“I can’t even remember the last time a man grabbed me by my pussy,” Harriet Riggs said.
The volunteer librarian at the Mérida English Library of Scams, a retired American in her 60s, was having a gin martini at Apoala in Santa Lucía.
“Harriet, that’s sexual assault!” Mary Bartley, a proper Connecticut WASP, also in her 60s, protested. “We’ve come a long way, baby!”
“Shut the fuck up, Miss Virginia Slims,” Harriet Riggs replied, annoyed. “Women have come a long way—long enough to know that having their pussies manhandled is a right to be demanded!”
“Harriet!”
“I don’t care what you say, I like Donald Trump’s take-charge approach to sex!” the volunteer librarian said. “My pussy needs a man’s firm grip!”
“Harriet, enough!” Mary Bartley, a Delta Gamma, protested. “I will not have you conflate the pursuit of a well-deserved orgasm with sexual violence from that despicable misogynist!”
“Misogynist?” Harriet Riggs said in a huff.
She snapped her fingers to get the limp-dicked Mexican waiter’s attention. If they were going to go at it, they would need another round of maritinis.
“Yes, Harriet, that man is short-fingered vulgarian,” Mary Bartley said, plagiarizing Graydon Carter’s legendary description of the loathed New York realtor and misguided presidential candidate.
Graydon Carter famously called Donald Trump “a short-fingered vulgarian”
“Let’s not get political about this, Mary,” she said. “I just want to keep this Happy Hour conversation on our sex lives—real and aspirational. The last thing I want to do is go into the gutter and bring up the topic of Shrill Hill and her skank pussy.”
The innocuous Mexican of no consequence arrived at the women’s table and took their orders for more martinis—and guacamole.
“Well, if we’re talking about sex, there’s no greater turn off than to mention Donald Trump,” Mary Bartley said. “Talk about losing my libido!”
“Well, he may be transspecies—”
“—transpecies?”
“Yes, you know, transitioning from one species into another.”
“What?”
“For heaven’s sake, Mary, Donald Trump is transitioning from Homo sapiens to Pongo borneo,” the brainy volunteer librarian commented.
“What?” the Connecticut WASP asked again.
“He’s going transitioning from personhood to becoming an orangutan.”
Was Donald Trump becoming an orangutan?
The women were in agreement, which was the principal reason for their strong friendship, despite the fact that they came from distinct social classes.
As the women continued to discuss a woman’s right to be in possession of an empowered pussy, Harriet Riggs, out of the corner of her eye, saw none other than Daniel Losnedahl, an expat about town whom she found a source of tawdry tales of homosexual misadventures.
Mary Bartley, the quintessential Connecticut WASP, relished her role as a commentator on the tragic American fags about town
“Oh, look, Mary,” she said, a twinkle in her eye and a tingle in her pussy.
“What?”
“It’s Daniel.”
Mary Bartley glanced over and said: “Oh, he the one who thinks he’s Anthony Weiner.”
“Mérida’s own ‘Carlos Danger,’” she laughed.
The women, enjoying the fresh round of martinis, looked with an expression of both ridicule and pity as the pathetic fag made his way to Bryan’s Burger Bar.
***
When Daniel Losnedahl arrived in Mérida from California he was disappointed in the absence of flammable material.
The buildings were made of mampostería: stone masonry walls.
He had hoped to find wooden structures, like the Victorian buildings in San Francisco, gorgeous things that lit up the night in glorious flames when consumed by flames, not unlike the “man” at Burning Man.
For a man who enjoyed masturbating while watching the buildings he set ablaze roar in flames, Daniel Losnedahl was disappointed. He had developed his love for setting arsons while living in San Francisco. In one spectacular and daring exploit, one Sunday, he set rubber tires ablaze behind a wooden building in the South of Market district, half a block from the San Francisco Eagle. In no time, the entire building was engulfed.
He had been inspired by the rubber tires set ablaze in Tracy, California that raged out of control for months and months. He loved the flames, the thick, black smoke rising into the California sky, and the stench that suffused the northern California communities surround the toxic inferno.
That’s what he wanted to duplicate in Mexico. He wanted to see colonial building burst into flames and engulf entire neighborhoods. That dream, of course, was frustrated that while wood burned, stone did not.
Nevertheless, he loved Mérida.
Hell, he loved Mexico—with its ambivalence towards “live and let live” view of life. In the United States, for instance, an old man who invited teenage boys over to his house to drink beer could be arrested for endangering the welfare of child.
In Mérida, it was foreplay.
That was the tradeoff he chose: To refrain from setting building ablaze—so he could masturbate to the exhilarating sight of the flames—but in exchange, he would be free to rape teenage boys.
Of course he was aware that there was an epidemic of old gringos in their 60s being murdered by Mexican teenagers in Mérida, but even with the string of dead gringos littering the crime blotter of the city’s newspapers, Daniel Losnedahl thought it was a fair tradeoff the more he thought about it.
