R. L. Spencer
Copyright October 2016 RLSpencer Communications
This e-book is dedicated to all Americans and is offered for free to promote thinking and discussion about influences on politics and society which affects the inalienable and constitutional rights of every person living in our already great country.
The facts are true. However, the tale (interweaving the facts, dialogues, and events) is primarily fictional and not necessarily true. Certain names have been changed to protect the innocent, including the author.
Much of the dialogue is vulgar, crass, racist, and sexist to convey the distasteful flavor of the characters. The words are commonly known by adults and (unfortunately) most High School students. Therefore, the author wants the ideas in the tale available for thought to those 14 years of age and upward.
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Kew Forest Preparatory School
Mr. Roundtree class
April 13, 1958
Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest, Leaders, and Liars
by Dolfy Trumpf
Nathan Bedford Forrest was born on July 13, 1821, in Bedford County, Tennessee. He was a twin with his sister Fanny. They were the oldest of the other ten children. His sister and his father died when Nathan was 17 years old. Nathan had to work to support all his family.
Nathan liked to tell this favorite story. One night in winter, he was riding a horse through the woods back home. A pack of wolfs started howling and chasing him and his horse. The horse got scared and bucked Nathan off and ran away.
The wolfs began making circles around Nathan. They were getting closer and closer. Nathan’s gun was on the horse who ran away. Nathan had no knifes or swords.
Just as the wolfs got ready to jump on Nathan, he screamed as loud as he could at the wolfs. He ran toward the wolfs yelling and screaming and running at them so much.
The wolfs got scared and stopped and ran away from the mad man. He saves himself and his horse that he finally found again.
Nathan liked to tell this story, but he might be lying. He told the story many times to many people.
In 1918 in the New York Tribute quotes a woman who asks how he won so many of his battles. She said he said, I “git thar fustest with the mostest.” The New York Time quotes he said, “Ma’am, I got there first with the most men.”
I do not know if Nathan’s wolf story is true or a lie. I do not know if the woman told a lie about how he said he won, or if Nathan told a truth about winning.
Mr. Hitler in Germany in 1925 wrote his book Mine Kampf and wrote, “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”
But Mr. Vladimir Linen in Russia in 1924 wrote, “A lie told often enough becomes the truth.”
Both Misters are writing the same thing, but in different words. I do not know if Mr. Hitler was lying or was Mr. Linen.
In conclusion I learned and believe two things. One, yelling and screaming are good weapons if you have no guns or knifes. Two, people like to believe different things and the bigger and different a lie is and the more people hear a lie the more they believe it. Three, if I ever have to tell a lie I will tell a big one and yell and scream until everybody believes it.
“Be a good fella, G., and fetch me some cream.”
Damn sonofabitch, B! thought Gnewt. However, he stood and walked around the tables toward the sideboard.
I was the most powerful politician in Washington (a few lucky shots from the Presidency) and now I’m running cream for this kiss ass–and not even for him. B wants to pass it over to K. What a suck up he is. I remember when B would run down the halls of Congress like a coonhound just to chat with me about an upcoming bill.
Today, the only other thing B’s condescended to say to me all through lunch was, “See you finally made it up to the big boy’s table, G.”
And all this crap about initials. They’re all a bunch of frat boy with coded names and handshakes. Hell, this place is probably safer from bugs than NSA headquarters. Anyway, who could miss or mistake B’s Jersey-Jew dialect with his affected “southern accent.”
When Gnewt reached the sideboard, he picked up a small, Sterling silver pitcher of cream from the Sterling silver tray of crushed ice. He looked at the desserts, invitingly displayed for the taking. He hesitated a moment, having already had one slice of chocolate cream pie.
Why not? Who’m I trying to impress? Two more won’t raise my blood pressure that much.
Gnewt managed to partially stack and grip two dessert plates of pie in his other hand. Turning back, he had a clear view of the room, the tables, and the movers and shakers.
You have to admire the efficiency . . . and the damned symbolism.
Two-storied, hand-carved, wooden statues of six Greek Titans supported beams of the gold-plated, coffered ceiling above the parquet floor of the banquet hall. Old, original, and fully-restored tapestries depicting the courts of Louis XIV, Henry VIII, and Alexander the Great hung on three of the wainscoted, rosewood walls. A modern tapestry depicting the Capitol, White House, and Supreme Court hung on the wall nearest the only door. Three massive, crystal chandeliers were evenly spaced along the center length of the hall. Only the central chandelier was lighted.
Beneath that chandelier, curved segments comprised two crescent-shaped tables, their horns facing each other, but with both ends separated. Diners sat on the outside edge of each crescent while waiters moved freely in the open, central space. At one end, between one pair of horns, sat a table with three chairs. The other end had a small table set for one.
As Gnewt walked back to his seat, he glanced at the faces of the diners sitting around the tables.
They can spout all the crap they want about a government of the People, by the People, and for the People. But the one-percenters in this room are the power brokers who completely run the markets, industry, military, and government of the entire damned country–lock, stock, and us in the barrel. One of these guys farts and every man, woman, child and pet poodle in the country gets a nose full of ass stink. Eisenhower warned about a military-industrial complex having too much control in government. If Ike could see the financial snakeheads of the hydra in this room and their control of the whole world, he’d shit.
