They were dressed to the hilt, adorned with the gilt, spit polished, hair pouffed, teeth scoured and they poured into the fancy, schmantzy, ritzy, high-class, over-class, uber-class hotel and its marble floors, golden doorknobs, diamond-encrusted toilet levers, mashing each others’ feet, hurling themselves gape-mouthed and face first onto the draft beer spigots, sucking in the raw vodkatequilagingasolineagedonethousandyears, elbows sharpened like javelin tips and wallets split open wider than an eager pair of legs, dumping endless green increments of Alexander Hamilton into the coffers of the Most Fab Bicycle Club for a chance to win jerseys, bibs, helmets that would protect you though you hurtled down Beverly Glen at 45 in the pitch dark ignoring that the posted speed limit was 30, helmets that would lovingly restrain your brains from flying free of the braincase if, as you hurtled at 45 in the dark down Beverly Glen where it is posted 30, you chanced to smash against the bed of a pickup backing out into the street, helmets that would protect your mistress from pregnancy, your master from herpes, your heirs from changing your diapers, this and a thousand other gewgaws and baubles, all available at the Great Five Hundredth Anniversary Banquet of the Most Fab Bicycle Club where a one-dollar raffle ticket bought you a chance at a helmet but a ten-dollar raffle ticket, tickets that were open to all even board members, would buy you a chance at the dangling, dongling, shining Artillerydale Brand Super Bicycle With Electric Carbonic Shifting Gonads And Frisbee Disc Wheelstoppers, procured through Yvette’s Class A Whorehouse and Olde Bicycle Shoppe, a Grand Retail Value of Eight Hundred Million Dollars and you could win it for the purchase of a mere ten-dollar ticket, yes, you, all of you, including King Trumpy MacBighands because this manna from heaven, this carbonically electronically orgasmatron of a bicycle YES NO ONE ON THE MOST FAB BICYCLE CLUB HAD EVER SEEN A BICYCLE OR OWNED ONE BEFORE could be yours if heaven and chance were only to smile, and as the spread-eagled, lubed wallets dripped geetus into the coffers of The Club the tension rose as bicyclers, bicyclettes, crab fishermen, weight lifters, track sprunters, rocket launchers, male implant salesmen and the entire cast of billions imagined the glory of having it be their name called, their moment where, showered in admiration for receiving the grace of good fortune far sweeter than a podium amble or a $25 prime at CBR, no, their glory in winning by nothing more powerful and unarguably idiotic than dumb, cruel, random, merciless, ass-slapping Fate, she who looks blind and uncaring on the assembled sheep, the termites, the giants, the forcats de la route and the concubines de la FOREX, and says Thou! Thou art winner of the carbonical electronical orgasmatron, thou art the anointed, take thy prize and get thee to a Craigslistery and sell that shit asap before the S/O finds out, but before the grand drawing the assembled cats, horses, beetles, prawns, coelenterates and beasts of the field were momentarily distracted by the referee’s whistle blowing BUFFET OPEN and the stampede was on as fish, chicken, taters, noodles, spinaches, geese, slabs of raw dogmeat, lightly salted cans of hot lard, and every other delicacy under the sun was shoveled with dainty, grease-dripping fists as the assemblage assaulted the chafing dishes, engorging their mighty guts with all manner of cake, of pie, of sawdust, of hog entrails, of rusted bicycle spokes, of old spit and new filet mignon sauteed in barrels of ’73 Margaux, one foot on the table, an elbow in the spleen of the neighbor, plates tipped into ravenous maws like a garbage truck tossing a can filled with horse manure into its bottomless bed, and everywhere at once the gleam, the greed, the love, the passion, the fealty to lucre and possessions, the orgy of materialism casting a glistening sheen of wet ecstasy over the addled party as each saw himherself, herhimself, itself, riding off into the sunset on the carbonalicious electronalicous Artillerydale with twin Browning machine guns, and none more swollen, engorged, filled with ribald lust than Khan Trumpy MacBighands who had purchased not one hundred tickets not two hundred tickets but a billion of them, so many tickets that the dog of tickets rained ticketry down upon the venue, giant