:  NOBODY can know about this, except us.  You won't like what happens if it gets out.  When they call Barry's name, just stand up, hold the hood around your head and nod to the right and the left and sit down.  I think they'll give Barry some antibiotics and something for the pain and send him back.  You will be done by the time they wheel out lunch.”
We went into the main exhibition hall and sat down together at a table, with me between Jerry and the two white guys.  The place was over half full and Al Gore was up on the stage adjusting his microphone.  “Taaayyy-ust. Taaayyy-ust. Taaayyy-ust.”  I looked at the folder of information they had layed out at each chair and as I thumbed through it, recognized some of the materials I brought down for The Scion of African Elders and the pamphlet for ACORN.  There was an Agenda and a list of the Breakout Sessions and the times and rooms for each of those.  Even though they said Barry would be back by lunch, I looked them over, wondering what they were all about.  I folded one up and put it in my pocket.
There was a set of headphones at each seat, and Alan told me it was for translations, because there were people at the meeting from all over the world, even though the meeting that year was, “all about defeating America and the free enterprise system.”  You put the headphones on and turned a knob to choose your language.
 There were a few ads in the folder.  One ad really caught my eye because it sounded like a great idea: A company from Yemen was marketing a credit card called The Freedom Card.  The front of the brochure showed a Thanksgiving scene and in big letters “The Freedom Card. You Can't Leave Home Without It.”
I read the way it works is that everyone uses the card for everything. “The Card automatically deposits wage and deducts taxes.” It works like a Cash Card for poor people and the unemployed, a Debit Card for those who are working, and a Health Card for everyone.  They swipe the card and money goes in when you are unemployed or if you are working part time and it collects taxes from the rich.  It will “free people up from the burden carrying cash and ensure they get their fair share of income and health care.”
Everybody will have their own Freedom Card, even kids. The card matches a chip that is “inserted painlessly under the skin at birth.”  It will be mandatory to carry 24/7 and uses a satellite and computers to track where the owner is, anywhere on the planet.  The Freedom Card tracks everything you own, how much you make, what you buy, your Medical Records, Internet and cell phone usage.
“Using The Fcard “will protect your right to privacy” and will be mandatory to  buy or sell anything. “There will be no need for cash or cash equivalents,” such as gold or silver, which will be confiscated to “help those who may prefer hard currency.”  And The Fcard can “track and limit unwise, unsafe or unusual purchases, and can cut you off if you buy excess unhealthy food or cigarettes.”
 They had something written by Justice Ginsberg in the folders, too.  “ Rules for Radicals” by Saul Alinski.  I thought, “hey, I know him, uh her...”  There was some pamphlets from Earth First and Al Gore about Global Warning and how the people have to stamp out the Automotive Industry in order to “Give America Her Comeuppance.”
A bunch of people wearing black robes and red robes walked up on stage and sat down in seats on both sides of the stage.  I recognized Al Gore and Justice Ginsberg.  There was a tall bearded Arab looking guy, The North Korean guy was up there plus some others that I didn't recognize.  Fidel Castro came up on the stage with George and they were both wearing red robes like the tall Arab. We put our headphones on when Al Gore said to and I could hear instructions and announcements in English.  The jumbotron scrolled “Welcome Prospects and Initiates” in various languages.
Al Gore read a list of people who were Prospects-first time attendees who hoped to become members, and Initiates-those who attended one or more meetings and were to be initiated into the  Commintern of the  
When Al read Barry's name, Alan poke me and I got up, nodded right, then left and sat down.  People applauded for several minutes when Mr. Gore was finally done introducing everyone and then it was time for a “prerecorded announcement from our founder, Dieter Kurprinz.”  It got real quiet as Dieter came into focus on the big screen.  The picture was gray and green, like a night vision camera.  The hooded white man started to talk in a foreign language.  A banner ran underneath the leader, “Live from Eloween City.”
The translation came through on the headphones.  Dieter thanked everyone for their help in advancing his Progressive Agenda and said that they had several exciting new developments to share with the members and that he was proud to announce the initiation of several new members to the group, Nancy Pelosi, Barbara Boxer, Alec Baldwin and some guy from Iran, Aach Medidajob.    Then he turned the meeting back over to Al Gore, who introduced the next speaker, Professor Achmed Haraam of  Columbia University and founder of the  “Fahesha Club for Arab American Peace.”
The professor was from Saudi Arabia and he talked about the The Leporidae Plan for Europe, which had been a “great success.”  He said that the Moslem population was up in unlikely places, like in  Ireland, up 70% in 20 years through immigration and high birthrates.  He said that it was only a matter of a few years before they could legislate Sharia Law through most of the European Union.
Some of the Moslems in the crowd yelled, “Death To America! And “Death to Israel!” Professor Haraam's talk gave Jerry another hardon for the Jews.
