It was a dark and stormy daniels. Except for an occasional lowly hasbeen going out for a quickie, the streets of this city inside of Russia were deserted. Through this darkness two figures, like passenger strangers in the night, slipped in through the door of a popular watering hole known to locals as The RazzPutin. No names were given but the man called himself Boris. She was Nostalgic. They were both in disguise, pretending to be people.
Boris was a mid-legged man with no ethics as would make the Tea Bag Dope scandal seem like a lemonade scam. She was a recent participant in a Missed Humor Verse Contest she hadn’t attended, all broads and no brains, though secretly perspiring to be an Oprah singer. When he wasn’t in Saint Petersburg he hailed from Cleveland; she had never heard of Ohio. The only thing they had in a condom was a healthy respect for fags.
“I’m a goat between,” Boris said, quickly getting to his point. “I have a client whose name shall nuts be nosed, an entrepeniseur who’s had it hard-on of late. He wants to meet you in privates.”
“My client. Are you abhorred of hearing?”
“No. I mean, what’s his name?” Nostalgic asked.
“I can’t tell you. I can only tell you his code name, the Big Apple, because he’s deep in his own pockets. There’s also the fat that he’s a little skanky.”
“You mean he’s an asshole.”
“Appearances aren’t everything. On the bribe side, he’s got a man’s knees, and the last time I checked, being a beauty queen is not a profession. In briefs, can you fit him in?”
What Boris (whose real name had too many syllables) wasn’t saying when he said, “I have a client,” was that he was a Doppler agent speaking out of opposing sides of his mouth. He knew Anguish like the Irish but he also knew Russian like the back of his hams.
“Why me?” she asked.
“I’ve been told you’ve done Pootin.”
“I’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t do in public.”
“Why stop now? If you’ve licked one precident’s balls you can lick a second precident’s balls. My client just wants some of the same action.”
“Your client is a precident?”
“No, but he wants to be. That’s what oil this is about.”
“Yours. No, I mean ours. No, the You Us of A.”
“Your client is Paul Romeo? He’s cute.”
“No. My client actionately hates Paul Romeo. He’s also older, like with illusions of grandma.”
“Chris Crossy? Tad Croopy?”
“Good, Tad Croopy’s kind of creepy. Is it Been Carsick? If he doesn’t open his mouth I think I could do him. At least he’s got a good body.”
“No, it’s not Been Carsick, Rick Sanitorium or Curly Fiorini.”
“Glad to hear that, she’d be kinky. But who is it then? I can’t think of anybody else.”
“Never mind. You might not believe him if you saw him, though my advice is that you take him for cereal. He’s some infantmous as in not to be tricycled with. In any case, you’ll be having the fade of a naysham in your hams.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“$130,000 and you don’t end up in semen boots crammed into Davy Jones’ locker at the bottom of the Moskva River.”
They were to meet undercovers. It played like a scene out of Doctor Know-it-all in the James Bob novels. The Mr. Big Apple thonged of himself as a secreting aging man wanting to be saddlesfied. She was a pretty face and a breathing body.
“You remind me of somebody,” she said.
“That’s because there’s nobody more than I am,” he answered. “There’s no one alikes me, though I’ve awfulled wondered what I would be like if I was the Precident. One thing is sordid: I won’t be giving out hams or kissing no babes unless they’re gorgeous.”
“Yes, I got that. But maybe you could put a bag over your body. It would make you easier.”
“Are you saying I’m obeast? I’m not obeast. I’m the least obeast.”
“No,” she said, realizing her approach was too semantic.
“Are you saying daddy is fudge bag ugly? That turns me on. Come to papa, you cum bucket. Milk my winky like a cow!” He was thinking of himself as highly intelligent, but this was just clever floorplay, his cummings on to her before he blobbed up on top of her in bed.
As it so happened, Boris, aka aka but with a lot of consonants, had booked this hotel room to be the same one Abotch and Michelle Abumbler had stayed in when they had visited this far city three years before, as Boris had informed the Mr. Big Apple.
“Do you know who slept in this bed?” Mr. Big Apple said smurkly. “This is the same bed the Abumblers slept in! They might’ve even done the Nazis in this bad bed. Let’s you and me do it on the dead polar bear. At least he’s white. But before we do, I’ll give you a thousand dollars to squat naked and give this bad bed a golden shower.”
