Just a whimsical quickie for the few who appreciated my last oxymoronic non sequitur...
(All fiction. Never knew anyone like these characters. All countries described are fictional. Surely you can't believe a constitutional republic called the United States of America ever existed. No one with flickering intelligence would bother imagining the extant 21st Century London. All sex objects are at least 18, even the whore pretending to be an intern. Perhaps this is better described as a paean to routed, rattled and reeling white men wherever they are. Never let them sine die you, Dr. Savage.)
PROLOGUE
NO JURISDICTION,
RULED JUDGE JEANINE
Judges are not supposed to be called cute.
Most 21st Century judges would hold such an admirer in contempt. Having inferential carnal knowledge of a judge must violate some law.
As she dismissed my murder case, however, Judge Jeanine was celestially beautiful. Understandably, all of the government lawyers, FBI agents and CIA spooks disagreed.
Without a doubt, I owed her my heart felt apologies. I had maligned her when I had stuck pins in her feminist image before the opening day of my murder trial.
Within five minutes of the "Hear, Ye, Hear Ye," Judge Jeanine had dismissed my case.
If I had heard the judge with any degree of auditory efficiency, I had just gotten away with alleged multiple murders. At least in the eyes of eight angry prosecutors and 69 FBI agents, I had committed deeds of savagery only a conservative senator could conceive.
These bitter haters of conservative senators had charged me with a toilet full of heinous crimes. In the words of their indictments, I had brutally murdered three Americans, including my wife and sister, and attempted to murder a moon rocket full of foreign nationals who were fecunding my wife and sister.
Only one problem plagued their case. My alleged crimes had been committed in a dense jungle somewhere in a region encompassing Nigeria and seven other African countries.
"What were these white people doing in a jungle clearing in darkest Africa?" the Judge had asked rhetorically before reading her astounding, unanticipated decision.
Then, too, the fevered officers of the court had no corpus delicti, no witnesses and no confession. They also had a sensory deficit when it came to any sense of humor.
But Judge Jeanine sparkled as she rapped her gavel in her courtroom not too far from the Jefferson Memorial. She most certainly was snickering.
Apparently she had reviewed some of the more titillating features of my deposition. My pulling the wings off some important people on The Hill must have interested her.
"I have no jurisdiction in Nigeria or Chad or Moondanistan," Judge Jeanine had ruled. "And the prosecutors can't even be sure when or where the murders were committed or where the defendant was when the murders were committed."
Now, for the rest of the story...
*****
OF "CAPTAIN WIMPY'S BONG
AND THE QUEENS OF COMMERCE
"Captain Wimpy" Sixuus was soaring above San Francisco Bay again. Sucking increments of hemp induced psychoses from his office bong usually began much later in the day.
Wimpy had failed to take Dr. Morgan Bancroft's calls, triggering a crisis for his personal assistant. Niger Bantu furiously massaged Wimpy's arms and legs and dunked his head in ice water.
Keeping the diminutive gangster's lawyer sufficiently cogent to talk to hired facilitators like Dr. Morgan Bancroft was the PA's only reason for being. Wimpy, however, drifted in rainbow contentment.
"His blood pressure dropped, Morgan, and a can't get the bong tube from between his teeth," howled Niger Bantu. "He's dead for sure this time, rigor mortised for sure."
Niger's cell phone dropped into the ice bucket. She swore in Swahili as she fished it out of the crushed ice. Essentially, she screamed that she was going back school to get her PA certification.
"There's no such thing as a Prostitute's Assistant, Niger," Dr. Morgan Bancroft sighed in abject incredulity. "Niger! Is your phone still working?"
Tears of frustration streamed down Niger's ebony cheeks. She had begun to pummel Wimpy's torso mercilessly with her fists.
"I'll mutilate this little creep if he dies," she hissed. "I need this job 'til I can buy a ticket to go back to Portland."
"Your little creep is not dead, Niger," Morgan Bancroft said wearily. "Can you see his balls?"
"They right here on the edge of his chair in plain sight," responded Niger, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "So what?"
"Stomp his balls!" Dr. Morgan Bancroft rasped.
Wimpy screamed.
Knowing Dr. Morgan Bancroft, banker extraordinaire, is to never forget her.
