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.
�Oh, now, Laura, you know I have this thing about my birthday. We have to be here on my birthday. At least once a year to check on my people,� said George.
�But couldn�t we check on your people in the winter, George? We can come during the winter when it is not so hot. You can check on your people during the winter,� said Laura.
�Tradition, Laura,� said George.
�All thinking people live up north, George, if they can afford it. We can afford it. We have that little bungalow on the rocks in Maine. We were lucky enough to get a piece of Maine while it was still available. We should take advantage of it. At our age. Please, George. Never again will I come here in the summer,� Laura said sternly.
�Lucky enough, Laura, really. That bungalow was my father�s,� said George.
�It was the outhouse, George. It was the house where your father cut fish and stored his fishing gear. And we were lucky to get it for ourselves. We should count our blessings,� said Laura.
�I never liked Maine. Besides, I can�t stomach seeing what they did to my Daddy�s estate, breaking it up like that into little apartments, filled with rich New Yorkers and those people from Boston. Those are not my people, Laura,� said George.
�Yes, George. I understand,� said Laura.
George looked up and saw Sarah running in his direction. The secret service man was keeping a watchful eye on her. Sarah was holding her baseball mitt high in the air as she ran, and just a few feet from where George and Laura were, Sarah caught the baseball thrown by Sylvia. She turned, smile on her face, the ball firmly in her mitt.
�Wow. That was some catch,� said George.
�Thanks. You�re like one of the former presidents, right?� said Sarah.
�Now, you know that already. Silly you. I know you know your history. It�s Sarah, am I correct?� asked George.
�Yes. We just moved here. That�s my home,� Sarah said as she pointed to her steel trailer.
�I know. Your Daddy e-checked me,� said George.
�My Daddy is dead. It�s my Mom who probably e-checked you,� said Sarah.
�Oh, yes. Sorry,� said George.
�My Daddy got skin cancer,� said Sarah.
�Yeah, that seems to be going around a lot,� said George
�Well, dear, you should cover yourself up then, Sarah,� said Laura, who looked up from her New Yorker magazine.
�You know about hats. People steal them. Someone stole my baseball hat,� said Sarah.
�Gotta stay covered up these days. It ain’t gettin’ any cooler, that’s for sure,” said George.
�Can I have a cookie?� asked Sarah.
�Yes, dear, you can take two, one for you and one for Sylvia,� said Laura.
Sarah grabs two cookies with her right hand.
�And George, give Sarah your hat,� said Laura.
�What?� asked George.
�Give Sarah your baseball hat,� said Laura.
�But this is�� George stopped himself. He takes off his San Juan Stars baseball hat and gives it to Sarah.
�Thanks,� said Sarah. She puts the hat on, which is a little too big for her head, but she turns it to the side. �See ya around,� said Sarah as she turns and runs back to Sylvia.
�These are my people, Laura. These are my people,� said George.
�Tomorrow we go back to Maine,� said Laura.
“Tomorrow’s another day, that’s what I say,” said George. “Hey, Laura, did you know that today is Sylvestor Stallone’s birthday? Born same day as me. Same year, same day. Somethin’, huh? Now there’s a guy who’s led an honest life. Yes sirree bob, an honest life. Rocky and me.”
“Yes, George. An honest life,” said Laura.
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.
�It�s OK,� said George as he waved his hand at the one secret service agent that was assigned to the former President. The secret service man backed off, and Sylvia continued to run with mitt on left hand.
�Hi,� said Sylvia.
�It�s Sylvia, right?� said George.
�Hey, look at those cookies. There�s so many,� said Sylvia.
Laura Bush looks up from her New Yorker magazine. �Yes, dear. It�s George�s birthday today,� said Laura.
�Wow. Happy birthday,� said Sylvia. George caught a glimpse of Sarah in the background with her hands on hips waiting for her friend.
�There are eighty chocolate chip cookies in that bowl. One cookie for each of George�s life,� said Laura.
�You�re going to eat all those cookies?� asked Sylvia.
