Monday, May 28, 2012

THE BEATEN GENERATION: The Dick Principle (Chapter 15)

David de Gea, goalkeeper, Manchester United, Premier League; with girlfriend Edurne


by Dick & Poli Tico

NOTES:  Our two ex-gay heroes are now on the move. They clobbered their homosexuality, they will now deal with the villains. We'll start unmasking some more of them in this chapter. The villains are a shady clique of delusional segments of liberal America. Remember, our two ex-gay heroes themselves self-identified also as liberals so it will be a battle between the sane vs. the delusional liberals. Let's see how sane liberals, God-fearing conservatives and other intellectuals in the saner parts of the political spectrum will try to save Western civilization.
This is not an anti-intellectual novel. There are "intellectuals" and there are "intellectuals", we are only for the sane intellectuals.


Chapter 15:  Diversified

"You can either vote to stay in the euro, with all the commitments you've made, or you're effectively voting to leave."
David Cameron, Prime Minister, Britain, to the Greeks

"Je n'allais pas travailler sous les ordres de ce naze !" (referring to French Prime Minister Jean-Marc Ayrault)
Martine Aubry, French Socialist Party head, according to "le Canard enchaîné" (but which the former denied, whatever)

"L'Italia e un luogo sicuro"
Mario Monti, Italian Prime Minister

"A Merkel le dire que estoy haciendo lo que Espana necessita"
Mariano Rajoy, Spanish Prime Minister



January 22, Afternoon (GMT+8), Taipei, Taiwan

It quickly became the biggest mystery of the day. No trace was found of the crashed plane of Margarita Beaumont. Not even a tiny fiber of the shorts she was wearing in the plane, a replica of the shorts worn by Muhammad Ali in his fight against George Foreman (She had a video collection of all Ali's fights and she had all the shorts worn by the boxer copied, she used them underneath her dress instead of panties). Wide areas of the Pacific Ocean south of Hawaii down to a thousand miles north of the Easter Island were swept by rescue officers of the US Navy but not a single debris was sighted. As if Margarita Beaumont disappeared into thin air.

News about the disappearance of "the most beautiful actress in the world" immediately spread like wildfire around the world. The world shook its head in disbelief. Alas, the symbol of fragile femininity was lost forever. Masses were said for her in the Vatican, the Italian television station RAI showed old nuns crying for the loss of the "reincarnation of the Virgin Mary" (actually, nobody among them had seen any of her films, they just wanted the publicity because they wanted donations for the construction of new bidets... ups, lavatory in the monastery). The Nebraska evangelist did not fire screams of "Sodom and Gomorrha, Sodom and Gomorrha" this time. He prayed over her soul instead, spreading his arms as if he was being crucified, bending backwards acutely his spine while he looked up tearfully, supplicating that God take her soul to heaven: "Save your child, Lord, save... Aaargh! (violent gagging)". Alas, his loose false teeth was a problem even when he's not screaming, gravity pulled it straight down to his throat and paramedics had to bring him to the hospital for extraction.

Her closest friends, the muscled members of her childhood Neo-Nazi gang, went on a rampage in East LA, knocking down Latinos who had the temerity to cross their paths. She always attended their drinking sprees every weekend and the guys were mad they would have to pay their drinks now that generous "Marco" had gone.

There was joy behind the high walls of the studios. The biggest competitor was down and the other big leading ladies of Hollywood held raucous private parties to celebrate. No need to leak sex tapes anymore to get through the Margarita Beaumont preoccupation of the media.

In Asia, the Taiwanese media was too busy with a developing story in their midst to pay attention to the Margarita Beaumont brouhaha elsewhere. The small throng at the airport which stoned the pop star gathered forces as it snaked through the downtown area. By the time it passed below the shadows of Taipei 101, the throng had developed into the size and hysteria of a Mayday rally.

Don't let this foreign devil destroy our children!

Burn the Imperialist virus!

Crucify the abnormal monster!

Where is Superslut? Find the devil!

What happened next was a blur to Superslut. To her credit, the drunkard manager became immediately sober and when a rain of stones cracked the van's windows, she shouted to the driver to take them to the American Embassy instead. Superslut couldn't remember it but her manager will later tell her that she was shouting "Diversity! I am for diversity, I am diversified!" like crazy through the cracked car windows to the angry mob.