But I’ll give’m this: They sure knew how to stuff the money up my ass when they wanted things changed or stopped.
Sad, but even if I had spent more . . . more, hell, all my time milking connections, I could still never afford a seat into this clique. When I had the power, I couldn’t be here–“Culpable Deniability” and all. Now that I’m not in power, they have no need of me. So today, I’m fetching cream for the bastards.
Still . . . Petey invited me here for something. I just have to figure out what and then leverage his need to my advantage.
As Gnewt passed the table for three, Petey looked up and nodded, but then returned to talking furtively with some Young Turk.
Shit! I really didn’t think about Petey seeing me carrying two desserts.
As Gnewt walked toward his seat, he cast one quick glance toward the table for one–“The Chairman.” The Chairman, with well styled silvery hair, looked to be in his energetic and early sixties.
Probably in his seventies. But a well nip-n-tucked face, a Kiton suit (fifty grand if it’s dime), monogrammed shirt, and a hand-rolled silk tie will make any man look good. I’ll bet his shoes cost more than my house.
Gnewt remembered seeing the one-assigned waiter set down The Chairman’s lunch–a plate with a small filet of white fish and a few greens. That same waiter kept replacing the goblet (always with a single, fresh ice cube and always only half full) of sparkling mineral water. No dessert was served.
Gnewt thought about his own lunch–a ten-ounce sirloin, baked potato slathered in butter and sour cream, and two Scotches (neat).
About six feet behind The Chairman, Gnewt could see a row of five chairs, seating five young men working busily on laptops. At various times, one or another would walk up to The Chairman’s side, bend and whisper with him, nod, and then return to his seat. Occasionally, Gnewt noticed (as did everyone in the room) The Chairman slightly raise his hand. Immediately, one of the five was bent nodding at his side and then returning to his seat to carry out some surreptitious deal.
What he does, or what exactly he controls, I have never been able to find out . . . not fully. I’d give my eyeteeth to know . . . but if I did, he’d probably have me killed.
Gnewt reached his seat, but hesitated. He then walked behind B and stopped to the left of K. Gnewt reached over and set the pitcher of cream on the table in front of K. When the surprised man looked up, Gnewt smiled and nodded. Then he walked to the left of B, reached around and set one dessert plate of rich, chocolate-cream pie in front of him. Gnewt smiled at B whose face flushed furiously. Gnewt returned to his own seat, sat, and commenced to enjoy his slice of pie.
The room was quiet for a moment before returning to hushed chatter.
Take that, Mister B for butt-hole! I might have breached their damned protocol, but the looks on both their faces made it worth it. And every one of these high and mighty, damned bastards will remember the breach . . . and me.
Gnewt saw the stealthy looks and gossip going on in the hall. He held his head high and smiled as he relished another bite of sweet, chocolate pie. He was so busy smiling back at the gawkers that he failed to notice the waiters who were quickly clearing away dishes. Gnewt was bringing another fork of pie up to his mouth when the waiter reached for the plate. Gnewt put his hand out to stop him. The waiter looked toward the table of three, as did Gnewt. Petey gave a frown. Before Gnewt could do anything, both the plate of barely eaten pie and even the fork in his hand were whisked away.
What the hell? I was still eating that! Who does Petey think he is?
Gnewt glared at Petey, who resumed discussing something with someone.
Within one minute, every dish and utensil and every waiter were gone from the room. An extremely muscled man in a tuxedo closed the heavy, double doors with an echoing thud, placed a chair before them, and heavily sat down.
At “Mr. Chairman,” the room fell silent. “Thank you for inviting us to lunch,” continued Petey.
Dolfy said nothing. He didn’t turn around to face Teddy. He didn’t rub the edge of his stinging ear which Teddy had just flicked, again. He only watched the teacher reading from the poetry book.
“Red-headed bastard!” whispered Teddy a few seconds later. Again he flicked Dolfy’s ear and immediately returned his palm (face down) onto the desk. He too watched the teacher.
As the teacher droned on about types of sonnets, Teddy repeatedly flicked Dolfy’s ear and whispered, “Red-headed step child” or “Red-headed milkman’s kid.”
“Whereas,” said the teacher, “the Italian sonnet has a different rhyme scheme.” Walking to the blackboard, she said, “Like this . . . ,” and turned to write.
Instantly, Dolfy jerked around in his seat and stabbed a yellow pencil into the back of Teddy’s flat hand on the desk.
Teddy squealed like a stuck pig.
As Dolfy was quickly turning back, he caught sight of Eddie across the aisle, staring at him with incredibly wide eyes and mouth. For an instant, Dolfy glared at the boy. Promptly, they both faced front.
Teddy jumped up and pulled the pencil from his hand; blood streamed out. “You damned bastard!” he blurted.
“Theodore, what are you doing?”
“I’ll get you for this, you puny prick!” yelled Teddy.
