Alby Stone: Dog and Pony Show

Copyright (c) 2017 Alby Stone

It isn’t often that I’m intimidated. Never, in fact. But this was the exception that proved the rule. Usually when I’m called to business appointments I find the client on his or her knees in a muddy puddle, clutching some kind of offering – just lately I’ve had my bloody fill of chickens – alone and possessed of a facial expression somewhere between surprise, desperate hope and abject terror. But this – well, it was outside even my extensive experience.

He was on his knees right enough, and in the traditional position; but that was as far as it went. The patellae in question were resting on a white velvet cushion embroidered with the Stars and Stripes. The offering – at least, that’s what I at first took it to be – appeared to be some kind of small mammal, perhaps a Persian cat or angora rabbit with improbably coiffed bottle-blonde fur, curled up asleep on top of the man’s head. And the unidentifiable creature’s human perch wasn’t alone.

‘Who the hell are they?’ I pointed at the group of men and women standing in the road behind my latest client. I’ll call him Jones. Client confidentiality would ordinarily be enough, but this bloke would sue even me if I gave him half a chance.

‘Them? Oh, they’re my people. Bodyguards, PA, personal trainer, stylist, campaign manager, a couple of gofers. And my lawyers, of course. I don’t even take a shit without legal representation.’ Three men wearing suits that put my hand-tailored Italian masterpiece to shame nodded courteously, if a trifle coldly. Their eyes flashed like supermarket checkout displays.

The client squinted suspiciously. ‘Say, you got a beard. Are you a Muslim?’

I ignored him and focused on my surroundings, hitherto unnoticed due to my fascination with the client’s entourage, and his odd choice and location of offering. There were more people, quite a lot of them. Bright lights all around. And cars, heavy traffic. It all seemed familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. That’s disorientation for you. ‘Where are we?’

 ‘The junction of Virginia Avenue NW and 19th Street NW, DC,’ one of the client’s flunkeys replied, after checking a map. ‘It’s at the centre of a triangle formed by the White House, the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Memorial. This is an auspicious place, right at the heart of power in this great nation.’

‘Not the sort of power you’ll be getting your hands on anytime soon, mate,’ I growled under my breath. ‘Let my client speak for himself,’ I continued aloud. ‘There’s a good boy.’

Jones was still squinting. ‘You sound like a Brit, just like on the TV show. That’s good. I like the British. They know how to do the right thing.’

‘Unlike you,’ I observed. ‘Traditionally the client requests my presence at a deserted crossroads at midnight – alone, not with a bloody circus trailing behind him. Or her,’ I added. Historically, women have rarely requested my services in this manner. The recent flurry of female supplicants was, I supposed, a heartening sign that gender equality was finally becoming a reality. Though my client would no doubt put the kybosh on that if his grasping hands ever held the reins of authority.

‘I do things my way or not at all,’ said Jones, puffing himself out like a gamecock. ‘So what do I call you?’

I shrugged. ‘You can call me “Sir”, “Lord”, “Master”, whatever seems appropriate.’

The man frowned, which seemed to cause the animal on his head some discomfort. ‘Hey, I’m on first-name terms with everyone. That’s my style. But whatever suits you, pal.’

Pal? In all my years no one had ever addressed me in such a manner. I bristled, tempted to show him there and then precisely what suited me. I smiled instead. Payment for his insolence could wait. The long game has always been the most satisfying. Mind you, that night I was on a tight timetable.

‘Look, you called me. Can we just get on with this? Lemmy was in the middle of a great story about Hendrix when you called. I thought the bishop was going to piss himself. Mind you, that might have just been the sight of my butler stoking the fireplace. And I have an appointment elsewhere.’

‘Okay,’ said the client. One of the lawyers leaned over and whispered in his ear. ‘Yeah, got it. Where were we? Oh yeah, I want to be President.’

That much was already public knowledge and I told him so.

