The Winner: Part Twenty-Five

I am now dressed in an expensive gray pin-stripe suit with a cornflower yellow silk tie. It even has a silk hankerchief with my initials embroidered on it. I’m sitting on the edge of the hotel bed with a pillow top mattress, watching CNN on the 42 inch plasma and eating an eight dollar jar of peanuts that I snagged from the mini-bar. Since this room is going on Van Hertzwelder’s tab, I’m planning on emptying the fucking mini-bar, as well as ordering a feast from room service once this stupid interview with the Secret Service is over. A last meal for the condemned if you will.

According to the time on the TV, the Secret Service should be here in about five minutes. CNN goes to commercial and one of those annoying Head-On ads starts blaring so I mute the TV and look over the sheet of instructions that Burke wanted me to memorize. It’s nothing too complex. A fifth grader could recite this crap. If the Secret Service can be fooled by this shit so easily, then I wonder why Burke is so skittish about me meeting them.

Anyway, almost exactly when the time on the television turns to three o’clock I hear a knock on the door. These bastards sure are punctual. I quickly hide the sheet with Burke’s instructions on them under the bed, then walk over and open the door. There is a late twenty-something woman just outside.

“Hello Mr. Peanutz,” she says. “I’m Agent Barrett with the Secret Service, here for the meeting we scheduled with your assistant.”

I try not to look puzzled since up to this point, I didn’t know I had an assistant. I really wish Burke would let me know more about his labyrinth schemes so I won’t look stupid like this. “Of course,” I say. “Come in.”

I let Agent Barrett in and take a long look at her perfect, dew-drop ass as she walks past me and to the desk on the far end of the room. She’s dressed in that conservative, businesswoman garb that looks fucking sexy on the right chick. Agent Barrett is most definitely that chick. My dick starts to harden up for the first time in…fuck, how long? I don’t think I’ve even bothered to jerk off for weeks now since this whole assassination bullshit has been on my head.

I follow Agent Barrett to the desk and sit down across from her, crossing my legs to hide my hard-on and steepling my fingers together, trying to look suave (which shouldn’t be too hard since this is a nice suit and I’m freshly showered).

“How can I help you, little lady?”

Agent Barrett tries to brush off the “little lady” comment and opens her briefcase that has a small laptop in it. “Mr. Peanutz, this interview is the final step we have to take in the process of allowing you security access to the President. Basically, we have been conducting an investigation of you since the President’s Chief of Staff cleared you for the meeting and we just need to verify with you if the information we’ve uncovered is accurate.”

“Ask away, sweetie,” I say.

Agent Barrett ignores me and waits for her laptop to boot up. Unfortunately, she positions it so that the screen blocks my view of her tits. I’m most definitely have a date with some Kleenex as soon as we’re done here.

First, she verifies my full name and Social Security number, date of birth, place of birth; all the typical bullshit. “Mr. Peanutz, do you have any siblings?”

“No. At least none that I’ve met. My mother might have squirted out a couple here and there that she left on a church doorstep somewhere.”

“About your mother, Petunia Peanutz was out of the country recently, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I say. “I sent her to a health resort in Argentina a few months ago. She just got back last week.”

Agent Barrett twists the screen on the laptop (it’s one of those that doubles as a computer pad). On it is a digital picture of an old driver’s license photo of my mother. She looks so much different now than she did in that photo.

“So Mr. Peanutz, this is the photo we have on file of your mother, Petunia Peanutz. Is this picture accurate?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Good old mom.” While the screen is turned around, I take another glance at her breasts. I didn’t know they let Secret Service agents wear blouses that were so low cut…

She quickly turns the screen around, blocking my view once again. She quickly types something into the computer. “Have you been in contact with her since she has returned to the United States?”

“Yeah, I see her every day.”

“Has she mentioned any foreign nationals that may have attempted to contact her while she was abroad?”

“No,” I say. “I mean, just the people at the resort. She had kind of a crappy time there.”

“And it’s true that you don’t know the wherabouts of your father? Your birth certificate does not have your father’s name on it.”

“I never knew my father,” I say. I try to crack a smile. “My mother used to be a prostitute. She always told me the reason she had me is because she could charge extra if she let her johns bareback her.”

“Bareback?”