"What was that for?" her manager was curious.

Superslut was snivelling like a little girl, with mucus running through her nose, and pouting exaggeratedly as if she was in a major tantrum."I was teaching them Diversity. I accepted to take their money and perform for them but they don't accept me for being me. They did not respect my diversity, they were not diversified."

The manager actually softened at Superslut, as if the latter was suddenly her  little girl who became disappointed when the lessons ingrained to her by her mother did not tally with reality. Of course, she knew the dangers of simplistically encapsulating humanity into neat political sound bites. Reality had a mind of its own and it was getting more and more impossible to contain all the variables operative within. You can tinker it a bit but you're bound to discover there is a limit.

She thought that limit comes earlier the weaker one's leverage becomes.

Suddenly, word reached the throng that Superslut took refuge at the American Embassy. Superslut was in the bathroom when she first noted the low hubbub which steadily grew until it became a thunderous cacophony of murderous screams. She ran stricken to her manager who instantly developed protective  maternal instincts for her suddenly "fragile" ward. She embraced her and caressed softly the pink wig of Superslut as if the latter was her 3-year old girl. She actually nearly hummed a lullaby.

"I just hope we won't meet the fate of Margarita Beaumont," she sighed. She was frightened too.

"Why? What happened to her?" The inquiring eyes of Superslut were big, like that of a frightened little girl (Her manager replied when once she was asked how old Superslut was: "She is 30 years old but if you deducted the days she was stoned, she could still be pubescent").

"Margarita Beaumont is no more. She died from a plane crash."

Superslut screamed. A scream which would not stop. She was hysterical. She bolted from her manager and ran screaming like a headless chicken around the room.

Everybody in the Ambassador's office screamed in unison as if they were a chorus hitting the highest notes in an operatic aria when she ran straight through the open window while screaming "Marco! Marco!".

At that same instant, in a secret installation in Beijing, Commander Albert "Margaret" Hageman was just informed that his favorite actress had died in a plane crash. He too screamed and screamed while running around the room like a headless chicken. But he did not run towards the open window. He became exhausted and stopped. Then he smiled almost shyly to his Russian escort and fluttered his false eyelashes at the young man who was already weak from fighting nausea.

Commander Albert "Margaret" Hageman purred in his baritone,"Sorry. Just menopause, I guess!"



January 22, 8 AM (GMT-8), Palo Alto

There was a vague geographical delineation of homosexual love around San Francisco. In the city peninsula, it was the male homosexual enclave, the so-called Gay Mecca. In the South Bay and across to Oakland and Berkeley in the east, the lesbians ruled. The city of San Francisco was not the only one contracting in population since  the fags moved in with the Hippies in the 1960's. So was Oakland. In fact, with the last one, there was no let-up. Hemorrhage all the way down since the 1960's after a slight bump around 1990-2000.

Malcolm Frederick laughed at the thought. Gays were not the only ones rebuffing, so were the lesbians despite what the porn sales seemed to indicate!

In the Berkeley area, Rebekah Sommheiler was an icon. The septuagenarian hipster had a reputation of being a "woman's woman". It surprised Malcolm when he first saw her fondling the newspaper publisher the other night during the orgy. As he rummaged inside her hard drive, it surprised him even more.

He did not see a single picture of a naked woman. Nor of a naked man for that matter. But he saw a gigabyte worth of naked pictures of young boys. The "woman's woman" was a pedophile. And heterosexual?

He copied the whole hard drive. He had lots of reading to do. Other people's secrets were his ebooks. The only reason he circulated among the ultra-liberal crowd was because they tended to have more secrets. And what outlandish secrets!

He was an outlandish character himself. So was his business partner Adrian Lao. They grew up together in Sunnyvale, becoming two of the most notorious hackers in the Bay Area by the time they reached high school. At 30, they were both billionaires. The Palo Alto campus of their software company stood proudly rivalling that of  Google in nearby Mountain View.

He owed a lot from Herbert Campbell II. Herbert suddenly arrived one day in their house. He never asked how Herbert did it but when he was almost certain of being jailed after being caught entering the CIA's top secret memory banks, he was released. From the age of fifteen, he felt himself closer to Herbert than to his own father. The old man made sure he got all the education he needed without ever asking for anything. Malcolm built his company with Adrian, however, without asking a single penny from Herbert. It was a perfect mentor-protege relationship. He respected Herbert more than anybody else.