‘Yeah, but there may be – obstacles, capisce? Certain things in my past that might be better forgotten. By everyone, know what I mean? Things that’ll probably take a little more than putting a positive spin on them.’

‘I’m the Father of Lies,’ I pointed out. ‘Or at least I was until recently. These days I feel like a sodding amateur. Honestly, are you modern politicians totally incapable of telling the bloody truth?’

Jones made that Mussolini face that certain kinds of mindless bigot find just adorable. I brightened. I would soon be in possession of a fine pair of bookends. They’d look good above one of the fireplaces, in one of the more distant chambers that I hardly ever visited. If there’s one thing attention-seekers hate, it’s being ignored. I do what I can.

‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘What’s the offering? And why on earth have you got it on top of your head?’

He stared at me blankly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He snapped his fingers and another of his people stepped forward, nervously – and with not a little difficulty – clutching a large, angry, squirming rooster. Black, of course.

‘It’s still alive,’ I pointed out.

‘Yeah, we weren’t sure of the protocol. Thought you might prefer to off the critter yourself. Who’s got the machete?’

The client’s people huddled together and conferred. Hands were spread, heads shaken and blame exchanged. It was as clear as day that no one had remembered the machete. Eventually a hapless lackey was selected to impart the bad news to his boss, whose face turned crimson with fury and as distorted as a choice Notre Dame gargoyle when he began what was surely the bollocking against which all subsequent bollockings would be measured. I checked my watch. At this rate I was going to miss that Black Sabbath gig I’d been looking forward to. The tickets had cost an arm and a leg. Not mine, obviously.

‘Look, if it’s all the same to you I’m quite happy with a live one.’

The client narrowed his eyes. ‘But I was told you liked a big black – ’

I wagged a finger in warning. ‘Not one more word about poultry, sunshine. Right, so you want to be the leader of the so-called free world. What’s in it for me?’

For the first time he seemed unsure of himself. ‘Well, my soul, of course.’

‘Actually, I already have that. A contract with me is made more by deed than spoken or written agreement. Bad actions constitute a kind of IOU.’

‘Bad actions? What the fuck did I do?’

Normally I would have given an evil laugh and vanished in a puff of sulphurous smoke, but he seemed genuinely baffled. That’s the trouble with sociopaths. Even if they know they’ve done wrong it just doesn’t register. Lack of conscience is also lack of self-awareness, and no amount of narcissism can make up for it. I felt duty-bound to spell it out.

‘You haven’t exactly led a blameless life, Mr Jones. You claim to be a Christian, yet you’ve lied, cheated, stolen and fornicated your way through several decades of existence. You’ve bullied, threatened, insulted, defamed and humiliated more people than most of your supporters could count, assuming they even possess basic numeracy skills. You’ve admitted committing numerous sexual assaults. You believe the strong have a duty to exploit the weak, a belief which has been expressed in almost every action you have ever taken. Do you really think I might not have noticed?’

The Foghorn Leghorn defence response kicked in again. Mussolini took the stage once more. ‘Yeah, but I’m a fucking Christian. So I grab a little pussy now and again, and I never give a sucker an even break. Big fucking deal. I earned the right to take what I want when I want it. That’s the American Dream, pal. And that’s what my election campaign is all about, the whole dog and pony show. I want to make America great again. When I’m President I’m gonna kick out those godless Mexican Catholics and the Muslims, get rid of ObamaCare, abolish all gun control laws, put the faggots and feminazis in their place, and make sure the people who create the wealth get to keep it, whatever they’ve made and no matter how. What the fuck’s wrong with that?’

I was almost speechless. I’d only met one person with a similar degree of self-righteous arrogance, and that was the guy who’d given me my job. It was probably just as well that although Jones was nearly as bad-tempered and vengeful as the Almighty, he didn’t have the omniscience and omnipotence to give it substance. Mind you, once he got his hands on the CIA and those nuclear codes he wouldn’t be far off.

