Hillary's shtick is making things look good on the outside, while they rot on the inside. You might call her a Botox Bureaucrat. She was a board member and cheerleader for Sam Walton when he gutted the American work force, shipped jobs off to China, and replaced them with a union-busting behemoth, known for poverty wages and discriminatory policies. Never once did she support worker's rights. She did it for Sam, for a big paycheck. Now, she wants to do it again--to a different Sam--our beloved Uncle Sam. She wants to be President.
Believe it or not, I tracked Hillary down behind the frozen fish counter of a local Walmart, and caught her pressing the flesh of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Uncle Sam. In my role as soldier of the One Man Revolution
, I have mercilessly and relentlessly pursued Walmart in my quest to unveil Sam Walton's cryogenically-frozen head, and reveal his secret plan to return from the dead, and take God's last nickel. Regarding Clinton's benefactor, I had formerly found the felonious fragments of Walton's frost-bitten face, foully melted into a fudge bar, in the ice cream section of a Walmart store. But a shopper had erroneously checked his head through the cashier, and he had vanished. What I gazed upon, however, was even more shocking: Hillary with a syringe.
"I know it appears bad," she waved the needle. "but Botox is for appearances."
"Is that who I think it is?" I looked at the diplomat formerly known as Uncle Sam.
"A little jab behind his eyes, and he won't blink," she said. "I learned it when I was a Stepford Senator. Although I am not a robot like the movie."
"You have perfect hair," I said.
"Teeth are important, too." She froze me with an icy stare, like a flash from a Star Trek deflector shield. The gravitas of her glacial elegance drew me forward; I felt matriculated, masticated, and mesmerized at the same time by the chiffon choppers of the flirtatious, matronly, fem-child, whose eyebrows arched like conspiring cupid serifs--or winged harpies. Her skin, in a fine-veined way, was flawless. I felt entrapped, as if by Spiderwoman's web.
"Most people," she fixed me with her baleful Betty Boop lamp lights, "are attracted on a surface level. If it looks good, they like it. Even when my policy stinks like dead codfish, if I describe it attractively, they think it is smoked salmon or caviar."
My mouth watered. I tried to be strong. Something smelled fishy.
"Balik salmon," she purred.
"What?" I squeaked, "never heard of it." Embarrassed at my weak resonance, I licked my lips.
"$200 per plate," she said." Like the Illuminati eat--people who pay for my speeches."
What is the syringe for?"
"As long as he looks good, who cares?" she said. "Maybe If he had a lobotomy, I could go about my business."
"The Clinton Foundation, of course," she replied, "which spreads goodwill all over the world. Like jetting Bubba and friends around the globe on corporate jets. We spent $17 million on that; it's chicken feed compared to the $2 Billion we made--I mean raised. And then you never know, like with Chelsea's peep, we had to pay him almost $400K to be CEO--but he quit."
"Oh," I said. "I heard you were practically broke."
"If it's broke, fix it." She tapped Uncle Sam's narcoleptic cheek, looking for a wrinkle. I knew her former forensic forays bordered on the felonious. As Secretary of State, she helped authorize Russia (aka the Kremlin) to buy Uranium One, the Canadian company that controls a fifth of American Uranium mines. This was after the company gave the Clinton Foundation $2.5 million, and then her husband received $500,000 for a Moscow speech from a Russian bank that was promoting Uranium One. One could call it treason, but one would have to ignore Clinton smiles.
"What better example of the American dream" she beamed beatifically, and eased the needle into Sam's cheek. "than me getting rich? Ditto, my Yalies. I'm talking to you, Bill, GW, my fellow attorneys. It's a great club."
My brow rose inquiringly.
"I know what you are thinking," she said. "It stinks to high hell, right? Yes, I promised the White House to identify all donors, and then never divulged the $2.5 million. Probably in an envelope somewhere. Some say it smells like a disemboweled dolphin on a dinner cruise. Possibly, my IRS envelope, the clear plastic ones I always use, got injected with Botox. As you know, Botox is a medical procedure, so it is confidential."
"Well, at least you drew the line in the sand when it came to Goldman Sachs," I offered.
"Right," she said, "Robber Barons of Wall Street, the main subprime mortgage manipulator, that threw our country into a recession. Really sank the middle class."
"Wow," I said, "you know your finance!"
"The thing about lines in the sand," she looked up, "is that when the wind blows, they erase."
"Sand dunes! Just like banks--I love them! Golden Sands, I mean Goldman Sachs, can you hear me?--you totally evil betrayer of bankrupt America!--I forgive you! That's why I signed the repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act. Look, if we regulated banks, Sachs might not pay me $200,000 to speak at their bank. Twice they did! That's $400,000. Plus they donated almost $500,000 to the Clinton Foundation. Bernie says we ought'a regulate banks. Maybe he's an otter!" she cackled. "They live in river banks!"
"That's funny," I said.
"What's even more funny," she said, "I don't need to accept contributions from foreign governments or banks seeking favors. I can make money at home."
"You mean the speech you made at UCLA?"
"Exactly. A cool $300,000. With ginger ale, crudite, and hummus, of course."
"They raised a little hell over your UNLV speech though, right?"
"Imagine! Whiny students complaining because their tuition went up 17%. They wanted me to talk for free! After I discounted my fee to $225,000!"
"Hasn't student debt surpassed credit card debt?"
