Still Trying To Understand Whoring

"And you're certain his choice would be you, Dear Morgan?" Vuvuvu responded. "Well! Why wouldn't you take one for the team considering the loot you've banked from our association?"

"We're talking about dying, you idiot," my wife snapped.

"But I might miss, dear," I interjected, smiling benignly, "and by dueling rules I get only one shot."

"One shot at each of us," my wife shot back. "Cute! You thought you could sneak one by me."

"Can't fool you!" I said. "Very well! I'll write it into my confession affidavit that I get only one shot."

"Of course, I might miss even if I had one shot at each of you," I said tauntingly.

"This is asinine, absurd and insane," my sister said.

"Either take this generous offer and end your fears," I said, "or you can rely on my wife's statutory rape frame to take me out."

"Come on Stewart," my wife chided, "even you can see the difference between watching the court send you to jail for life and standing in a jungle in Nigeria while you shoot one of us."

"Fears?" Vuvucu seized my bait.

Fears! I explained that their failure to go to Nigeria for the duel would require me to go to Plan "B" forthwith.

"Plan "B"?" my wife asked sarcastically.

Plan "B" required me to begin stalking them one by one from the moment they left the pub if they refused Plan "A." Life is dominated by the "Either Or" syndrome, I pointed out.

Arab Stud would be first, I speculated aloud.

"We'll go to the police," Vuvucu hissed.

"Go to the police!" I scoffed, sneering menacingly. "Cops can only help you after I crack your knees or break your arms at the elbows or remove your spleen with pruning shears."

Perhaps I would enjoy stalking and torturing them individually like the fanged throwbacks of the old horror movies. I ventured this last bit of speculation ruefully, laughing maniacally.

"I've got friends in the FBI!" my wife rasped. But I could perceive that she was unnerved.

My wicked smile answered their suddenly reinvigorated arrogance.

"Call me at the office by noon tomorrow to announce your decision," Karen said, feigning a contemptuous indifference. "If you do not comply, I will be forced to go to Home Depot to find six pairs of garden sheers."

I'm beginning to experience a yen for Karen. Undoubtedly, she is my kind of woman.

*****

NUDE DUELISTS

MEET BOKO HARAM

AND DISAPPEAR

None other than Himself had tweeted as I drank my first cup of coffee. Karen obviously had made a friend of whom I was unaware. And this fortuity very likely saved our lives.

Karen had arrived at my apartment in one of the bloody hell holes that included in Greater Baltimore. She had news that could not wait or move over tapped cell and land lines.

"They have all accepted your challenge to duel in the jungle of Nigeria," she said. "Now what are you going to do?"

"Follow the script," I said as rubbed aftershave into my pores.

"What script?" she hooted. "You get one shot at all of them, but they each get a shot at you."

Was that what I had said? Yes, I'm certain that is the agreement. Each of them get one shot at me, but I get only one shot at their whole gang.

Tossing her hands in the air, she exhaled air in exasperation. I could understand that.

Himself had asked Karen not to leave town until his gift arrived by special messenger. We waited impatiently for the messenger; and once the carefully bound box was loaded into the bay of the chopper, we climbed aboard and were airborne.

It was only six minutes to the barren airstrip on which an old DC 10 awaited with engines primed. As we sailed across the Potomac and out to sea, Karen smiled at me and shrugged.

"I hope you know what we're doing," Karen said nervously, though there was no doubt in her eyes.

To be sure, I was beginning to like this girl, and I used the word advisedly.

We were required to land the DC 10 at a primitive airstrip somewhere in the north country of Nigeria. Our pilot had deemed it a strategically sound decision making.

Awaiting our arrival, our guides, provisioners and drivers quickly loaded our two trucks and three jeeps. All of the members of our work party wore black uniforms and performed without talking.

We were well away from any metro area; and by midafternoon we had sighted Nadinu Station. Predictably the roads were becoming narrower and more pock marked.

"Boko Haram," our driver called out to his two armed companions. They nodded as they tensed and raised their weapons to the ready.

When we arrived at the clearing in the jungle outside the settlement, I could see tents alongside a raging creek that became confluent with the river.

Our chief security figure strode from the lead truck to our jeep with authority. I could see movement along the distant edge of the jungle beyond the clearing.