Give up masturbating while watching buildings engulfed in flames for the promise of raping a teenage boy?
That, to his way of thinking, was Mérida’s eternal charm.
The truth, however, was that the “expat” with whom he bonded was not from the U.S., Canada, or the U.K.—which were the countries supplying sex tourists in Mérida. Daniel Losnedahl bonded with José Martínez Salazar, a Spaniard.
This gracious home, a block from principal hotels, was were José Martínez Salazar ran a sex tourism operation, making teenage sex slaves available to the scores of sex tourists who traveled to town for sex with children. The city demolished the home after José Martínez Salazar was murdered by one of the teenage boys.
Mr. Martínez Salazar lived in a gracious home on Avenida Colón and, like many older gay men in town, had a preference for teenage boys. Daniel Losnedahl thought it wonderful how he could practice his Spanish while negotiating terms for sexual services.
For about $20 U.S., which was a bargain, Daniel Losnedahl could hire rough trade for an overnight visit. José Martínez Salazar showed him the ins and outs of negotiating sexual encounters.
The men delighted going to the Blue Banana, a bath house across the street from the Mormon Temple. Opened by Cuban exile José Bosch, the gay bath house was favored by HIV positive gringos, was the place to find desperate Mexican teenagers who could be lured to a lifestyle of servitude.
Daniel Losnedahl was impressed with José Martínez Salazar’s operation: a grand house on Avenida Colón, a block from four important hotels, making it easy for the casual sex tourist to walk over and enjoy a fun session with a Mexican teenager.
“Is your house for sale?” Daniel Losnedahl asked the first time he went over to the Martínez Salazar residence.
The men had met at a café near the bus station and from there, they walked over to Blue Banana, the sex bathhouse.
“Are you kidding?” he answered, somewhat offended. “The house was my father’s present to my mother when they married.”
“But it has a ‘For Sale’ sign,” Daniel Losendahl pointed out.
“Oh?” he replied, chuckling. “That’s for the nosey neighbors across the street.”
An elderly couple lived in an even grander home across the street, Villa Santa Cecelia: pretentious Mexicans were in the habit of naming their homes.
“It is?”
“It’s the easiest way to excuse foreigners coming and going all the time,” he said, as the men entered the house.
“Potential buyers,” Daniel Losendahl said softy, getting it.
“And certain clients!” José Martínez Salazar joked.
Then he turned serious: “If I had my way, someone would break in and strangle those two old fucks across the street.”
He closed the front door behind him, and the men were in Mérida’s premier sex tourism hospitality place.
***
“Well, if you ask me, The Donald isn’t the only one who’s morphing from one species to another,” Mary Bartley commented.
The women had grown bored watching Daniel Losendahl sashay his sorry AIDS-infected ass across Santa Lucía.
“Who?” the volunteer librarian wanted to know.
“Ana Navarro!”
“Yes!”
“That fat bitch is morphing from being a human being into a pig!”
Was Ana Navarro morphing into a domestic pig before our eyes?
“A domestic pig—Sus domesticus!” the brainy volunteer librarian said.
“If you were to change into another species, what would you choose, Harriet?” Mary Bartley asked.
“Oh, that’s easy!” Harriet Riggs answered. “I’d be a cat—a pussycat.”
“You know, I’d also be a feline, but a bigger cat, like an ocelot.”
“Good choice!”
The women looked at each other with admiration; they were the best of expat friends.
“That’s not to say Shrill Hill is fully human, either.”
“Well, she’s certainly a plagiarist.”
“Quite so!” Mary Bartley said. “Did you see her at the third debate!”
“Yes!” Harriet Riggs said with enthusiasm. “I know exactly what you’re going to say!”
“You do?”
“America is great because America is good!”
“That fucking bitch!” Mary Bartley exclaimed, wondering if another round of martinis was in order.
“That frigid bitch stole that line from Alexis de Tocqueville.”
“That’s right, Harriet!”
“The complete line is, ‘America is great because she is good, and if America ever ceases to be good, she will cease to be great,’” the volunteer librarian volunteered.
Expats about town were enraged that Shrill Hill had plagiarized Alexis de Tocqueville
“And what keeps us great is that we export the scum—”
“—like these pedophiles about town.”
“Hey, I’d rather see gringos molesting Mexican kids than doing it back home!” the Connecticut WASP commented.
The women continued their conversation, after ordering another round of martinis.
PART 2
The mysterious woman walked down east along Calle 55, then turned south on Calle 60. She had just left Coqui Coqui, her favorite place in town to stay on the rare occasions when she was having work done on her own home in the Santa Ana neighborhood.
She walked with a blank expression on her face. Dressed in elegant taupe linen, open-necked shirt and trousers, her gait was confident. She wore a black bolero hat, an eccentric touch that other pedestrians noticed.