clumps of winning tickets thudding like bombs and bad news, crumping like the Starbucks toilet before NPR, as one by one Lord Trumpy drew the winning tickets from the silver vasehole and laughingly, crazily, insanely, normally, magnanimously dispensed trinkets of clothing, helmets that would protect all no matter what, in the bathroom, during sex, on the toilet, in the coal mines, driving a car, driving a straight and true shot from the tee onto the green twelve miles distant to land only one foot from the cup while clad in nothing but a propeller beanie and a jockstrap, dispensing helmets of radiating love and MIPS and safeness, safer even than Bunker No. 9, and he dispensed winning tickets for bib shorts and he dispensed champion jerseys for the old, the broken, the toothless, the inept, the incompetent, the incontinent, the lazy, the bold, the brave, everyone a winner, no one a winner and as the tension tensed and the mounting mounted and the climax climaxed and Kaiser Trumpy MacBighands reached his massive hands, his tiny hands, his baby hands, his itsy-bitsy precious fingers into the silver sweating dripping jar of glory and fingered out a slip of victory, a narrow wisp of paper upon which was printed a winning number coinciding with nothing but, nothing other than, nothing less improbable than the very ticket he had in his very own pocket and when Potentate Trumpy announced to the assembled cockroaches, toilet vermin, dogs of war, screaming cats, raw cats, cats that had been ridden hard and put away wet, cats of every color, stripe, persuasion and perversion, no, that nary a cat in the cathouse would receive the carboniferous electroniferous Artillerydale thingamajig, then Sultan Trumpy danced a jig, a jig of joy and victory and success and love and happiness and he giggled at the mute stares of the silent stupid silly funny unhappy dopey dupey poopy assembled flea-scratchers, asshats, real estate moguls and lawyer geniuses and medical experts, he danced a happy jig on their bones, their skulls, their balls, their sad droopy balls and crowed it is mine I won it is mine I won it is mine I won and NO MORE TO PEDAL ON THE 1897 BICYCLE WITH SQUARE WHEELS HEWN FROM IGNEOUS ROCK THAT HE HAD RIDDEN SINCE HE WAS A NEWT, no more to be relegated to the ranks of Those Who Ride Ugly Bikes, so it was written until at the very moment when the silence screeched loudest and the unhappy puppies, the sorry soupies, the sourfaced sallies trundled out, losers one and all, failures to a manwoman womanman, none to be blessed with the fortune of good fortune, Pharaoh Trumpy’s cell phone rang all the way from New York, from Old York, from the catacombs of Paris and the furying thunder of Daddy Warbucks, he who showered the undeserving of Most Fab Bicycle Club with gewgaws and bacteria and thick bundles of cash, Daddy Warbucks who farted silver dollars, who blew gold nugget boogers, who spit sputum of sapphires from his mouth, Daddy roared into the phone YOU FUCKING NEWT THE BIKE WASN’T FOR YOU and then Emperor Trumpy shriveled, abdicated, cringed, cringled, pringled, prangled, danced on the hot coals, hopped on the needles, groaned on the rack, twisted under the Chinese water torture, faceplanted on the land mines and dashed over to the nearest computer terminal where a flurry of emailed apologies and I’m sorries and mea culpas and mea dumbasses and Idintmeanitmommy and Imsorrydaddy and Itakeitallbackmommy and Iwontdoitagaindaddy issued forth in torrents of 0’s and 1’s such that inboxes groaned, message boards creaked, servers smoked and glorious giggles of uproarious hilarity arose from private messages on Facebag and text messages between friends and enemies as the collective gloating and observation of Rey Trumpy as he lowered his visage into a steaming pile of his own corn-studded carboniferously electronified poop and had his nose stuck into it as Daddy Warbucks whaled with the newspaper, beat with the belt, sawed with the switch, pounded with the paddle, and forced King Trumpy to promise to be a good boy and give the carbontium electrontium Artillerydale back to the maggots, heroes, members, professionals, beautiful people one and all in a fair and disinterested lottery drawing that would be overseen and conducted by PriceWaterhouse, and he did.
The king is dead.
Long live the king.
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