Beer & Pickups
Published July 2004
Oscar bin Laden: Archives and discussion at https://www.greatsociety.org/forums/index.php?topic=1241.0
——
And now, we join Oscar during his presidential campaign —
Struggle of the Candidate: The Saga of Texas Billionaire Oscar bin Laden’s bid for the presidency.
By Nacho Sasha
And that’s as far as I had gotten when the phone started to ring. What the hell was I thinking, anyway? I should just hit Oscar in the back of the head with a brick or something… But fortune and glory is the secret dream of every writer, so I sat down and tried to pump some trash out that would please Oscar.
I grabbed the phone on the fourth ring. An earnest young man was on the other end. “Hi, could I speak to Nacho Sasha?”
Salesmen. Always salesmen. It was 10pm on a Friday night, didn’t these people have lives? I should have been out seducing this guy’s girlfriend… If only I could do that. Pay them back for all of these interruptions. Or maybe just bomb the building they were calling from. I quelled those thoughts — that was the Oscar in me talking.
“He tain’t here Marse Charlie!” I replied.
“I’m calling from Chase.” The earnest young man said earnestly, “Are you authorized to use his credit card?”
Now that question blew my mind. “Motherfucker!” I snapped back, “I could be a goddamned burglar. Why, yes, I am authorized to use his card. Could you remind me of the number again? I mean, you’re calling from the goddamn credit card and you don’t know who’s authorized to use it? And it’s Friday night, too! Where are you? Where the fuck are you calling me from, cunt?”
“I…uh…”
“Answer the goddamned motherfucking question you cunting fuck! I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth! I’ll fucking eat your daughter’s goldfish!”
And he hung up. I had won this round, Chase Manhattan. The perfect way to start the weekend.
Then Oscar pulled up into my driveway.
My little cousin, who kept a constant vigil on the driveway, ran back to my room and muttered something in her eight year old gutter speak which I translated as “That scary man from Texas is in the driveway and do you want a candy cane?”
“Sure,” I said, taking the multi-colored candy cane from her pudgy, sweaty, mucus-stained hands. “What flavor is it?”
“Rainbow.”
“Oh, of course. That’s charming. Get lost.”
Outside, Oscar leaned against the front of a pickup truck in the gentle rain that autumned from the sky. Ali and the boys, looking ominous in black raincoats and “FBI” ball caps, hovered in the bushes near the rear of the truck.
“Hi-Ho, Nacho!” Oscar shouted, waving. “No girl to keep you warm on a Friday night?”
“No.” I answered, coming up to shake his hand.
“I figured as much.”
“What?”
“Well, you can’t keep a functional relationship above the water for more than 10 days.”
“I don’t need this, man,” I started to back away.
Oscar raised his hands defensively, “Hey, hey, hey. I think it’s a charming quirk that makes you, paradoxically, all the more attractive to the fairer sex.”
“Really?” I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, “Look, what are you doing here?”
“We’re calibrating.”
“You mean celebrating?”
“Oh, no, no; I don’t.” He put a hand on my shoulder, “I mean calibrating.”
“So we’re going to fix the steering on your pickup or something?”
Oscar smiled, “Ali has a little something special in the back of the pickup.”
“Dear god, no!”
“What? Why is everyone so jumpy around me? Ali!”
Ali stepped forward, grabbed the tarpaulin that had been tied across the cargo bed, then threw it aside. The bed was packed with rectangular boxes.
“What’s all that?” I asked.
“Beer. MGD, to be precise. It so happens that Ali has procured a list of every registered voter who has not participated in the last two elections. We’re going to visit them and have a beer while we discuss my candidacy.”
I nodded, liking this idea despite the originator. “Are we getting sponsorship money from MGD?”
Oscar looked shocked, “Oh, no, no. This is all stolen!”
Archie Wilcox; 3276 Blueridge Avenue
Oscar stepped through the screen door and shook Wilcox’s hand. “Archie, I’d like to talk about this some more… Say, would you like a beer?”
It being late on Friday night, blue collar Wilcox stood in a bath towel, soaking wet, stinking of Jim Beam. “I don’ need…no…time for Friday and cheese.” He slurred drunkenly.
Oscar stared blankly at him for a moment. “So, then, I guess we’ll come in for a beer.”
Wilcox let the towel drop, gripped his tiny phallus and stumbled backwards into his foyer, falling on his ass and releasing a noxious fart that made Ali, standing behind me, jerk violently and pull an AK-47 from beneath his raincoat.
“Ali! Grab us a six pack!” Oscar shouted, stepping into Wilcox’s home and helping the man to his feet. He let go almost instantly and the lout fell back to the floor. “What are you covered in?”
“Jim Beam!” Wilcox barked. “Soakin’ in it.”
“You were soaking in it?” I asked as Ali returned with a six of MGD.
Wilcox blinked at me, “Well, drinkin’ too.”
Oscar and I helped Wilcox to a lounge chair and I threw the towel over his privates, then sat on the edge of a couch and took out my notepad. Oscar cracked three cans of beer and handed them around, taking a seat in the middle of the couch. Ali, with the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, stood ominously behind Wilcox.
“Arthur,” Oscar said, “I want to talk to you about the presidency.”
“Good ol’ George! He sure know what he’s doing!” Wilcox shouted. “Killin’ ’em A-rabs.”
Ali’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Yes,” Oscar continued, “But you didn’t vote in 2000.”
“Din’t git round to it. Too busy. Don’ matter much, anyway. He done got in.”
“Arthur, I’ll get to the point. I think I can offer America a better social agenda. I believe I can change things to better all of Mankind, and create a sensitive and understanding United States. A nation more focused on the needs of all citizens of the world. I can change things. I have the ideas and the tools. What I need is your vote, and the vote of your friends. Are you enjoying your beer, Arthur?”
Arthur leaned over and vomited delicately into an over-flowing ashtray next to his chair, then he stood. “I don’ care none bout them citizens of them world. I care bout Merica, the Merican way, the Merican people. And Merica needs to git them A-rabs gone!”
Oscar spread his arms, “Now, Arthur, I understand your concerns. Islamic Fundamentalism is a serious problem in this modern world. However, the teachings of Allah, at their very foundation, are based on peace and understanding of all…”
“Well, I could give a goddamn bout yer stinkin’ Allah! Allah done shit all for them A-rabs! I hope all them get nuked –”
Ali raised the butt of the AK-47 and brought it down on Wilcox’s head. There was a sickening crunching sound and blood exploded from Wilcox’s nose as he tumbled to the floor.
“Goddamnit, Ali!” Oscar shouted, “Would you just chill out!”
I picked up Ali’s inactive voter list, crossed Arthur Wilcox off, and looked at the next name. “Monica Barnes. 12A, Battery Lane.”
“Sounds like a gal who’d be up at midnight on a Friday.” Oscar said. “Let’s roll.”