Saturday, March 24, 2012

Little Ricky Santorum…

I walk into my office HQ for Anton Saurian, Private Dick, at the usual hour. It’s the crack of noon. I toss my fedora across the room to land, as always, precisely upon the noggin of my prized antique bust of Lady Columbia poised atop the file cabinet to the rear of Ms Gillary’s desk and my petite but ample assistant pours me the customary lunch of chilled gin with hemp garnish from the holy Dewar Flask of the Hell Bent Sacrament. I barely begin to cleanse my sinuses with its rank yet zesty perfume, feel the giddy yet pernicious warmth of its flavor tumble toward my gullet, as she plops the dossier upon my desk. I light a cigarette and regard her with cold dispassion belying the tension in my loins.

I know this is not going to be good news. Gillary glares at me with that concerned mommy look and her pose, like that of a 19th Century Prussian Field Marshall standing for a portrait, demands that I give the work immediate attention. Well, I do love a woman in uniform, but could do without that battle steed in the picture. Whatever. I quaff my treacherous confection, suck hot gas into my lungs, and open the file. Might as well get to it, whatever IT is.

Dag’nam’itt! It’s a pile of hurt for a former associate in a certain business that needs no further discussion. He is now a guest of the Governor, under arrest and in the custody of the Sheriff while awaiting his day in court later this afternoon. Before I even dig into this pile of poop, I can see that things are not looking good for my old acquaintance and apparently new client, Little Ricky Santorum. At the top of this steaming mess of pooty is the mug shot. Little Ricky looks like hell.

Beneath the license plate upon his chest bearing the banner “Inmate: 200114” I can see that his trademark sleeveless sweater vest is in tatters. He was always a snappy, if conservative dresser. He is beat up pretty good, too. The boys downtown must’a had a good time with him. More troubling, though, is the lady’s wig, a sort’a Monroe kind’a job, and the lip stick smeared across his kisser. His mascara is run. He must’a been bawlin’ like a baby under the relentless rain of fists hammerin’ at his mug before they drug his tarted up carcass into the lock-up. He’s also gained a lot’a of weight since I last saw him and sports quite a set of falsies.

None of this makes any sense. Ricky always kept in fine trim. He is a kind’a health nut and I know his Missus cooked healthy. The deal with the make-up, the wig is also odd. Yeah, he’s a pretty boy, alright, but not a flamer. He might get a beer or a few in him and spout off about what he called the “gay menace.” I give it no never mind at the time, but he does seem kind’a preoccupied with what other fellows might be up to behind closed doors. Then again, he has fourteen kids with Mrs. Santorum and likes to mention how big his John Thompson is. So, I figure him for a real man and this thing with his appearance going all to shit and showing up dressed like Jane Mansfield just doesn’t square with my previous impressions.

It gets worse, though, as I dig into the documents. He’s arrested for being involved in a “disturbance” in an alley behind the Cat-Cat club on Market Street. A kitchen worker at the joint is sent out to empty trash in the dumpster. He’s shocked to find a blond, supposed woman in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings apparently asleep or passed out cradling a male corpse who is seemingly scalped in her blood soaked arms. She turns out to be he; my pal Ricky. The deceased man is subsequently identified as one Willard Mitt Romney (born March 12, 1947), reported missing from his campaign for the Republican primary for President of the United States the night prior. DNA testing of the contents of Ricky’s stomach are currently underway to determine if they contain Mr. Romney’s hair cut.

Now, it gets even more worse. Roused from his perhaps inebriated slumber, Ricky assaults the officers summoned to the dumpster by the club’s owner, the well respected Manuel Castro de Garcia. Santorum is seen on police video raving about Cactchoolics, Moomest perspecuctions, Chewish anti-papist plotters and Oberbombers as he takes repeated taser hits and the massive application of mace, seeming to be energized by the experience. Finally, in a frothing fit of what appears to be continued howling in Esperanto, he is brought to his knees although this is not visually recorded as an officer mashes the alleged assailant’s face into the cruiser windshield in front of the camera. There is, however, a sound that indicates that Ricky is being beaten thoroughly with a trash can or trash cans on his head and shoulders.

Well, I got’ta go. Little Ricky is down at the station and I’ll give the punk a look-see for myself. I suppose that then I’ll then head over to the mansion and see how the Missus is fairing. The coppers likely have been in touch with her, and if they haven’t she may have noticed her missing underwear or the VISA bills for those high heels she never bought. I know her brood of shitty brats, and I’ll wager they don’t even notice that dad hasn’t called home or are grateful for the circumstance. As for that Romney clan, they’re on their own, I reckon.  That mob knows what to do in these tight spots. The patient execution of wrath by the courts may satisfy them to balance the account with the loss of their beautiful prince and his high priced scalp. Maybe not. Yes, they do know what to do…

Hic Finis Est,