“I’m not a dog!” she said.
“What are you? A horse? All woemams are, or should be treated like horses, except my daughter. She’s not a horse; she’s intelligent.”
“I don’t care if your daughter is Catherine the Great, I’m not peeing on this bed for a thousand dollars.”
“Okay. Two thousand dollars and I make sure you get the Miss Congenitals award in your next booty pageant.”
Against her buttered judgment Nostalgic agreed, though unnosed to either of them, Boris, aka aka with a lot of syllabics, was in the wall with comerades recording everything as it happened.
But the worse wasn’t overt yet. As he so awfully did, this two hunkered and dirty minded wallabeast of a man went off to those sick fancies of his mind where he believed life was impotating Art Gorefuckled.
“What I really want to do,” he said, “is smear you all over with chocolate so I can fudge you on the rug, thinking of you as Michelle Abumbler who always gives me the cult shoulder.”
“That’s disgusting! What are you, some kind of pervert?” Nostalgic said.
“I was born as the john but my middle name is Randy,” Mr. Big Apple gleed. “Come here you sexy bear fish muffin!”
He didn’t stop there. His was of a mind that couldn’t stop talking. “Ooooooh!” he mommed for far too long to be comfortable. “Let’s make a sloshy. Let me licky licky taste you, sweet, beautiful and brown, rich and decadent, so moist and thick and creamy.”
“I think you’re describing a cake,” she said.
“Uh-oh, time machine back to 1997! I think I’m going to get sea sick!”
To make this story shorter, she closed her eyes and pretended to be having sacks with a potato, though this too, stinky figures and all, was recorded, much to the amusement of Boris and his comerades, and eventfully ended up in the hands of the Precident Platypus Poopsky.
We pen now to the Krumbling, Platypus Poopsky, sitting at his desk chuckling into his sleeze. Though he hasn’t had his launch yet, he has raisons to be thankful for. Yes, this story has a backstab. More to the point, the Mr. Big Apple was a flipflab man in walldressing who had gone into bankrapture more times than accountants could count on, borrowing money to pay off his debts until the banks in the You Us of A wouldn’t give him any, which is weird these Russians came in. This setup with the Mr. Big Apple was just another peeve in their puzzle they had been plodding all along, one last chapter in the lessenings of Amarrogant history.
The Rusekeys and the Amerryguns had been carrying on a cult warp for decades, the You Us of A getting the upper hand when the Serfian Union collapsed, which the Rusekeys blamed on the CIA, owing to the fads they had printed out thousands of copies of Doctor Zhivago, handing them out for free on the streets of Moscow and throughout the Eastern Bloc so as to make the Serfious citizens wonder what was wrong with their globbernment. As to make these madders wars, the CIA orchestraitored a bloc bastard propergander movie of the novel and rated it PG so as to make the Rusekeys seem like bad apparents in the eyes of the warhole. Problem was: the Ruseskies have mammaries like elephants. Now they had their own Dr. Zhivago infilltraitoring the Amerrygun poorliterate machine, getting Mr. Big Ample erected as the fatty-fibbed Precident of the United States who, implord of the Russians, would be able to runt the countrary into the ground so as to make the You Us citizens wonder what was wrong with our globberment. If oil went wells the You Us of A would either go kapootin, get bankrobbed or become anuttered state of the Russian Repuppet.
“So is everything going according to plan?” Platypus Pootsky asked the lanky standing in front of him.
“Yes, Master Precident. He’s in the next room, champing with his balls to meet you.”
“Good. Get behind that ironed curtain so he won’t know you know what he thinks he knows after I tell him.”
This was Russian Doppler talk. They had a code for everything, though they didn’t have a code of silence, which is how we get our news.
After the lanky slipped behind the curtain Pootsky pushed a button on his desk and a dark door opened. The Mr. Big Apple entered the room, communisting to stand orbseqently in front of Mr. Pootsky, like a lab dog awaiting a hush pauper.
“Let’s get down to business,” Pootsky said in his rough Russian voice, like Christian Bale in Badman, The Dark Night Rises. “Get down on your needs.”
“Is that necessary? That’s kind of embarrassing. We’re both men.”
“No, I am a man. You’re a paunchy bag, or a man wearing a pontius bag. In any case, stand up like a man.”
“I am standing up, Mr. Pootsky, sir.”
