Chapter 9: Tomorrow For the Brave (Honest Adolph, Volume II)

Wallace Runnymede Novel

‘Well?’ snorted Bubble.

‘Here, sssir, is the audio and shlide show you ettshpecked,’ Klindel slithered, dribbling out of both corners of his mouth.

First, the notable humanitarian pop star and radical artistic performance artist, Klubber Bonez:

Phwoar! Mate! U S of blumming A, I tells yer! Just look ‘ere me lad, me ‘as a literally bangtabulous future President Marcus Bubble! This lad, ‘e be a proper, proper humanitarian lad, me old son!

Hur-huuuurrrr! Gotcher! Bang-bang!


What the hell is this, Dickie? Huh? What is this… this pretentious crap?!


Hark! A-hark! And hearken well again, my dear chums! It is I, Tarquin Binnett of Albion, notable public figure and future UKIP counsellor of Little Winchester! Now do permit me, my lad, to make a most politically expedient speech upon this simply splendid young man Marcus Charlemagne Bubble. He seeks a renewed and traditional America, with nary a wop and a dago about the place!


So you got a couple of stuck-up limeys? So what else is new, Dickie? Huh?


Luv-luvvie-Bomb, Luvvie V Vedanta

In the pre-e-e-e-si-den-tial!

Ooo, girly play with me, with your bo-bo-ba-ba-ji

Or your bloody nation must be fucking mental!


‘Who even cares what the Indians think… ohhh, you…’

Senator Bubble threw an empty bottle of Karadzov Bler vodka. Damned briefing machine hadn’t a chance.

‘Well… I am mossshhht outraged!’ spat Dickie Klindel, curiously animated just this once.

‘Why don’t you get me a proper endorsement? Who the fuck are these stupid assholes? How much of our money did you wasted with this crap? Huh? You wanna play white boys and Indians, huh? You wanna play white boys and Indians, do you? Huh? Huh? I don’t want even want to be fuckin’ breathing on this campaign, if you’re still on it! Huh? Give me a FUCKIN’ ANSWER!

Dickie Klindel’s lips quivered, as Bubble’s chunkier-than-ever New Jersey fists pounded upon his motionless shoulders.

‘Do… give me leave to shussshhhpect, dear shhhir, that thish ish not merely the Dharmic conundrum and erotic dialogue comedian Luvvie Vedanta, but alshooo, the notable radical erotic performance artist and senshuuual indie chat show compère Roger Pickering, of Englandzh Bedford, home of the world-renowned English Defence League and Home Counties Finest Rick Astley tribute band, the Acid Rolls, formerly of Klubber Bonez and now the…’

Bubble threw up his greasy palms in utter horror.

‘Find me some real heroes, bitch!’ he roared.

The corners of Dickie Klindel’s lips twitched uncontrollably, like the decapitated big half of a fishing worm.

‘I am mossshht sorry, dear Shhhirrr, but Dickie izh doing zhe besht he can. Even Zgniew Brzezzzzinski, Henzzzzhy Kissssssshingggggg…’

Bubble smashed his chunky New England fists once more upon Dickie Klindel. Klindel peevishly yielded his skull for a second blow.

‘You are nothing? See these heroes? Look, there are only two Presidents in the history of our shitty, backward country worthy of the name: Lyndon Boris Johnson, Richard Milton Nixon and William Jefferson Clinton! And even these guys were fucking pussies, when the spirit took them to sell out. Who do you think I am, Dickie? Huh? Huh? Huh?!’

Klindel stood silently, too sickly and craven to even wipe the blood from his brow.

But there was not the merest tremble of his legs. A true humanitarian interventionist to the end. Such cold, emotionless monsters were hardly a rarity in the Potomac cesspool or among the notorious military-industrial complex, one rivalling even Nero’s or Caligula’s or Stalin’s or Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi’s relentless and remorseless war machines.

Or so at least, a freaking pinko traitor like Saul Friedman or…

Now wait a second, what was the other guy’s name again?

Author: Wallace's Books