Sunday, June 10, 2018

A preview of chapters 9-12 of the upcoming novel "Fear and Loathing on the 2020 Campaign Trail"


9 Yuki Ou-Yang
Konnichiwa Kitty: A Pansexual Blog for Pan-Asian People
Blog 001: The Shroud Highway
Friday, November 9th, 2012.
Welcome to La-La Land: where stars make dreams, and dreams make women inject motor oil and industrial concrete into their asses.
Where everywhere is the wrong-place, wrong-time, if your skin color is of a certain, darker phenotype, and anyone can be given a license to kill, as long as their clothing labels read “LAPD”.
Where designer clothing labels, imported from sweatshops in polluted Asian cities, are sold by drug traffickers in a “fashion district” and slapped on sex trafficked girls to increase their prices to match their “high-end” services.
Where immigrants escaping these polluted Asian cities cannot afford to buy designer clothing but do enjoy the cultural pollutions of young white families, working for tech companies, buying them out of their grandparents’ homes.
Where Netflix films a series called “Eastsiders” and does not cast one single brown or black actor in any major role.
Where music echoes from earbud to earbud, while the songwriters starve on the streets and the men who sell the earbuds yell at songwriters to get a job and stop blocking the entrance to Starbucks.
Where White Flight is no longer a problem because tech companies are actively restoring middle-class, heteronormative culture to streets where that culture never existed to begin with.
Where same-sex marriage and basic human rights are put to a vote and God is making His comeback tour.
Good-bye Echo Parque; Hello Live Nation Billboards.
It is here, under the 101 overpass at Union Street, where a group of queerly likeminded Berkeley graduates moved into a house which they could not afford and could not not afford. The home became known as the 321 House, referring to the address of the building and providing for a comforting respite that sounded like the barrio alternative to gentrified Sesame Street.
Quickly, the four bedrooms. in this untouched corner of Historic Filipinotown, filled up with renters, as the occupants found labor jobs in low-paying industrial companies the white people wouldn’t work for, and the watermark of radical gentrification halted just a sesame seed’s throw away where the 101 overlooks Echo Lake.
The first to move in, the progenitor of the 321 House, was Ernie Manacop. He found the place with his boyfriend at the time, Bert Wu, and broke up with him two weeks after signing the paperwork.
Grover Nguyen moved into the third bedroom, to keep the peace and occasionally pay for hot pot dinners, while the fourth bedroom sat empty, until Kevin “the Count” Snow settled in and brought with him a babbling stream of innumerable sexual partners. But only after I personally vouched for the Count; he is, after all, my cousin.
Together, the four friends battled the cities’ nightlife, from Silverlake to West Hollywood, and found in Los Angeles an advisory worthy of sparring. With the additional income from the Count’s rent, they found a way to survive the Great Recession together, and there was no way better to celebrate their newly found economic and social stability than by throwing house parties, casual kickbacks, and eccentrically themed BYOB dinner parties. But, let’s be real, this is LA; the food is just for show.
By the time Obama was elected to his second term, the 321 House had a reoccurring cast of characters. Bert’s new squeeze, Big Bird Salazar, served as the social media promotor, inviting Gaysians from all sorts of local hot spots, like Rage Nightclub and…well…Rage Nightclub is the only Gaysian club in town. So, news spread fast.
On any night of the week, you could walk in – yes, even you! – and see Snuffleupagos Nontawat drinking absinthe in the kitchen with Kermit Kim and Ms. Piggy Hong or Oscar Tanaka dancing to Lady Gaga in the living room while Cookie Hmong-ster snorts lines of molly off of Skeeter Shen’s all-natural yellow tits.
But the honeymoon ended when word got around that Elmo Wahid was homeless, kicked out on the streets by his Indonesian-Muslim parents for coming out as gay. When I heard about Elmo living on the streets, I was busy getting ready to promote the premiere of a new web series starring the actor Parvesh Cheena at a bar in Little Tokyo called Blue Whale.
The night before the premiere, Parv and I huddled together over our laptops and guest lists, punching numbers into our flip phones and exhausting ourselves in preparation. The 321 House was planning a Garden of Eden themed dinner and dance party later, and so, Parv and I were doing our best to ignore Armando Chen and Oscar Lee’s decorating efforts. It wasn’t just the premiere that was stressing me out; I had hired Bay Area rapper Ruby Ibarra to perform at the event, hoping its success and publicity might launch my career as a music promotor, saving me from my own whale of a problem: my career at Facebook.
