It’s bin a while since I posted on these here pages. Back then I gave you the lowdown on young Tony Hadley’s burnin’ desire for porcine pleezure, and our own Head Chef’s obsession with the bovine, but the whole world’s changed since then, yessir.
It’s been three years since those crazy sun’bitches dropped the big one, and I’m still steppin’ on burned folk down Washington Boulevard. I ‘aint bathed in two winters – what water there is’ll singe yer twirly hairs off faster than y’can say “Tiananmen Square” – and I hate to say it, but I reek enough to scare a skunk. An’ that’s a bitch when you’re tryin’ to catch ’em for the pot – bit ‘o skunk, maybe some gopher if it ‘aint glowin’ too much, though I don’t care about that these days, with what passes for Summer a’ dyin’ already and our boys in Hazmat Cammies throwin’ phosperous at the Chinaman every which way. Jeez, right now ‘ahm lucky if I gits’ta chew on a dead dog’s leg once a month, and the social life ‘aint what it was neither. I ‘aint jawed with folk since that fella sellin’ babies heads for booties down the strip six months back.
And how did it come to this? I’ll tell ya his name, but I’m guessin’ ya know it already. Julian Assange. That asshole. He’d been telling the Russians we hate ’em, and the Chinese too, and everybody else that we’re thinkin’ they’re a waste o’ time – boy, pissin’ everybody off. And makin’ it so we couldn’t fix it, neither. Holy shit, I hate secrets as much as the next longhair, but you gotta judge the big cheese on his final call, not on the tittle tattle proppin’ it up.
But nope, the Russkies wouldn’t buy that, no way. Like lil’ ol’ Korean Kim wouldn’t buy losin’ his country to the South with us & the boys in Beijing whoopin’ n’ a’ hollarin’ from the bleachers. He’d rather go out with bang, yessir. And when Acmedinnerjacket caught wind of the Saudis wanting us to blow his nukes up, hell, that was just the asskick he needed to roll over Iraq and park his big birds right on Jerusalem’s doorstep. And we all know how the Israeli’s react to threat right? You got it. Busto.
Anyways. Assange knew my rep. It’s hard to be the biggest beast pimp in the West for three decades without putting it out there, y’know? I was online, with free delivery, door-to-door, for everything from Aardvarks to Zonkeys, so I wasn’t hard to find, nossir.
So I get his call about a week before the big bang, And I know everything’s headin’ down the john, and I know who’s to blame. But bucks is bucks, and a million big ones for an Anteater was easy money. Maybe I’d need that cash in whatever afterlife that asswipe left us, y’know? So I took the chance to give the dick some payback, in more ways than one.
I had me one helluva dangerous Anteater, name a’ Amy. She could lick a fella cleaner than a prairie dog’s bone, but she had a fatal flaw for a lady in her line o’ business. At the first whiff o’ man juice she’d clamp down harder than a sprung steel turtle neck.
I delivered Amy to Assange’s penthouse apartment, took the briefcase, and walked away. But not before hidin’ a little recorder in her collar. Consider this my own Wikileak, finally plucked from a city of ashes. It may be the sound of an asshole losin’ his pecker at the dawn of an Apocalypse of his own makin’, or it may not. I’ll let you decide.