Then it was the turn of Henry Waxman, another US Senator and former ACLU lawyer.  Jerry always noticed that people had Jewish names and always got worked up by the Nation of Islam videos he watched.  He leaned over to me and said, “They have too many goddam Jews in this organization.”  He said it way too loud and I saw Alan give Bill a look like he swallowed a live bug.  
Waxman talked for about twenty minutes on the “Sexualization of Children.”  He said that “sexualization of juveniles is embedded in everything from children's clothing to kids' cereal commercials.”  He was proud that publications for children and the Internet “have made pornography mainstream for youths.”  
He had graphs put up on the big screen that showed how United States kids are having sex at earlier ages and that “The trend toward early intercourse parallels low school achievement and willingness to vote for Progressive candidates in elections.”  That got him an long standing ovation from the crowd. I thought about what Alan had told me about NAMBLA and wondered how things got to the way they are.
Next up was that guy that used to be on the TV news.  I can't remember his name, but the jumbotron said, “Newspeak:  1984+20 The Society of Professional Journalists”  The dude went on and on about how they had almost “ironcald control of the news and...can mold and shape opinions” to suit the Progressive agenda.  I was surprised when he apologized for the “Bush accident.”
Her said “We all agreed that it was sound strategy to promote weak and liberal Republican candidates while marginalizing and demonizing strong Republican candidates.  After all, that strategy worked so well when we got Bob Dole nominated.”  The Democrats thought that George Bush could never beat Gore-Lieberman.  I guess they were wrong about that because he is President.  And the man said that “promoting an elderly veteran RINO against a heroic sounding Democrat would be (their) best choice for the 2004 election cycle.”  
He felt sure that if a heroic Democrat could not be found, one could be created from the even most cowardly and ambitious former soldier. He nodded to Al Gore and went on.  “Even a deserter or a traitor can be sanitized because of our control of the print and broadcast media.  We can turn them into heroes.”  Senator Gore's face looked real angry and when the man finished, he announced that it was break time and walked off stage without a word as Rosie O'Donnel and Roseanne Barr came up to the stage to entertain during the break.  
“I can FART the National Anthem better'n you can sing it!” is what Rosie O'Donnel said.
Miss Barr screeched, “Well that's pretty damn bad!  Who wants to hear us fuck up the American National Anthem??!”
The remaining participants applauded, cheered and whistled. A couple yelled, “Death to America” and Death to Israel!”  thought they were joking around but Rosie took the mike out of it's stand and tucked it into her pants behind her back.  “I wish you'd start!  I can't hold this forever yuh know!”  So Roseanne Barr began screeching. “Oh sayyyy  caaaaan yoooooo sing-g-g-g” as Rosie let loose with the cheese. “Frummmm the star-r-r-s-o br-i-i-i-i-te!” It didn't sound like music but Rosie did carry the tune until she ran out of wind a minute later.  
The crowd was going crazy and I decided to take a break myself.  Alan and Bill insisted on going with me.  People in the convention hall were still applauding as I waited to use the urinal.   Jerry had left to get ready for his presentation.  Bill's cell phone rang.
“Hello?  This is Bill.  I see.  What do you expect ME to DO?!”  He talked for a minute and took me aside.  “Well 'Barry” it looks like you are the star for the rest of the day.”  I was so nervous that I almost throw up in the urinal.   “Don't worry,” Bill said.  “It's been working and after lunch it's just Initiation Ceremony and that doesn't involve you.  Besides, they turn the lights down low.  Remember.  Just keep the hood on.  It makes Barry look pious.”  He meant that maybe nobody would see I wasn't Barry and they wouldn't pop a cap on each of us!  I was sweating and shaking as I walked back in, “surrounded” by Alan and Bill.  I felt like they were walking me into the electric chair.
The lights flashed a couple of times at ten thirty and the jumbotron banner said:  "Cloward-Piven Strategy." Al Gore read some things about Jerry from a card; how he worked with the Nation of Islam to organize poor people to vote for Progressive candidates, helped start ACORN and that sort of thing.  It was  like an advertisement for a Prospective Member.
Jerry gave a dull presentation for the Scion of African Elders about how Progressives could use the Cloward-Piven Strategy to push society into crisis and economic collapse.  He told how the idea came out of the 1965 Watts riots and that Progressives could become the ruling class by using welfare to motivate the poor to vote for Progressive candidates.  
Jerry was followed by “The Constitutional Impediment Panel Discussion” with Hillary Clinton, Barbara Boxer and Nancy Pelosi.  They went on for forty minutes about how the U.S. Constitution “has to be nullified,” in order to collapse the American economy and the free enterprise system “in all of it's worldwide forms.”  They got applause when Hillary announced that, “The overthrow of the U.S.A. is the Principal Goal for the  UMSAAP and the Progressive Movement.”
We went to the Scion of American Elders meeting room for lunch.  They had tomato jello and some stuff called fois grah, which was like liverwurst only yellow because it is from a duck.  Typical hoy-pulloy stuff, with wine and creme broullette for desert, all served by Nicaraguan women.  The dudes that came to our meeting room for lunch were black, mostly from Africa.  The ones that spoke English talked quietly and the ones that didn't ate in silence.  
