|Sen. John McC with the fellas.|
He closes one eye. Teeters toward his Acer C720 Chromebook laptop. Hits spacebar a few times (the keys have gotten sticky from many a spilled cocktail) and finally is able to play the youtube video.
He wavers back and forth. Watches the show.
“Curse you, ISIS! I told you we just wanted downed airliners from shithole countries, not these frickin beheadings of our guys! Why do you think I had those MANPADS and other cool destructive shit delivered to your sorry asses! You jack-offs probably sold the gear for blow-money, G-D no class hand-wiping ragmasked fart-lighting hajis!” He chokes on an ice-cube. He coughs. He scratches his left testicle. He checks to see if the right one is still there, and wipes sweat off his forehead. “Phew.”
He rolls up a 50 and vacuums up the ketamine powder he had lined-up on the cover of the latest issue of “People” mag, the one with Robin Williams on it.
“Damn you were a funny pinko sonsubith. If only you weren’t such a coward, I might’ve sent your lovely daughter a card.”
The special-k kicks into the Senator’s soggy brain and causes an interesting blend of drunken euphoria intertwined with a hyper-spaceed-out starry effect. The good Senator holds up his hand-held cassette recorder. Taps the record button.
“I’m a bug. I’m a bug. I inhabit the past and the future and there are collisions happening between the two every goddamned millisecond. I AM WHERE IT'S AT!!!”
He sips the Chivas, swishes it around in his mouth, contemplates it, then swallows it.
“Holy mother of a thousand-titted Shiva, what in Zeus’ name is that thing!”
The Senator has brandished his binoculars and is attempting to adjust them to focus in on the ceiling of his office. He lays down on the floor, on his back, to get a better perspective. He reaches up to his desk, fumbles for the hand-held, spills the rest of his Chivas, curses some deity of his own imaginings, then grabs the cassette recorder which had still been recording the entire time.
“I am now seeing exactly what John the Revelator saw - that infernal beast - it is a golden dragon hovering around like a damned Goodyear Blimp in a dimension just outside the one we inhabit. Shit-eating grinner — its scales are a bunch of disco-ball mirrors but of a golden hew. Lasers of all sorts of colors are emanating from it, and it is reading my mind! IT IS READING MY MIND!!! INFERNAL BEAST!!!”
The Senator yelps. He howls. He weeps. “I thought the lad was a woman of 23 who happened to have a penchant for ice-cream and comic-books! How was I to know! Those gooks put the brain of a cockroach into my head! I am just a bug! I am just a bug! Please, mother of Odin, noooooo!!!!”
More howling. More yelping. More weeping.
At this point on the tape is heard the opening of a door, heavy footseps, someone saying “get the Senator up…(inaudable)…the smelling salts…(more rustiling)….put his goddamned pants on…(inaudible)….burn everything on the desk….(inaudible, shuffling of papers)…yes, put his socks on….and his shoes - he’s got an interview with CNN in 25 - he’ll be fine…" (tape ends).