champion, but as a former heavyweight factotum for the Democratic
Party with a sturdy chin she must have been appealing enough
for the matchmakers. Meanwhile Coulter, a towering emaciated
blonde, is at the height of her powers, with her strange sex
appeal and vicious right-handed attack.
the debate, the UB Republicans had rained support for Coulter
from the rafters. Not since the Brownshirts at the Beer Hall
Putsch had choreographed enthusiasm been demonstrated with
such precision. Here, as in the Weimar Republic, they enjoyed
the protection of crew-cutted state troopers, who were ready
to administer a sound pistol-whipping to any troublemakers.
I found myself in the parking lot of a hotel nearby. I had
intended to finish my beers and then drown my dark thoughts
in the hotel's bar, but the beers ran right through me. And
this is, more or less, where my story begins.
marched through the lobby toward the restrooms. Light jazz
and the gentle din of cocktail conversation drifted from the
bar. A large bald guy with an earpiece stepped out of the
bathroom as I approached. He looked like private security
and, not wanting to be asked whether I was a guest, I ducked
inside while he was bending over the water fountain.
I thought. Urinals must be too gauche for such a swank hotel.
I pushed open one of the stall doors and was startled to see
a long-legged woman in a tight gray dress prostrate over the
bowl. "Goddammit," she snarled, "I told you
to give me some fucking privacy."
" I stammered.
turned her head and her expression betrayed a certain shock
and horror. I, too, was horrified. It was Coulter. I couldn't
mistake those cobalt eyes, the long blonde hair. A string
of bile dangled precariously from her chin. "What the
fuck are you doing in here," she spat.
staggered back toward the sink and then suddenly composed
myself. "Wait just a minute," I said. "What
are you doing in the men's room?"
She gave a thin smile. "You spineless liberal turd, this
is the ladies' room."
was momentarily confused, but something about the situation
made me say, "Liberal? Who are you calling liberal? I'm
parked outside in a handicapped spot, and I'm not even handicapped."
gave a haughty laugh. We stared at each other for a few seconds,
neither wanting to back down. I thought how Reno had refused
to even engage Coulter during the debate. She had babbled
some nonsense about healing hearts and the benefits of sitting
down to talk over differences.
thoughts, however, had turned sinister. I was thinking of
a Brazilian friend of mine in Queens, who hunted rats with
a metal stake in the basement of his tenement. He would impale
them and thrust the thrashing, squealing fuckers into a bucket
of water that he kept nearby until they
they had no fight left.
recognized the sparkle of violence in my eyes and must have
thought we were simpatico, because she finally said, "Want
some coke?" She had been drinking it throughout the debate,
but I wasn't thirsty.
in the mood for something stronger," I said.
what," she asked, her eyes lighting like highbeams.
like a good bourbon," I said.
laughed. "That's not what I had in mind." Then she
removed a vial from her purse and tapped the contents out
on the toilet seat. She began cutting it with an AmEx Platinum
card. "You should do the first line," she said.
toilet seat is filthy," I protested.
any more than the hands of a Peruvian cocoa farmer,"
she said angrily. "What's the matter, don't you believe
in free trade?"
Clinton supported NAFTA," I admitted.
I love a good sense of sarcasm."
were really hitting it off, so I reluctantly bent over and
snorted. I'll admit it was high-grade. Soon we were both laughing
and feeling no pain. I was even beginning to enjoy Coulter's
company. I really had to whiz, though, and I began dancing
around like Doug Flutie in the face of a Baltimore Ravens
blitz, which seemed to make her a little nervous. Finally
I pushed past her to relieve myself.
Coulter stepped to the sink and gargled some tap water, then
spat and inspected herself in the mirror, smoothing the wrinkles
in her dress. "I'm getting fat," she said.
No," I said, and I really meant it. "If anything
you could use a good steak dinner."
yummy," she said. "Let's go order room service."
about your upset stomach," I asked.
laughed again. "Oh," she said. "Don't worry
about that. You might say I have my finger on it."
followed her from the bathroom. As soon as I stepped through
the door a meaty hand had me by the throat. I was slammed
against a wall and came face-to-face with the security-type
I had seen earlier. "You mother
" I choked.