A couple of white people came by, looked in and left. We finished eating and went around to some of the Thirty Minute Breakout Sessions:
and  AssistedSuicideASAP.org.  That one was all about how for forty years they have been promoting a death cult for people in the developed countries, plus open borders to bring about demographic changes which support the Progressive Movement.  They told how the “U.S. teen suicide rate is up 77 percent in ten years because of (their) work with the entertainment industry.”
The woman from LaRaza, who is another former ACLU lawyer and a judge somewhere, said LaRaza thought they could “carve off” at least five states in the west as a Campesinos Homeland.  She planned to govern it as a Marxist “Workers Paradise” through a  Supreme People's Assembly with her as it's President.
Session 2:  “Strangling The Bald Eagle” by some ACLU lawyers.  Those guys had a plan to revise history books in order to make George Washington and the other Founding Fathers look like hypocrites and killers.  They thought it would make Americans feel real bad about themselves so they will be apathetic to adverse changes brought on by the Progressives.  
Session 3  “The Enemy of Your Enemy” By two guys from Saudi Arabia and Iran who said that Progressives had to work with them in order to defeat their common enemies, the USA and Israel.  They apologized that their holy attack came after, rather than before the 2000 election cycle and promised to do better the next election by manipulating fuel supplies to collapse the US economy right before the elections.  I remember the Arab guy was Abdul and the Iranian guy?  He had a name that was hard to pronounce.  It was something like Akmed Need A Job.  Achmed.  Needajab.  Something like that.
Session 4  “Concealing Our Racist Roots” with Robert Byrd and David Duke.  This was the only presentation that interested me at all, because of the two men sitting together at a table.  Robert Byrd is a Senator and former KKK official that the news media has sanitized for the Democrats. David Duke was the Grand Wizard of the KKK back in the 1980s!  Sen. Byrd talked about how wonderful things were during segregation, and how progressive Democrats wised up and switched from “overt control through coercion to controlling minorities through the welfare system.”  
David Duke said that there is “much more left to do,” but that it would require  a rewriting of Democrat party history to conceal their racist origins.   He told the audience that the “KKK was the paramilitary arm of the Democrat Party from 1869 to the 1970s” and that the Democrats were the party of slavery from their roots, and the Republicans were the abolitionist party.  “Somehow, we have to change history to make the Republicans, from Lincoln to Reagan, the party of racism for most Americans.”
Sen Byrd added that it had been “fabulous how we rewrote history during the Kennedy-Johnson Years” to make the Republicans seem racist by comparison.  He said that they would fine tune the message in children's' textbooks and Public T.V. Shows.
I thought about it from the perspective of my grade school education in Chicago where Lincoln was a hero.  We were taught that Lincoln was elected President on an anti slavery platform and the Civil War started right after he was elected.  He freed slaves in Union controlled areas.  And the southern governors who used force to oppose integration in the early 1960s? George Wallace &  Orval Faubus,aDemocrats as I remembered it.
Session 5  “Third Column Republican Forum”  Corruption from within as presented by Lindsey Graham and Joe Biden. They thought it would be a good idea to set up Progressives as Republicans and for people to vote in Republican primary elections in order to weaken that party from within and ensure that Republicans selected weak candidates.  Joe Biden said, we are sure that we will be able to “count on our friends in the media to pick up on the agenda.”  He told the group that they had Colin Powell “in our pocket.”
Session 6:  The Neutering of America by Madeline Albright and one of the gay actresses that adopts the babies from Africa.  That one was how they want to eliminate a lot of “men's things” to “castrate the Testosterone Revolution of 1776 once and for all.” They had a whole lot of things listed in their Powerpoint show, such as The Boy Scouts, Football, Boxing, Wrestling, motorcycles and “the car culture, especially NASCAR!”  They wanted to gradually get rid of all of those things and claimed to have already started on many of the “men” things, like the Boy Scouts.
Session 7:  People Control Through Gun Control by Andrew McElvey and a guy from China, Hu Jin Tow. Those two said that to take over the United States from the capitalists, it would be necessary to “void the Second Amendment and eliminate private gun ownership.”  They planned to start with registration of all guns and gun owners.  
They caught me by surprise when they said that they could “promote gun control by promoting random acts of extreme violence by insane and obsessed persons under our control,” which the news media will whip into a “gun control frenzy.” The Asian guy said they had brought together  a secret group of people under control  from Beijing” in order to do just that.
Session 8 was just Al Gore, going on and on about Global Warming and “using the Green Movement to suppress the American economy as a way to move toward our Marxist goals.”  I didn't actually go in there.  I could hear him fine through the partition between him and the Gun Control people.