I had also enlisted a little-known Japanese rap collective named Yentown, at the Count’s insistence. He was star-struckingly certain he could add one of the group’s members – Mony Horse – to his ever-growing list of 6-11 romantic side pieces.
He laid back on the couch in the living room, with a joint in one hand and a high ball glass of cheap vodka in the other, and said: “In my world, everyone is gay. You have to come out to me as straight, and even then, it’s going to take a lot more than a wedding ring and a couple of kids to convince me. I can just tell I would be Mony Horse’s type. He certainly is mine. And everyone knows, rappers are a hundred times more likely to be gay than non-rappers. It’s all just an image. I mean, are you buying that Drake is straight? With those eyebrows? I can tell you, he’s not. I just can’t tell you how I know. Even if Mony Horse is straight, give me five words with him, and I can turn that stud faster than a Yakuza can wreck a rice rocket. Speaking of rice rockets, is Mony Horse staying at a hotel or am I allowed to invited him back to the 321 House for the real after-party?”
I looked up from my laptop, only to make eyes with Parv, and said, “Is that what you call an after party? Picking up your jerk-off socks from the floor and febreezing the smell of the inside of your ass from out the room?”
Big Bird was listening in the kitchen, frying green onion pancakes for snacks. He came to the doorway and said, “Of course your Mony Horse’s type. You’re white, are you? Isn’t that the way things go.”
I could feel the Count wrinkling his brow behind my back, at the same time my right eye felt a twitch. I asked Bird, “What is that supposed to me?”
“I’m talking about the queer dating totem pole. Everyone knows this.”
I saw Ernie nodding his head in the kitchen. “Ernie, what’s he talking about?”
Ernie waved his hand at me and got back to rolling out the pancakes.
Bird explained, “White boys at the top…no, sorry. Blond boys at the type. Then Jewish boys. Then Italians. Then rednecks because the tops three categories spend so much time slumming to avoid real relationships.”
“I do not slum,” the Count scoffed. “I’m allergic to hayseed.”
“Oh, you do slum,” Parv interrupted. “You just don’t date white guys. You think it’s because you’re not into white guys – which would be pretty fucked-up, considering it shows you hate your own race. But, no. The truth is, white guys won’t date you because you look like you should have money, but you don’t.”
I was suddenly feeling parched, but I let Parv keep talking. “Therefore, when you slum, you go Southeast Asian.”
“Exactly,” Bird said. “You have to go even lower on the totem pole when you want to slum.”
“Hang on –” the Count said, standing up and spilling his drink. “I’m not racist towards white people. I just don’t want to date a guy who looks like he could be related to me. The last thing I need is to look up and think I’m being plowed by someone from a Mormon handcart company. And as it just so happens, boyfriend 1 is a Staten Island guido and boyfriend 4 is as Jewish as a penny jar.”
 “What?!” Ernie shrieked.
“That makes it even worse,” Bird said, turning back into the kitchen.
“What are you talking about?” The Count threw his hands in the air.
“Let me ask you something,” Parv continued. “Are boyfriends 2 and 3 Latinos?”
“How did you know that?”
“It’s simple. The gay dating totem pole. After the rednecks, there’s every other type of plain, boring, cracker jack white boy, no matter how boring or ugly he is. Then, there’s Latinos. But, to be fair, the more thuggish the Latino, the more he’s likely to outrank the ugly white boys. And Puerto Ricans always top the food chain over Mexicans because they’re basically white by association. Especially out here in California because Puerto Ricans never move to California.”
“Supply and demand!” Ernie called from the kitchen.
“Let me finish,” Parv said. “After the baricuas and the thuggish Mexicans comes the Brazilians. And boy, is that a piece of prime real estate, the Brazilian spot on the totem pole. Just try and compete with that hunk of interracial genetics if you’re from Vietnam or Burma. The totem pole would basically just stop there if it weren’t for Middle Eastern guys. And every white boy loves fucking Middle Eastern guys because it feels so embowering to defy taboo.”
“Plus, they’re all tops,” Ernie added, bringing in a plate of fresh pancakes.
“Exactly. Then, after the totem pole runs out of Persians and Armenians, it comes to black dudes.”