He did not know what to make of Rebekah Sommheiler. Respect was too grand a word for her. Rebekah was his professor in Humanities at UCLA. Rebekah only had her attention to the ladies. It was okay with the boys, they were left alone playing Counterstrike at the back of the classroom.

Rebekah Sommheiler, of all people, just phoned him.

As if anticipating his questions, she immediately said,"Frank Schonberg gave me your phone number. He is indisposed."

"Is he sick?"

"He had to go to New York. Important business. He asked me to tell you you've won. Mr. Frederick, you won five hundred million dollars."

"What for?"

Rebekah laughed."The bet, remember? All the newspapers have dead Hollywood stars on their headlines. No trace of the fag destroyer commander."

Malcolm remembered the orgy. A silly game really. He liked it better when they bet on events which were hard to control. One of the participants in the orgy was a publisher who controlled all the newspapers in the Western US. Anybody could have easily approached him.

Questions raced across Malcolm's mind. So why did he win? Why did Frank have to delegate a phone call which he could have done from New York himself? What was in New York? And why Rebekah?

Something flashed in his mind. He was curious."Who lost?"

"Do you know Mike Rogers?"

The billionaire from Denver. He felt the plot just got thicker.

"Of course."



January 22, 9 AM (GMT-8), Cedars-Sinai, Los Angeles

Tina was still sleeping when Tony went out. He just left a note before going to the airport. Malcolm Frederick's Lear jet was already there waiting.

Tina,

I would have liked nothing but to see you smile this morning. But I have to do something in the Bay Area, it's too important...


It's been two days and they hadn't had a private moment together. Tina felt the rush of emotions. She did not let herself dwell on the incident. How she got that far. It was so unlike but so like her at the same time to take to extremes. Perhaps this meant she had stopped being a pendulum. She must have found her final refuge with Tony?

She laughed at herself weakly.

 One thing she was sure of, she was only too happy he was safe. But what's this building in her chest? Fear? What's so important in the Bay Area?

Why did they have to shoot him? Tony was so gentle she was suprised to know he angered somebody enough to kill him.
And the killer shot from the entrance of the house. A bodyguard of Helmut Schiller. What did Tony do to provoke the old man to such extreme outrage? In the presence of former Hippies who are now VIP's of California within the immediate vicinity. Was it part of some act to spice up the orgy?

Was it?

Did it have anything to do with Tony's trip up North?

She finished reading the note:

... Stella called. She told me to tell you to get well fast because a house in Bel-Air is waiting for you, for us...



January 22, 2012, 10 AM (GMT-8), High above California somewhere between Los Angeles and San Jose

It was Phillip who called up Malcolm Frederick to ask for some background information for the ideas swirling in his mind. They became close since he did an article on the latter for the newsmagazine. He was amazed at the sudden great interest showed by the billionaire hacker and was nearly floored when Malcolm said:"You know, I think you are onto something there. Perhaps I could help."

He thought he did not ask any leading question but a sharp mind like Malcolm's could make sense out of the most sterile pretexts. Might as well. Just the right kind of ally that they needed. He knew Malcolm, the epitome of the apolitical anarchist, was safe.

He did not have to ask for anything. Malcolm anticipated their needs. He volunteered his plane which just delivered back to Los Angeles his weekend guests in his Napa Valley vineyards.

They will meet at his Palo Alto house this morning.

Tony looked at Phillip. He only noticed then the dark countenance of the latter. "Are you worried?"

"I have other things in my mind."

"Ah, a private matter!" Tony was ready to drop his curiosity.

Phillip was not, he needed the outlet."The editor called me just as I arrived in the airport a while ago. He rejected my article on sexual conversion because something came up."

"What?"

"The author of one of the studies which supported sexual conversion just denounced his conclusions a decade after the fact."

"Why, does it matter? Is there an intellectual dictator who holds the magic wand? There are other experts vouching for its validity. There are enough successful converts to testify for the programs' wisdom. There's you."

