It was on the red carpet that the Breitbart bitch jumped me. Five foot six inches of wild conservative journalist, jabbering something about illegal aliens and the starving children of Judge Scalia. She'd played her cards right, smiling at me, winking and nodding, waiting until the angel dust kicked in. That was her moment to strike, with me weighing all of nine pounds and ready to fly off at the gentlest breeze. It was only the speed-enhanced reflexes of My Campaign Manager that saved me, grabbing the dyke from behind and throwing her to the ground.
Like a dog.
"Jesus Jumping Christ, man," My Campaign Manager hollered. "Did you see the size of the bomb that chick was carrying? It was fifty megatons if it was two ounces."
"I'll bet it was two ounces, you degenerate dope fiend," I replied from high above, on wings of PCP. "You've been dropping so many blues into that gullet of yours that you couldn't tell a ball point pen from an M-X missile. We have to be careful. There are feds all over this joint. Secret Service. The Heat! How did we ever get into this shit?"
How had we ever gotten into this shit? Three sheets to the wind and cast adrift on the seas of presidential politics, with The Man breathing down our necks, and a showdown with that sinister bastard Cruz ahead, if only we could stay out of prison. Or worst of all, the White House.
It was ten months earlier, in the nineteenth hole at my exclusive resort in Mar-A-Lago, that the inspiration had struck us. Inspiration fueled by slamming back shots of Old Granddad all afternoon, with generous tokes of Panamanian Red.
My Campaign Manager and I had been discussing the trade deficit with China, and the grass deficit with Mexico, when he croaked the fatal words: "God damn it if you're so smart about the Acapulco Gold markets, why don't you run for President?"
As I reached to claw the bong out of his oversized hands, it hit me like an electric vomit-bomb: a political trip. There is nothing so crazed as a politician in rut, screeching whatever thoughts burst into his coke-addled brain like a radioactive weasel before thousands of ignorant nimrods, on total auto-pilot, completely in the now, popping off like God's own Mentos and Diet Coke. Even Mick Jagger wouldn't know how to handle such a beast.
"I'll bet you never come down from a nuclear high," I agreed.
"That's it!" My Campaign Manager screamed, "But first, we'll need the supplies." Yes! The supplies. And so we gassed up the helicopter and zoomed off like a pair of Martians on steroids, frenziedly gathering all of the dangerous drugs we'd need to make it to the White House: six keys of Colombia's finest; a pharmacist's hernia-load of reds, blues, and yellowjackets; twenty pounds of Panamanian Red; the whitest heroin from the Harz Mountains of Germany; a gallon jug of angel dust; two briefcases loaded with mescaline; twelve blotters of Florida sunshine acid; and an aquarium full of Bolivian arrow toads. Plus a hogshead of Budweiser and a big inheritance from our Old Granddad.
"You sure this shit is enough?" My Campaign Manager asked. "Enough?" I said. "We'll barely make it to the convention with a stash this small. We'll have to fuel up in Cleveland. But don't worry, motor-head. They love me in Cleveland. All of the polls say so. Why, that swine Kasich, he still owes me a kilo of Laotian white!"
"Kasich?!?" My Campaign Manager roared. "Is that a name for some kind of burrito-head?"
"He's a natural born American!" I cried, "not some demented iceback. That's Cruz you're thinking of. A Canadian through and through! Or is he a Cuban? Anyway, I have valuable plans for this Kasich fellow. He's the Governor of Cleveland, a most important state they tell me. He's vice-presidential timber! A regular master at the art of the deal."
"He sounds like a God-damned Mexican to me."
Chapter Two …