E. Newman-eared Angus Culvertdale ordered the son-of-a-bitching Delmonico New York sirloin au poivre in cognac sauce—with a called-in-advance side order of macaroni and fucking cheese.
As Professor Leslie Fenwich—Popsie—sat nibbling his disgusting broccoli and trying to figure out how he might familiacide this threesome, in view of the fact that, even though he was philosophically opposed to capital punishment if for no other reason than that it included the word capital, if he himself had to go to the electric chair, it might be worth it, he watched his biological daughter eat so much of her future groom’s steak au poivre off his plate, mopping it in his cognac sauce (complaining about it the whole time), that Angus himself got very little of it down his own materialistic gullet and so ordered a second, this time Kobe (!) steak for himself and polished off the last of this follow-up cut while Popsie was sucking his final sprig of parsley.
On the outskirts of Havana, Cuba, on the rooftop of an eighteenth-century former mansion, Akhmed, his translator Hazeem, and the leaders of two other countries sat eating a splendid parador lunch of grilled sea bass, creole shrimp, olive oil-braised chicken, honeyed ham, spicy rice and beans, steaming potatoes, and mixed salad with pepper-mayonnaise dressing. The president of Venezuela washed down a mouthful of meat with a sip of Heineken from a straw and belched, accidentally launching a shard of ham onto the Iranian president’s forehead. The Venezuelan apologized to the Iranian’s translator. Interlingual babble was exchanged, Akhmed speaking with his mouth full. He flicked the meat off his face onto the concrete floor, where a scrawny blackbird pounced on it and hobbled away behind a vine-threaded trellis. Hazeem assured the South American leader that no harm had been done, either to feelings or international relations. Akhmed washed down his own mouthful of lunch with a swig of Tab, a supply of which he had brought from Tehran, turned and, again through Hazeem, complimented their host, the president of Cuba, on such a magnificent meal—considering that other products and services in his country were total shit. “Do I use the term correctly?” the Iranian president asked.
When they had first arranged this meeting, they had considered speaking English, which they all managed pretty well, but decided against it on principle. Hazeem used the word wonderful instead of shit.
“Pork makes you stupid,” said Akhmed, with an air of superiority. He plucked his napkin-bib from his shirt, crumpled it into a pile next to his plate, and, turning to the Cuban president, said, “Now, shall we discuss our business, El Maximo?”
But his host pretended not to hear.
“El Maximo?”
“Code names,” the Venezuelan whispered urgently, glancing around, focusing narrow-eyed on the blackbird. “American spies are everywhere.”
“Code names,” Hazeem repeated in Farsi.
Akhmed sighed forbearingly. He turned again to the Cuban president. “Okay. I mean…Lovey.”
El Presidente clapped his hands and giggled with joy.
In addition to having agreed not to speak English, they had also decided to always use their code names. This was the Cuban leader’s idea, as were the names themselves. The Venezuelan went along with it because he so admired his revolutionary mentor, and Akhmed thought it was infantile and moronic but acceded anyway because it seemed a harmless enough way to humor these nitwits. And so the Venezuelan president became “Thurston,” the Cuban leader “Lovey,” and the Iranian “Little Buddy.”The Cuban had written these names on slips of paper, distributed them for memorization, reclaimed the scraps, counted all three to make sure none were missing, basted them with a smidge of sofrito sauce, and then, for obvious reasons, swallowed them.
“Business?” Akhmed reminded them, squeezing his crumpled napkin like a tension ball. “Lovey? Thurston?”
“The Yanquis misuse their pigs,” Lovey declared, swishing Havana Club rum around his cheeks, gargling, and, not sure what to do next, turning to Thurston.
“Swallow,” said the Venezuelan.
The Cuban complied. He wiped a trickle from his beard with the back of his hand. “They feed them massive amounts of grain that could feed the starving children of the world. Look at us: our pigs are thin and hungry—good socialist pigs.”
Thurston belched percussively.
“Our plan?” said Akhmed—Little Buddy—squeezing his napkin harder.
“Fine, thank you,” answered the Cuban.
“The Americans are cruel to their animals,” Thurston pointed out. “They fry their chickens without making them fight and kill each other first.” He raised his finger. “Undignified.”
“Our chickens we choke,” Lovey added proudly.
The waitress came with another tray of food.
Akhmed asked if it was safe to talk with her nearby.
“Cecilia is one of us,” the Cuban president declared. He reached over to pinch her buttock, but she scooted out of range, so he pinched his own buttock instead. “A loyal socialist. Her mother is head of her local CDR, and the parador is fully licensed.Yes so, Cecilia?”
“Yes, Maximum Leader, all paperwork up to date. We accept only Yanqui dollars and give change only in Cuban pesos.”
“You see,” he told his guests, “she is completely trustworthy. Her own grandfather was among the forces defending our nation against the imperialists at the Bay of Pigs, for which I awarded him a…” He searched his memory.
“Medal?” Akhmed suggested.
“No, a goat. That’s it, I awarded him a goat. For a moment I couldn’t recall which farm animals we were working with in those days, until I remembered that we have never given out anything other than goats and chickens, and in those glorious days we actually still had goats, so by deduction, I realized there was a better than fifty-fifty chance we awarded his bravery with a goat. Quite maximum of me, no?”
“A goat is worth far more than a medal,” the Venezuelan president said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “Only the Americans give useless medals.”
“You can’t eat a medal!” Akhmed agreed.
“More drinks, Cecilia,” Lovey called through the doorway.
“She’s a looker,” said the Venezuelan, sucking his teeth. “I wonder if she screams out manifesto in the throes of passion.”
“I might have been married to her mother,” the Cuban leader replied. “I don’t quite recall, but I’m sure it’s written down somewhere. I’ll ask my brother.”
Growing impatient with the nonsensical ramblings of these Hispanic nincompoops, Akhmed sought once again to get the conversation on track. “So, our plan is almost one hundred percent operational, is it not?” he asked his co-conspirators.
“They have just now poured the foundation,” Lovey answered, nodding over the roof’s railing at a construction site next door. He waved his cigar to the security guard, who was sitting in front of the fresh cement to make sure no children came to deface it with seditious slogans like RESCUE US FROM THIS MARXIST HELL. “The concrete is still wet, if you would like to engrave your