"I was not worried about the validity of my sexual conversion. I was intrigued by the sudden change of mind of one study's author. Especially if it was doubtful if he had the adequate capacity to do so."

"What do you mean?"

"It  appears that he changed his mind a decade after the study, now when he is 80 years old and highly likely didn't have the mental capacity to do so."

Tony remained quiet. He waited for Phillip to continue.

"The old man allegedly had Parkinson's which is due to degenerative changes in the so-called basal ganglia of the brain. Degenerative changes in the brain are not well-delineated processes. Fifty percent of patients with Parkinson's Disease have affected mental capacities."

"That rendered useless all that info. Did the news reports mentioned that?"

"No, a typical propaganda piece masquerading as scientific fact. It just stated he had Parkinson's but that was to pretend it's not biased. It never elaborated on the implications of that fact, which could have invalidated the very point of that article. It was written just to highlight that converts were engaged in self-deception but it provided no direct evidence that there was real self-deception among the original subjects. Low-brow journalism right there fed to a supposedly intellectual audience."

"I was striked by lightning but I shouldn't believe I was struck by lightning until some obscure old man who had a degerative brain disease said so. Though he said I was struck by lightning when he had clearer faculties to discern so."

"It had the typical footprint of a dishonest compensatory leftist propaganda: they know better so they have the last word. That's why they love to use the word "intellectual" to legitimize their pretensions. But in reality, the validity of the arguments are not important for their propaganda. They just aim to control the narrative."

"Except everybody has seen through them, nobody is really reading them, much less taking them seriously for the narrative to matter an iota. Those newspapers which carried it have financial problems and falling subscriptions. They point to the internet for their troubles though I thought they should point it to themselves because they simply have lost credibility. One couldn't rouse the leftist elements in its backyard to prop up the Occupy movement despite the presence of all the elements to stoke it. The other one championed the gay activist agenda but majority of the gays in its market returned to hiding instead. The latter never deduced that  most of those gays who returned to hiding are now sexual converts."

"A real journalistic crisis."

"I love that phrase, journalistic crisis. It sums up everything, not just their current financial troubles but what's  waiting ahead for the whole profession itself. I'm beginning to pity us writers. We could be extinct species soon if we let ourselves be used by even the most unrealistic political delusions. As the West declines, we might be treated as anachronisms in the new realities taking shape right ahead. Of course, a group will be more vulnerable than the others. Judging from the current developments, the new era appears to have lesser appetite in accommodating revolting political pretensions."

"I wonder why they let themselves be used when most of their readers are reading sports anyway. The few times I bother to read it, I read the one in New York only for its recipes."

"Those intellectual readers were just a myth because if they were any intelligent, they should have been insulted by such stupidly transparent propaganda."

"So your editor was stupid..."

"Or was merely fearful."

"Of what?"

Phillip remained silent for a while as if remembering something. Then he shook his head weakly and looked determinedly at Tony.

"An old man with a degerative brain disease overturning his conclusions when he was more lucid. A fearful editor. Well, things are really getting strange... and we're about to know why."


Jan 22, 2012, Noon (GMT-5), White House

He looked warily at the sullen face of his campaign manager.

"Well?"

"Empty coffers. We're practically at a standstill. We need money now."

"What do you suggest?"

The campaign manager grimaced as if he smelled stinking garbage. Then he shrugged his shoulders, the sign he had already run out of options. "We have no choice. We should bite the bullet and accept the offer of the fags."

Suddenly, the President felt the nausea rising up his throat. He immediately ran to his private toilet and gut-wrenching retches echoed through the Oval Office door and down the corridors, alerting the Secret Service agents stationed outside to rush in.

 Just in time when the campaign manager screamed as the President collapsed on the toilet floor.

 He was later diagnosed as having Severe Dehydration, with Electrolyte Imbalance, secondary to Severe Vomiting.

His personal physician shook his head. "No organic cause. Something just revolted him big-time."





Next: Chapter 16 

Nek - E' con te 
Italia

Челси - Почему


Posted by Delilah
Gracias, Xavier de Barcelona!





GODS OF RUGBY: Dallas Johnson of North Queensland Cowboys, NRL


Posted by Delilah
Thanks, George of Sydney!