Session 9:  Extracting Resources From Proletarians.  That was by Sen. Tom Daschle.  He had a bunch of strategies for raising taxes on working people by naming taxes something else.  He also thought that Senators and Congressmen shouldn't have to pay taxes, since they are so important.
Session 10:  Homo Sapiens The Destroyer by some woman from PETA and a skinny white guy from Earth First.  They said that the earth is being ruined by people and recommended that humans be managed by some world organization and wherever there are too many, some would be “culled” to reduce the environmental impact.
Session 11:  The Scion of African Elders Breakout Session.  Jerry and Jesse Jackson.  I skipped that one because I had heard Jerry as much as I could take.  I slipped out and headed back to my room for a nap.  I was on the elevator when I glanced at my phone and saw I had a message from Alan.
Session 12: The Establishment Clause and Freedom FROM Religion.  I didn't go to that one, but I did walk by and look in on my way back to the elevators.  It was being led by one of those T.V. Preachers.  You know him; Vicker Johnson, the guy that sends people a free splinter from the cross for just $19.95 Shipping and Handling on his infomercials.  Hillary Clinton was sitting at the table too, but I didn't stay long enough for her to see me. 
The Main Event
The breakout sessions ended at five, and Alan wanted to meet in Barry's room for a strategy session at six.  When we got up there, Barry was sleeping off the morphine tablets the doctor had given him for the pain.  Bill shook him awake and asked how he was feeling.  He was doped up and Bill slapped him three time to get his attention.  “How...do...you...feel?!”
Barry slipped back down onto the pillow and Alan said, “Check his cock, that's the way to tell.”  They looked at each other and Bill, he put his hand through the gap in the stained front of Barry's PJ's and pulled out his dick.  They both bent down to look, but I could see from where I was that the head of his dick was still red and swollen, especially around the end, and he had light brown pus oozing out of the inflamed tip.  “I thought that goddam doctor could cure the goddam clap,” muttered Jerry.  
I had told them it would take days to get well and there was no way Barry would be at the closing ceremony.  Bill said, “Well, EZ.  Looks like you are filling in for Barry this evening.  We gotta make this good to preserve Barry's political viability.”  We sat down and Bill told me to expect some more speeches and that there would be a short solemn ceremony late in the evening when new members were initiated into the Commintern by people from the Inner Sanctum like George Soros, “Abdul” and even Dieter “Kapitan” Kurprinz himself.   
“The main thing we have to watch out for is if George sees you wearing Barry's robe and ID badge.  He knows you both and won't be fooled.  Keep away from him.  And just keep your head down.  It will be dark and I don't think he will come down to our table.”
We put on our robes again.  I got Barry's white robe.  Alan and Bill wore blue ones and Jerry got a white one also. Even though it was his second year with the organization, Jerry hadn't been made a member then and was still a prospect, like Barry.  We rode down on the elevator together, me in the back in case someone saw my face.
The Hanoi Thing
When we got down to the  Grand Salon, Alan realized that we didn't need to be there until 7:30.  I decided to get some rest and walked back to my room with Alan, Bill and Jerry surrounding me so nobody would look at my face.  I laid down on the hotelroom bed and closed my eyes, but was too uptight to sleep.  The guys went back to Barry's room and I was about to put on the television when
I thought it was Jerry or Alan following coming back up there.  I yanked open the door thinking I might tell them all to get the fuck out, but it wasn't any of the guys.  It was Jane Fonda, American actress and traitor.
“You're Barry Obama, aren't you?  I heard about you from Olympia.  I saw your name badge when you passed me in the Grand Ballroom, so I followed because you are such an up-and-comer among the Socialists. I just had to meet you.”
“Uh, pleased to meet you too.  I was uh, I have to get back down to the ballroom.”  
She gently pushed her way in with a hand against my chest..  “You are such a strong black man.  I'll bet you've had your share of women.”  She gently touched my right nipple through the gown and breathed on my neck.  She whispered, “White women too, right?”
“Uh, one...or two I guess.  But I have to get back downstairs.”  I was almost pleading with the old woman as her voice took on a slight threatening tone.  She stuck her hand down my pants and grabbed my cock in her hand. She stroked it and said, “You don't understand, my strong... black... man.    This is all about doing whatever it takes to get ahead in the movement.”  She pulled on my belt like she was trying to unfasten my pants .  “It's all about servicing the one above you...going down on the landlady, so to speak.”
She went on:  “That's the way that things work in the Commintern and you need to get used to that fact if you want to advance in the Democrat Party.  Your political career won't go anywhere if you don't play along.  It can take years to fuck your way to the top.
She said, “Think of me as your landlady.  Think of me as a spermaholic  and I'm horny as hell!” Then she pulled me down on top of her onto the couch that was by the door. That woman was strong for her age!  She looked fine in that movie where she played a ho (sic) but that was like forty years ago.  She pulled open her robe and I saw that she was naked underneath; no underwear, no nothing, except shoes.  And she was skinny, too.  I could count her ribs.