�No, No. Laura won�t let me. I am allowed just, what is it, how many again?� asked George as he turned to Laura.
�None, George. You are allowed none,� said Laura.
�Yes, that�s right, I am allowed no cookies,� smiled George as he looked at Sylvia.
�But, dear, you are allowed to have one. Take one cookie for yourself and one for your friend,� said Laura.
�Thanks,� said Sylvia as she grabbed two cookies.
�Don�t forget your ball, Sylvia,� said George.
Sylvia picks up the ball and runs back to where Sarah was standing where they, from George�s vantage, seem to chat and eat and then resume play.
�How could you forget, George, about the cookies. You know better than that,� said Laura.
�Yes. I know. Discipline. It�s why we have survived on our beautiful Crawford ranch for so long, They did not take this away from us. No sir,� said George.
�It�s hardly a ranch, anymore, George, with all the trailers. Forty seven of them,� said Laura.
�Forty eight, if you count ours,� said George proudly, which was immediately behind where George and Laura were lying. Not the largest trailer in the Crawford Ranch Trailer Park. But one of the few that had 220 volts of electricity providing the most robust of air conditioning units that sat on cinder blocks to the side of the trailer.
�Survivors. We are survivors. Not everyone was able to survive like us, but it required discipline and ingenuity,� said George.
�Thank God the government at least pays for him,� Laura pointed to the secret service man.
�That�s the problem, Laura. People expect the federal government to pay for everything. People probably think I was unhappy when they cancelled the pensions of all ex-presidents and their wives. Nope. Not me. Government can�t afford it, so it should not pay for it,� said George. �And I was clever enough to turn our ranch into a trailer park, subdividing it into tiny little rentable trailer spots, surrounding ourselves with people. I love people,� said George.
“Yeah, you love people,” said Laura without emotion. “Are you enjoying your birthday, George?” asked Laura.
To Be Continued Tomorrow.
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.
�OK, so I got to do this. I�m good at this, Kate. I did this with Curt, like several times. But with you, it will be easier,� said Courtney to herself. With cigarette in mouth, she reached down and lifted Kate Moss into her arms. She was astounded how feather-light Kate was. Kate�s head fell backward, her eyelids open into little slits, revealing some whites to her eyes. And the heavy breathing seemed to clear somewhat due to Kate�s fallen head position.
Courtney walked slowly into the large white marble bathroom that was standard opulence for a Mandarin Oriental Hotel penthouse suite. The bathtub was square, constructed of white subway tile that formed the outside and inside of the tub. Courtney placed Kate�s limp body into the tub where she lied like broken toothpicks in a jangle of arms and legs. Kate�s white tank top was now stained with the saliva that was oozing from Kate�s mouth, and Kate�s white panties were pulled down over one hip.
Courtney turned on the cold water and plugged the drain. As the water filled the tub, Kate�s body started to float. Her arms rose and one leg started to rise as well. This surprised Courtney as she thought fat floated and bones sunk. And afterall, Kate Moss was all bones with elastic for skin pulled tight around the limbs. Kate�s long hair was now also rising, creating a star effect that emanated from her skull. Courtney kept a watchful eye on Kate�s mouth and nose to make certain she could continue to breath in the rising water. By now, Kurt would have woken or at least stirred, but Kate remained lifeless.
Courtney felt a pang of hunger, so she took the risk and ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the food service tray which she brought back into the bathroom. She rested it on the wide edge of the tub and grabbed a sugar cookie, which she popped into her mouth, followed by a second and a third. Courtney got so involved with the cookies and the grapes, as well as a few swigs from the open champagne bottle, that she forgot about Kate�s access to air. It was only when a seedless grape slipped from her fingers into the bathwater that she notice Kate�s completely submerged head.
�Shit,� Said Courtney.