From the sadly broken English of the chief, I could deduce that Boko Haram controlled the region. He was certain the distant cluster of observing human shapes and forms was a contingent of the virulent Muslim terrorist group known as Boko Haram.

"My contact said the militia men at Nadinu Station would protect from the terrorists, "Karen said, consulting her file.

Our security chief spat on the ground as he laughed contemptuously. It seemed we faced murderous drunk militiamen at the settlement and Boko Haram off our flank.

Drunk militiamen from the settlement would challenge Boko Haram for use of the white women in the tents along the creek. Both Karen and I understood that observation.

"Assuming our charming hosts don't attack us first, we should get right to it," Karen said as she stared across the clearing at Boko Haram.

Dr. Morgan Bancroft and company had been camped near the settlement only a few hours. All of my antagonists were present.

Our chief drove across the field to their camp and was successful in arranging a meeting in the middle of the field. Boko Haran seemed stalled half a mile away; and the militiamen from the settlement had not yet appeared.

When Dr. Morgan Bancroft arrived with her entourage, I was ready for the. They would each have an unopposed shot at me from 50 feet. I had changed the distance from 30 feet to 50 feet without informing the enemy.

"You can't win," my wife said. "This is the equivalent of your suicide."

"She's right," Karen said. "Since this is the last opportunity to call this insanity off and get out of here, I must agree with your wife."

I ignored them.

"Everyone must get naked!" I proclaimed.

Boko Haram had begun to move imperceptibly into the clearing. On our right flank, the militiamen had materialized.

Towering over me by two feet, a man obviously of Bantu origins strode toward us from the militia platoon. He identified himself as a colonel somebody.

No. They were actually getting naked. These nut cakes were complying with my clownish order. When Morgan was naked except for her CFM shoes, the Bantu glanced at me.

"What are they doing removing their clothing?" the Militia officer asked, obviously embarrassed by the unanticipated spectacle.

"They are getting naked as require by my rules for the duel," I said tonelessly.

"I see," he said dubiously.

"Did you wish to confer with me?" I asked.

"Send the women and your supplies to my office at the settlement," he said, "and you will be permitted to make a strategic retreat and return to your airplane."

"No!" I said. "You may collect he bodies and whoever is left standing after the duel."

Shrugging indifferently, the militia officer backed away and observed.

I instructed the security chief to issue dueling pistols to my adversaries, including those defined enemy creatures observing from the creek bank. I was resolute in my determination to complete my scheme.

"I acknowledge the superiority of my esteemed though villainous enemy, "I said. "They have earned their reward."

I surrendered.

All of Morgan's contingent gathered about her in the middle of the meadow.

Karen gasped.

"I surrender," I said, realizing that he situation called for repetition. "However! There is one condition."

Jubilation reigned in the tent camp along the creek.

Arab Stud strode imperiously from the tent site to embrace Dr. Morgan Bancroft with much slobbery tongue kissing and ass grabbing exuberance.

Glorious in her triumph, Sister Connie now was standing beside Dr. Morgan Bancroft, her most admired employer and best friend. Vucucu stood behind Connie grinning with the aplomb of a sexually surfeited ape.

"What is your one condition?" Morgan asked, her voice bereft of any recognition of our once sacred bond.

"I will have one shot at the target of my choice," I said. "All of you will stand side by side with arms at your sides until I have completed my one shot."

"What! You surrendered!" Young Arab Stud shouted.

"Sue me!" I said.

Astoundingly, it never occurred to them to raise their dueling pistols in unison and fire away at me. Hilarious! Unil that moment I had not understood that these people were stupid.

Most certainly it was not ethics or morality at work. If they had thought about it, all of them would have shot me.

"You're and idiot, Stewart," my wife snarled. "I'm going to put my clothes on and go back to Nairobi."

"Since you have assumed the role of leader of your tribe," I said to my wife, "I shall direct my one dueling shot at you."

"I'll never know what prompted this insanity," my wife smirked. "But you won't kill anyone."

"No," I said with quiet superiority, "I have never intended to kill anyone."

"But I am not so noble as you," she responded. "I shall see that my associates kill you."

"I could have expected nothing less," I said.

"I knew that you were luring us here to be killed by militants," my wife said with the arrogance of a victorious general. "So, it wasn't much of a brain swell to co opt your plan."