He was squeezing my windpipe tight in his fist.
protested. "Jeff," she screamed. It distracted him
for a second, which was all I needed. Coulter's coke was top
stuff and I quickly made a move which I had learned from a
former Mossad agent, pioneered and perfected to keep uppity
Palestinians in their place. Suddenly my attacker was curled
on the carpet, his face twisted into a painful grimace. He
was sucking for air and his hands were buried in his groin.
was impressed. "Wow," she said. "I once saw
Wolf Blitzer fend off an aggressive autograph seeker with
that same move." She looked at me like a wolverine might
regard a rotting carcass. "Yeah, Blitzer's not so bad,"
she said absently, "for a Jew." Then she turned
and walked toward the elevators. Clearly I was meant to follow.
hurried to catch up. "Who was that guy," I asked,
gesturing to her bodyguard, but she was busy peering into
her purse and didn't seem to hear. "He looks familiar."
had some publicity lately," she said. "Fucking liberal
media! He's fallen on hard times, so I gave him a job as my
bodyguard, just because he's been so loyal to the cause."
couldn't place him, though, and I decided to change the mood
with a stab at some levity. "Well, he certainly won't
be having any fun tonight," I said as we stepped into
smiled wryly. "Jeff doesn't need his, shall we say, equipment,
to have fun," she said, still rooting around in her purse.
"If you had kicked his ass, then he would have a long
lonely night, if you know what I mean."
didn't, so I dropped it.
had a real fine suite on the top floor. As soon as we entered,
she kicked off her shoes, lit a cigarette and collapsed on
the bed. "Order some room service," she said, flinging
the menu at me. "I'll have steak."
ordered two prix fixe surf and turf specials. Meanwhile she
peeled off her dress and when I hung up she said, "I
can't wait; I need some meat now." Naturally, I obliged.
But I didn't enjoy myself. Coke usually makes me feel like
a human inferno, but Coulter was cold to he touch, and hard
and bony. It was like grinding naked against an elm tree during
January. When we were finished she lit another cigarette.
ran my fingers over some smooth scar tissue on her ass. "How
did that happen," I asked.
product of our public schools," she asked with contempt.
"Can't you read?"
grabbed a lamp and held it over her. "BOB'S BITCH,"
it read in a shaky hand that looked like it had been carved
with a kitchen knife. "Jesus," I said. "Didn't
this hurt," she asked, stabbing her burning cigarette
against my shoulder.
I screamed, batting her hand away. "You fucking crazy
bitch!" I stood up and glared at her, but she just sneered
in silence. "Fuck," I muttered as I walked to the
I closed the door she said casually, "He was more of
a man than you'll ever be."
splashed some cold water on my arm. Lying on the bathroom
floor was a copy of Gear magazine. It was a few years old
and Christian Slater was on the cover. I sat on the toilet
and flipped a few pages. The masthead was dog-eared. "Bob
Guccione, Jr. - publisher," it read.
there was a commotion outside: Boom. Boom. Boom. "Room
service," a man called.
it outside," Coulter responded.
I need a signature
she roared. "I said fucking leave it outside."
tried reading some of the stories but it was no use. I slapped
the magazine to the floor and washed my hands. I could barely
look at my self in the mirror. Now I knew how Eva Braun felt.
I was tempted to just grab my stuff and leave, but I had another
was lying on the bed in a bathrobe and smiling when I returned.
A magnum of champagne rested on the table and she held a flute
in each hand.
she said, handing me a glass.
held it aloft. "I'd like to propose a toast to Howard
Dean, the new chairman of the Democratic Party," I intoned.
"May he bury Karl Rove in the dusty scrub outside Waco,
Texas, under a headstone that reads, 'I liked Bush, but I
liked buggery better.'" Then I gulped down my champagne.
threw her head back and laughed. "I love a good joke,"
know what you are." Suddenly she was serious. "You'll
be sorry you sick, traitorous liberal. I'll have you cleaning
porta-potties in Guantanamo." Then her face twisted into
a sneer. "Soon you're going to be very confused."
already was. My head began to reel and I saw two Ann Coulters.
Her laugh slowed down like something from a funhouse. She
sounded like James Earl Jones on slow-mo. Oh, God, I thought.
She's poisoned me. I dashed for the door, opened it and rushed
into the hallway, where I crashed into the room-service tray,
sending steak and lobster tails flopping to the floor.
that's all I remember. The next thing I heard was a light
tapping sound. I opened my eyes, and I was sitting in the
front seat of my car in the parking lot of the hotel. It was
daytime and a man with a cap was standing outside my window
with a flashlight in his hand. How the hell did I get here,
looked around. The empty beers cans littered the floor. Had
it all been a weird dream? The guard tapped again. As I lifted
my arm to unroll the window I was seized by a sharp, stabbing
pain. I pushed up my sleeve and there I saw a fresh pink scar
the size of a dime. I looked at the guard with terror in my
gotta get outta here, buddy," he said. "This is
no place for you to be hanging out."
must have been reading my mind.