“Yeah, I guess so...they look real nice,” I said, embarrassed.  She grinned and said, “They should.  They cost $70,000 each from Dr. Abdel Rachman at the Golden Calf Plastic Surgery Center on Rodeo Drive!” I sucked hard on the other nipple and put my hand on her pussy, feeling her wetness.  She groaned softly as I parted the lips and put a finger inside of her hairy beaver.

“I like my lovers to call me Bree,” she said. Ms. Fonda stretched her pussy lips apart and I held my breath and slid my tongue into her pussy and then back back up and across her clit, then back down to her hole and I focus my tongue on her g-spot.   She had me by the hair and pushed my face hard into her pussy, so that it was hard to breathe.  She held on until she had enough and finally let me loose.
“C'mon big boy!  Bring that big cock to mama!”  I took a deep breath and slid up on the couch so I could get between Bree's legs and stick my johnson between her stretch out labia .  It slid in easy and started thrusting inside of her, slow at first, then faster as I got more comfortable with her rhythm.  At one point, she suddenly wrap her legs tight around my lower back and locked her ankles.  Then she almost mash the air right out of me with her legs.  That bitch was strong and it really hurt my ribs and back when she did that.  
When I fuck her, she was saying, “Ooof, oof, oof, and at one point she yell, “Fuck me you big stud!  Rent's due and I'm the landlady!” The nut built up inside of my balls and I came like I never did before, wave after wave of my jism fill her pussy, leak out and run down her crack and over her ass hole.  For seventy five, she was in very strong shape and almost bust my spine.
I rest on top of her for a minute and started to climb off, when she said, “Get it back up, boy!  You still owe me a month's rent!”  I didn't want her hurting my back anymore, so I ast (sic) her to turn over to get my skeet out from behind.  Her head went bam, bam, bam into the wall as I rammed into her and a vase fell off of a little table by the door.  She kept saying, “fuck me harder!  Harder I said!  She was real juicy inside the second time and it took me a long time to come, but she didn't mind about that!
We finished and she laid there on the couch smoking a cigarette when I was pulling on my shorts.  “What are you in a hurry for?  We still have half an hour before things get going downstairs.”  I told her I didn't want to be late and make someone mad.
“You are one smart Negro...believe me, you don't want them mad at you.  People who piss them off usually wind up dead somewhere.  They usually make it LOOK like an accident or suicide.”  I felt the chill bumps come up on my arms and back when she say that.  I sat there quiet for a minute and ask her about the little red devil tattoo.  
“Oh, that.  You get your tat after you kiss Deiter's ring and take his seed.  It's Deiter's Contract.  You go through with the ritual and get whatever you want.  Fame...power...success...control...sex, that sort of thing.  Whatever you desire. Everyone has something that motivates them and when you take the seed, you get whatever you want and there's nothing the Other Side can do to stop it.  No matter how you screw up, nothing ever comes of it.”
“Remember how easily Bill Clinton got out from under his perjury charges?  What would happen if YOU gave false testimony in a court?  Prison, right?”  She was right, that for sure.  She went on.  “You newbies always have a bunch of questions.  I wish they would just write some of this down, but that would create a paper trail right back to the Commintern and the Inner Sanctum.  They don't want any publicity.”  Then she add:  “And it doesn't pay to ask questions, either.  Curiosity kills.”
But I had to know so I asked her anyway, “Who is this Dieter and how did he get in charge of everything?”  She thought about that for a minute and said that she didn't know how he got in charge, but that he always had been.  She was sure he was around when her father was acting in the 1930s and that a lot of people in Hollywood had “taken the seed” so they could be famous.  She said she first went through the ritual at a meeting in Hanoi, Viet Nam back in the early 1960s.  “You know, he doesn't look any different today than he did in 1972.”
I wanted to change the subject, but I needed to know one more thing.  “Wher is Eloween City and who lives there?  Is it in California?”  Ms. Fonda laughed.  “It's where Deiter lives, and the place where the Progressive  money comes from.  Nobody really knows where it is, except maybe George Soros or Abdul Farouk. Abdul is from Yemen and a lot of people think he is Osama Bin Laden.”  Then she joked, “You know George already and you'll see Abdul tonight.  Why don't you ask them yourself?”    
Curiosity kills.  My mind couldn't handle any more, so I asked her about her breasts.
She showed me how there was a thin, “barely visible” scar around each nipple, and one under each breast from her implants.  And she showed me how she had scars behind her ears, up into her hair line and she said how she had her pussy lips lengthened by “Dr. Abdel.”  She said that almost all of her friends in Hollywood had plastic surgery and she said I could even have my johnson lengthened if I wanted to.
“When you see Alec Baldwin at the Ritual tonight, look closely and you'll see scars in front of his ears from a cheap face lift.  At least they fixed his beak so he doesn't look like Jimmy Durante anymore.”  She went on and on about how Barbara Boxer and Nancy Pelosi had plastic surgery and that “Barbara is at least ten years older than what it says on her website.”
“Look what time it is!”  I showed her the time.  We pulled on our clothes and hustled back to the elevator.  Former President Carter and his wife were on board when the door opened.  Jane introduced me to them and after a perfunctory handshake, they just talked with Jane as we went down.  The door opened once and a skanky woman I didn't recognize got on.  I overheard Pres. Carter tell her how much he loved the Dixie Chicks and that he hoped she would be promoted to the Commintern by the next meeting.
We got off and I was almost tackled by Jerry, Alan and Bill.  They hustled me inside and we sat down together at a table to the right of the stage.  Most everyone wore either white or blue robes.  There were seats set up down front for the  new initiates, and they were already there, looking real nervous in their green robes.  Alec Baldwin was covering his mouth and talking real low to Nancy Pelosi and Al Franken.  An empty seat separated Hugo Chavez from the others and he seemed relieved when Achmed Needajab, the Iranian sat down in the remaining seat.
I looked around and recognized Sen. Kerry at a table with the Clintons, “Bree” Fonda, some Asian people and an old guy I didn't recognize.  Alan said he was a Congressman from P.A. that wanted to be in the Commintern and that everybody but him knew he was just too old and senile.  It seems that the Progressives really don't like old people in their organizations.
When all of the seats in the Grand Ballroom were filled, the security people chained the doors shut.  About the same time, those who were waiting down below started chanting something, real low, which I couldn't understand.  They got louder and louder. Alan leaned over and said that it was in Latin, and that the people in there were pledging themselves to the accomplishment of Marxist aims through whatever means necessary.  He told me to keep my head down and move my lips in case someone looked our way and thought Barry wasn't chanting.
The chants kept up for ten or fifteen minutes and got louder and louder.  Alan pushed a paper over to me and it had the chant translated to four other languages.  He said that it was officially adopted at a 1994 meeting in Ecuador, and I kept a copy:
“As long as there are humans exploiting humans, as long as capitalism destroys human existence over the earth there will be struggle!
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles!
As long as the imperialists and the bourgeoisie oppress weak nations and defenseless people there will be struggle!
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles!
As long as the workers and peoples of the world aspire to transform the present society, to transform it to their benefit and as long as, in order to achieve it, they are ready to win or die, there will be struggle!
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles!
Contrary to the conciliatory claims of the capitalists that the workers and bosses have the same interests, we believe that the class struggle is the driving force of history!
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles!
The class struggle will not be accomplished as long as the highest general objectives that conscious humanity sets itself have not been attained: socialism and communism!
The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles!
Kapitan Kurprinz, we are with you in your eternal struggle!”
“Kaptain” Kurprinz
The lights flashed a couple of times and it got real quiet in the Grand Ballroom.  In the dim light, I could see the green robed initiates file up to the stage where they kneeled, facing away from us.  People in the seats were talking real low and it felt cold at our table.   I was pulling my robe around me when Alan said, “Look!  Dieter is here!”
A spotlight shined on the stage and I could make out the outline of a man standing in a doorway at the back of the stage.  He came forward, toward the little group of green gowned initiates kneeling in front of him.  Someone turned on a light that covered the stage and I saw that a tall, thin Arab guy was standing to one side of the podium and George, he was on the other.  George was wearing a red gown too and I guess that the Arab guy was Abdul.
As Dieter walked slowly to the podium, George raised his hand and people in the seats started singing a song in English:
Arise, ye workers from your slumber,
Arise, ye prisoners of want.
For reason in revolt now thunders,
and at last ends the age of cap-i-tal.
Away with your re-ligion,
Servile masses, arise, arise!
We'll change henceforth the old tra-dition,
And burn our enemies to win the prize!
One world Marx-ist and death to A-Mer-I-Caaaa!
One world Marx-ist and death to A-Mer-I-Caaaa!