“Theodore!” snapped the teacher. “What did you say?” Long pointer firmly in hand, she stormed down the aisle.
Still glaring at Dolfy, Teddy answered, “I said I’d get the puny prick.”
“We will not have vulgar talk in our classroom. Apologize to the class, Theodore. Now!”
“But he . . .” Teddy started to protest, but then said, “I’m sorry I called Dolfy a puny prick. He’s really a bastard.”
“Theodore!” snapped the teacher again.
“Bastard ain’t a swear word. Mr. McCuen said ‘William the Bastard’ was the title for the Duke of Normandy.”
“There may be a bastard in Mr. McCuen’s class, but there shall not be one in mine.” She saw the blood. “Why is your hand bleeding?”
“Because this . . . red-headed milkman’s soured cream–”
The boys erupted into laughter. The teacher smacked her pointer on Teddy’s desk. The laughter stopped, but not the muffle giggling.
“Stabbed me with his pencil,” continued Teddy.
“Dolfy?” she said, “Is this true?”
“No, Mrs. Gerstein,” said Dolfy, quite politely.
“It sure the hell is! Here’s his damned pencil with my blood on it.”
“ Dolfy?” rebuked the teacher.
“Theodore is lying, Mrs. Gerstein. This is my pencil.” Dolfy pointed to the groove at the front of his desk holding a #2 yellow pencil. “Theodore is holding his own pencil–”
“Like hell it is!”
“Theodore! Watch your–”
“See, Mrs. Gerstein, you can tell it’s his pencil by all the chew marks in the middle. You chew all your pencils, don’t you, Theodore?”
“Isn’t that your pencil on the floor?” said Dolfy, pointing.
“Yes,” yelled Teddy. He bent down, snatched up the pencil, and began waving it at Mrs. Gerstein. “See, I couldn’t have stabbed myself. Here’s my pencil.”
“With your chew marks on it?”
“Yes– No! Wait . . . Why would I stab myself?”
“To get me into trouble,” Dolfy said with a weak smile. “Theodore lied about chewing his pencils, didn’t he, Mrs. Gerstein? He’s lying about stabbing himself. You stabbed yourself, didn’t you, Theodore?”
“Quit calling me Theodore, you puny prick.”
“Fat Eddie must have seen him stab me,” said Teddy, pointing at the boy.
“Theodore! Apologize to Edward for–”
“Eddie, you did not see me stab,” Dolfy shook his head ever so slightly as he glared at Eddie, “actually see me stab . . . Theodore did you?”
Eddie’s bulged eyes and opened mouth doubled the size of his face. Unable to speak, he began mimicking Dolfy’s shaking head.
“See, Mrs. Gerstein, Eddie didn’t see me stab Theodore. So Theodore must have stabbed himself. He lied again.” Dolfy sadly shook his head. “Theodore’s always lying, Mrs. Gerstein. Ask anyone.” Dolfy looked at Eddie, nodding. “Don’t we all call him ‘Lying Teddy’?”
Wide eyed and opened mouth, Eddie panicked; again he mimicked Dolfy’s nodding.
Dolfy turned to the class. “Lying Teddy. Lying Teddy,” he chanted, nodding in rhythm.
A few of Teddy’s past bullied boys picked up the chant and nodding. Soon most of the class was chanting and nodding. “Lying Teddy. Lying Teddy.”
“Theodore, go to the medical office and get your hand examined,” ordered Mrs. Gerstein.
Teddy grumbled as he picked up his books and headed out. As he passed Dolfy’s desk, he muttered, “You’re dead meat after school.”
“Theodore! Both of you report to Head Master Roundtree’s office at 2:30 . . . precisely! And Theodore . . .”
Teddy stopped, at the door.
“No more lying!” she said.
Teddy glared at Dolfy.
Dolfy smiled, quite politely.
“Gentlemen, let’s quickly update some previous business,” said Petey.
Legal pads, note pads, but only a couple of electronic pads quickly appeared.
I’m surprised so many of these financial geniuses are still in the pen-and-paper ages, thought Gnewt. You’d think they’d all be so high tech.
“Boper,” continued Petey, “have you managed to convince the STB’s spouses to ‘pillow talk’ up the merger?”
Blah, blah, blaaahhh, thought Gnewt. The underbelly of power-brokerage is great for Wall Streeters and investigative journalists, but it is sooo boring. This’ll be as bad as House Committee meeting. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blaaahhh.
“Thank you, both. Gentlemen, mark your calendars for trading the stock. And remember, please: trade only on your days and only the amounts you have agreed upon. We do not need another red flag with the SEC. Now to . . .” Petey shuffled his notes, “today’s main agenda. We are starting early on The Party’s slate of potential, primary candidates.”
After a moment, Gnewt patted his pockets for something to write on. All he could find was a golf pencil and a bar tab.
Shit! I should’ave thought about this. I really wasn’t expecting Petey to bring me here for lunch. OK. Made my way through Congress faking it. I can fake it here.
Gnewt leaned back in his chair (attempting to look relaxed), nodded occasionally, smiled knowingly, and infrequently doodled nonsense on the bar tab.