She was back in a city that no longer existed.
The same toothless woman who wandered near the Peón Contreras Theater was still there, her outstretched hand held in the path of unsuspecting tourists who turned away. But now the city was drowning in shiftless expats, Americans too poor to live comfortably in their own country, who now sought to make the most of their Social Security checks with a favorable exchange rate.
She looked down on them; trailer trash transported to Mexico’s tropics.
It was also a city that had become a mecca for sex tourism, where old American, Canadian, and British gays seduced destitute local teenage boys and tried to find the affection that had eluded them for decades in the arms of young men who needed a roof over their heads. The sad old creatures roamed the Centro Histórico, like undead fiends, lusting after the wide-eyed, brown-skinned Maya youngsters in their midst.
May-December Romances were a huge industry in Gringolandia, where pathetic old men sought out young Mexican ass
The sight of these tragic “May-December romances,” as these grotesque liaisons were called, sent shivers down her elegant spine, a dancer’s spine. She could barely disguise the disgust she felt whenever she saw the sight of an old gringo walking with a young Mexican youth, all done up in the kinds of clothes poor kids think the rich wear.
What was it that made her cringe?
Was it the sight of pathetic old men carrying on with teenagers in public, as if these youths were curios to be displayed? Was it the sight of young Mexicans and old Americans at gallery openings about town, where everyone drank cheap wine because it was free and the dismal art displayed was of no merit? Was it the lack of decorum, how the young men looked more like caregivers or male nurses, charged with looking after geriatric gringos on the verge of soiling their adult diapers, egos as enlarged as their prostates?
On more than one occasion she had seen the attentive Mexican hustlers, ever so effeminate in their mannerisms, some wearing foundation and mascara, wipe saliva drooling from the gringos who were picking up the bill.
Edward Byrne, seeking to protect Mexican youth, collaborated with FBI agents
She remembered how many times she had heard Edward Byrne, a journalist who published Mexico Gulf Reporter, complain that the reputation of Mérida had been soiled to such a degree that any unaccompanied man was seen as a potential sexual predators. “I can’t sit by myself in some restaurants or cafes without being watched as if I were desperate to pounce on some Mexican kid,” he complained. “It’s disgusting.”
The mysterious woman admired and respected Edward Byrne. They had coffee once a week; he appreciated the companionship of an educated woman and she was grateful for a man of character who was spot on. She agreed with him about the rapid decline in Mérida’s reputation throughout the world. Both were shocked by how the sex tourism industry was flourishing in Yucatán. “That library where Harriet volunteers,” she told Edward Byrne, “it’s nothing but a ‘meet and greet’ for old perverts looking for local teenagers.”
Even Daniel Tyrrell, an American asshole in town, admitted that the library was used to promote sex tourism.
She was right. Even an old asshole like Daniel Tyrrell, a member of the library’s board, admitted that the premises were used for gay prostitution.
There was, in Mérida, a willful ignorance, an ignorantia affectata, that prevailed among the dimwitted residents of Mérida. They saw the old gringos walking around town, dressed in their amusing and inappropriate Gilligan’s Island best, as benign little old men and not as the sexual predators that they were.
She arrived on time at the Piedra de Agua restaurant; Ed Byrne was waiting for her, reading a book and enjoying a cappuccino. Her face lit up as soon as he saw him, austere features, dressed in a crisp white shirt. The moment he looked up, she saw his beautiful eyes, and she smiled.
Edward Byrne stood up to greet his old friend and the two sat down. He knew the mysterious woman had a long and distinguished career at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, one reason her name was seldom disclosed.
She ordered a café latte while they made up their minds about brunch. They were in no hurry; they had quite a lot to go over since they last got together for a serious talk.
At this very moment, a few blocks away, in Santiago Park, an elementary school, more than a century old, was letting out.
Daniel Losnedahl was a quick study. He could be seen sitting on a park bench in Santiago, in front of the church, newspapers over his lap to disguise the fact he was fondling himself as he saw the elementary school boys run across the street from Nicólas Bravo school to chase the pigeons in the fountain, or by treats at the Oxxo across the street.
Creepy old gringos loitered around the park, especially when school let out and mocha-skinned youngsters ran through the park
He would linger, ogling the youngsters, wanting ever so much to take one with him to enjoy.
José Martínez Salazar had warned him to stay clear of youngsters who were children. “No one under twelve,” he had advised the San Francisco transplant. “They have to be old enough to ‘know better,’ so to speak.”
Still, the sight of these beautiful, mocha-skinned boys, bright smiles and eyes alive with innocence beckoned.
Could he resist?
An old Maya woman tossed corn kernels on the floor and a flock of pigeons descended en masse. A few of the children laughed; a couple recoiled, startled.