It got all quiet again when Dieter reached the podium and raised his hands in the air.  I got a good look at him from where we were sitting. All I could tell for sure was that he was a white guy of average build.  His skin was real pale, kind of grayish and his hair was long and white in a kind of a mullet.  I looked at his face but couldn't tell where he was from or anything about his ethnicity.  He could have been from anywhere.  He had a longish strait nose, thin eyebrows and weird looking eyes spaced far apart.  

The robe he was wearing was black, and he did not have a hood.  He was wearing a kind of sailor hat with something written on the band.  People started applauding when he  reached the podium, then were quiet when Abdul waved his hands.  Dieter started out saying something in Latin, I guess, which I couldn't understand, but I find (sic) this paper.  Here it is.  Someone said this was his speech written down for the Romanian translators.  Here's part of it that I tore off.  Maybe you can have it translated:  

Meu tovarăş comunişti şi pedofili, acesta este ultimul război!
Noi vrem nici crestin saviors 
Să se pronunţe cu noi de la sala de judecata, 
Vă întreb nu pentru muncitorii lor favorizează 
Să ne consulta pentru toate. 
Pentru a face hoţ vomita lui prada 
Pentru a elibera spiritul său de celulă, 
Noi trebuie să ne decide de datoria noastră, 
Noi trebuie să decidă, şi o fac bine. 
Acesta este ultimul război.
Să fiecare stand în locul lui.