‘In broad theological terms, all Jewish, Muslim and Christian sects believe in the same God. And the same Devil. Do you really think God gives a shit about beards, hairstyles, pictures, language or whether or not a woman keeps her head covered? It’s God, for Christ’s sake – he’s got more to worry about than that. He’s trying to keep the universe in one piece and all you lot can do is think up new ways to argue with your neighbours. And kill them. God didn’t invent nations and religions – you did. He didn’t invent guns. He’s not offended by nudity or sex. He didn’t create America – that was all down to planet formation, geology and the unfathomable human fetish for lines on maps. He didn’t even make you humans. All he did was create life and allow it the freedom to evolve. So don’t any of you use religion to justify your actions. Like all living creatures, you have free will in accordance with your biology. How you choose to employ it is up to you. But you have to accept the consequences.’

‘What consequences?’

‘In your case, it means sitting at one end of a bookshelf for all eternity. In a library nobody ever visits. Though I’m sure I can arrange the occasional social call from some of the Mexicans and Muslims you’ve pissed off.’

The face grew redder. ‘You can’t do that to me. Do you know who I am?’

There it was, the plaintive cry of the self-important man caught with his trousers down. ‘Of course I know. And you know who I am. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called me, right?’

One of the lawyers tapped his shoulder and whispered something. ‘Yeah, right,’ said Jones. ‘Let’s get back to business. My attorneys have drawn up the contract. All we have to do is sign.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No contract, no deal.’

He stared at me again, this time in disbelief. Behind him, a dozen jaws dropped in sycophantic unison. ‘You can’t refuse,’ he hissed. ‘My people have done the research. I know you can’t refuse.’

I nodded. ‘Technically, I shouldn’t. And in most cases I wouldn’t. But as I said, your soul is already mine. I know you have a history of unethical business dealings but you simply can’t sell me something I already possess. In short, you have nothing to bargain with. I am, therefore, remaining strictly neutral. You win or lose without my help or hindrance. The American people can make their own mistakes.’

‘I can do what the fuck I like, you limey punk. Okay, if my soul isn’t good enough, I can give you much more than that. Three hundred twenty million, give or take.’

Oh, dear. Someone had been talking. And had earned himself a little extra-special treatment a few years down the line. I was going to enjoy that. Confidentiality is a two-way street. ‘Well, as you have apparently heard, I did recently make a deal with someone whose soul was already my property, but who was able to offer me something else. But he had the wherewithal to deliver. You, on the other hand, have nothing to offer except that poor chicken. And that weird thing on your head, which frankly I don’t want because it gives me the creeps. Tell me, does your nation’s Constitution say anything about the President making decisions on behalf of the people with the people’s full consent?’

‘No, we have a long and proud tradition of not trusting the government, and especially not the President.’

‘Quite. I am well acquainted with many Americans who hold that view. I was talking to a Mr McVeigh about it only a couple of years ago. It seems you people really do believe that two wrongs make a right. But I digress. Anyway, have you yourself not said that the electoral process is rigged?’

‘Well, if I don’t win then obviously it is.’

‘But you would agree that means no American citizen should accept or trust the outcome, no matter what that is?’     

‘Not unless I win.’

I shook my head, making sure the tip of my beard remained steady and aimed in his direction. ‘That isn’t logical, is it? Rigged is rigged, after all. But my point is that mistrust of the President is integral to the American way of thinking. Unlike, say, the United Kingdom, where there is a tacit understanding and consent that representative democracy is a pyramid with the Prime Minister at its top, a structure that allows the Prime Minister to make decisions for the entire country, the United States of America is a federation. Each state has its own legislature, its own government. Furthermore, all branches of the federal government – executive, judicial and legislative, including the office of President – are answerable to a higher authority. The Constitution. And what does the Constitution guarantee?’

