The BEAST: Buffalo's Best Fiend

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Early reports are inconclusive on whether or not the Republican National Convention was a boon to New York City's economy. None, however, have yet attempted to account for the bonanza in unreported and untaxable income flowing into the city during the week of the GOP soiree. In a quest for hard figures, investigate reporter I.M. Simpering called on his contacts in Manhattan's escort industry. Instead he heard tales of hard living and debauchery, which he has agreed to publish in The Beast.

The following isan excerpt from one of Professor Simpering's interviews with an anonymous woman from Baltimore, who was working in New York during the convention. The full text will be available in Simpering's forthcoming book, "Bang For Their Buck".

Beast: Hi, how are you?

Hooker: I'll be fine. The Convention's over so I'm just trying to get some much needed rest. It will be nice not to have to deal with that shit again.

B: Right. You must have had some interesting experiences.

H: Experiences, huh?

B: Perhaps you met some prominent Republicans.

H: I don't follow politics.

B: You knew enough to come to New York during the convention.

H: Well, all the girls I know were talking about it beforehand. Everyone from Maine to San Diego came to make some money.

B: Maine, eh. What do those girls look like?

H: [Laughter] There are some good-looking ones up there, at least in the eyes of a lobsterman or maple syrup farmer.

B: So you heard about the convention and decided to get in on the action…

H: I was debating whether or not to come when some associates from New York called and said that someone was asking specifically for a girl from Baltimore and that I could make serious money.

B: Why Baltimore?

H: At first I didn't understand either. When I met the John, or the "client" as he preferred to be called, he kept insisting that someone named Liddy had said the best hookers came from Baltimore. He was adamant about it.

B: Who was he, the client that is?

H: Let's get one thing straight: I'm not going to be the Deep Throat of prostitution. I don't want to be the next Gennifer Flowers or Monica Lewinsky.

B: I thought your job involved some Deep Throat-type work.

H: [Laughter] Yeah, that kind is okay.

B: Seriously, it sounds as though you know more about politics than you're letting on. I mean, the Gennifer Flowers and Deep Throat references.

H: In my business it's best not to know too much. All I know is what this client told me, and then I've tried to forget most of that as soon as I walked out the door. This job would be a hell of a burden if I had to think about it all the time.

B: But you haven't forgotten about the week of the convention, have you?

H: God, no! I remember a little too vividly every minute I spent in the suite at The Plaza Hotel, especially when those lunatic protesters climbed the building's façade. I spent five nights in that hotel - it's wonderful, really - but I couldn't relax under the circumstances.

B: Why not?

H: Mostly it was the broad-shouldered men with military style haircuts and sunglasses. They hung around the suite the entire time and told me, "This never happened, understand? Because if it did, you never happened. Get it?"

B: Did they have a go, too?

H: A go? No. They were asexual, but very threatening. I think they may have been eunuchs.

B: Still, you're willing to tell your story. Isn't that risking…

H: This is anonymous, right?

B: Oh, yeah. [awkward silence] Why don't you tell me about your week.

H: As I said, I spent five nights in The Plaza. I arrived Sunday, and so did the client. Everything had been arranged through intermediaries. I was watching TV in the suite with the security detail just sort of hanging around in the background, which made it impossible to relax.

B: How's that?

H: They would press their fingers to their ears and then whisper to one another. All I could make out was something about Ellis Island. They were talking among themselves when the client burst in. He had removed his glasses and was rubbing his eyes. "Goddamn filthy pinko pacificists," he said. He reached into the mini-fridge and lined up three small bottles of bourbon. He removed the tops, tilted his head back, and poured the bourbon directly into his mouth.

B: All three?

H: Yeah. He just poured all three into his mouth at once. Then he loosened his tie and turned to me with a big smile and said, "Hello, my dear." It was creepy; his chin was shiny with bourbon. He grunted at the security detail, and soon someone brought him some coke and cut it up on the tabletop. The client sucked up a few lines with a $100 bill. He had a fat roll of $100s.

B: What an appetite. This guy wasn't fooling around about what he put into his body, huh.

H: [Laughter] You don't know the half. He stuffed all sorts of things into his body. I did too, I guess.

B: Okay…

H: There's a bit of a backstory. After the coke, the client became excited. He licked my cheek several times and then ordered security out of the room. "Give me some privacy, you filthy eunuchs," he sneered. "And someone please get some bananas immediately."

B: Bananas?

H: I'm getting to that. The security detail stepped out and I began to undress, but the client snapped, "That won't be necessary." Then he mellowed. "You're hot aren't you? Goddamn, it's hot in here." He removed his shirt and pants. He had a large purple scar on his chest. He was rubbing the lumpy tissue and whispering, "Yessss… yessss…" He began doing more lines but was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Will you get that my dear," he said, while trying not to breath through his nose.

B: Who was it?