Daniel Losnedahl, of course, never once approached a youngster. Schoolboys had parents to mind over them. What he wanted was to ingratiate himself with a local orphanage. Didn’t they always welcome do-gooders who wanted to mentor fatherless youngsters? And weren’t Americans in Mexico do-gooders?
He thought about this as he rearranged himself, folded the newspapers, stood up, and walked away. As he walked to Calle 70, right before he reached the movie theater, he turned around: one last, hard look. The vision of all those little boys running around the fountain and feeding the pigeons was something to behold. For a minute, he was as happy as Jerry Sandusky at a cub scouts convetion.
One day, he thought. One day I will have one.
And, in this town, so many other old gringos had their way with boys, it was sure to happen.
PART 3
Anthony Weiner/Carlo Danger was the kind of pervert who would be right at home in Gringolandia
“Anthony Weiner was facing a minimum sentence of fifteen years for sexting pornographic images to an underage girl, so that’s why he cut a deal with the Justice Department and threw Hillary under the bus,” Harriet Riggs told Mary Bartley.
The women were having drinks at Rosa Sur 32 in Santa Lucía.
“Is that what happened?”
“Of course it is!”
“But how did he get those Classified and Secret emails from Hillary?”
Harriet Riggs took a sip of her margarita and smiled. She relished being in the know.
Huma Abedin, a crazy Muslim married the perv Jew, was like a daughter to Shrill Hill, whose only daughter, Chelsea, was also married to a perv Jew
“Well, my sources tell me that Hillary would, from her private server, send Huma emails that said, ‘What do you think about this?’” the volunteer librarian said.
Huma was Huma Abedin, the Muslim apostate who married a pervert Jew and was like a daughter to Hillary Clinton, probably because Hillary’s real daughter, Chelsea, also married a pervert Jew.
“And then Huma sent the emails to Anthony?” Mary Bartley asked.
“That stupid Muslim bitch forwarded the classified emails to her husband, who was using that same email account he was using send pictures of his dick to underage teenagers!” Harriet Riggs said. “Can you believe that?”
“Is that the same account that he used for his alias—”
“—Carlos Danger?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“The filth aspiring to higher office back home is almost as sick as the filth walking the streets of the Centro Histórico in this hellish city, isn’t it?”
“Unbelievable, so déclassé,” the Connecticut WASP said.
Mary Bartley loathed how Southern white trash had trashed the United States
The women knew that if they were going to discuss the disgusting American presidential campaign they would need to be fortified with several more rounds of drinks. Mary Bartley raised her hand and snapped her fingers to get the waiter’s attention.
“Does anyone know what the emails were about?” Mary Bartley wanted to know.
“You mean other than Vladimir Putin?” Harriet Riggs said, laughing.
“How did this ever happen?”
The waiter came over. The women ordered another round of margaritas and some ceviche.
“I once tried to pick up an FBI agent in town,” Harriet Riggs said.
“You did?”
“Oh, I got nowhere, but I didn’t know it at the time.”
“The FBI is in town?”
Harriet Riggs looked bewildered: Was Mary Bartley that naïve?
“Mary,” Harriet Riggs said. “Of course they are!”
Ed Byrne, FBI informant, passed along a great deal of information about the sex tourism in town that centered on the sexual exploitation of Mexican teenagers
“Well, I know that Ed Byrne has passed on information about the little network of sexual predators fucking teenagers in town,” she said.
“That’s why it’s a revolving door,” the volunteer librarian said. “You don’t think Villa Azure just closed down for no reason.”
Harriet Riggs referenced a guesthouse specializing in arranging sexual encounters between tourists and Mexicans that abruptly shut doors.
“Yes, I heard,” the Connecticut WASP said, almost in a whisper.
“I think it won’t be long before Daniel Losnedahl just disappears one of these days.”
“He’s the one who’s hanging at that place on Avenida Colón, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he loves it there,” she said. “But if you ask me, Blue Banana is still the preferred sex club for pervs.”
“Speaking of pervs, what was in those emails?”
“That fucking stupid crazy Muslim Huma sent her perv Jew husband?”
“Of course!”
“Well, my sources tell me that she printed out and forwarded emails concerning the deal with Iran.?
“Iran?”
“Yes, Mary, Hillary wanted the perv Jew’s opinion.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she laughed. “Do you have to ask? That perv Jew served in Congress, so Shrill Hill wanted to get his opinion on how Israel would react to Obama negotiating a deal with Iran—and releasing billions and billions of dollars to the Insane Ayatollahs.”
“With that money they could pay for a—”
“—secret nuclear development program.”
“And these emails are—”
“—in the lubed-up hands of Carlos Danger!”
“Oh, dear, what an unfabulous mess!”
Anthony Weiner thought nothing of sexting such images to underage girls; his young son sleeps inches from his erect penis
The waiter brought the American alcoholics their drinks.