“Fuck her without a rubber.”

Agent Barrett looks uncomfortable at this revelation. I can see her mind racing for something tactful to say. “That’s…a rather sad thing to hear from one’s mother.”

I shrug. “It could have been worse. At least she blew all that extra money on booze instead of an abortion.” Which might have been better for everyone here if she had, but I cut myself off before I say that last part.

“I’m surprised that you have a relationship with her now, considering your past.”

“Well, I’m trying to get over it. Be forgiving and all. She found Jesus and if he can forgive her, then I can as well.”

Agent Barrett smiles at my insincere little homily. “So to your knowledge, your mother does not have any immediate relatives in countries hostile to the United States?”

“No ma’am,” I say. “The Peanutz are a proud all-American family from Georgia.”

“To your knowledge, is your mother involved in any domestic groups hostile to the United States government?”

“Well, she did say she was supporting Operation Rescue by eating three large Domino’s pizza’s a day for awhile. Does that count?”

“No. In fact, people who supported Operation Rescue in the past are considered great patriots by the government now.”

“Awesome,” I say. “I wouldn’t want that to jeopardize my chances of meeting the President.”

“That would not be an issue,” Agent Barrett says. “The more troublesome thing about your background is that you were released from prison less than a year ago. I need to ask you some questions about your time there if I could…”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’m an open book.”

She types something quickly into her laptop. “First off, what was the offense that got you sentenced to a year in prison?”

The instructions that Burke left for me were quite specific in that I was not to tell them I was sent there for assaulting a police officer (though I hardly consider accidentally ejaculating a cop’s face “assault”). The Secret Service is extremely suspicious of anyone with even a hint of a violent background having access to the President. Burke’s instructions claimed that their inside man had already changed my file to reflect a different crime.

“Fraud. I’d been stealing credit card numbers from my employer at Subway and using them to finance my sexual addictions. I was also sentenced for adulterating the food there. A few people got sick as a result of what I did.”

“What were your motivations for such an act?” Agent Barrett asks. “Were they political or anti-consumerist in nature?”

I want to blurt out what is political about pissing a jar of pickle slices? But I keep my cool “No. I was just an angry young man; with myself more than with society,” I sigh. “That’s why I’m actually very grateful I was finally arrested and sent to prison. The experience turned me into a better person. I found the Lord Jesus while I was in the prison infirmary. He showed me the way to kindness and forgiveness.”

She types something into her keyboard. “It says here you were critically wounded during the riot at the prison last year. A deal you made with the state was what prompted you to receive reconstructive surgery and secured your early release.”

“That’s correct.”

“I’d like to ask about that tattoo on your cheek.”

My hand instinctively goes up to the skin graft on my jaw, my fingers outlining the scar where the skin was attached. “What about it?”

“We need to know, are you a homosexual?”

“Fuck no!” I blurt out. I take a breath and calm myself down and remember Burke’s instructions. “No, I am not a homosexual. However, I was raped several times by one of the prisoners inside. I have gone through extensive Christian therapy to make sure that the incident did not turn me gay. In fact, it has probably done more to convince me, once and for all, of how it is truly Satan’s hand behind those disgusting practices.”

I smile after I say that because smiling is all I can do to keep myself from laughing at that bullshit I just spouted off. Oh well. Burke’s instructions said to pretend that I was Jesus freak as much as possible, as people of faith tended to have easier access to the President. It would also whitewash my time in prison if I told them I found God while I was on the inside.

“I’m very sorry to have brought that up Mr. Peanutz,” Agent Barrett says coolly. “Unfortunately, we’ve had many homosexuals or members of deviant groups attempt to make contact with the President in an attempt to embarrass him in the eyes of the public, therefore we must be wary.”

“I guess I see your point,” I mumble. “Just know, that I haven’t lived a perfect life, but God has shown me the way. He brought me to rock bottom to humble me when I was in prison. When I got out, he suddenly blessed me with millions in order for me to do His work.”

“I see,” Agent Barrett says. More typing into the laptop. “In regards to your donation to the RNC, according to our records the amount you donated corresponds to the last balance of your account. Why did you decide to donate all your money to the party?”

“Like I said—God blessed me with that money. The money wasn’t mine, it was His. If I do right with it, He will provide.”

