“Nom Dieu, boy! Calm down! Aren’t you supposed to be with the Nader campaign somewhere?”
My half-brother, Bertie Ernesto, had just crashed into my office, breathless and covered in sweat.
“Forget Nader! Christ man, the fate of the Nation is at stake! I need money!”
“Which Nation, bra? We’re Canadians, remember?”
“By God, you don’t believe that makes a difference, do you? I’ve got to get to Iraq! Diyala, specifically! Man, cut me a check, will you?!”
I sighed, readjusted my crossed feet over the corner of my desk at the New York office. The Chassid has been here recently, but apparently not keeping office hours since the end of the Conventions.
“Sit down, chere frere, and tell me calmly.”
He sat for a moment, but as he began to speak, he was overcome by passion and soon was careening from one end of the room to another.
“They’ve released that Track Palin, son of the GOP VEEP, is being deployed to Diyala, in Iraq! 1st Stryker Brigade! Land mines! Tree cover that prevents Air Support! It’s the most dangerous zone in the country right now and they’re going to send the oldest son of the vice presidential candidate right straight into it! Think of the hostage situations! Think of what might happen if he lost his life, or, God Forbid, lost his legs! This ugly thing has got to be stopped!”
“Surely that kind of information couldn’t be leaked; it’s against OPSEC regulations. Charges could be brought,” I teased open the right desk drawer where I kept my good Canadian Rye.
“You call yourself a journalist?! You Gaspian piece of shit! Check the blogs! Every right-winger from here to Wasilla is fouling their keyboards in spumescent tugs over the news that their boy is going in harm’s way!”
Bertie was actually hunched in the window sill, some thirty floors above 34th Street.
“Twelve points for the big word, Bertie,” I said, snapping open the plastic cap of the flask bottle, “But your boy is going to be doing some cake duty, driving trucks and protecting the big brass; they’ll never see harm’s way if they can help it. On the other hand, I see today that Ron Paul has issued a blanket endorsement of everybody but the Chosen or the Doddering One; he’s encouraged his people to go Barr, Nader, McKinney, and Baldwin. Big deal among the independents.”
“You ass! You scat munching scoundrel! I said give me the money! I’ve got to get to Diyala immediately. This is too important to wait! This boy has to be kept alive; alive and well! I deeply suspect Karl is already over there setting the Traps!”
“In all honesty, boy,” I said, now drinking generously. “I thought when they fired up the Large Haldron Collider this morning, we’d all get mulched into the next burst of Creationism. But it seems there are some kinks to be worked out. You want to go to Iraq? Raise the money yourself. If he ever gets deployed, and there is a great chance it’ll never happen, there are people who’ll help you. Set up a PayPal account, buy some armor. You’ll be just fine.”
Truth was, I was drunk already. The polls, even two months out, carried the reminder of what these Villains are capable of. What we can expect. I vaguely heard the lipstick on a pig coverage from the television hanging in the corner of the office as I slipped off the chair and onto the floor; drifting off into Horrible Visions of Pelosi as Second in Command.