“So, who do you feel are our best options?” posed Petey. Hands slightly raised around the tables. “W?”
“Jeb is our only logical choice, gentlemen. He looks presidential. He comes across to people as a nice guy. And he has the Bush family name.”
Polite disagreements (in the form of negative grunts or as affirmative hand pats on the table) went around the room. A few members commented pro or con.
“Rick Santorum,” said F, starting to stand, “has strong– Shut the hell up!” F snapped at the vocal hecklers. “Santorum has strong backing from Evangelical Christian Conservatives–our biggest block of supporters.”
“If we don’t want to lose all the faith-based voters,” warned V, “we need to offer them a solid, Conservative with solid Christian values.”
“Didn’t help Romney!” quipped someone. A good number of hand pats went round.
“God will get you; and then God help you.” F sat down and glowered amid chuckles.
Hell. This might be more interesting than I thought. There’s no C-Span to keep these moguls civil.
“Gentlemen! Let us stay on target,” Petey tried quieting the room, but the men were arguing loudly across tables. “OK, how about Ben Carson?” he said loudly enough to be heard.
The room went silent.
Then a roar of laughter rose from all, along with shouts.
“Good one, Petey.” “Like we’d ever support a jigaboo in the White House.”
“It’s called White House for a damn good reason.”
As the laughter subsided, Petey recognized D.
“What about Walker?” posed D.
The room offered various, but indecisive “Awe’s.”
R offered, “Cruz is a bulldog.”
“Don’t you mean Blob Fish?”
Laughter filled the hall.
Even R smiled at the memory of the photo, but then regained his poise. “He has the drive to follow through.”
“He’s the most despised Senator on the Hill–by our side most of all,” stated J.
“Even if we elected him fuehrer, no one would follow him out of a burning building.”
“No, but if his pants caught on fire in the Capitol Rotunda, both Houses would gladly come to piss on him.”
Laughter and hand pats resounded in the hall.
“Kale?” recognized Petey.
“Christy has plenty of the experience and the guts to–”
“Christie’s definitely got guts,” shouted one, patting his distended belly.
“He’s the stereotype of the fat, greasy politician,” shouted another.
“He only got appointed to the U.S. Attorney’s job because he had his nose up Georgie Boy’s ass.”
Plenty of hand pats, but only a few vocal Christie supporters.
“How about Rand?” offered Petey?
“Egghead. Egghead,” came a laughing chorus.
“We seriously need to consider Rubio,” said S, standing to be seen.
S was short, fat, and resembled a Shar-Pei. However, when S spoke, people listened. His founding of the Las Vegas Grit Syndicate in Eden Garden, made him a billionaire. His ruthless management gave him more than mere influence over the entire Vegas strip. But his alleged connections with the underworld, whether true or not, sparked hesitancy (if not downright fear) in opposing him.
“He’s a spic, true,” continued S., “but that will bring in the brown vote . . . as well as the black, red, yellow, even green or any other non-white color. He has youth, looks, and charisma. So what more could people ask?”
“Experience!” said Jewel, not bothering to stand.
“He served in the Florida House and the U.S. Senate,” countered S. “So what more do ye want?”
“Legislating!” sneered Dak, “That’s the only experience that Chihuahua’s had–legislating.”
His remark drew several boo’s but an equal number of hand pats.
Dak stood. “We need someone in the White House who has management experience. Someone who can lead, lead a crusade for smaller government and freedom from all the OSHA and environmental bureaucrats who are squeezing our balls off.”
Dak’s remarks roused a series of hand pats, negative boos and hisses, and affirming expletives.
Willdo tried to speak above the ruckus, “If we don’t elect a President with an understanding of business . . . we might as well hand over the entire oil industry to the sand fleas.”
This time, they all supported Willdo with an actual round of applause.
“Here, here!” cheered Stand, standing for emphasis. “That’s why I support a once in a generation leader like Christie–”
The room erupted.
“A fat cow.” “Gives politicians a sleazy name.”
“Ethics of a corkscrew.”
This is more exciting than I expected, thought Gnewt with a smile.
W jumped into the fray. “That’s why Bush is ideal–” He raised his hand against the tirade. “He showed great leadership with the T. C. Bank, and his management with Codina Group has made him an acceptable sum of money in real estate.”
“Get off Georgie’s nag!” yelled P. “You only support Bush because you’ve still got that stupid hard on against Christie. Get over it!”
Catty. Bitchy. Malicious. Down right libelous. Half of Congress . . . Hell, half the politicians in the country . . . Shit, half the country would give their right nut to be able to say these things openly, like these guys. But not one would be stupid enough to say it before a hot mike.
“Which leads me back to Rubio . . .” S tried speaking above the roar.
Everyone looked at Pally who stood for the first time. The fracas diminished.
“But not necessarily for President.”
Pally is definitely skilled at catching people’s attention . . . and confidential stock info.
“We need a businessman at the helm,” Pally continued in an even and calm manner, “someone who has fought–hard and vocally–against the same battles with bloated government and environmental busybodies as we have. We need a man of charisma who can grab the attention of the powerful as well as the voiceless-but-grumbling masses. . . .”