Jesus fucking Christ I can’t believe the amount of religious bullshit coming out of my mouth. I wouldn’t fall for this crap in a million years, yet the Secret Service agent just nods and continues typing into her laptop. She seems to be buying it. This country is in serious trouble if people who spout off garbage like I am get access to the government. Maybe Burke is right. Maybe I would be doing the country a favor by blowing this sonofabitch up.

“Okay, Mr. Peanutz,” she says. “May I ask for you to expand on that response?”

“Expand?”

“If you donated all of your money to the party in order to gain an audience with the President, then it must have been for some reason. We must know that reason in advance since it is our agency’s charge not only to protect the physical safety of the President, but to safeguard him from any potentially embarrassing situations as well. So we must know what you plan to speak with the President about?”

“I don’t know. I just want to meet the man. Give him my thanks in how he’s protecting the nation from terrorists.”

Agent Barrett looks unconvinced. Then I remember what Burke’s instructions said to say if I was asked this question. “Oh, and I also want to see if I can have his support in the privatization of more prisons. I think that all the problems I saw with violence and homosexuality during my time in prison could be easily solved if those institutions were changed to a faith-based, for-profit model.”

“Ahh, I see…” she says, then types some more into her laptop. “We’ll have the President’s staff collect some policy papers that he can review regarding the subject before the game. I will also have to ask that during your conversation with the President that your subject not stray from what you have just told me.”

“So I can’t talk to him about golf or the weather or stuff like that?”

“You may make small talk with the President. In fact we encourage it as a way of creating camaraderie. However, if you are planning on using your meeting with the President as a way of engaging in a political argument, you will be immediately escorted away and your file will be red flagged. And I must warn you, most people with a red flagged Secret Service file end up on all sorts of other nasty things like No-Fly lists as well.”

“Geez,” I say. “I guess those liberals must really be sneaky when it comes to embarrassing a great man like President Bush.”

“We’ve only had one or two problems of this type during his entire term in office, but we must remain vigilant.”

Then she continues typing a whole string of stuff into her laptop for a good minute. When she finishes, she turns it off and places it back into her bag.

“Since this is your first time meeting with the President, I will give you an idea of our protocol. Your game with the President will take place at the Southland’s Country Club next Wednesday from between one o’clock and three o’clock and no longer. We tell you this only so you can review the course and must ask that you inform no one else of the location of the game in the meantime. This is a private game between you, the President, and four other people who made similarly large donations to the RNC for this particular fundraiser.”

“Got it,” I say. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“A car will arrive at the residence we have on file at twelve fifteen sharp. It will be driven by a Secret Service agent and will return you to your residence after the game is over. When you arrive at the country club, you will have a chance to change in a locker room we will have secured. You and your clubs will be subject to another search before the security detail escorts you to the green for your game with the President. There will be refreshments available during the game, as well as alcoholic ones. However, we must ask that you do not become visibly inebriated during the game. You will be subject to removal if that happens.

“This is a private game, so we do not anticipate any media at the event beyond the usual press corp that covers the President’s comings and goings. They will be kept away from the event, so feel free to speak as candidly as you with about the subject you gave us. Remember though that there are four other donors also at the event, so try not to monopolize all of the President’s time. His assistants will facilitate the time you spend with him. We also ask that you do not share any snippets of conversation you may catch from the other donors with any members of the press.”

“I can’t imagine why I would want to,” I say.

Agent Barrett smiles and then rises from her chair. “I know it all sounds very structured, but we try to make the experience as enjoyable as we can,” She hands me a business card. “If you have any questions between now and then, you can contact us at that number and we can clarify things. Oh, and also report to us anyone suspicious who may try and contact you before your meeting with the President, no matter how innocuous it may seem. I repeat, do not tell anyone of the exact location between now and then.”

“No problem,” I say to her tits.

She packs up her laptop and tries not to look visibly uncomfortable while I leer at her. I follow her to the door and open it for her. I have a strong urge to slap her on the ass as she passes by, but since she’s a Secret Service agent, she’s probably got a gun so I don’t.