“Well, if Wikileaks goes after Carlos Danger, then the whole world will know the ins and outs of the double-crossing that when on when Shrill Hill sought to empower the Islamic Republic of Iranian Terrorists!” the volunteer librarian said.
“Why did that piece of trash have a private server?” the Connecticut WASP lamented. “Southern white trash is stupid white trash!”
Harriet Riggs looked away, knowing both that Americans still considered Southerners to be slavery-loving losers.
“As much of a low life as Carol,” Mary Bartley said.
“Who?”
“Khaki Scott, that piece of trash.”
Mary Bartley was talking about Carol Dykes “Khaki” Scott. The American expats mocked her behind her back.
“That piece of impoverished filth from New Orleans?” Harriet Riggs said, feeling superior, as most New Englanders in Mexico feel when they encounter a fellow American from the South. “That stupid bitch lingers around town like an open boil.”
“Speaking of open boils, what’s up with that tired John Powell?”
“Afghan Boy?”
John Powell was called Afghan Boy because he resembled an Afghan hound.
“Yes, that twit,” Mary Bartley said. “He sent me an unsolicited email about a restaurant.”
“Restaurant? That drunk eats?” Harriet Riggs asked, perplexed. “He looks like he’s getting ready to audition as a walker on The Walking Dead.”
“The kind that gets their head blown off,” Mary Bartley said, laughing.
John Powell and an Afghan hound; one is a dog and the other is a canine
“What did Afghan Boy say?”
Mary Bartley reached for her iPhone. She quickly searched for the email.
“Here, I found it,” she told the volunteer librarian. “At last I have succumbed to the charm of Oliva. The ravioli stuffed with goat cheese (Il Capretto) and served in subtile sauce of pimento and tomato was perfection.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. I have no idea why he sent that to me.”
“He’s an insufferable idiot, isn’t he?”
“I should as Ed Byrne if the FBI has an open investigation on that retard,” Mary Bartley said.
“Maybe Wikileaks knows,” Harriet Riggs said. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was a way to access all the emails that expats around town have written?”
“Yes, it would,” Mary Bartley said, amused.
The women continued discussing the ins and outs of the emails Anthony Wiener received and the sexts that Carlos Danger sent children.
The women knew that Anthony Wiener/Carlos Danger would be right at home in Mérida’s Gringolandia.
PART 4
Mae West was ready to entertain men 24/7
“‘Why don’t you come up sometime and see me?,’ remember that?” Harriet Riggs asked.
She was at La Fundación Mezcalería on Calle 56, enjoying sampling a dozen or so mescals, with Mary Bartley. Harriet Riggs, in her 60s, was a volunteer librarian at the Mérida English Library of Scams. Mary Bartley, also in her 60s, was a WASP from Connecticut who spent a third of the year in Mérida, much to the dismay of her children. The women were spending an extraordinary time together as the U.S. presidential election came to its dismal end.
La Fundación Mezcalería was very popular among American alcoholics in town
“Where’s that from?” Mary asked.
“That’s from Mae West’s classic film, Mary.”
“It is?
“Yes. She Done Him Wrong. 1933.”
“Oh,” the Connecticut WASP commented, indifferent.
Harriet Riggs sipped some mezcal in the most elegant manner she could manage, but it had been more than an hour sampling various flights, she was afraid she’d soon start slurring her speech.
“You do remember that film?” the volunteer librarian asked.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t.”
Harriet Riggs looked on with disbelief: Who didn’t know the fabled story of Lady Lou, an American saloon singer in 1890s New York, who has more friends than one can imagine?
“Well, that’s a very famous line,” the volunteer librarian explained. “In fact, the entire exchange she says is, ‘I always did like a man in a uniform. That one fits you grand. Why don’t you come up sometime and see me? I’m home every evening.’”
“Okay, Harriet,” Mary Bartley commented, snapping her fingers to get the inconsequential Mexican waiter’s attention.
“There’s a reason I brought it up,” Harriet Riggs, recognizing a subtle condescension in her friend’s attitude.
“Which is?”
“That Mae West portrayed a slut who, desperate for sex, beckoned men at all hours of the night to search her out and pleasure her!”
“I still don’t know what that has to do with anything, Harriet,” Mary Bartley said, taking a moment to order an additional flight of mezcal for the women.
“Weren’t we following the presidential campaign?”
“Yes, but—”
“—but nothing!”
“Take a deep breath and start making sense, otherwise you’re just talking shit like that Canadian retard, Juana La Loca.”
Mary Bartley referenced Juana La Loca, a cross dresser from Canada who was such an insufferable bullshit artist she was mocked around town as the Countess of Self-Delusion.
“That’s low, Mary, comparing me to that pompous asshole!”
“I know,” she replied, smiling.
Harriet Riggs cleared her throat and took a deep breath.