Incredible in the extreme, this magnificent specimen of 21st Century feminine pragmatism had called Wimpy Sixuus from the bedroom of her company provided Gulfstream 650. As the sleek craft touched down at Dubai's Al Maktoum Airport, she howled in the throes of "la petite mort."
"La petite mort?" Yes! I am told that French women actually die for an interval of time when orgasming, so potent are French men. Yes! "La petite mort!"
At least that is what Khan, the Arab Stud with the Oxford degree, called the orgasmic culmination of his fervidly executed coitus. In a deposition, he said that his sexual prowess always produced "an unconscious ecstasy only comparable to a small moment of death."
Determined as she might be, Morgan had found that she could not talk business and orgasm at the same time. Obviously my wife had not achieved Super Woman perfection, but she was working on it.
For the moment, Morgan's cell phone connection with Niger Bantu and the Golden Gate gangster's lawyer had been lost.
In the process of orgasming as the Gulfstream 650 touched down at Dubai, Morgan involuntarily had flung her cell phone into the aircraft's salon, striking her sister-in-law upside the head. Connie, my sister, had become my wife's companion, confidante and alter ego.
Connie had been concentrating on applying her makeup while chatting with Dr. Helga Seinfeld, a sublevel minister in the German Ministry of Economic Influence who traveled with Khan.
Both Connie and Helga dropped to the deck defensively aafter the cell phone missile slammed Connie upside the head. As if by magic, ugly pistols had materialized in the fists of both women.
Oh! To be sure, Connie did much more than write checks and make restaurant and theater reservations. Her whore accounts bulged with verification of her virtuoso status.
My point in this descriptive foray lay in the fact that my wife and her protégé-assistant, my sister Connie, were whore bankers without borders. Attending their business on The Pacific Rim while 8000 miles away had posed no logistical problem.
Multitasking on their backs at midnight in the land of The Arabian Nights while taking care of business with The Wimp back at Baghdad by The Bay had become mundane. It twisted my mind to realize that during their hours serving nature's Eros on the tarmac, they would secure a variety of venture capital commitments totaling at least $200 million.
My point? Just this! Pussy power in the 21st Century has no boundaries or limitations, apparently.
While orgasming at touchdown on a runway in North Africa, my wife, a Silicone Century perfecto pussy, interacted by the miracle of the cell with a weasel lawyer in San Francisco who fronted for billionaires. My wife, Dr. Morgan Bancroft, served as the vital action chip in cultivating and growing massive wealth.
Her title, vice president of global initiatives, so benign in the offing, could never convey the importance of the synergies of her brain, pussy and Silicon Valley soul. To many global merchandisers, my wife and sister were the essential reality catalysts. They made it possible for the media serfs to make the bizarre world of sexual calisthenics in a Jetstream bedroom imaginable for millions of sophomore whore trainees.
At any given tick of the grandfather's clock in my office, essentially 100,000 jobs and paychecks could hang precariously upon the effectiveness of a Morganesque orgasm. I would never buffoon about such a vital element in the survival of that which passed for civilization in the 21st Century.
In the estimation of global hedge fund marketeers, my wife and my sister had been sent by Zeus. Their ethereally pretentious conduct of orchestrated climaxes arguably would insure that the Empire of The Quim would continue.
"Bless the outrages of The Bloat" was sung orgasmically at the opening bell of hedge fund Chaos each morn. We dutifully must ding the glorious death dong over the bloody streets of Chicago and San Francisco. We must beat the drum slowly.
From my depreciative perspective, it didn't matter. So what if their sixty-million-pound flying-phallic-symbol had come to rest with soft graciousness on a foreign tarmac 5000 miles from my committee's hearing room in D.C.!
Distance did not make the difference in their Cyber Civilization. My wife and sister would survive as triple threats in the mechanistic universe of the 21st Century, come what may.
They were uncreated sexual atoms always quivering in whore mode.
As I began my narrative, I attempted from the outset to clarify my attitude toward Dr. Morgan Bancroft, my wife most of my adult life. To be sure, by my narrow definitions of core values, she was feces seeking a place to stink.
But I was absolutely certain that her love for me had never ceased. Not that it mattered since I had not seen her during the passage of the past four seasons.
Of course, my acknowledgement was not to say that my assessment of our marital calamity left any leverage for maintaining the marital fictions.
To be sure, I had floated in a stupor of soured resolve far too long. Something had to break, and it did.