“We’re not playing mystery guest here, Pally. Get to it!”
Pally smiled. “Dolfy Tru–”
An uproar of belly laughs and applause went up.
“Good one, Pally.” “Joke Master of the Day.”
“The boys at the club will love that one.”
Hand pats drowned out the rest of the comments. However, Pally’ demeanor did not change.
The riotous levity in the room fell off, but was rapidly replaced with a surge of angry invectives and denunciations.
“Are you insane?” “He’s an ego maniac!” “He’s a schwanz!”
Pally’s not usually the type to commit suicide in public.
“Yes, he is,” Pally agreed, “but . . . did any of you ever watch his television show?”
“Public filth.” “Meth for the mindless masses.”
“He’s a power-hungry bully.” “A publicity hound.”
“That he is,” said Pally. “But the show was popular with those who feel . . . weak.”
“Weak minded” brought hand pats and laughter.
“Dolfy’s ‘You’re fired,’ became the rallying cry for the weak.”
“Nonsense.” “He was every viewer’s despised boss or supervisor.”
“He was everything they aren’t.” “They hated the rich bastard.”
“The arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Wrong!” Pally slammed his hand on the table.
The room silenced in surprise.
“Yes, they hated him, but–more to our critical point–they envied him.”
“Impossible!” “Trumpf’s a billionaire.” “He represents everything they aren’t.” “Everything they’ll never be.”
“Wrong!” Pally changed and spoke softly. “He represents . . .”
Everyone in the room quieted in order to hear him.
“Everything they want . . . to be.” Pally paused to let that idea sink in. “They want to bully people. They want to abuse others. They want to be able to say the most outrageous and politically incorrect things to anyone without fear of consequences. In short, they want to be him.” He paused to let that idea sink in. “Or, at least, they want to be associated with him.
“Henry Kissinger used to say that power was a natural aphrodisiac–and he should know. Some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen hung all over him.”
“Is that how you got your wife?”
Laughter went around the room.
“That’s right. . . . That and my big, really really big . . . hedge fund.”
The room burst into lascivious laughter.
“Men are also attracted to power.”
All eyes turned in the same direction.
“Is that right, Petey?” “How big’s your hedge fund?”
When the double-edged laughter diminished, Pally went on.
“Women, who hang around powerful men, feel more powerful themselves. They can say, ‘Look whom I snared.’
“Men are attracted to power for that same reason. The television show Entourage was a perfect example.”
Oh . . . That damned, cool bastard is leading them by the nose.
“Men . . . and women too . . . who feel weak, feel impotent, feel put down by college and high-school or even GED grads whom they can blame for their own failings.
“Who feel displaced by hoards of foreigners who take their jobs–even if they wouldn’t take those hard or menial jobs on a bet.
“Who feel that our nation and our politicians have used and abused them and then left them abandoned and forgotten on the garbage heap of society.
“Those people feel helpless and oppressed by the whole world.
“They mumble. They grumble. They rail against their perceived oppressors. Some even take up bricks and gasoline in a futile attempt to let off steam at ‘The Man.” But they feel unheard. And no one seems to want to hear them.
“But those forgotten, oppressed, and abandoned men do not want to pull themselves up from wallowing in their muck. No. They want to be pulled out of the muck, pulled out by someone else, someone who hears them and who offers them his coattails to hold onto as he climbs toward a greater America.”
I’ll be damned. His idea’s like an earwig. I can almost see it wiggling into everyone’s brain.
“Dolfy says aloud what (probably the majority of) people in this country feel–hopelessness. But they are too inarticulate . . . or weak . . . or gutless to say it.”
Many voiced (though less fervently) their still, tightly gripped resistance.
“He’s crude!” “Vulgar!”
“Obscene!” “A bully!”
“I agree; he is all of those things, but . . .” said Pally with a wily, Cheshire-like smile, “so are most of his under-educated, under-achieving, and under-served followers–under served by us, by our Party, by our whole country. When people are wallowing in hopelessness, and are ravenous for a way out, they will follow any leader down any path to any exit.”
“That’s the point, Pally. His followers are like mindless, wretched, deplorable sheep.”
“You are perfectly correct. That is the point, . . . and you are all missing it.”
Pally carefully looked around the room to make everyone felt as if he were looking directly into their eyes.
Pally continued to spin and weave his argument.
“And those mindless, wretched, hopeless-feeling sheep will willingly, eagerly, and enthusiastically follow a leader, any leader–be it Jesus or a Judas Goat wrapped in the bloody skin of the Lamb–right up the ramp to the slaughter house . . . or into the voting booths.”
Pally could sell a case of Perrier to a drowning man.
“But he violates Regan’s prime dictate: Never speak ill of a fellow Party member.”
Again a chorus of holdouts rose up.
“He calls Jeb ignorant.” “And ‘Lyin’ Ted.’” “And ‘Little Marco.’”
“He’s bad for The Party’s image.” “He’s ripping The Party apart!”
“Does The Party want eight years . . . Hell! four years . . . of a President Trumpf?”
