BY
“Brunettes? Mmm-hmm. Students only, both genders, of course. Yes. Schedule him in at the 4pm slot on Sunday.” Fenno chuckled as he hung up the phone. Three more superdelegates had agreed to Fenno’s plans. Heh, heh. With Fenno, Johnny had the keys to the world. Now Fenno just had to work on playing down the gay marriage ruling. He had paid the clerk to get a declaratory ruling in favor of civil unions today, and he hadn’t pulled through. Which reminded Fenno, call the boys to take care of that clerk.
Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. The words rang through Fenno’s head. Boston is mine! The convention here, the candidate here – now he just had to set up a few more chance encounters from Kerry-rescued veterans and convince Teresa to lower the dosage of thorazine. She was better about taking his advice, now – now that she saw the unstoppable combined power of The Record, Lincoln’s Inn, HLS Democrats, and Fenno’s extensive ties to the Irish mafia. She had even funneled a sweet stash of Heinz stock into a secret account after the Iowa caucus, which had enabled Fenno to cut off the moonlighting with Edwards; it was a shame, he had cried like a baby. But he finally left the property when Fenno threatened to call the networks and expose his wig.
Fenno laughed at how easy Lieberman had been. Fenno had simply bribed an embezzler from his PR staff to insist on a brilliant new word to reinvigorate the campaign: the Joementum. It went, of course, Joewhere. If that out-of-touch fool couldn’t see it was a set-up, he didn’t deserve to win a state.
And Fenno had taken care of Dean nicely – the high-octane speed he had purchased from Uncle Dennis had clearly taken effect on the air, as planned. Plus, it killed two birds with one stone, since he taped the exchange and could blackmail the Kuch if it became necessary. Unlikely. It was too bad about Judith Steinberg, though – she had also drunk the spiked Magic Hat and Fenno had heard she’d attempted to euthanize one of the CNN pundits. Casualties of war. Still, it had freaked out Teresa – first ladies-in-waiting were strictly off-limits. That’s why she had staunchly refused to get the ornate sun nipple piercing, which Fenno was pissed about, since the snap-off-breast bustier had already arrived that evening. Fenno dialed.
“Good afternoon, Harvard Democrats.”
“Fenno here. Connect me with Donkey One.”
After a pause, Arun Bhoumik answered: “what’s up?”
“We’ve got a code crimson on the SJC clerk. Can we have the External Events committee get down to Dorchester and break him like a china doll? No prints.”
“Done.”
“Also, can you tell Jocelyn to come over when she gets a sec? Thanks.”
Fenno couldn’t forget the small picture; if his image were ruined at HLS, he wouldn’t be able to maintain the superstar lo-pro with Teresa. Which meant he had to have eyes into the parody. He had to bribe Jocelyn’s black widow double agents onto the writing staff to steer them clear of comments about Fenno, or Kerry, or his beloved Professor Hay (who had also ordered one of the bustiers; Fenno didn’t presume to know for whom. Perhaps The Crucible was heavily revisionist.). Fenno was eccentric, but had the money to indulge it.
Fenno fingered the purple heart charm around his neck and sighed wistfully. Summer in Boston – he couldn’t wait. Sailing on the Charles, the tumult of the convention, tennis with Dershowitz (who had, at Fenno’s suggestion, recently argued for continuing Jewish Dem support and was currently owed a favor by Fenno, and one he did not eagerly await. The last one involved a North End run to Mike’s Pastry at 3 a.m.), D&D with Kagan and Nesson, jet setting, Aaron Sorkin. Yes, yessss. Fenno sank into daydreams about croquet on the Kerry mansion lawn, his arm around Lee Rudofsky who looked summer stunning in a peach chiffon dress, fanning his shaved head and waving coyly at his former fellow republicans who stood weeping at the gates, clinging to the bars. Austin Bramwell played a lute on the lawn, singing songs about the good old days of FDR. Yesssssss…
Fenno started as Jocelyn Benson came in. “Who the hell laughs in their sleep?” she asked, and sat down.
Fenno held up the bustier, and illustratively ripped off the breast. “Eh?” He resnapped it and ripped it off again, with a flourish. “I love that. Anyway, think we could use this for the superdelegates’ orgy?”
“Mmm-hmm. Most of them like men, it seems, but there are a few who polled on the straight S&M side. Oh, by the way, two of the concubine-Dems found some love or some such crap and say they can’t be there this weekend. What should we do?”
“Did you give them the “It’s either your chastity or FOUR MORE YEARS” speech?
“Of course.”
“Send someone down to Hemenway, watch the squash matches or whatever, pick out some fine specimens, offer them anything. Remember, skip anyone with a digital watch, usually a waste of time, don’t know why. We’ve got $3000 left in the Superdelegate Sex Budget for Sunday alone, ok? Good luck. And if you really can’t find anyone, I’m free.”
“Yeah, but none of them want fetish.” She snorted and stood up.
Well, if anyone gives you crap this weekend, remember: it’s your chastity versus FOUR MORE..”
“Yes, yes. YEARS OF BUSH. I know. Jesus, Fenno you’re a man obsessed. For such a bastard, I’d pin you as a natural republican. What’s up your butt about Bush anyway?” She picked up the bustier, laughing at Fenno, and left.
Let her mock, he thought. I have the world! Only Fenno could know the depths of his hatred for that man. It wasn’t politics – like all nihilists, Fenno found it perfectly hilarious. But, Fenno thought, no one, NO ONE, gets in the way of my steroids.