“Let’s not start sucking each other’s dicks quite yet.”
Indeed, Winston. Oh sure, the news from Berlin is fantastic (how often do you get to type that one?), but if my calculations are correct, it’s still July 24, 2008—not January 20, 2009—and the junior Senator from the great state of Illinois is still a long, long way from his desired November election result. None of that “thirty minutes in ten,” “three months in one” shit. Not only that, but we’re all still an eternity away from the much-vaunted “realignment” election result we all desperately, maniacally crave. Today, the Germans merely saw us get our hands wet, not wash them.
Yeah. When Vincent accidentally (or maybe on purpose, who knows?) blew poor Marvin’s skull apart back in 2001, we knew we’d be in for some major, major janitorial work. No one doubted that we were in big fuckin’ trouble. When we ended up at Jimmy’s banana-slug bungalow in Toluca Lake to wait for Mr. Wolfe, we knew that Winston’d make us his bitches while laughing along with Julia and ripping us about life in the sticks. We ended up characters with no character, but under the circumstances that was acceptable, so we would deal with it.
But we were still pretty fucking far from okay there on brain detail, with a salad of cranial matter in the back seat. And in the front seat. And on the dash and the carpet and in between the seat cushions and in Jules’ fro and even mashed into the keyhole. It was horrible. We really felt for Marvin, man—wherever he might be at the moment—but we were more shit-scared for our own necks if Mr. Wallace ever found out, but when he did, one name was all the negro had to say, and now Mr. Wolfe has arrived to assist. Sure, it’s hard to keep up sometimes—he thinks fast and talks fast—but the dude is here to help, and we definitely appreciate it. We couldn’t argue with the pretty-please cherry on top, after all.
Dig it, we cool with that. But we weren’t prepared for three more months of solid work, dude. Like, a national operation? When only 14..wait-18…wait-25 states in play? Oh hell no. Doing all that shit dressed like Santa Cruz beach bums was not on the agenda, my man. I mean, Barry can walk da earth all he goddamn well wants to, of course, and we’re down with that, from the border to the bay, from the east side to the west side, from Bruges to Baghdad, from Pasadena to the Malibu pier, but too much brain detail will turn even a righteous man into a mushroom-cloud layin’ motherfucker, motherfucker.
And we sure as fuck weren’t prepared for the reupholstery, new paint job, disinfectant bath, and forensics test we had to do to the damn car, man. Nobody signed up for that, yo. Hell, even Green Dean on his meanest lean wouldn’t ask that. Well…maybe, but we’ll never know now. Anyway, let’s just say that the task ahead is substantial. Birthright-watch-in-your-ass-for-seen-years substantial. No no, I’m not saying it can’t happen. Never into tearing people down or dampening that precious enthusiasm. No. But polls are ephemeral. Bradleys are affecting. Dies are bold, and The Man always, always cheats. Even when he’s 73 and crusty and out of it. And the soccer moms, man, they just neeeed their PeopleMag, and the Nascar dads and videot kids need their fixes too.
I dunno. Maybe we can pull it off after all, but it’s a lotta work, and many more “insightful” hitmen besides me will bitch and moan and fret and fear before November. Some will even be paid for it. Listen, why don’t we bail for a few minutes, man? How about we go down to the diner and talk about it over some five dollar milkshakes? My credit is good there. I’m a bad motherfucker. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?