"Your Arab Stud paid off both Boko Haram," I said. " And you ravished the drunk militia colonel after he agreed to draw and quarter me."

It was with a mixture of latent adolescence and 21st Century MILF bluster that Dr. Morgan Bancroft, BS, BA, MS, MA, MBA, MSc, PhD perceived my comment as high praise.

My next move befuddled all concerned, including Karen, my invaluable and most prized assistant. I huddled with the security chief.

As I opened the tightly wrapped box that I had received by special delivery before we left home, the security chief waved his officers forward. They beamed as they peered into the box.

"Gold?" my wife asked incredulously.

Gold speaks all languages and entertains no racially complicated notions of ethnic quality. It is a true leveler. Never leave home without it.

"Africans have never relied on paper currency or checks," I said, making no effort to conceal my smugness.

I beckoned the militia colonel and the Boko Haram guerilla spokesman to come closer. They grinned as I asked them look into the box at the gold.

My grenade launcher was at my feet. My AR15 was cradled in the crook of my elbow.

"When my assistant and I are sailing into the clouds," I said with faux authority, "you will do as you think best with these people camped on the creek bank."

Agreed?

I raised the AR15 to my shoulder, the muzzle pointing at the Bantu's nose. Karen and raised the grenade launcher in a posture that would drop explosives in the vicinity of Boko Haram across the clearing.

"Agreed." Said the militia colonel.

"Agreed," said the agent of Boko Haram.

Morgan stood stupefied.

Connie concentrated on removing some insect from her breast.

Young Arab Stud raised his dueling pistol, taking a keen bead on my heart, and fired. Clown powder blackened his face. He began coughing and wiping the residue from his eyes.

"You rotten cheating bastard," my wife screamed. "You lied to us."

Across the clearing the noise of a massive troop carrying chopper filled the air. All of my adversaries, including the militia and Boko Haram, stood mesmerized, registering morbid surprise.

I seized Karen's arm and almost dragged her into the center of the clearing as the intimidating black machine arose from the jungle and settled onto the grass that carpeted the clearing.

We boarded.

And as the monstrous airborne war wagon lifted with amazing thrust into the air, I could see Boko Haram's leaders converging upon the convoy to negotiate with the security chief and the militia colonel.

Bartering had begun for the services of my wife and my illustrious sister.

"Do you see the muzzle smoke?" the pilot asked through the intercom.

I strained to see more definitively what was happening in the clearing below. We had attained an altitude of about 2,000 feet; and, though the images of my wife and sister and their new boy friends had diminished, I could see them in disorganized spasms of motion.

Their boy friends seemed to be shooting and getting shot. Nature never changes. As fate would have it, Morgan and Connie were already on their backs doing what they do best. They most assuredly were survivors.

"They are darting about shooting at each other," Karen said, her voice studiously detached. "Stew, I think your wife and sister are about to be auctioned on the global whore exchange."

Now our camouflaged aeronautical marvel of the heavens had entered a patch of fog. We could no longer witness the spectacle unfolding in the clearing back at Nadinu Station in the mystical reaches of Nigeria.

*****

OF GRANDFATHER CLOCKS

AND CORRUPT SENATORS

Senator Omar Jabbar called the Senate Ethics Committee to order. Their first witness was Lt. Col. Billy Mitchell McDonald.

"Colonel McDonald? On the date and hour indicated in the specifications and charges against Senator Bancroft, did you not employ your helicopter in the private business of Senator Stewart Bancroft?

"No, Mr. Chairman," the uniformed flyer answered. "I did not."

"You met Senator Bancroft in a jungle meadow in Africa, according to my summary of events, and flew him to an airfield where another military airplane was waiting," Chairman Jabbar said, reading laboriously from his summary sheet.

"I was flying a routine patrol mission in cooperation with Nigerian government forces, Mr. Chairman," Colonel McDonald answered. "I had been alerted that a United States Senator and other United States nationals might be in jeopardy."

"Who alerted you, Colonel McDonald?" Chairman Jabbar persisted.

"Formalities suffer, Mr. chairman, when you're assigned to assist a foreign country," Colonel McDonald answered. "It could have been anyone. Almost all orders came in informal chats before we took off. Our only recorded source of information was the daily mission statement from the Nigerian Air Ministry, and it was not intended to be a detailed record of events."