“Wait!” Ernie interjected. “Let me do me impression of a white boy after a first date with a black dude…’I dunno. It’s just like, I think culturally, we’re so different. He’s like all into God and stuff, and I just don’t think we’re dating material.’”
“That right there,” Parv pointed, “is why black dudes are below Latinos.”
“And then?” the Count asked sarcastically.
“Then, you have Northern Asians, like Japanese guys, Manchurians, Koreans. They’re the guys who look like they belong on Asian soap operas. And they haven’t seen war or famine in at least two generations. Then comes First Nation guys, but only because they rarely exist in the wild. And that leaves Southeast Asians – Vietnamese and Cantonese dudes – below that. And lastly, South-Central Asians. Like me. That is the gay totem pole.”
The Count took a drag off his joint and grabbed a pancake before sitting down again, refusing to lose the debate. “It’s not my fault they have to make specially designed condoms for Indian penises.”
I googled it. It’s a thing.
“I think you’re all full of shit,” the Count continued over growing whoops and hollers from the peanut gallery. “I think you made up the gay totem pole in your head just so you all could justify dating within your race more than all the rest of us do. I would gladly fuck any member of the 321 House –”
“Except Grover,” I reminded him.
“Especially not Grover. And I’m not ashamed of that. But nobody here will fuck me because they apparently think the game is rigged. Well, fuck that. If you all don’t think I can handle dating only one Asian man, then challenge accepted. Be prepared to have your hearts broken and your fucking wigwams burned because Asian dick tastes better anyway."
“It’s all in the diet,” we heard Bert call out from his room and, quoting an old Chinese proverb, said “Duo cai shao rou.” More vegetables, less meat.
And so, the Count made a deal with his housemates that if they would stop talking about the rules of the totem pole behind his back, he would drop all of his other boyfriends if he could just find one member of the 321 House Crew to go on a date with him over another Asian. Current roommates were off limits.
And I found myself constructing a totem pole of my own. A totem pole of past lovers, indexed by race, to see if my values really aligned with what the boys were saying. Was it that easy to break us all down into qualitative categories of lovers just based on how much melatonin we had? Was I guilty of having a shroud over my eyes and not recognizing my own preferences for other Asian guys as equally racist as the Adam4Adam profile that exclaims ‘No Fems No Azns’? Or did the rules not apply to girls?
All at once, it began to look like my tokenism poll was more than just a smoke signal for me to rethink my own dating preferences.
4 Comments
Kevin Snow (8 years ago)
               Bitch, why the fuck am I the only one called out for being a fucking Mormon? Does everyone not know you are, too? It’s not even my fault. I’m a TBM, born into this Stepford cult. You chose to fucking join. I was at your baptism, ho. I saw you in that font accepting Joseph fuck-a-fourteen-year-old Smith as your savior and prophet, like you were doing the fucking limbo dance at a Wednesday night Mutual. You haven’t even mentioned your boyfriend yet. You’re the most sexually conventional person in the story. Who the fuck died and made you the voice of so-called “pansexuality” when you the last pussy you saw was the one you were thrown out of? Are you trying to seem all cosmo-fucking-politan? If you didn’t pick that up, it was a fucking pun. Because this blog reeks of cranberry juice and yeast infections from 2003, when this type of material was still relevant. And why the fuck did you have to use my fucking real name? At least get the facts right, it was 13-19 boyfriends.
Yuki Ou-Yang (8 years ago)
               The comments section is for civilized discussion on the issues. Log off your computer and wash your socks, gwei lou.gui lao.
Kevin Snow (8 years ago)
               问多两句 问候人老母. I listen to LMF, too, bitch. I get the reference.
Yuki Ou-Yang (8 years ago)
               As long as you still love Hong Kong, you lazy mutha fucka >D
     10 Parvesh Cheena
CUT TO:
INT. 321 HOUSE – DAY
It is the Friday before Parv’s big web series premiere at the Blue Whale. The living room is decorated with paper trees, snakes, and fruit. Yuki can be heard talking on the phone outside on the House’s balcony while Parv works on his computer and Kevin sits across the room on the couch, looking at his cell phone. The house is otherwise empty, to a cavernous degree. Static LA city noises permeate the silence.
YUKI
           (off screen)
If your son is, in fact, under 16, then he’s forbidden by Facebook’s terms and conditions from making a profile. So, the good news is I can delete it without his permission before he gets any more of those pics in his DM box from strangers…