Friday, May 25, 2012

Gods of Rugby: SHIRTLESS AUSTRALIA



CLICK THE PICTURES BELOW TO ENLARGE
Will Chambers
Brad Sewell
Greg Inglis
Mike Fawsett
Raphael Clarke
Steve Turner
Xavier Clarke





POSTED BY DELILAH
Thanks, Tom of Sydney!

Thursday, May 24, 2012

GODS OF FOOTY: Billy Slater of Melbourne Storm, AFL


Posted by Delilah
Thanks, Jack of Melboune!

Monday, May 21, 2012

THE BEATEN GENERATION: The Dick Principle (Chapter 14)

Iker Casillas, Real Madrid, La Liga; with girl friend Sara Carbonero

By Dick & Poli Tico


NOTES:  We're entering a very interesting terrain. We'll start tackling Diversity. We'll introduce the first Inuit President of the United States. This novel isn't really against any country though we used the US-China rivalry to give texture to the plot. The novel is hurtling towards what was described in Chapter 2. If you noticed there, both countries helped each other in the end. There are other kinds of villain here- the real ones. The pretentious kinds which are actually more toxic. We'll show why as the novel revs up going forward.
We're also introducing two unlikely "heroes": both ex-gays (one is still in the process of conversion though). They had to defeat their own homosexuality first, now they have to defeat the villains. Let's see if they could arrest the fall of Western civilization.


Chapter 14: The Crime of the Reality

"The world is all crowd... the crowd is won over by appearances"
Niccolò Macchiaveli, "Il Principe"

"Il debito pubblico italiano a marzo e salito alla soglia record di 1.946,083 di euro"
Bankitalia

"I think it is a bit of myth to believe that there are some people in Europe who are going to spend a lot more money and those of us who realize we have to deal with our debt and our deficit."
David Cameron, Prime Minister, UK

"Lasst die Griechen gehen, wenn sie wollen"
Thomas Straubhaar, Der Stern


January 22, 2012, Morning (GMT+8), Taipei, Taiwan

A country's brand was its power. Image was king.

The Pacific Ocean was virtually an American lake since the end of the Second World War. It was an unchallenged Pacific economic and military power. Circa 2012, the region was abuzz with talks about the declining economic potency of the Superpower. Surely, the Asians thought, America still had its powerful military. But what if one laid-back morning they wake up, sip their coffee contentedly, open their newspapers languidly then right there on the front page, the Commander of a destroyer guarding the sealanes around them was in drag, flirting with a handsome shirtless Russian and hugging him coquettishly? (Breaking News: Many throughout the Pacific Rim were reportedly burned by the coffee they were drinking when they instantly guffawed uncontrollably upon opening their morning newspapers).

A country's brand was its power. What if suddenly the image was queen?

The international pop singer Superslut was about to learn a lesson in delusionary politics first-hand. She was already stoned as her plane approached Taipei but she thought, even without her drugs, just being that near to China would make her high. Her records were banned in China so she relished having concerts in Taipei. It would be near enough to stick a finger at the dark clouds over the  mainland across the narrow strait as the plane circled over the prodigal city. She did it now, then again, and she almost jumped with glee. Up yours, China!

She prepared a really magnificent show for the Taiwanese. Pity the Chinese, she smirked. Serves them right, they don't know what they're missing.

Like most successful artists with insecure personalities, Superslut was easy prey to NGO's who were always on the hunt for "suggestible" celebrities who could be convinced to champion their causes and gain a "more respectable" reputation in the process. Believing she deserved more respect, Superslut was game. She had seen the rough childhood of  that dyke actress Margarita Beaumont and she really was amazed how "Marco" (that's how the actress was called by the bully boys that formed the Neo-Nazi gang of her childhood) had transformed herself to become not only the "most beautiful actress in the world" but a respectable "socially conscious" artists with the many causes she suddenly busied herself with. Superslut doubted if "Marco" even understood her prepared speeches. It boggled her mind how even tough dykes who were only forced to wear dresses would actually bloom like real ladies when respected.

