the Great Satan, bringing the imperialist dogs to their knees, destroying capitalism and Western-style democracy. Draining that Zionist swamp.”
“Israel must be destroyed,” the South American dictator agreed.
“No, you imbeciles. Not Israel!” Akhmed shouted, stomping his foot. “Miami Beach! Doesn’t anyone listen to me? Is it because I’m short? Good things come in small packages. My own mother told me that before I had her beaten to death! Look at Napoleon! Hitler was no circus giant, I assure you. I know on good authority that he wore lifts in his boots and a contraption in his cap that gave his head an extra couple of inches. What’s wrong with you people? We can’t destroy Israel. We need Israel!” He turned to Thurston with a torching glare. “Who do you think caters our stonings?! It’s Miami we don’t need! Miami Beach! Remember our plan? My plan!”
“Mellow out, my tiny friend,” the Venezuelan suggested.
“I don’t want to mellow out! I want to destroy America! I’m not tiny! In my country, I’m average, maybe even a little taller than average! What do you want from me?! How come you nicknamed me ‘Little Buddy’ unless you think I’m short?”
“Would you rather be ‘Ginger’?” suggested El Max. “That would be all right with me.”
“Me too,” agreed the Venezuelan. “Ginger it is.”
“No!” Akhmed blared. “Not Ginger! What’s wrong with you people?! Do I look even vaguely like Ginger?”
“How about ‘Minnow,’ then?”
Akhmed cut the Cuban a withering stare.
“Minnow would be good,” agreed the Venezuelan.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be Little Buddy.”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Either or.”
Cecilia brought a fresh round.
“Too much caffeine in his soda, perhaps,” the Cuban suggested to his fellow Latin American tyrant. Not recalling what the ashtray in front of him was for, he extinguished his cigar on his knee, sipped his new rum and, with a sigh, said, “All right, my dear…Little Buddy?…let’s talk about the plan.”
“My plan!”
“All right, your plan.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Akhmed said. “Look, you’re the one who wants to obliterate those expatriate Cubans before you die.”
“My legacy,” Lovey agreed. “Personally, I have nothing against Jews, though. I like them, if you want to know.”
“Well, I don’t want to know, all right? I want to kill them without adversely affecting our catering needs, and you want to kill Miami Cubans, and Thurston wants to shut down the oil refinery operations off the Florida coast. Win-win-win. Do we have a plan, or don’t we?”
“Eat more beans,” the Cuban president said. “Don’t you like our beans?”
“I like your beans fine! Where are we with our plan?!”
Thurston farted—a long bass note. “You try it,” he told the Iranian leader.
“I don’t want to fart. I want to destroy the Great Satan.”
“Don’t be ashamed,” Lovey said. “It’s a compliment to our beans.”
The Venezuelan president leaned over to his Cuban comrade and, ruffling his own shirt, whispered, “Does this make me look fat?”
Akhmed sighed. “All right, all right. Tell me where we are with our plan, and I promise to fart.”
The Latinos’ glances locked. They weren’t sure they could trust the little cockroach. “You go first,” Thurston said.
Akhmed rolled his eyeballs. “I flew all the way from Tehran to discuss the mission. You think it was a picnic? Iranian Air isn’t exactly Funjet. You can’t even make out what the flight attendants are saying behind those burqas. Did she say ‘your vest is under the seat’ or ‘your testes smell worse than my feet’? ‘Yank the string to inflate’ or ‘spank your wang and gyrate’? It’s maddening. Are you supposed to ask for a pillow or throw her out of the plane? And you try flying on an airline that has beaded curtains for lavatory doors and sand for toilet paper.”
“That’s nothing,” the Venezuelan leader protested with a wave. “Try flying out of San Juan sometime! Screaming Puerto Rican kids running up and down the aisles, squirting you with water pistols. One time we had to make an emergency landing, and they found one of the little brats wedged behind the altimeter.”
“I like to fly,” the Cuban piped. “My feet swell and get stuck in my combat boots, so I have a good excuse for never taking them off. I also go crazy for pedal cabs.When I was in Vietnam, I hired a girl to take me around for days, just so I could stare at her rump.”
“What about Caracas women? They have good rumps.”
“I’m not saying they don’t.”
“Stop!” Akhmed wailed. “Why do you have to always do me one better? Is it because I’m short?”
Their host called to Cecilia, “Get Little Buddy a nice bowl of three-bean soup.”
“I don’t want soup! I want to discuss the mission! I’ve already proven my goodwill. I’ll fart only after we discuss the mission!”
Lovey, puckering, and Thurston, running his tongue around the inside of his lip, passed each other nods. “All right, my friend,” said the Cuban leader. “We’ll discuss the mission first. But at least cross your heart about the fart.”
Akhmed gazed dementedly at his co-tyrants, as if wanting to impale them on his fork. Instead, he sighed, lowered the utensil, and crossed his heart.
“You have to say it,” the Venezuelan insisted.
“Okay! I cross my heart!”
“I’m satisfied.”
“Me too.”
“Then let’s get on with business,” Akhmed barked.
“I like business!” exclaimed Lovey.
“The mission,” Thurston agreed, sucking a garbanzo.
Akhmed’s glance careened from one cohort to the other. “Was that so hard?”
“I guess not,” the Venezuelan admitted.
“The instrument of devastation is almost ready,”Akhmed said. “Any day now. All we are waiting for is your martyr.”
His colleagues fidgeted.
“What?” Akhmed, smelling a rat, demanded.
“There’s a slight glitch in the