Click click click, goes Parv’s laptop keyboard. The sound of an incoming message from the gay hookup app Grindr chimes on Kevin’s phone, breaking Parv’s chain of thought.

PARV
           (over Yuki)
 Window shopping or buying?

KEVIN
What?

Parv nods to Kevin’s phone.

KEVIN
I was just reading the news.

PARV
Oh, ok. Samsung or Apple?

KEVIN
Neither.

PARV
But you’re holding an iPhone. So, obviously you’re team Steve Jobs.

KEVIN
I mean…Weren’t you just asking if I was online looking for a new phone?

PARV
No, I just asked if you were reading about the Samsung versus Apple cell phone sales race, which Samsung is winning right now. If, in fact, you are reading the news. It’s the top news story on every major news outlet today.

KEVIN
Oh. I – I guess I’m team Steve Jobs. But I don’t really know what the difference is. So…

PARV
The difference? The difference is everything. Korean first-world grade manufacturing versus the Chinese slave labor market. The future of the patent registration process. Billions upon billions of dollars are at stake. The winner decides what apps we use to buy things, to entertain ourselves, to have sex. I mean, my god, the power control of our whole lives could be decided by this news story. You should really read more closely.

YUKI
           (off screen)
I understand, ma’am, but I’m going to need to confirm with your son first to verify that he is the age you say he is…

KEVIN
And you’re reading…?

PARV
An email from my manager.

KEVIN
Your manager isn’t sitting on this couch, is she?

PARV
How do you know it’s a she?

KEVIN
Lucky guess. You just answered both our questions.

Parv shakes his head and types quickly.

KEVIN
Besides, if it was a he, I don’t think Yuki would be trying so hard to steal you away from him.

PARV
Hive mentality.

KEVIN
Somebody’s gotta be Queen Bee.

PARV
Is that why you’re trolling Grindr instead of catching up on things that matter, like world events?

KEVIN
I’m caught up on all the things I need to be.

PARV
What does that mean?

KEVIN
I don’t see you on my radar.

PARV
That’s because I don’t have Grindr on my phone. I have a Samsung. It’s not compatible.

KEVIN
Now you’re admitting that stuff matters?

PARV
I just told you it did.

KEVIN
Sounds like you should upgrade. It’ll get you out of the house more often.

PARV
Seems like Grindr is doing anything but that for you.

KEVIN
Oh really? What have you heard?

PARV
Enough to know that somewhere there’s a guido in a gym who would be pretty angry if you he knew you using that phone to do something other than answer his booty calls.

KEVIN
Looks like you’ve got that in common.

YUKI
           (off screen, calmly)
There’s no reason to take that tone of voice with me, ma’am. I wasn’t the one who sent those pictures to your son. I’m the one trying to help you…

KEVIN
Window-

PARV
I get out of the house plenty.

KEVIN
-shopping. Just browsing. And, for your information, I don’t date actors.

PARV
No. No, of course, you don’t. You just expect all the non-actors to date you.

KEVIN
I’m not acting anymore. I told you. I’m going to law school.

PARV
Is there a difference?

KEVIN
You’re thinking of politicians. Not lawyers.

PARV
I know the difference.

KEVIN
And what is the difference?

PARV
The size of the prize.

KEVIN
That’s…not…

PARV
Sure, it is. Every lawyer wants to be President.

KEVIN
Every-one wants to be President. Especially-

PARV
Except you? You’re the only one?

KEVIN
Especially actors.

PARV
But only one succeeded. I guess that makes Ronnie Regan better than all of us.

KEVIN
I guess so.

PARV
Are you tempting me to turn Republican?

Kevin laughs, awkwardly with a dash of menace.

PARV
You know how uncomfortable you make everyone here, right? Most of these guys hate you. They think it’s just a matter of time before you’re ruining their relationships.

Kevin’s head tilts and his bottom lip presses up forcefully against his top lip.

KEVIN
They just haven’t taken the time to get to know me.

PARV
How can they? Have you listened to the way you talk to people?

KEVIN
I didn’t start this conversation, if that’s what you…

PARV
I mean, if I lived here, I would be terrified of you. Fuck-ing terrified.

KEVIN
But, you’re not, right?

PARV
I’ve got a place in the Valley, and I don’t like being this close to downtown.

KEVIN
I meant, you’re not terrified of me, are you?

PARV
No…No, I’m not. But let’s just say, I’m not anxiously awaiting what transformation your personality will through when you pass the bar.

KEVIN
Is it…

PARV
Because, when you pass that bar, you’re going to feel the weight of things. The weight of expectations versus reality. Any of these guys would be humbled by the opportunity to join the bar. It’s beyond imaginable for most guys here. None of their parents went to American colleges. And practically none of them even knew English until middle school. Hell – in their minds, they have a better chance winning an Oscar than becoming a lawyer. But, for you, it’s not the same thing. You’re not joining the bar. You’re buying it. For yourself. Not because you need it. You only want to be a lawyer because you can’t stand to see anyone who is crazier than you.