Superslut was never a beauty. Her signature thick "kabuki" make-up was precisely meant to hide her real face. Contrary to rumors, she wasn't initially a dyke, though she had that reputation because she looked like an emaciated boy. And since only dykes would woo her, rather than be left out by her prettier friends who were always talking about "sex with their boyfriends", she let herself enter into relationships with dykes. She eventually developed an "acquired taste" for it (Better than nothing, she decided). What she enjoyed most, however, was the shock in the eyes of her friends when she recounted her embellished tales about "fantastic sex with her dyke boyfriends". Oh, how the sluts were really shocked!

That eagerness to shock was her greatest asset in her career. She was a good songwriter and she had several hits. But her shock tactics kept her in the limelight. She felt she was not taken seriously though. Her manager told her, it was not wise that people looked down too low at her. She needed to be more "respectable". The NGO's just came in time.

Superslut was recruited by Stella herself (prodded by the manager who envied the "new respect"  Stella gave Margarita Beaumont). But Superslut nearly balked at first upon seeing Stella. How could this gnome help her become respectable? She feared Stella might just pull her down. She wondered if a burrow was waiting for her in the hole where Stella came from.

"Being seen as helping other less fortunate men will instantly give you a larger-than-life aura. People are suckers, they see us with halo upon our heads." Stella started her salestalk.

The drugs she took had already taken effect but she was sure even if she was sober, no way would she associate a halo with Stella. A couple of cute horns, perhaps. She was almost sure Stella had a tail tucked somewhere.

Stella was a veteran in deodorizing celebrity garbage but Superslut was a special challenge. She saw Superslut as a putrefied human being. Ugly, dirty, uncouth, with no semblance of civilized fiber at all. Totally unlike her. Superslut had miles to go before she could even approached her refined stature. But she needed this garbage to fortify the LGBT front. Most artists balk in being sullied by the LGBT stigma. She understood them perfectly but she had to appear helping the "not normal like me" because she still needed them: desperate as they were, they were easy to mobilize for the other more worthwhile causes. Besides their money, of course.  And who was she not to exploit what she could exploit for the "greater good"?

She knew Superslut was desperate to be respected and she saw an opening there.

"You can only win here. There are rumors about you being lesbian. The LGBT may be a good cause for you. People are awed by celebrities. You'll be helping young people who are struggling like you..."

"I'm not a dyke," Superslut cut her off.

"Sssh, most people believe you are a dyke anyway."

"I'm not a dyke," Superslut insisted, almost with contempt.

Stella had to force herself not to laugh. But she was tired of dealing with this human sore and she wanted to leave the soonest. She had far easier time convincing a hardcore lesbian like the actress Margarita Beaumont.

Stella always dealt from strength. She looked Superslut straight into the eye. "I have a video of your last liaison with the dyke tatoo artist. Either fight for us so that you won't see that video being released over the internet or nobody is the wiser and you become respectable instead."

Even when stoned, Superslut could see reason. So she promptly had public appearances designed to show her "compassion" over a bunch of screaming dykes and fags who were prepared as cheering props by the LGBT contacts of Stella. Her manager promptly looked around for a beard boyfriend as "deodorant" just in case the LGBT stigma stuck more than they bargained for. Double purpose: that she was not actually a dyke ("just compassionate, therefore respectable") and that she was not really "that" ugly because she was able to hook a boyfriend. The drunkard manager was once overheard at a party as she went pass the limits of tactfree inebriation:"Oh, beards are needed now not only to cover up one's true sexuality. They are as just as needed to cover up the unmarketabilty of one's unfortunate face."

Unknown to Superslut, since that morning, the guffaws over the "Margaret Affair" have been taking over the Pacific Rim by storm and they have reached Taiwan many hours before her plane landed. The Taiwanese airwaves have been saturated by incessant guffaws since then.  And more than anyone, the Taiwanese needed a release. A mischievous Napoleonic complex is inevitably developed on those who had to learn to coexist under the shadow of a bigger neighbor which constantly imprinted menace into their collective consciousness. Despite the security given to them by the American military umbrella, the playful ones among the Taiwanese couldn't quite resist poking the eye of anybody bigger than them when the opportunity arose, even that of a perceived protector. The possibility of more guffaws was just too tempting.

The Taiwanese were well-aware why the songs of Superslut were banned in China. Alleged corruption of the minds of the youth. A radio announcer in Taipei was a lousy joker. He was actually trying to bait more guffaws when he said these: "If the American military has been harboring Margarets which made our security a laughing-stock, how sure are we that its culture that promoted an abnormal like Superslut will not corrupt our children and make us also a future laughing-stock?"