"You are telling me, sir," the Chairman said,"that you were employing your helicopter gunship in the service of Nigerian security and just happened to see and extract Senator Bancroft from the jungle?"

"As I have just testified, Mr. Chairman," the Colonel restated, "we were alerted by the routine Air Ministry's daily that Americans were in the Nadinu Station region and might need assistance."

"What did 'might need assistance' mean to you, Sir?" Chairman Jabbar asked confrontationally.

"Boko Haram is a maniacal Muslim terrorist group, Mr. Chairman," Col. McDonald answered. "Military aides at the Air Ministry were fearful that the Americans would encounter Boko Haram."

"That will be all for now, Colonel McDonald," Chairman Jabbar said. "Will Senator Stewart Bancroft be seated at the witness table, please?"

I was ready. Pausing momentarily as I arranged my notes, I watched as Karen left the hearing room with Colonel McDonald. They were almost embracing.

From the moment they had locked eyes as we boarded his Huey in that clearing in Nigeria, there was an electricity between them.

"Did you make a request for the use of military resources including two aircraft in your private affairs?" Chairman Jabbar asked without preliminaries.

"Let's cut the toe dancing, Senator Jabbar," I said, proud of my practiced attack snarl. "You know that I requested and paid for the use of a DC10 and that my alerting the Nigerian authorities of a possible attack by Boko Haram on American citizens led to Col. McDonald's including Nadinu Station in his patrol."

"Be that as it may, Senator," Chairman Jabbar continued, "do you deny that your wife and sister were lured to Nigeria by you for the purpose of shall we say punishing them?"

"Chairman Jabbar, your question is inappropriate and places persons at risk who should have a right to know that they are in jeopardy," I said. "Before you proceed into my personal affairs, Senator, I strongly suggest that you and I talk privately where you have no snooping paraphernalia."

To the dismay and confusion of the members of his committee, Chairman Jabbar, an old hand at the corruption wars, had read my resolve and confidence perfectly. He read the handwritten note I had sent him during his opening volley.

My note stated, "You should have inspected my office for my own surveillance cameras and recorders before you and my wife attempted to frame me with the intern. Very clumsy. My camera caught you and my wife instructing your 28 year-old 'minor' before my wife videoed you doing the dirty deed with her."

We left the hearing room, and to the consternation of the newsies, we rode the tram to my office building. I waved and grinned to the newsies as we entered the elevator to ascend to me office. Senator Jabbar's swarthy complexion slowly clouded as I held the massive glass door to my office for him to enter.

My offices were dark and forbidding. Only emergency business had been transacted since the day I was accused of statutorily raping Debra, the presumably innocent intern.

After only an hour of consultation in my private office, a pale and weakened Chairman Jabbar returned to his office. At 3 p.m. Senator Jabbar's communications officer issued a terse statement that all proceedings relative to questions about me had been suspended.

Complicating all issues before the ethics committee, their complaining witness had been arrested in Nevada along with her pimp husband. They were practicing whoring in Clark County, Vegas to the uninitiated. Whoring is illegal in Vegas.

Precisely at 5 p.m. two FBI agents arrived unannounced to question me about my wife's and sister's failure to return home after visiting friends in Nigeria. My shrug and confession that I had no interest in locating my wife and sister did not please them.

"We have evidence that you some how enticed them and their associates to meet you in Nigeria," said the fat woman whose badge kept falling off her belt.

"Where you murdered them," concluded the male agent who continually wiped his watery eyes and sweaty hands.

As they departed in ominous silence, I knew that my next encounter with them would result in my being jailed. They would cuff and charge me with murdering my wife, sister and their ever loving whore clients.

My brother-in-law called late that night after he had endured another day of marathon questioning by the FBI, CIA and the newsies. They had rattled Ben.

Any sane man of good will could never stand up to them. I entertained no doubt that they would twist and threaten Ben until he agreed to manufacture evidence against me.

Ben was one of the good guys, and he wanted his wife to come home.

As I commiserated with my brother-in-law by cell phone, I ambled across my office and stood admiring my grandfather's clock. I saluted the ornamentally carved decorator time piece.

No one ever noticed those blinking red lights just to the left of the time face. Grampa was a surveillance genius born four generations too soon.

"Ben, I do not wish to add to your sorrows or griefs," I said sadly. "But my sister and my wife might not want to come home. Ever. And hopefully you will never know why."