"Yes, but it's only about $1.2 trillion." She ran her nail over the syringe. "Maybe they can pay it off with their Swiss bank accounts. Ok, I am joking. But maybe they can do what I am doing, with speeches. Bill and I made $25 million since last year. We have $250 million in assets now."
"Where do you keep it? In a Swiss bank account?"
"Ha," she said, 'you're being funny again. As Secretary of State, I'll have you know that the IRS gave me a task to get the identities of Americans with secret bank accounts in UBS."
"Union Bank Switzerland?" I said. "Looking for tax violators?"
"Who knows? I met with the Swiss foreign minister and we worked out a deal. The bank only provided 8.5% of the 52,000 names that the IRS wanted, so IRS was pissed, but UBS was very happy. Their donations to the Clinton Foundation went up from $60,000 to $600,000 by the end of 2014. And they paid Bill $1.5 million for a series of question and answer sessions. There are a few questions I would like to ask him, of course."
"That's a little shocking. What about?"--I started to say.
"One more question!" She fixed me with a sterile stare, flicked the needle and began cooing, with a sort of corporate concupiscence, into Sam's ear--"You weren't in shock, were you Uncle Samie, when I criticized GW for secrecy, then used a private server so I could hide my emails? You know classified docs are just wrinkles. A little Botox makes them disappear, just like your worry lines." She tickled the needle along his lips--"Who's the doc, now?"--and stoked his face with an embroidered Swiss cotton handkerchief--"Wiped clean."
"What's wrong with his mouth?"
"Duck lips. Like my secret server. Hard to talk."
"Is it true you said we need to overthrow One-Percenters?" I blurted.
"It depends on what the meaning of is is," she said, her face a mask of serene immobility.
"Isis. Obviously Obama's fault. He abandoned the war. My vote was a mistake, or not, based on intelligence. A wrinkle in time, to be corrected, with--."
"Botox?" I said. "I think I'm beginning to understand."
"Benghazi Botox," she laughed with a nasal honk. "Just ask Victoria, my assistant. I guess you could call her report a revision--about the terrorist thing that was not a terrorist thing, or the CIA warnings that we never heard. Or maybe it was a deletion. I forget. I mean--I don't recall." Her red lips parted like digitized Gummy Worms. "It's so Botox."
Compared to my past acquaintance with Sam Walton's rotting cryogenic corpse, I was beginning to find her attractive, although disturbing. She frowned like my worst enemy, yet smiled like my best friend. Sometimes at the same time. But she was letting me talk.
"It's so crypto!" I continued. "You make everything look good! Even when you contradict yourself. Just saying what people want to hear. Even if you don't believe it. Why, it seems like lying, except"--I stopped. Carp heads stared from a nearby garbage can--"the smile."
"Gays!" she flipped her hair. "Even when I say marriage should be between a man and a woman!"
"I forgot that one," I said.
"Taking money from Muslim dictators who treat women like cattle," she giggled.
"Botox burkas?" I offered.
"Get money out of politics!" she hooted. "Even while I raise $2 billion for my 2016 election! That's more than Obama and Romney combined in 2014! Bug out, Bernie!"
"Right." I said. "He's probably out fishing."
She was giddy. The anesthesia ointment she had applied to Sam's face must have absorbed through her finger tips. Her eyes glinted like bullfrogs in heat.
"I am so bad!" she whooped. "What about my refusing to oppose the Keystone XL Pipeline!--or refusing to oppose the secretive Trans Pacific Partnership! What a crock, huh!"--Something seemed to snap. She was succumbing to some internal compulsion to confess, like she was embracing her inner imposter. "And my opposing a $15 per hour minimum wage!--Sorry, little people! They love me!"
"Whoop-whoop!" she hooted. "Regulations!" Her mind saw the world in mirror images, until reality became a kaleidoscope, with her gleaming smile on all facets. No matter what, people would love her. The country was doing great! Then, I heard a gravelly voice. Uncle Sam was nodding.
"Weg-u-wations"--he stuttered--"middling class." His head slumped like a dumpling into his patriotic vest. His mouth seemed to mimic Hillary; he was lip synching. They were two souls in one tub, a Borax and Botox moment. Still, something stunk to high heaven. She raised the syringe. She was almost out of the tub.
The lyrics of a Meatloaf song ran through my mind. I could see chocolate chip foot prints leading from the filet table. It was a ruse!--and Sam was getting away! Sam Walton, that is! I recognized his brown toe prints on the floor! This was not my first rodeo. He obviously had been hiding under the tub. Hillary was still his girl; still shilling for cryogenic Sam! I heard a whirring. The porcelain legs began to spin like drone wings. The tub began to rise.
She was a woman of a thousand faces. A charming medusa that almost made chump change of me, change that would never be reported. Even in Walmart's fifteen offshore accounts. An alarm went off. I ducked behind an aisle of plastic rakes as three burly associates rushed by, then darted past a senile door greeter, and into the parking lot, past the broken down RV's and sidewalk panhandlers, who for some reason turned away. Evidently, like Hillary, I reeked with the stench of stinking cod fish. I considered the consequences that my mother had warned me about, regarding the company that one keeps. But there was no time for reminiscing. Sam's footprints melted at the edge of the green lawn, and disappeared into the dunes, just past the last of the five arbitrary, city-ordinance, required trees that would probably be dead, due to inattention, in a month. There would be more stores, spreading like crab grass. But just like Hillary, I was on the trail.