Continued From Yesterday.
It is July 6th, 2026.
“Eighty years old. Jeez. Hard to believe. Lived an honest life. Honest work. Happy birthday to me,” said George W. Bush.
“Yes, George. But tomorrow we go back to Maine, OK? I cannot take the heat. And it is not good for you either,” said Laura Bush as she returned to her New Yorker magazine.
“You’d rather be in that little bungalow than here among the people?” asked George.
“Yes, George, I’d rather be in our little bungalow,” said Laura. “Plus, we can see the grand children. They are all up north where we should stay, George, particularly in the summer,” said Laura. (more…)
It is July 6th, 2026. George W. Bush is lying on an aluminum chaise lounge cushioned with cheap frayed vinyl strips in the heat of the Texas sun, his eyes in the shade of the peak of a San Juan Stars baseball cap, a baseball team which was on that day in first place in the Eastern Division of the American League after only three years after being created as an expansion club. To his immediate left sits a small aluminum folding table on which lies a pitcher of ice tea and a bowl of bite-size chocolate chip cookies. On a similar rickety chaise lounge lies Laura Bush, who wears a red large-brimmed sun hat with tortoise-shell sunglasses. Laura is reading The New Yorker magazine. George is watching two eight-year old girls tossing a softball back and forth, catching the ball with brown-leather mitts. George knew them as neighbors, each living in their respective brushed steel trailers that were about fifty yards from his vantage. Sarah and Sylvia, the two baseball girls, as he thought of them. Sarah blond, Sylvia a redhead, both wearing running shorts, white socks and sneakers, Sarah in a Mets jersey, Sylvia in an Arizona Diamondbacks jersey and baseball hat. They were running around, throwing the ball to each other, fielding grounders, one of which went through Sylvia’s legs and ended up at the foot of George’s chaise lounge. Sylvia ran for the ball, where she was stopped by a man in black pants, a tight black tank top, wearing a shoulder harness with gun. (more…)
Continued From Yesterday.
Courtney Love picked up the mirror that had fallen to the floor from Kate Moss’s limp hand. She licked the cocaine dust from the mirror and then swiped her finger on the remaining drug, sweeping the mirror back and forth, and then rubbed her finger on her gums. She tossed the mirror onto the upholstered chair and placed the cigarette between her big lips. The sound of heavy breathing started to come from Kate Moss’s open mouth, who remained flat on her back, her bare legs dangling off the end of the bed, and her arms splayed outward, palms up. The heavy breathing was just short of a snore, as if the lungs were struggling to pull air into Kate’s soot-filled air sacks. (more…)
Kate Moss sat at the end of the king-size bed in a penthouse suite of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel near Hyde Park in London. She was wearing very thin white panties and a white tank top. She was barefoot. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking ashes on the plush rug. It was late in the afternoon, around tea time, and the light was starting to fade from the March sky. By this of time of day, Kate usually had smoked about forty cigarettes on her way to three full packs each day by the time she passed out late at night. People did not realize how hard it is to smoke three packs of cigarettes a day. You have to work at it. And Kate did. But now she had to work at not smoking three packs a day. The burning cigarette limply held between forefinger and middle finger, either hand, was now a fixture, an extension of her body. And the smoke, oh that beautiful smoke going deep into the million sacks of her lungs and then exhaling through her nostrils, was a breathing and pumping organ of her body. She had no memory of what life was like without the cigarette and smoke. But she was trying to cut back. This was only her thirtieth cigarette today. She was going to try to keep the total to about forty, maybe fifty, not the usual sixty. It was work. (more…)
The television studio was dark, the round table lit from overhead studio lights. Barry Bonds and Mark McGuire sat next to each other on one side of the round table, an empty seat on the other. They could barely detect the three large television cameras on hydraulic pedestals each manned by, well, a female operator with a headset. Three big cameras, three rail thin women, thought Barry Bonds as he cupped his hands over his eyes to shield the bright lights. This was public television, so of course they had women camera operators. Of course, they were all white. Progressiveness goes only so far, he thought. Barry was calm, unlike the fidgety Mark McGuire sitting next to him. Each wore dark suits with ties, a result of the advice of Barry’s public relations advisor and Mark’s wife. Barry had advisors, lawyers, handlers, PR people and body guards. Mark McGuire had his family. Retirement can do that. Barry was a player. (more…)
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