“Well, for years we have speculated that Hillary Clinton is a dyke—why Bill has had to look for pussy elsewhere, right?” the volunteer librarian said.
“True, I’ve followed the academic research proving that Chelsea is the biological child of Webb Hubbell and not Bill Clinton, since Bill couldn’t get his dick into Shrill Hill’s skank pussy, and Webb was willing to donate his sperm,” Mary Bartley said, referencing the subjects explored at the conferences held at the Mérida English Library of Scams.
“Exactly!”
All the expats in Gringolandia knew Webb Hubbell was the biological father of Chelsea Clinton, since Bill was incapable of keeping it up long enough to penetrate Hillary’s skank pussy
“Well, now, thanks to Wikileaks—even the New York Times, which is nothing but an apologist for Crooked Hillary—admits that Hillary is a Lady Lou-style slut!”
“What?” the Connecticut WASP exclaimed. “Do tell!”
“Well, here, let me show you,” she said, reaching for her tablet.
Harriet Riggs reached her bag, took out her tablet. The Mexican waiter brought the women a new flight of mezcals. She smiled as she searched the New York Times website. Mary Bartley lifted a glass to her nostrils, enjoying the floral bouquet of the artisanal mezcal.
“Found it?”
“Here!” Harriet Riggs said with pride. “Just the proof!”
Mary Bartley reached over.
“Where?”
“Mary, I’ll read it to you,” the volunteer said. “Just knock on the door to the bedroom if it’s closed.”
“And?”
Huma Abedin, summoned to Hillary Clinton’s bedroom in the middle of night, submitted, which is what Islam is all about, submitting to another’s will
“This is what Hillary Clinton wrote in an email to Huma Abedin when Shrill Hill wanted . . . her Muslim slave . . . to serve her!”
“What?”
“It’s a booty call, Mary!”
“Excuse me?”
Mary Bartley was not familiar with urban slang American lowlifes used in their debased vernacular.
“Don’t you know anything? A booty call is a late night summons to arrange clandestine sexual liaisons on an impromptu basis,” the volunteer librarian explained.
“Is that so?”
“Listen, the New York Times is reporting that at 12:21 a.m.—that is to say, in the middle of the night—Hillary Clinton sent a desperate email to Huma Abedin asking her to come over immediately and that, if the bedroom door was closed, just knock!”
“Oh, my God!” Mary Bartley said, looking at Harriet Riggs. “She is having a Muslim eat her Christian pussy!”
“You got it!”
“I need to see that!” she said, taking the tablet in a firm manner.
The two assholes at the New York Times who spilled the beans on the Hillary-Huma bedroom rendezvous, dimwit Amy Chozick and moronic Mark Landler
While Mary Bartley read the article, “A Scandal Too Far? Huma Abedin, Hillary Clinton, and a Test of Loyalty,” reported with a pall of sleaze by Amy Chozick and Mark Landler, Harriet Riggs enjoyed one of the three mezcals before her.
“Talk about—”
“—misanthropic ethos?”
“Yes, Harriet,” Mary Bartley said. “Despite spending more than a year mocking Donald Trump, all that conspiratorial nastiness, worthy of Maureen Dowd—”
“—that bitch with the barren womb.”
“Exactly, that bitch with the barren womb.”
Maureen Dowd, the women delighted, had never had children, sparing the world her genes being passed on and making both women respect Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection even more.
Harriet Riggs thanked God for Charles Darwin’s natural selection, meaning that Maureen Dowd’s genes would not be passed on, sparing future generations of humanity from such venom
“So you see, Mary?” the volunteer librarian said. “However much the New York Times has bashed Donald Trump, thanks to the tawdry scandal surrounding perv Jew Anthony Weiner’s sexting to underage girls, we can now see the nefarious nature of the Hillary-Huma relationship!”
“Hillary and Huma, muffin diving in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
“First come lust, then comes midnight booty calls!”
“Oh, Harriet, isn’t this the most entertaining presidential election cycle ever?” the Connecticut WASP asked.
“Is it ever, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But we have to remain vigilant!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, even though those two insipid reporters spilled the beans confirming that in the middle of the night Shrill Hill beckons a Muslim into her bedroom, they didn’t report on the follow-up emails!”
“There’s more!”
Julian Assange knew more about what was on Anthony Weiner’s email account than any 15-year-old sexting slut in America, or the FBI
“Thank goodness for Julian Assange!”
“Is he still holed up at the Ecuadorian Embassy in London?”
“Yes, but that hasn’t stopped him from making sure Wikileaks doesn’t spill the beans.”
“There’s more?”
“Lots more!”
“Do tell, Harriet!”
“Well, there’s a follow-up email about what happened after Huma knocked on Hillary’s bedroom door late that night!”
“What?”
Harriet Riggs reached for her tablet. She clicked on a folder labeled, “Carlos Danger” and searched for the tantalizing email.