“He’d never get elected.” “He can’t even make a coherent speech.”
“Only losers would vote for him.” “How are we going to control him?”
“He’s the very definition of ‘loose cannon.”
“As much as I loathe The Clit, I have to agree: Do we really want his little finger wavering over the nuclear, red button?”
A riot was starting.
Petey interrupted their clamoring with, “Yes, Mr. Chairman?”
The room went silent.
Head Master Roundtree silently read Mrs. Gerstein’s report as Teddy and Dolfy stood hushed before his desk. At last, he looked up.
“The class witnesses, the chewed pencils, and Mrs. Gerstein’s observations all indicate that you stabbed yoursel–
“I am not finished! And do not clinch your jaws at me, Master Ted!
“ . . . All indicate that you stabbed yourself.
“I have also heard the reports of your bullying the younger students. I am merely surprised that someone has not . . . how shall I say, ‘taken you to task’ long before now.
“Wipe that smirk from your face, Master Dolf!
“Nor do I accept Mrs. Gerstein’s judgment that ‘Master Dolf is without fault.’ Certainly not based on my quite unpleasant experiences with you these past few months.
“At Kew Forest, a sneak attack is dishonorable. Your trickery with the pencils was guileful, not cleaver. Likewise, I doubt that Master Ted is known as ‘Lying Teddy’ around the school. If he were, I would know of it.
“Shut up! When I want your opinion, Master Ted, I shall . . . ask.”
Fifteen ticks from the grandfather clock marked time in the otherwise silent room.
“From my years of experience, where there is smoke, there is usually a student with matches. And I detest liars as much as I do bullies.”
Again the clock ticked away.
“Therefore, you shall both receive three swats– Shut!– Stand next to each other and assume the position.
“This revered paddle, with our school’s motto ‘AD SVMMVM’ burned into its wood, has moved many a student toward excellence. Let’s hope this is the last time it needs to so motivate either of you.”
“You’re dead meat, Dolfy.”
“Five swats . . . each! Would you two ‘rambunctious’ students like to try for an even dozen . . . each?”
After school, behind the bleachers, a crowd of students (boys and girls) had gathered encircling Teddy and Dolfy.
Teddy was playing to the swarm of buzzing hornets jeering Dolfy. Teddy cast aspersions against his rival’s small stature, small fingers, parental infidelities, and “orange” hair. His boosters cheered him on. Some girls smiled and flirted at the more muscled favorite.
Dolfy stood in one place and watched Teddy swagger back and forth in the circle.
“Are you ready to have your face rearranged?” mocked Teddy, facing his smaller opponent for the first time.
“Do it!” yelled Dolfy. “Hit me! Grab me! Push me! Just lay a finger on me, damn it, so I can defend myself by beating the hell out of you.”
Teddy and his boosters laughed and hooted.
Dolfy tore off his tie and threw it in the dirt.
The boosters stopped buzzing. They had never seen, there had never been, a Kew Forest tie touch the dirt.
Teddy’s chest was still puffed. His fists were on his hips to broaden his shoulders. His chin was shoved forward to contort his face into a grotesque scowl. Now he stopped. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to hit me so I can defend myself by jumping on you like a Jew on dime.” Pulling off his blazer, he threw it on the ground.
The crowd gasped.
Dolfy ripped open his shirt. A few buttons flew off. His partially bare, skinny, white chest had no muscle or hair, yet Dolfy was thumping on it and jumping around like a monkey. “Come on, you bullying sonofabitch, hit me!” he screamed.
The circle grew thinner as the students stepped back.
“You’re crazy, kid,” laughed Teddy. “I’m gonna knock the crap outa ye.”
“Yes! Yes! Come on and hit me!” screamed Dolfy louder. “Hit me in front of all your buddies and bitches. Make sure they see you hit me so I can call them as witnesses.”
The students might have held firm by looking at one another for support, but they were mesmerized by the hairless orangutan jumping around. Their circle began breaking apart.
“Quit standing there, you bloated bully, put your hand on me!” screamed Dolfy at the top of his lungs, flailing his arms, “so I can jump on you, grip you by the throat, and bit your nose off. I’m gonna bit that snotty nose right off your ugly face!”
What had gathered as a large, taunting crowd now dwindled down to clusters of mumbling onlookers. Teddy had visibly grown less imposing, but stood his ground.
Dolfy jumped around and flailed right under Teddy’s nose.
“Hit me! Hit me! I wanna sink my teeth into your snotty nose!”
Teddy punched hard, but missed the fast moving target.
“I wanna bit that snotty nose off. Chew it up! And spit all that snot back in your face!”
Teddy jabbed again and again, but landed only glancing blows on the gyrating boy’s fast flailing arms. A couple of times more he swung furiously, but missed completely.
“Hit me! I wanna bit that snotty nose, chew it up, and spit it back! Then you’ll be ‘No Nose Snot Nose.’ So hit me, ‘NoNose SnotNose.’ Hit me! ”
“Stand still, ye little prick,” said Teddy, lunging and swinging, again and again, but missing. “Get away from me, you crazy bastard!”