Like I said, I couldn't understand a word of it, but when he finished speaking, the crowd started yelling, “Goddam America!  Goddam America!  Goddam America! Until George made them get quiet again.

After that, George made a speech in what sounded like the same language and introduced the new initiates, Alec Baldwin, Nancy Pelosi.

Then a spotlight fell on Dieter as he moved forward to just in front of Needajab, who was at the end of the line of initiates, closest to our table.  The crowd was silent as Dieter offered his hand to Needajab, who kissed his ring.  The ring was large and I could see that it was silver, with a some kind of face on it.  Alan told me later it is a silver skull, which “symbolizes the end game.”

Then Needajab straitened up, lifted his head and knelt there with his mouth open.  I was feeling kind of scared again, and I almost wet my pants when I saw what happened next.  Dieter stepped close to Needajab and his cock came right out of his pants.  It wasn't  normal like a man's cock.
  
No, it was jet black and about a foot long and real skinny.  It was jumpy when it came out, and the weird cock poked Needajab in the face two or three times before he took it in his mouth.  Then Dieter stood even closer so that his cock went all of the way into Needajab's mouth and down his throat.  The man look scared for a second when Dieter grabbed his head and pressed a long, yellowish thumbnail into the skin on Needajab's forehead.  

His head bled a little where the pointed nail went in and a drop of blood dripped off a his nose just as Dieter said, “You have taken my seed and my mark.  You shall have the power you crave.”  When he let go of Needajab, the man fell over onto his back and have a little seizure.  He was just getting up when Dieter walked over to Nancy Pelosi and stood in front of her.  She was kind of anxious to kiss his ring, you could tell by how she grabbed his hand.  

Dieter smiled a little and his cock came out.  Miss Pelosi opened her mouth wider and she went right for his tool, and swallowed it real eager.  Dieter put his hands on each side of her head like before and dug his thumbnail into her forehead, which bled a little like the Iranian.  Then he said the same thing, “You have taken my seed and my mark.  You shall have the power you crave.”  His cock came out and went back into his body and Pelosi fell back on the floor, like she fainted or something.

The next initiate in line was Alec Baldwin, and the whole thing happened again, only before Dieter pulled out his cock, he said,   “You have taken my seed and my mark.  You shall have the fame you crave.”  Dieter's cock hung down for a second and I could see it drip a little blood on the stage before it went back inside his body.  

Then it was Hugo Chavez's turn.  Before he got the cock in his mouth and the fingernail to his forehead, he pissed himself and wobbled  like he might pass out.  Dieter must be real strong for an old guy.  He grabbed Chavez by the sides of his head and held him up while the skinny cock  jabbed at the Venezuelans broad face before it found his lips.  Dieter said the little speech again and let Chavez fall onto the stage.  His head bounced onto the wooden floor with a double clunk that could be heard in the back of the ballroom. He was down for a minute when some security people came up on stage and drag him off.   

Dieter held both hands over his head and people in the seats started cheering.  The new initiates, minus Chavez, were all smiling and shaking hands and comparing their forehead marks as George and Abdul handed them new, blue robes.  They were the newest members of the Commintern once they had them on, and before everyone calmed down, George brought Hugo Chavez back up to the stage.  He already had on his new robe and he folded his hands together and shook them over his head like he was Heavyweight Champion of The World.

Kapitan Kurprinz wasn't done speaking.  He said,  “To one and all! Now you will submit yourself eternally to me and you shall have whatever you lust for.”  Then the crowd started singing their theme song again:

Arise, ye workers from your slumber,
Arise, ye prisoners of want...We'll burn our enemies to win the prize!
A Marx-ist world and death to the United States!

We flew back to Chicago via Mexico City with a layover in Dallas and I kept to myself for a few days before I had to go back to work at ACORN.  The situation was bothering me in my mind and I couldn't sleep, even though I felt tired all the time.

Epilogue

My father is sixty-five and he lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  I needed to talk to someone about what happened and I called him for the first time in a year because I couldn't talk about all of that with anyone else.  He was surprised to hear from me and I drove up there the next morning to see what I should do.  He listened to most of what I told you guys and he say to “get as far away from that Obama guy and all those others as you can.”  

And he said to get away from them as fast as I could, and to do whatever I had to do to protect myself.  As I drove back to my crib in Chicago I decided that I would quit ACORN and move away if I had to.  I didn't have to wait long because  Jerry and Bill came to see me a couple of days later to fire me from ACORN.  I buzzed them up when they came to the door of my building. I wasn't mad about being fired, just the reason behind it.  