“Fine, as you were. Let’s get down to business. Get down on your needs.”
“I think we’ve bend over that, sir.”
“Have we? Okay. Let’s go over a few thinks, which is weird you come in. I, and the utter rich Russian oiligarchs, have been sinking money into your sinking boat of bad business for years, and bailed you out more times than we can count on sex figures. Now, strained as it may seem, we’d like to help you out with your unpresidented erection.”
“Uh, I don’t follow your draft, sir.”
“We’ve been thinking about a Nuke World Egonormic Order. You’ve oilways wanted to be the Precident of your countrary. Now’s your chance. But we’d want something in return.”
“Anything you ask.”
“Good. We’d set you up like a franchise. We’d still call it the United States but we’d want you to undermind the foundations of its dismobcrummy, and get its citizens to wander wrong of their globberment so as to bring about the dumbfault of America.”
“But how do I do that, sir?”
“You’ll be the Prescient of the United States. Make bad choices.”
“That works for me.”
“You do understand, you’ll be our puppet like a Find Fat Howdy Duty with strings attached.”
“Don’t warry, sir; I god this.”
“Just remember: don’t expose yourself any more than you already have and don’t release your tax returns as it would show how deeply in bad you are with the munchies. One more thing, in case you get any bribed ideas: I’ve got footage of you doing the mate believe with your little Oreo, Michelle. And oh yes, I almost forgot. I have hid men.”
“You have hid men! Like in this room?”
“No, no, no, not this room. But you know what happened to those disconsonant comrats of mind, Magnitsky, Berezovky, Klebnikov, Yushenkov, Nemtzov, Markelov, Litvenenko, Baburova, Shchekochikhin? Belief me, you don’t want to be one of them; their aloud time on Earth was silenced.”
More was sad but most of it was lost to the wordwork. After the Mr. Big Ample left the room the hidden lanky, like the bat boy to Badman, came out from behind the ironed curtain.
“Do you think he suspects?” the lanky asked.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s a deutche bag or a dirt bank. Either way, we’ve got him by the short hairs. Do you think you can handle him?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Pootsky. But once my fatter-in-lard is erected Precident, a direct lie to the Wide House might raise some high browse. I think maybe we should set up a bat channel.”
“Good idea, Jared. Make it so. Now let me get back to work in the assault minds.”
(Chapters 4-9 have been redacted by the Poorliteratureburo of the State, except for parts of Chapter Sex, though most of that is garbaged or been lost in brokered trancemissings)
Snatches of Chapter Sex in Sub Ramdumb Order
“Life is about money. I want money, more money, more money.”
The Big Ample did it again twice last week with the pork star he calls Miss Piggy. He’s either making the beast of two backings in the closet or he’s in his pantyhouse seethingly ball bent on bringing down the house of Ape, like Simson sad with the priests who were having a pillar fight in the temple. Tromple is he ain’t no Simson. Let’s do a fat check on this head honky donky fat daddy of the plutocraps.
“In life there are and floaters and sinkers and I’m a floaturd,” he said.
Last week the Big Ample fired the attorney bringing the case against Prevezon, the holding company linked to the giant tax fraught scheme of the Russian oiligarchs who were laundering dirty muddy through New York City real estate. The case was oddroply dropped. What ever happened to follow the muddy trail and oil the piles of debt booties?
The Big Ample is not the ignoronomous that a third of us believe. Last week he said the sane thing that Shatsmear squabbed in one more of his fabulous plays, when the virtual Kink Larry was leering at one of his daughters, “I am a man more sunned aghast than sunny,” which is petty closed to the truth.
When asked about his tithes to Russia and to Platypus Poopsky, the Precident Big Ample responsored, “Endorfing these darth times are a lot of killers. Do you think our contrary is so innersent? We are not so innersent. Good people don’t go into politics.”
Our contrary is in upevil as in the warhole at largo, primarbly because of the Precidump colooting with Russians. How many red flags will it take for us to realize that if we don’t wake up party soon we might oil want to enroll in a loco communasty college to take up the speaking of the Russian anguish.
Мы, люди овец, чтобы сесть на более предпочтительный лук, чтобы устроить «Жестоков», обеспечить внутреннюю слабость, обеспечить наступление, продвинуть Гендерную стену и обеспечить «Бластию свободы» для себя и нашего будущего, и установить этот запор Соединенных Штатов Америки.