Then, in frustration . . . Teddy stepped back.
Dolfy seized the advantage and darted closer. “You gotta hit me, ‘NoNoseSnotNose.’ Come on, hit me! ‘NoNoseSnotNose.’ ‘NoNoseSnotNose,’” he chanted, moving even closer.
Teddy was shaking his head . . . and backing away.
A few of the younger stragglers (both for and against Teddy) started joining the chorus, “NoNoseSnotNose. NoNoseSnotNose.”
Dolfy continued jumping erratically in front of Teddy and screaming his chant, “NoNoseSnotNose! NoNoseSnotNose!”
Flecks of Dolfy’s spittle struck Teddy’s face.
“You’re crazy,” said Teddy. He threw up his hands, turned, and started walking away.
Dolf continued jumping around behind him, on both sides of him, and a couple of times in front of him, forcing Teddy to stop or veer away.
Overwhelmed by Dolfy’s jeering antics, Teddy—relinquishing the field—disappeared around the corner of the building.
Dolfy stopped jumping. He stopped chanting. The stragglers’ chorus waned and faded.
Dolfy turned back around. He saw the stragglers. He didn’t smile, not exactly.
The stragglers would later recall him smirking.
Dolfy did, however, pull himself up, stand straight, and march through the stragglers.
“Dolfy,” said Eddie, “that was . . . wow. Thank you.”
Dolfy stalked toward the boy, stopped within six inches of him, and looked Eddie right in the eye. “You didn’t say ‘No’ to Mrs. Gerstein when I asked if you had seen me stab Teddy.”
Eddie’s eyes widened again; his mouth widened and started sucking like a fish. He could not take his eyes off Dolfy. He couldn’t speak.
“You didn’t support me.” Dolfy watched Eddie suck air. “For one week–no, two weeks, you will do all my assignments in Mrs. Gerstein’s class. You will get me an ‘A’ on each paper,” Dolfy stuck his nose against Eddie’s nose, “or I will bite your pug nose off your fat face.”
Eddie could not breathe; he could only haplessly suck air.
Dolf straightened up. With his arm, he brushed Eddie aside and strode past him.
Without looking back, Dolf called over his shoulder, “Scotty, Billy, clean my tie and blazer for me by tomorrow morning.”
The two fifth graders scrambled to pick up Dolf’s tie and blazer.
Dolf (back straight, shoulders squared) headed toward the exit.
One straggler (a softly plump, fifth-grade girl) had stopped by the exit. She watched him with wide, awed eyes as he strode toward that same exit.
Dolf did not bother to look at her. But as he passed, he roughly gripped and squeezed hard her ripe buttocks.
As he marched off the school grounds, Dolf’s lips curved, became a slight smile, and inflated into a smirk. Then he broke into a cocky grin and swaggered into a great future.
In the stillness of the massive banquet hall, the sound of people’s heartbeats seemed to echo.
“We seem, Gentlemen . . .” said The Chairman in his quiet voice.
Yeah, thought Gnewt, he speaks softly but wields a big stick of billions in available funds, millions of favors owed to him, and pockets crammed with high-ranking politicians around the world.
“To have forgotten The Party’s prime objective.” The Chairman’s voice sounded kindly, but the rebuke was obvious.
A few brave souls ventured answers:
“Repeal Obama Care . . .” “Persuade young voters . . .” “Reduce corporate tax rates . . .” “Provide someone who can attract the Latino vote . . .” “Stop NAFTA . . .”
“Select the best nominee . . .”
All answers seemed to wither under his “benevolent”–icy-cold eyes, yet white-hot–stare.
“Control the White House. Remember?” he reproached.
That seems a bit too obvious, too simplistic, too much of an end rather than a plan of action, yet . . .
No one voiced objection.
“Mr. Chairman,” offered Boper, almost apologetically, as he stood in deference. “We can definitely control Bush and probably Rubio. Cruz, however, has alienated so many in Congress–on both sides of the aisle–that they may fight him over everything he might propose.”
“Our Congressmen,” The Chairman said, “will do what we pay them to do.”
That ol’ bastard! He says so matter-of-factly what every man in the room knows well enough, but none would have voiced aloud, not even in here.
“Mr. Pally poses interesting considerations.” The Chairman nodded slightly to Pally.
Well, that was high praise to him. What about the others?
An uncomfortable quiet settled over everyone else.
“Mr. Chairman,” asked Petey, standing, “I think I speak for most in this room, when I ask whether The Party can survive four years of Trumpf’s antics?”
An audible gasp went around the tables.
Whoa! Petey’s youth and inexperience with this group might excuse some audacity. But questioning The Chairman’s opinion? He just stepped in a big pile of it.
“Or the country?” offered The Chairman, “Or even the world? Not with Mr. Trumpf’s tiny, tweeting finger trifling with the red button?”
Not a soul in here is taking a breath, not even Petey. He’s about to get a new one ripped.
“For someone of Mr. Trumpf’s choleric temperament,” said The Chairman, “such . . . aggressive campaigning for the Presidency might prove too stressful for his health. He might not survive actually being in the Oval Office.”