No guffaws elicited as intended, there was suddenly a palpable lull instead. Immediately, Taipei stood still and seemed to collect its thoughts.

Meanwhile, Superslut had landed in Taipei and was bursting with joy. She will give the people of Taipei the entertainment of their lives. She almost flew to the van that will take her to the hotel. She could see a big throng of her fans massed along the driveway. She could hear the raucous noise but she couldn't understand it. She guessed they must be so excited they were peeing into their pants just to see her.

She was jolted by the thuds on the roof of the van as they sped past the throng.

"Are those sh-tones?" she was so stoned she slurred her words.

Her manager, who was sitting beside her, snapped as she sipped again from her flask. "You're always sh-toned anyway, why should being sh-toned bother you now?" She too slurred her words.

"Not that kind of sh-toned, sh-illy. We are being sh-toned... with real STONES!"




January 21, 9 PM (GMT-8), Cedars-Sinai, Los Angeles


Tony?

The room was dark when she woke up. Her eyes immediately searched through the darkness for the familiar figure. Her nose eagerly tried to capture his scent. She nearly screamed when the dark outlines of an ogre suddenly appeared on her field of vision.

It was Stella. She looked like a witch in the faint reflection of the light thrown by a couple of ceiling drop lights from a corner.

"You should get well fast. Things are heating up." The voice of Stella was measured, grave, low. A voiceover in a horror movie, thought Tina. "Another one was killed. The actress Margarita Beaumont."

Tina did not like the actress, but it still made her guilty to realize the news actually tickled her. She tried to act grave and serious too like Stella. "They killed her husband and his lover. What would they get from killing her?"

"Somebody wants to clean up before the campaign season starts. The impaled Navy commander threatened their plans."

Tina sensed it was big and knew right away it wasn't the place to get the details. She was silent for a while, waited for Stella to volunteer more information. None came.

"How is Tony?" Tina asked what was in the forefront of her mind.

Stella smirked. "You've set back feminism by a century, lady. You were nearly killed because of a man, you should be ashamed.  You've demeaned women by what you've done. I will never do that even to my darling."

Tina thought of the closet queen husband of Stella. She decided to just ignore her.

"Do you know who did it?"

"A bodyguard of the owner of the house. Helmut Schiller, the old playboy."

"You know why?"

"I only have theories. But..." Stella breathed in noisily as if making clear that what she was about to say was really... really important!

Tina remained silent. She knew what would come next. Stella loved to give a big performance. She gave her friend the floor.

"Except for Malcolm and me, nobody seemed to have been puzzled by what happened. They stopped the orgy but only because Frank told them the police would arrive anytime." Stella walked towards the window and the orangish glow thrown in from the outside compounded the sinister undertones of her profile. "I know you're a foreigner but you've been here long enough. Those people are some of the biggest personalities of the White liberal elite in California. Wealthy. Influential. And, as you have seen, not like you and me..."

"What do you mean?"

"You were not looking at them having sex..."

"It was not my business."

"In our job, we should not miss anything."

"What did I miss?"

"The pillars of normal California. All of them present themselves as heterosexual in public..." She paused and stared almost ominously for a few seconds at something outside the window. Then: "Even when we got out, I peeped in once. All were still having sex... this time, all with the same sex."



January 21, 10 PM (GMT-8), Malibu

He was the one doing the anal honors on Rod Thompson in the video still circulating in the internet. The original site was shut down but like a wild mushroom, it would pop out somewhere else. It didn't surprise him they pixelated his face. They were obviously not in a hurry to out him. They still needed something from him. More money? Well, let's just wait and see, he thought almost wistfully.

He produced most of the films starred and directed by Rod Thompson but Herman Schonberg had no intention of attending the dead actor's wake after learning of the suicide of the Chinese transexual in San Francisco. Almost immediately after the death of the latter, sex video clips of Rod and the transexual were plastered all over the internet, including one where the actor "pledged his love" to the tranny.