“Here it is!” she said.
“Read it! Read it!”
Mary Bartley was getting hot and bothered at the promise of positive Wikileaks proof, via Carlos Danger, that Hillary Clinton engages in tawdry interfaith lesbian sex.
“This is one email Anthony Weiner, alias Carlos Danger, sent a thirteen-year-old online paramour: ‘Can you believe they’re still going at it?’”
Mary Bartley gasped with anticipation. She raised her hand, snapped her fingers, summoning the inconsequential Mexican waiter.
“So Anthony Weiner knew his wife is a muffin-diver!”
“Yes!”
“Oh, this is too tawdry!”
“It’s an interfaith mess: A Christian, a Jew, and a Muslim walk onto the national stage of America’s political life, and this is the result!” Harriet Riggs said, shaking her head.
“I agree, I agree!”
“Well, listen to the rest of the message!” she said, clearing her throat. “As usual, HRC was wearing a latex dominatrix outfit. She threw a collar around Huma’s neck, leashed her, pulled her to the ground, and commanded her to eat her pussy.”
“So that’s how Shrill Hill decompresses when she’s back in Chappaqua!”
“I have to say, though, I’m not sure if the sexual subjugation of a Muslim woman isn’t being overdone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t that what ISIS is up to? Sexual slavery?”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten about the crime against humanity being committed under No Drama Obama’s watch,” the Connecticut WASP commented. “
“Democrats don’t give a fuck about those things,” the volunteer librarian said. “Bill Clinton and Madeleine Albright didn’t do anything while genocide was taking place in Rwanda, mass killings on the scale not seen since the end of World War II. And now, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were too busy signing with pop stars to do anything about the sexual enslavement of hundreds of thousands of women in lands controlled by the caliphate ISIS established in the ruins of their foreign policy.”
American racist Madeleine Albright frustrated United Nations efforts to save hundreds of thousands of people murdered during the Rwanda genocide because as far as the wretch is concerned Black Lives Do Not Matter
“Let’s not get heavy, Harriet,” the Connecticut WASP pointed out. “We’re here to drink the night away!”
“You’re right!” Harriet Riggs said. “But, I just wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Does Shrill Hill demanding sex of her Muslim submissive make her a Crusader?”
“A Crusader?”
“Yes, a Christian subjugating a Muslim—with her pussy!”
“Who would have thought?” Mary Bartley rhetorically asked, laughing.
“Thought what?”
“That Hillary Clinton would be in possession of a Pussy of Mass Destruction!”
“Well, one look at Chelsea’s face proves that without a doubt!”
“Webb Hubbell in drag, if you ask me!”
The women were having a grand time, but then again, so do all the American alcoholics that stagger in and out of La Fundación Mezcalería.
PART 5
Closet lesbian, Donna Brazile, pretended to be a modern-day Aunt Jemima, but was really an Uncle Tom. Did this make her transgender?
“Is that fat bitch a dyke or transgender?” Harriet Riggs asked.
A woman in her 60s, she was a volunteer librarian at the Mérida English Library of Scams.
“Who?” Mary Bartley, a WASP from Connecticut, also in her 60s, asked.
The women were having martinis at Apoala, one of their favorite hangouts in Santa Lucía, located in Mérida’s historic center.
“Donna Brazile.”
“How the fuck should I know, Harriet.”
“Well, she’s a national figure.”
“I don’t follow the careers of Negresses, Harriet,” she said rolling her eyes.
“I thought she was a nasty muffin-diving lesbo,” Harriet Riggs said. “But I now think she’s transgender.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s gone from being a modern-day Aunt Jemima to an Uncle Tom!”
“What?”
“Wikileaks exposed that fucking bitch as a mole at CNN for Shrill Hill!” Harriet Riggs said, laughing.
She thought the U.S presidential election was the most insane thing since the Salem witch trials; she was a descendant of one of the judges who condemned women to death by hanging when hysteria overtook that Massachusetts colonial settlement.
“You follow that bullshit?” the Connecticut WASP said.
“As if being a bona fide member of the Basket of Unfuckables, now she’s also a member of the Basket of Hillary Zombies!” the volunteer librarian said. “To think she lied to Anderson Cooper for all that time, pretending to be a Talking Head when she was a Spying Bitch sending clandestine messages to Hillary’s campaign! What a skanky cunt!”
“Oh, that’s funny!” Mary Bartley said, laughing.
“Donna Brazile is the kind of self-loathing black who dances as her Master cracks his whip for the entertainment pleasure of his dinner guests!” she commented. “Dance for Mistress Hillary, Donna! Be a modern-day Uncle Tom and betray all those idiots at CNN stupid enough to trust a closet lesbo!”
The women laughed, and ordered another round of martinis.