Courtney reached down into the water and hoisted Kate Moss by her arms and shoulders from the water and dragged her over the edge of the tub and onto the white tiled floor, Kate�s arms and legs flailing around, but then as Kate�s head dropped onto the tile, a little too hard in Courtney�s judgment, Kate started to cough and wheeze and spit water from her mouth, and wave her bare arms. Kate opened her eyes, and then dry heaved phlegm onto the floor. Courtney sat on the tub edge and popped a few more seedless grapes into her mouth as Kate came to and struggled to raise her body.
�Hey. What happened?� asked Kate.
�You took a bath,� said Courtney.
�Really. I don�t remember,� said Kate.
�Yeah. You were talking up a storm. Told me lots of juicy stuff,� said Courtney.
�You have a cigarette?�
Courtney pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros from her front jean pocket and handed Kate a crushed cigarette. Kate put it into her mouth, which Courtney graciously lit for her with a Bic lighter. Kate took a deep breath, pulling in the cigarette smoke, and she seemed to recover. She looked up at Courtney and noticed her chomping on a sugar cookie. Discipline, is what Kate thought. Thank god she had the discipline to avoid being the slob and mess of a person that Courtney Love had become. Courtney was a freak, she thought. She glanced at her own body and was pleased to see her thin very disciplined frame. She took another deep intake on the cigarette and then released the smoke downward onto her bony body. Discipline. It felt great.
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.
�Where�s Charlie?� asked McGuire.
�They do that, Mark. The media makes you wait. It�s a power thing,� said Bonds.
�But Charlie Rose? He�s not really like the regular media,� said McGuire.
�Don�t kid yourself. Rose thinks he is somehow above it all. He ain�t. He�s got it easy, in fact, sitting in that chair, quietly discussing things, throwing softballs. He�s going to ask us about you know what. But watch. He�ll do it with respect,� said Bonds.
Walking into the light was a man wearing a New York Yankees uniform with a buzz cut. He sat down in Charlie Rose�s chair. McGuire gulped. Bonds stared, frozen. Bonds then looked around the studio for some kind of affirmation that he was indeed seeing what he was seeing.
�Hi, boys,� said Roger Maris.
�What the�,� Bonds could not finish the words.
�Mr. Rose is late. So they thought they would send me in to start up a chat,� said Maris.
�You are one of my idols, Mr. Maris,� said McGuire.
�Would you zip it, Mark. This is not Roger Maris. Roger Maris is dead.� Bonds turns to Maris. �You�re some actor. The network has sent you here to see how we react.� Bonds is getting excitable. �You guys are taping this, right,� Bonds says loudly to the darkness where the large video cameras stood like sentinels.
�Barry. Barry. Listen to me. I am Roger Maris. It�s me. The real deal. Hey, I am nothing special. Just a kid from the Midwest who was the wrong kid at the right place at the right time. And I just want to say that I think you have the legitimate home run record. The press tried to destroy me, and in many ways they did. And the press is trying to destroy you. And they don�t much care for you either, Mark,� said Maris.
�Well, I sort of had it the best of all of us. Everyone was rooting for me,� said McGuire.
�Yeah, you fucking had it great, man. It pissed me off when like no one noticed I hit seventy-three home runs, and they were jumping all over themselves when you hit seventy,� said Bonds.
�Well, it was because I broke Roger�s record, that stood for thirty-seven years,� said McGuire.
�Oh, fuck that. They hated Roger because Roger hated the press. And they hate me because I hate the press. And besides, you had Sosa, a black man, chasing you. Of course the media’s going to root for you.� said Bonds.
�Look, guys, it is a strange thing how baseball works. That number 61 meant a lot to me, but it also destroyed something in me. I really don�t care whether you guys took steroids or anything else to enhance your performance. Hell, I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Mickey was drinking and having affairs. Maybe those things enhanced our performances. I don�t know. But it�s the same old same old. They will cut you down, they will argue for giving you guys asterisks. And maybe you will get them. But remember Mark, that 70 is yours and Barry, that 73 is yours. They can try to take it away. But in the end, they can�t.� Roger was sober and calm as he spoke these words.
�It�s different, today, Roger. They are trying to crucify me,� said Bonds.