Kevin starts to respond, but before he can, Parv calls out Yuki’s name and heads to the balcony to discuss the premiere. 
11 Kevin Snow
Friday, August 31, 2018
Dear Opus,
Greetings from the office of Rand Paul. Your correspondence is preceded by your stalwart reputation among the Senate and the alum from Michigan Law School, outdone only by your legendary status as the Wolverine running back who did something only a superhero of our imaginations could do, back in 2008 or something. I don’t really know what I’m talking about; I don’t follow American football. I am philosophically opposed to this institution and many other institutions you should have known about before contacting me.
 I only took on this job to spite my former employers Chad Peace, his brother Bret Peace, and their cohort-in-arms, Anthony Astolfi, for lying to me and giving another law student a first-year associate position instead of me. Chad and Anthony are the men who convinced Rand Paul to run for office in the first place. They created his Super PAC, his public image, and his political base. Bret was also the REDACTED – to loosely quote Leonardo DiCaprio in The Departed – who told me about that thing you did that one time for Michigan football. They have since disavowed Rand in private and declared themselves head of the Independents and an anti-oligarchy revolution called the Independent Voter Network.
But I know what the American public doesn’t: that they are only grandstanding. They are no less corrupt, no less a product of extreme privilege and sensational nepotism than the partisan oligarchs they oppose. They are not motivated by egalitarian aspirations. They are motivated by self-worship and jealousy, coveting for the success of more powerful politicians, like my current employer Rand, and by what they see as their birthright to attain tenure and power in federal public office.
Their movement is aimed at subverting the minds of weakly informed independent voters to form their own party through manipulative subjugation, and I am not unconvinced they will succeed in the forthcoming midterm and Presidential elections. And the intentions and aims of this new deceptively named “Independent Party” movement will at the very least be just as destructive as the current state of our two-party system.
Please see the attached news article about their financial and societal connections to the Attack of the Killer Tomatoes franchise. Never mind that the article is from “Russia Today”; it is entirely accurate and consistent with my own independent research. The details in this article are the thorn in the Peace family paw, and I can tell you from first-hand knowledge, nothing makes the Peace’s pop off like a well-evidenced accusation of the worst kind of nepotism: jilted Old Hollywood nepotism.
Without getting into the various levels of delusion and public deception about sexual orientation these men all share (and I think they are important to understanding their philosophical positioning, but I don’t have time for this right now), you should understand that I do not share any interest in Libertarian policies. I am not going to show Rand this letter. I am primarily in this job because the enemy of my enemy is my ally. And I cannot think of a less threatening ally than the Libertarians. The Libertarian movement will never succeed. If the Libertarians ran America, every city in the country would look like Flint, Michigan, in less time than it takes replace a US President. At least the Anarchist/Syndicalist movement has a working model for the peaceful transfer of power. Anarcho-syndicalism is a quaint, unsustainable, nostalgically naïve model, but it is still better than the fantasies of Libertarianism, which are nothing more than laissez faire Trumpism with a broader, more aggressive vocabulary and a short-sighted social issues agenda on the side. You’ve indicated as much in your choice of words for your last letter.
Even so, I envision a world that is more like the place where I grew up in Norway, a country that has succeeded decade after decade on a multi-party system. In my mind, such a, if I may call it for lack of a better non-religious term, secular-ecumenicist system in the US would divide the electorate into Congressional shares amongst an Anarcho-Syndicalist Party, a Libertarian Party, the equally non-threatening Green Party, a Feminist Party (like they have in the UK), a consolidated Conservative Party (formed from the rotting corpses of the Republican and Democratic die-hards), a People’s Socialist Party (ala Bernie Sanders), and a party reflecting my own philosophical and political positions: a Third Pill Party, a.k.a. the Post-Lacanian Marxist position, a.k.a. the hard, hard Antifa-loving left.
There is no room in this model for Independents or, even worse, Moderates. There is nothing so revolting to me in the American political system as the veneration of Moderates, who are the dense-minded source for every constipated phase of our nation’s history. Their epistemology can only be best described as the Christ figures of American political folklore, but, in reality, the misplaced adoration for moderate policy is the Moderate’s own poison: they want a revolution but they keep eating from the trash can of their own ideologies. They caricaturize and cartoonize radical politics they do not understand, all whilst bemoaning the status quo, celebrating false progressivism, and continuing on in their own pseudo-Romanticist postmodern filth.