H: The security detail with several bananas. One of them stepped inside. "Lynne's been calling, sir," he said. "She's done shopping and insists on knowing your whereabouts." The client was agitated. He was sweating rivers. "This is really… inconvenient," he said. "Tell her that I'm in a top-secret security briefing." Then he smirked and said, "Tell her I'm at an undisclosed location." He sort of chuckled but the security man just nodded and closed the door.

B: Wait a second. This has got to be…

H: No. No. No. I said I won't tell, and I can't. Otherwise this interview ends now.

B: Okay… Okay… No problem. Just continue where you left off - about the bananas.

H: Right. The security detail left us alone. The client was wired and began dancing to a Garth Brooks song. When it ended, he would just hit replay. I can't remember the name, though. The client watched himself in the mirror. I was just sitting on the bed slowly undressing because, frankly, the whole scene made me nervous. I was hoping to get it over with.

B: Um-hm.

H: The client was massaging his scar while watching himself in the mirror. He was whispering, or chanting something that I couldn't make out. "Why don't you come over here and relax," I said while spreading out on the bed. He turned. "My dear," he said, "you are a fine example of the female form." Then he added, "Where are you from?"
I replied, "Baltimore." He got a far-off look in his eyes. "Baltimore," he repeated wistfully. "Good… good." He continued to rub his scar and stare into the mirror. "Liddy says the Baltimore girls are the finest."

B: What did you say?

H: I told him to come over and find out, but he replied, "I have a very special task for you. See, I'm not well." He walked over to the bed. "See this," he said pointing to the scars. "There's no easy way to say this, but I have the heart of an animal." He was looking deeply into my eyes. "I'll bet you do," I replied. "Why don't you come and show me, Tiger." Suddenly his mood changed. "Goddamnit," he yelled. "This is fucking important." The security detail rushed into the room at the commotion. The client screamed at them: "Get out, you fuckers. I'll have you castrated with fishing line. Get out!"

B: Jesus, he sounds crazed. Weren't you scared?

H: I was terrified, but he seemed to calm down. At least he lowered his voice so the security detail wouldn't come rushing in again. He said, "I must tell you this, so you'll understand what I'm about to ask you to do. It's the only way I can get any relief. See, a commotion like we just had would have killed me a few years ago. My heart would have seized up. Now I'm as strong as an ape." Then he paused and gazed out the window. "But there's a tradeoff. In fact, it could be called a curse, except that I've been getting so damned rich lately that I cannot really complain." He chuckled. "You can trust me," I said, because he was scaring me. I reached into the front of his boxer shorts, but he knocked my hand away. "There's no time for that," he snarled, grabbing the bananas and disappearing into the bathroom. I could hear the water running in the sink. Soon he emerged with wet bananas dripping onto the carpet. "Hungry," he asked, peeling one.

B: Were you?

H: No. He began eating the banana while pouring the rest of the coke onto the tabletop. Then he rolled the other bananas in the coke.

B: That seems strange.

H: Perhaps, but in my business you have to be shockproof. I just acted like it was nothing unusual. Meanwhile, between bites he talked about his heart. "I thought I wouldn't have more than a few weeks to live," he said. "Fortunately I have some good friends from South Africa. It used to be a lovely country, you know. The first successful heart transplant took place in South Africa in 1967. This occurred before the kaffirs took over - that's what they call niggers over there." He took another bite of banana. "DeKlerk had no choice, really. He had to turn the country over to the kaffirs; it was getting too expensive, and can you imagine if they had seized power by force? South Africa had the bomb. Imagine if some black hand was on the button. Terrible… terrible… They were all terrorists - Mandela, all of them. I voted against… well, never mind that. You don't want to hear about politics. Shit, I've had enough of politics for today. Now it's time to scratch that itch, as it were." I said: "I'll scratch your itch, baby. Come over here." He had calmed down considerably. He grinned and took a bite of banana, and continued, "My friends from South Africa are advanced in the medical sciences. After years of experiments on the kaffirs, they were soon transplanting primate hearts in humans with some success. It was still risky… but the benefits." He paused for a moment. "It's been a blessing to me and my family," he said finally.

B: Wait. I'm sorry to interrupt, but this man has a baboon's heart?

H: So he said.

B: Jesus… Okay. Go ahead.

H: He set the banana peel down and picked up the bananas soaked with cocaine and pressed one into my hand. "Now you'll earn your money, my dear," he said. He removed his boxers and grabbed his leather belt and a tube of lubricant. I heard the tube make a farting sound behind his back. He folded the belt in half and clenched it between his teeth.

B: Oh, Jesus.

H: Yeah. Do I have to draw a diagram for you?

B: No. I get the picture.

H: Good, because I don't want to recapitulate the details, although it got easier during the subsequent days because I knew what to expect. Also, the client became more pleasant after what we came to call his treatments. The almost avuncular person people saw on TV during the week was the result of some heavy action in a suite at The Plaza.

B: So you've learned something about politics?

H: Not really.

B: Or the political animal anyway.

H: [Laughter] Yes, I suppose I learned that the political animal has a baboon's heart.

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