Herman Schonberg couldn't help shuddering. So he had made love to a closet homosexual after all. Rod Thompson had deceived him for 15 years, the latest one was just last year. It's turning out there was a loophole in his filtering methods. The only consolation was he was correct in not bothering anymore with Arthur Dandridge and Charles Murphy. His internal radar for homosexuals pinged on the two right away in the beginning. If not for the stupidity of women, these two would have vanished a long time ago. They were always elected as "Sexiest Man of the Year" or "Most Handsome" something. Their movies were not really making big money but their publicists kept them in circulation. He could make more money in films with lesser known actors but with just a bit higher outlay for promotions.

He was sure his discovery of Rod Thompson's true colors would make him nauseous the whole day. He had already taken two capsules of 500 miligrams of Plasil since he realized the truth an hour ago. To little effect. He felt as if fifteen years of toxins had accumulated in his system and  nothing short of total blood filtration would relieve him of his discomfort.

He lost some of his recent depression though. A small voice was suddenly persistent, he may not be outed after all.

Or was he now reduced to simplistic wishful thinking?

His cellphone vibrated in his pocket.

"Herman, they want one hundred million dollars." He didn't recognized the distressed voice. Kinda familiar but dark emotions distorted the tone.

He read the caller's ID. Instantly, he knew what that was for.

"Calm down, Peter. Keep your cool."

Peter Gardner was the star of the biggest hit film last year. An action film based on a popular cartoon character so all the kids hauled in their parents to pack cinemas throughout the world.

"How could I keep my cool, for Chrissakes? You were banging me indecently in that video, you bastard."

"You bang grandfathers for breakfast, Peter.  At least I made you a multi-millionaire, didn't I?"

"Not enough to pay for what they're asking. You have to pay the hundred million, Herman, or I'll bring hell..."

He immediately cut him off. "No need to threaten, Peter. Everybody'll just sink deeper into shit."

Peter became silent at the other end of the line. Herman could hear him breathing heavily.

"When is the deadline?" asked Herman warily.

"Tomorrow. Midnight."

"Don't do anything. I'll call you back."

"Don't expect I'll do a Rod Thompson, Herman. I'd rather kill you first."



January 22, 11 PM (GMT-8), Los Angeles

It was almost midnight when Tony finished recounting to Phillip what was in his mind. Events happened so fast since he entered Helmut Schiller's mansion that he forgot matters which caught his attention but which he just filed at the back of his mind for later retrieval. The conversation with Phillip suddenly focused everything into clarity.

By midnight, they have agreed on what to do.

Tony was convinced he could pull it off. True, he was feeling the nerves but he was sure he would rise up to the occassion. "It just occurred to me. Maybe we're fated to do this..."

"What?"

"We've saved ourselves. Done the impossible by defeating the enemy within ourselves. At least you have already saved yourself. But I know I'll save myself soon."

Phillip remained silent. He just looked at Tony, but the latter felt Phillip must have guessed what he was about to say. He said it anyway.

"Now we just might save America."



January 22, Midnight (GMT-5), White House

He was not thinking of saving America, he was not sure where to save it from. He was thinking of saving himself.

That fag Navy Commander shitting in China just complicated things, he cursed.

It was easy the first time. Anybody could have beaten the unpopular last President. He knew their choosing him was a fluke. He had been an expert in "diversity-scheming", and he was in the right place when the Party bigwigs decided the time for a minority candidate had come.

It was a different game this time.

Who were those Wall Street wise guys to tell him he was incompetent? The nerve!

His campaign for reelection had to start soon but nobody was rushing to impress him with a check. The machinery should have been cranked up last week yet. Only the closet billionaires had contributed but that was just a drip. He was still wary of taking the offer of the fags because of the quid pro quo being asked. But it irritated him he might have no choice in time. He shuddered at the thought. He didn't want to relive his lean years when he had to exploit lonely fags for his rent money. He was already a president, dammit!

And not only a President. He was the first Inuit President.

Compassion and Diversity like before, hello?





Next: Chapter 15

BACKGROUND MUSIC

Pablo Alboran -  Te He Echado de Menos


                              
Pictures posted by Delilah
Gracias, Clara de Madrid!

 





GODS OF SOCCER: Kevin Gameiro of Paris-Saint Germain, Ligue 1



Стас Пьеха  и  Григорий Лепс-  Она не твоя




Posted by Delilah
Merci, Jacques de Paris!