�Actually, guys, I disagree,� said McGuire. �I think the most honest record in this room is Roger�s 61. Look, I took that steroid. It made me stronger. I don�t think I could have done it without it. And you too, Barry,� said McGuire.
�Fuck you, McGuire. You know nothing about me. You know nothing about what I have done or haven�t done. My 73 is honest,� Bonds said angrily.
�Boys, this is what the media really loves. It loves to see us fight and hate each other,� Maris said. �I got to go. I am on loan for just this amount of time. Bye guys, and good luck,� said Maris. Maris stood and walked into the blackness beyond where the studio lights cut off.
�That was weird, man. That guy really looked like Roger Maris,� said Bonds.
�He�s a great man, Barry. Roger Maris is a great man,� said McGuire.
�Yeah, well, so are we. So are we,� said Bonds. �Now where the fuck is Charlie Rose.�
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stood on a gym mat facing a floor to ceiling mirror. He was wearing boxer shorts. Nothing else. He was watching himself jump rope. He held the ivory handles that were attached to a red cloth rope, and he was whipping the rope over his head and under his feet very fast, his feet barely rising off the matt, just enough to let the rope zip underneath. Mahmoud examined his body as he kept up the pace of the exercise. He was in excellent condition. In October he will turn fifty. Fifty, he thought. Half a century, and he had the body of a thirty-year old. His accomplishments were many. He had been to war. He had a degree in civil engineering. He had been mayor of Tehran. And now President. President of Iran. And he got here without compromising health or, if he dare have the vain thought, his good looks. Handsome, healthy, smart, accomplished, brave and powerful. Mahmoud smiled as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead.
�You are looking very fit, Mr. President,� said Hammid, one of Mahmoud�s many assistants. Hammid was standing to the right and behind Mahmoud, holding a clip board. He was wearing black slacks and a black blazer with a white shirt, open collar, a similar informal style borrowed from his boss.
�The demonstration today is after noon prayer?� asked Mahmoud.
�Yes, Mr. President. And the placards we prepared say �Death to the Great Satan.� We have prepared forty of them to be distributed among the students,� said Hammid.
�I do not like that phrase anymore. Great Satan,� said Mahmoud.
�Excuse me, sir,� said Hammid.
�America is not the Great Satan. We can say �Death to America� or �Death to Israel.� But to refer to either of them as �great� is giving too much power to them,� said Mahmoud as he continued with his exercise.
�But the placards are made, Mr. President. My daughter even helped with colored markers. Her penmanship is very nice.� said Hammid.
�Satan is great because he is too be feared. America is no longer to be feared. America is in decline. Bush�s war in Iraq has exposed America�s false power. America is having more difficulty with Sunni scum then it did with German Nazis,� said Mahmoud.
�The America-Iraq War has lasted longer than World War Two,� said Hammid.
Mahmoud stops the jump rope and turns to face Hammid.
�You giving me a lecture on history, Hammid?� said Mahmoud.
�No, Mr. President.�
�Because I thought there for a second you were giving me a lecture,� said Mahmoud.
�No, Mr. President.�
�Change the placards. �Death to Israel� is what they should say. America will never bomb us. But Israel is just nuts enough to do something stupid. So today we concentrate on Israel. Let�s bait them. Let�s temp them. And if God willing, they will send a bomb and we shall have the world defend us,� said Mahmoud.
�My daughter was so excited to see her placards on the TV,� said Hammid.
�Apologize to her for me. We shall have another demonstration next week. �Death to Israel.� Make certain she spells it correctly,� said Mahmoud as he wiped himself down with a towel. �And tell her to use red markers. Not blue. Red is devilish,� said Mahmoud.
�I shall tell her she has a message from the President of Iran. She will be proud.� said Hammid.
�Get me my pants, Hammid,� said Mahmoud.
�Yes, sir,� said Hammid.
Mahmoud glanced at the mirror and smiled as Hammid scurried away looking for Mahmoud�s pants.
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