PART 6
The Starbucks on Paseo de Montejo, the place to be for all kinds of rendezous
“How many times do I have to wait for that twit?” Daniel Losnedahl said out loud.
The American arsonist and pedophile living in Mérida was not pleased. He had been waiting for his friend, Roger Corbett, a Canadian idiot—as if the phrase weren’t redundant—at the posh Starbucks on Paseo de Montejo, around the corner form the Holiday Inn and Hyatt hotels.
The men were had made an appointment with José Martínez Salazar about getting a boy or two.
Everyone in Yucatán knew that Conkal was one of the favored towns for finding youngsters. Like most of rural Mexico, the people there—mostly Maya—were destitute and families looked the other way if a kind gringo “adopted” one of their boys.
It provided income for the family and, they rationalized, it conditioned the boys for the harsh realities of life.
Daniel Losnedahl looked up and saw José saunter on in.
“Where’s Roger?” the Mexican pervert asked.
“Oh, that’s funny,” the American arsonist replied.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s what that idiot Michael Moore kept saying in his movie about General Motors.”
“Michael Moore?”
“Yes, that fat pig who looks like he’s becoming a woman, fucking creep.”
“I thought it was Bruce Jenner that became a woman.”
“Just because Bruce slapped tits on his chest doesn’t make that idiot a woman,” the American arsonist replied. “She’s just another chick-with-a-dick.”
It was clear Daniel Losnedahl liked to use the word “idiot” with abandon. José Martínez Salazar sat down.
The men were anxious. They waited four five minutes in silence.
“Where could he be?” the Mexican pervert asked.
The residence where sex slaves were held and child porn created, in the heart of the city’s hotels and major thoroughfares
Mérida had become the center of an international child pornography ring. José Martínez Salazar supplied the youngsters and provided his home—a gracious manse along the famed Avenida Colón, one of the principal thoroughfares in the city, conveniently located a block from major hotels—to shoot the material. American, Canadian, and British expats filmed, photographed, and marketed the material.
“Well, five more minutes and we leave without that idiot,” Daniel said.
“We can wait longer,” José replied, taking out his iPhone.
“Why?”
“I’m about to hatch an egg.”
He was referring to the Pokémon game that was all the rage. Although he was in his sixties, José Martínez Salazar found playing Pokémon a good way to entice youngsters into his orb.
Dead Canadian Pervert Roger Corbett
Neither man knew it, but Roger Corbett was late because he was drinking with his friend, a fellow Canadian from Victoria, British Columbia, Brian Slater.
A queer biker who sported a “Z Z Top” style beard and leather, Brian Slater was one of those odd men, a homosexual into leather, motorcycles, and who eschewed personal hygiene. That’s what Roger Corbett found so sexy, the gritty sensuality of masculinity.
The men were at Roger Corbett’s house in Chicxulub, a fishing resort popular among Canadian expats along the northern shores of the Yucatán peninsula. It was, in fact, due south of New Orleans, a place that also shared easy living, and little concerns.
It was true that Roger Corbett was married and had kids, but his attraction to the rough-and-tumble likes of Brian Slater could not be denied. That both men enjoyed certain activities generally frowned upon by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the FBI is what drew them to Mexico.
They understood that the Yucatán peninsula was a place of naïfs, trusting fools who looked the other way while foreigners had their way with youngsters.
While Daniel and José were waiting in Starbucks, Roger Corbett was drinking with Brian Slater—and with Steven Muranetz, another Canadian up to no good in Mexico—who had joined them.
The night was beautiful, the drink was plentiful, the laughter was robust, and music was great. Steven was kind enough to have brought in food—fantastic fried fish, guacamole, chips, and ceviche. Roger was a gracious host, with an open bar. And Brian, gun-loving, leather-loving, pot-loving, fun-loving, pussy- and cock-loving Brian.
Live Canadian Pervert Brian Slater
Well, he brought enough testosterone to fill up a silo on a Vancouver farm.
Time flew by and so did discertion.
Brian Slater was hornier by the drink. Roger Corbett, not as drunk, and more mindful of the need for discretion in Steven’s presence, was more circumspect.
Was it the weed? Was it the booze? Was it the irresistible urge to fuck Roger’s mancunt?
Whatever it was, there was an argument.
There were words exchanged, including slurred phrases. “Your ass is mine!” “The hell it is!” “I’m going to fuck you like a 12 year old girl!” “Not even if you videotaped it and uploaded on X-tube!” “Fucking bitch!”
There was a mad dash to the kitchen, and not for Crisco.
A fight ensued, a knife was plunged, and Steven, who couldn’t really hold his liquor, was too wasted to do much of anything except wonder if his friends were filming an episode of “The Walking Dead.”
Egg hatching!
And while Brian stabbed Roger to death while a drunken Steven wasn’t sure of what was going on, an irritated Daniel was watching José quietly say, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” as he hatched a Pokémon egg.
romerobooks 