‘The right to bear arms,’ he said, crossing his own and pouting like a freshly grounded teenage girl. ‘The right to pursue happiness, and screw anyone who doesn’t like it. The right to say what the fuck I want.’

‘It’s a bit more than that,’ I sighed. ‘Its opening words are “We, the people of the United States of America”; and it is a document that makes it absolutely clear that the US government exists to serve the people. In the UK, people are subjects; they serve government. Your Constitution guarantees individual liberty and collective equality. In short, although the President may speak on behalf of the people, he or she cannot in any way deprive them of liberty unless such a deprivation is as the result of due legislative process. In short, the souls of the American people are not yours to give away.’ I pointed a finger at the client’s people. ‘And you can tell Flywheel, Shyster and Flywheel over there not to bother checking the law books. The Constitution trumps everything.’

Jones began to shout, incoherently at first. After what were for me a few enjoyable and entertaining moments he regained a semblance of self-control and a sort of intelligibility returned. ‘Don’t get all clever with me, asshole. I’m gonna sue you for every last fucking buck. Breach of contract.’

I smiled. ‘There is no contract. Anyway, you can’t sue me. United States ex relatione Gerald Mayo versus Satan and his Staff, United States District Court, Western District of Pennsylvania 1971.’ I nodded at the lawyers. ‘You can look that one up. It’s an object lesson in what happens when you allow deranged fuckwits unfettered access to the legal system. I was in the public gallery that day. I’d never even heard of the plaintiff. Typical, blaming me for his own mistakes. Bearing false witness, a broken commandment too far, as I like to tell him. And he had the bloody nerve to claim I was an American, thanks to that silly story by Stephen Vincent Benét. Couldn’t even tell fact from fiction, like most humans nowadays. Or ever, come to think of it. Still, one day, eh? Hope springs eternal, and all that.’

Unable to contain his rage, Jones screamed and punched the air and stamped his feet. I was slightly disappointed that he didn’t do a Rumpelstiltskin and deliver both halves of his miserable, shrivelled soul to me there and then, but it was still fun to watch. His entourage – some of whom had clearly been on the receiving end of his tantrums before, as they were already backing away – turned on their heels and ran. I tuned out Jones’ ridiculous display for a few seconds while I considered the fact that they were more afraid of him than they were of me. On reflection, I was indeed rather less dangerous than Jones. I could just picture him with his Mussolini face and petulant pout, jabbing a meaty finger down on a lethal red button just because of a bad morning on the golf course or an offensive tweet. The man was downright fucking scary. Yes, they were right to run.

I scooped up the chicken, which clucked amiably and snuggled contentedly against me. He was a handsome little fellow, and quite good-natured now his captors had beaten a retreat. ‘I think I’ll keep him,’ I said to Jones. ‘I bet I can train him to peck at eyes. I shall call him Johnson.’

‘Johnson? What kinda dumb name is that for a rooster?’

‘He just reminds me of another big, not very bright cock I know,’ I replied. ‘Just be thankful he isn’t a duck.’ I began the usual disappearing procedure. Sulphurous smoke isn’t as easy to conjure up as you might think, and it had been a long night. I looked at my watch again. If I got a shift on I could take Johnson to his new home, get him settled, see to some business, and make it to the Black Sabbath concert in time to get a couple of beers in and check out the merchandise stall before heading for the mosh pit. I was really looking forward to seeing Ozzy. He was getting on a bit and with my busy schedule this would probably be the last chance I ever had to see him perform live. Or dead. Don’t believe the stories.

I waved cheerfully at Jones as the thick, yellow smoke began to rise. ‘I’ll see you when the dog and pony show is over,’ I said genially. Johnson squawked happily. He seemed to appreciate the scent of brimstone.

‘Yeah? I’ll see you in Hell first, buster,’ Jones sneered.

I patted the rooster’s head. ‘Precisely. Come on, Johnson, let’s go home and have dinner. I’m not sure what chickens eat, to be honest, but have you ever tried eyeballs?’

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