“I thought his doctor said Trumpf is healthy as a horse?” someone accidentally said aloud.
“At least as one end of a horse,” wisecracked another.
Nervous tittering bounced around the hall.
“Which means, Gentlemen, our prime concern should not be the nominee for President, but rather who should be his running mate.” The Chairman’s statement was delivered with detached expediency.
I just felt the temperature in here drop by thirty degrees.
“Mr. Chairman, you’re not suggesting . . .”
“I am not ‘suggesting’ anything, Mr. Petey. I am merely stating the obvious. His Vice President would ascend to the position if a President Trumpf were to succumb to . . . a fatal condition . . . or any other variety of unexpected events.”
“Like an assassination?” came barely audibly, almost inadvertently, from someone thinking aloud.
I don’t know who said that, and I don’t see anyone looking for the one who did. A ticking bomb couldn’t cause more tension in here.
“Gentlemen, the sad facts are that eight U.S. Presidents have died in office. Four from natural causes, apparently. Four by misguided individuals. Similar events could certainly befall our next President.”
From somewhere came a faint “Possibly from a Muslim terrorist?”
A few nods, furtive smiles, and soft hand pats eased the tension slightly.
“A Nigerian Muslim terrorist might be better” was quickly followed by a few isolated sniggers.
Someone added, “A Nigerian, Muslim terrorist using a Russian sniper rifle would certainly unite the country.” Quite a few chuckles went around the hall.
When one wag quipped a little too loudly, “An Islamic, Nigerian dyke from Korea wielding a Chinese supplied AK 47 would solve a hellofa lot of our problems.”
The hall was charged with laugher, removing everyone’s tension.
Even The Chairman seemed to smile. “Nothing is impossible.” A slight beckon of his hand summoned one of the five behind him who bent, nodded, and noted something on his computer.
Gnewt mentally pictured The Chairman. All he needs is to be stroking a cat . . . or tiger . . . or a rattlesnake.
“Therefore, Gentlemen, perhaps we should let the People pick the candidate they are most willing to follow into the voting booths. While we might better spend our time carefully selecting the nominee’s running mate.”
“Doesn’t the nominee want to select his own running mate?”
“Usually,” said Pally, “but what any nominee wants more is to accept a running mate we . . . The Party, of course–are willing to back, financially.”
Pally’s remark gained an overt round of applause.
“So, gentlemen,” said Petey, “we are agreed. Bet your mad money on the horse of your choice to win–be it the Bush Brothers, Teddy and the Cruisers, or Dolfy and his Trumpfistas. But begin thinking of our best choice for weighting The Party ticket with our best VP. Meeting adjourned.”
While waiting for Petey to conclude business, Gnewt sat quietly amid all the bustle of chairs scraping, the glad handing, and the joviality as the men mingled or made for the door. He observed. He mused. Gradually his attention became drawn to a small group quietly talking in a far, dim corner of the hall.
Politics makes strange bedfellows indeed. In my day, when everyone bought a five-thousand-dollar plate of dry chicken at a fund raiser, everyone could tell the power brokers by their Bishop’s purple or Cardinal red. Those were the money changers who sat close enough to whisper in the left ear of God. These days, five hundred K will buy the same plate of dry chicken, but you’ll need a copy of Forbes 400 to tell the rapacious financiers from the religious fanatics.
A man motivated by greed I can trust. But I can’t trust one motivated by religion . . . not any farther than I can piss. He’ll lie, cheat, and steal in the name of his god, then sacrifice anyone and everyone to eternal hell just to pad his own afterlife.
And those bedfellows, whoring together in that dark corner, make stranger ones yet.
Rabid hawks for Israel, Mormon Illuminati, and reactionary Christians all gathered together in one shadowy corner? They should be at one another’s throats (or stabbing one another in the back), but there they consort, circling like vultures over the imminent carcass of ‘a Red Heifer.’
Fifth-column Zionists want control of their hereditary property, especially Jerusalem—and specifically the Temple Mount, so they can rebuild it . . . and probably start sacrificing doves and bulls again. Right-wing Christians want to usher in the thousand years of “God’s peace,” even if they have to bring about the Armageddon to prove their prophecies. And the Mormon Brotherhood wants . . . ? It has its own, veiled agenda. World domination? Possibly. Maybe they think Mormons and their many wives will rule what’s left of the earth during the millennia. Who knows?
But I’ll bet my already-damned soul that that cabal conspiring over there will finagle an arch-conservative–not Jewish (too soon); not Mormon (tried and failed); quite probably an Evangelical Christian who professes devotion to God first and country second–to be The Party’s Vice-President nominee.
To be continued . . .
Watch for upcoming additions to Mein Trumpf.
Two separate tales unfold and intertwine. First, we learn how writing a school essay on "Leaders and Liars" induces a young boy to confront a school bully, with adverse results. Second, we come face to face with the underbelly of present-day politics where clandestine capitalism and cabals manipulate American elections. This cautionary, allegorical tale exposes the muck underlying U.S. politics—intrigue, profits, power, and possibly murder.