“Well, how are you, buddy?” was what Bill said, acting real cool when he walk in.  They made some small talk for a while and offered me some blanca that I refused.  They looked kind of grim and Jerry finally got to the point.  “Uh, look E--Barry is going to run for State Assemblyman and, uh, we, uh he, feels like you are really too dark to be working for him.  That, plus your criminal record...”  He trailed off and Bill finished the sentence, “That makes you a liability for Barry.  He can't have anyone on board that might put off white voters.”

“

The next morning I call Barry on his cell phone and confront him directly about how they treated me, and I insist that he find me a good City job where I can just go to work and collect my pay, have a City pension and all.  I told him that I wasn't going to go peacefully back to the  Squeekie Cleane like some punk.  He listened to what I say (sic) and said he would look into it.  That's how I ended up in charge of Sidewalks maintenance for the City of Chicago.  But before I could get the job, I had to get my criminal record expunged.

Barry took care of that by calling Governor Blagojevich again.  I had to go downtown to meet with a guy from the Illinois Department of Law Enforcement.  He  asked me a lot of questions about my conviction for check fraud and I told him.  He ask a lot of questions about how I knew Barry, where I was at politically, If I knew anything that could hurt Barry in the news, that sort of thing.  I told him I didn't know nothing, signed a form and two weeks later, I had my job.  $167,000 per year with benefits.

Everything went fine for almost two years.  One day I was in the barber shop waiting for a cut when I pick up the newspaper and was reading through the first section.  A short article caught my eye:  “Former Clinton Handyman Found Dead.  Suicide Suspected.”  I wondered if it was anyone that I knew.  The article said that the man was found hanging naked in a closet at a motel in Long Island.  

The report identified him as Nigel Lewellyn, British national, age sixty-two.  It quoted Bill Clinton as saying Nigel worked occasionally for the Clintons doing chores.  He implied that Nigel was homeless and lived at the hotel and they only let him work at their house doing odd jobs out of charity.  

I was scared right away when I read the story and I called the Clinton home in  Chappequa and ask for Consuelo.  The woman that answered said that Consuelo didn't work there anymore.  So I told her I had worked a party at the house and asked her about Nigel.  It was a long pause before she spoke.  “He resigned a few days before I came here.  Terrible thing.  And Consuelo might have been deported.  Some men came here for her the day I started.  They took her and all of her stuff away in big plastic bags and we haven't heard from her since.”  Right before she hung up she said, “I've said too much already!”

Two days later Elliott Rogers from Barry's new security team asked if I would come to his campaign office for a chat.  I drove to the The Loop, parked in the Clark Street Garage and walked two blocks to Barry's Campaign Office building.  I couldn't believe all the people I recognized from my old ACORN days.  I shook hands with at least a dozen people that remembered me and several asked if I was coming to work for Barry.  

Wilma Johnson took me back to Mr. Rogers' office.  He was head of Security for Barry and had worked for ACORN as a rep for the Progressives.  I sat in his outer office waiting and worried about what had happened with Nigel and Consuelo.   A woman come out and brought me back to see Elliott Rogers. 

Elliott is a weasel.  You can tell that from the first day you meet the man.  He offered me a drink but I turned him down flat and sit down in the leather chair in front of his desk.  He had a little black and gold sign on his desk that said, “Curiosity Kills.”  I hadn't followed through on buying a 9mm and told myself I would apply for a permit and buy one right away if I had the opportunity. 

Most of his questions involved what I knew about Barry, the Progressives, and what I had seen in Managua.  But he asked if I knew Nigel Lewellyn, too.  It was a sure thing that the man know everything and wanted to know if I was “working with the press.” I told him that Barry had been my friend for several years and that I was a Socialist myself and had worked at ACORN. That seemed to satisfy the man and he let me go.  I heard him pick up the phone before his office door closed behind me.  I walked back to my car and was sure people were following me.

That's when I decided to go to the Chicago Tribune.  And the reporters sent me here to the Department of Homeland Information and Justice.  Do you think you can help me?

Tape ends at 1:53 p.m.  
Nedra D. Klouge, C.L.T.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FROM:  director@dhij.us.gov L. Kedzie,  Director Department of Homeland Information and Justice
TO:   eijackson.osi@dhij.us.gov Director Jackson.   Office of Special Investigations, D.H.I.J.
SUBJECT:  Re:  Requested information on Edward X. Williams
DATE:  7.09.2007 11:22
Elliott:  
I know by now that Mr. Edward X. Williams is taking the acid bath that we spoke of last month in Washington.  Believe me, Mr. Soros is much pleased with your performance at this important task for the Inner Sanctum.  There is one thing left to do:  Call our friends at the Tribune and the Times.  Have them run a story about how his father has Alzheimer's Disease in case his story makes it onto Fox news.  Then make sure that the father falls and breaks a hip. That should shut the family up for good!  Great job intimidating his sister, by the way.
Regards;
Lewis

“The major function of secrecy in Washington is to keep the U.S. people from knowing what the nation's leaders are doing.” -- John Stockwell, former CIA official.