All things stated, let me truly be an Objectivist for a moment. It serves my own interests to put you in contact with the polyglot coder you are looking for. He is largely apolitical – the perfect pawn – and all of us share a common interest in throwing Trump out of office at first opportunity.
Let’s be honest. If what you are saying is true about the façade of Intelligence briefings and the immutable sect of law enforcement which, merely because of principal, will not allow a President to be thrown out of office, we have a small window of potentially fortuitous advantage. The Executive Branch is turning a blind eye to macrostructural crime in favor of over-policing microstructural crime. This tells me that the only way to get away with a truly meaningful crime in America today is to make is so big that its harm is invisible. You are lucky, therefore, that I am an Antifa sympathizer. We both know Congress may be able to impeach but they will never indict and remove Trump. The moderates would never allow such a thing to happen to their daddy figure. Talk about an Electra complex.
A lesser man would have just given you Jake Kaufmann’s contact information and said nothing more. But let me take you down the corridors of my life. I am a radical by choice, and my brain thinks bomb-like. My ideology is my engineering. My testosterone is my TNT. My words are my detonator.
Together, we can do more than throw Trump out of office; we can throw both parties out of America for good. We can thwart the wave of totalitarian fascism that is right at our door. Miserable times acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Jake will call you on my cell phone by the end of next week. You have my number and my guarantee and California's jungle primaries to worry about.
Now fuck off, you wolf.
[signed] Kevin Snow
12 Jake Kaufmann
My dream was broken when a cell phone rang. I woke up, instinctively answering it, and realized immediately I had answered Cadet’s phone. The voice on the other end sounded like a twisted mix of Stanford Blatch on crack and Cinderella on crack. So annoyingly sissy that it was like a drag queen’s impersonation of Andrew Rannells. On crack.
What I’m trying to say is, some faggot had to wake me up and ruin my sleep. Not the best way to start your first day of cancer life, or any day in your life, now that I think about it. Not amused.
“Hello, this is Anthony. Did you want to put Cadet on the line or should I call back at another time?”
Excuse me? Oh hell naw, I know this boy is not trying to play fetch to my step.
“Hunty, you trippin’,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for this type of thing? What you should be doing is brushing your teeth with Colgate, not Cockgate. You’re on the Lord’s time, now, say Amen. I know you feel the Spirit because your voice sounds possessed as hell. Don’t make me call an exorcist.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m calling to check up on the article I asked Cadet to write.”
Cadet was in the kitchen, fixing himself five fingers of breakfast, and I didn’t feel like getting off the couch.
“I’m talking about this booty call happening right here. And, bitch, you sound like something out of Mr. Roger’s Gayborhood. You sound like one of those puppets, like you’ve got publicly subsidized fist up your ass, Lady Elaine Devilchild. And you need to change your sweater.”
“I’m sorry, but who is this I’m talking to?”
“You’re damn right you had to ask. My name is Envelope Glue, and I’m about to cut your damn tongue, bitch, before it eats something after midnight and gives birth to a new batch of Teletubbies.”
“That’s not how the Gremlins’ rules work.”
“You should know, bitch. I heard they got the idea for Gremlins from looking at your third grade Individualized Education Program, you developmentally disabled bitch.”
“Wow. Just, wow. Okay. Are you going to put Cadet on the phone or not?”
Hell no. I was having fun with this. I put Cadet’s laptop on my stomach and started hacking his firewall. “How about this, Independent Voter Network? How about you put your own ass somewhere useful and stop trying to ruin my morning? Don’t you have a website to run or something?”
“That’s why I’m calling Cadet.”
“Who you should be calling is whoever built your online security because damn, do you even filter packets?”
There was a pause on the other end just long enough for me to figure out Cadet didn’t have Kali Linux on his computer. And to find a weird cache of pictures of frozen yogurt on Cadet’s hard drive. My threat to hack him seemed to rattle this guy up though, however empty it was. And then Cadet came along to kill my buzz.

“What did you say your name was? Anthony? There’s someone here who wants to talk to you, Anthony. We’ll have to pick this up again later. I’ve got stacks that need counting. ‘Cuz I get money, bitch, and all you get is Clay Aiken’s dick in your mouth.” I think that’s what I said to him, at least, because Cadet told me when we went to brunch after his phone call that “Anthony” had worked on Clay Aiken’s campaign. Burning bitches ain’t supposed to be that easy, let me tell you.