I go back and sit on the bed. I wonder if Burke is going to call me now that this is over to tell me I’m free to leave. I lay back and go over the meeting again in my head, only this time, after Agent Barrett interviews me, I punish her anally with a monsterous dildo while she gags on my cock. It takes me a depressingly short time to blow my load, especially since I wanted to savor my first jerk-off in a while. I must be pretty backed up since a heavy stream of my man chowder shoots out of my dick. It splatters all the way up to my shirt. Fuck. I’m gonna have to clean up before I leave her to make sure I’m not covered in come when I leave.

Before I do that though, I just stare at the sticky, pearly goo on my hands. Swimming around in that are tens of thousands of little Poopies that will never be. I’ve never been big on the idea of procreation. In fact, little children disgust me and I’ve always thought it was cruel to bring another human being into this foul, fucked up planet of ours. However, staring at my semen running over my fist like a glove, I slowly begin to wish there was a little me running around some place. Something that would take my place after I die, which looks imminent. For the first time in a long time, I start to cry. And not just tear up a little. I start to bawl like a faggot who just lost his favorite buttplug.

After I’ve cried enough tears to make two wet spots where my eyes are on the bed’s comforter, I realize the cellphone is ringing. Burke’s cellphone. I fumble around and pick it up with my left hand since that was the one that didn’t have my come rapidly drying to it.

“Hello, Poopy.”

It’s Burke. “I’m at the hotel. I just finished talking to the Secret Service agent. I told them everything you wanted me to tell them. What the fuck do you want?”

“I know that. I heard and saw everything you said in the room?” he says. “By the way, did you have a ‘good cry’?”

I should have known that fucker would have the room bugged. I start shaking with incoherent rage.

“I just called to tell you that you performed to our expectations. Keep playing it cool and you will get the stripper’s children back, mostly intact.”

“How do I even know they’re still alive dammit?” I scream. “For all I know they’ve been dead this whole time.”

“Where would we have gotten the arm then?”

“Maybe you cut it off after they were already dead. Or maybe you took it off some baby in a dumpster. I don’t know, but since they’re the only reason I’m going through with all your bullshit, I need to know they’re still alive.”

“Don’t get all righteous, Mr. Peanutz. I highly doubt the children are your main concern. I would put it second to the months, no, years of torture you yourself will go through unless you do exactly what we say.” Burke sighs. “However, I will grant your request. We will provide you with a proof-of-life by this evening.”

“You don’t need to provide it to me,” I say. “I don’t even know what these kids look like. I’ve seen them all of once and all snotty little sprogs look the same to me. I need Apple to get that proof of life so she can verify that it’s really them.”

“You would be putting her in danger to let her know too much.”

“She’s already in danger and she already knows her kids have been kidnapped. She doesn’t know anything about the assassination because she doesn’t have to. Think about it, that would probably be the last thing she’d come up with as a motive. She still thinks I’m still rich and just won’t pay you guys the ransom.”

“That can be done,” Burke says. “Your cellphone is equipped to receive video so we’ll stream you live video of the children. Then, will you be satisfied?”

“Yes,” I say. “And when you do it, you might want to do whatever you can to cover up the way you disfigured one of them already. Apple isn’t exactly in great shape right now.”

“We will soften the impact as best as we can. Tomorrow afternoon, when you’re ready, redial the number I called you on and let it ring. We’ll set up the video stream then,” Burke says. “In the meantime, keep playing it cool. We’re in the home stretch now Poopy and too many important people have invested too much into this action for anything to go sideways now.”

“Very well then, I’ll call you tomorrow fucker.”

“Oh and Poopy, you can keep the suit, so you might want to get the semen dry cleaned off of it at your first opportunity.”

I’m about to yell at the phone again but he hangs up. I’m so angry I nearly chuck it at the muted TV. On it, is a picture of George W. Bush stumbling his way through a press conference. How ironic. I stop myself since I’m gonna need the phone tomorrow. I need to keep my rage in check if I’m gonna make my way through this. Fuck it. I’m not gonna stay in this room where they can watch me any more. Besides I need to go see my mother so I can change her bandages…

Then, it hits me. A crystal moment of clarity. Then I start laughing. It was so obvious, I didn’t even realize it. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. I’m not a dead man walking.

I suddenly have a plan on how I can get out of this whole mess and fuck Burke, Van Hertzwelder, and all their neo-conservative buddies for good.

But first, I’m gonna need to see my mother…