FICTION BY RONBO
It’s Day Number Eight on the Miracle Mile in Vegas without winning that implied pot of gold.
My money is running low even though the winnings at blackjack did finance food and drinks for a week. Yesterday I met a certain Union Organizer by the name of Harvey from Northern New Jersey (who looked like Tony Soprano of the hit HBO series fame) at the bar of the Imperial Palace late in the evening on break between rounds of poker. He seemed a friendly, intelligent and outgoing sort of person, although 180 degrees from where I’m at politically, what with being a hardcore Radical Republican. Nevertheless, I had an interesting chat about unions, labor, politics, Obama and Tony Soprano with a Leftist well fueled by the honesty of liquor.
I asked, once I had told him my name and announced myself as being to the right of Attila the Hun, “Aren’t you union guys happy now that your candidate won?”
Harvey kicked back his beer and ordered another with a vodka shot, “Obama the nigger communist? Fuck him. My Union Local voted for McCain.”
I was surprised at such a racist and politically charged comment coming from a Democrat. “Did I tell you before the election I did a fake poster on Obama and published it on my blog? I got the idea from this old poster for a movie called, BOSS NIGGER, so I had a cartoonist buddy to put Obama’s and Biden’s picture on it. It was a hoot! I ran off about a thousand of these posters and they were passed out all over Orlando where I lived at the time.”
The bartender served Harvey and he said, “Give my friend whatever his brand his firewater is and put the bill on me.” He continued, “I don’t mind hearing Obama being called a nigger communist because that’s exactly where he lives and goes to church. I call them like I see them. He hates whites and capitalism. I suppose technically that makes him a fascist.”
Harvey threw back the shot of vodka and chased it with a beer while he surveyed the casino scene with blood shot eyes.
“Being a nigger commie is bad enough, but he’s a stupid nigger communist! He couldn’t even get the oath of office right,” stated Harvey with angry authority.
I do the same. The beer puts out the fire in my throat. We are both getting drunk and more pissed off by the minute talking about Obama. A blond hooker starts coming our way, but turns the other way and you could almost hear her thinking, “Those two are bad news.”
I break the brief silence, “I think he screwed up the Presidential Oath because as a socialist of some type he means to destroy the U.S. Constitution.”
Harvey interjects with alcohol fueled passion, “I don’t think he’ll be able to destroy the Constitution but he’s done a hellva good job destroying work for us Union Brothers and he’s only been in office 18 months. In another 30 months he’ll have us all living in Obamaville under cardboard”
“Harvey, you loyal Union Democrats are to be made federal bureaucrats. This is the Boss Nigger Plan.”
Harvey grunts and looks at a dark haired beauty walking towards the poker tables, “Those jobs belong to Obama’s fellow niggers. My Union Brothers and I are the wrong color. We get the cardboard boxes and the soup kitchen.”
I finish off my Coors and say, “O ye of little faith, The Lord Messiah has need of your votes. There will be mucho pork thrown your way.”
Harvey eyes the poker tables. The one nearest the bar is running hot. “He didn’t need our Union votes to get elected, now did he? George Soros bankrolled ACORN and they supplied all he needed. In all future elections ACORN, or something like it, will be funded by the Feds.”
“I couldn’t have said that better myself. Are you sure you’re Democrat and Union Organizer? Have you come over to the other side?”
Harvey shakes his head, “I never left my side. My side is the American side – I love this country. I did my time in the military. I was a U.S. Marine. Obama and his tribe aren’t Democrats - they’re communists and traitors. The American labor unions fight for good wages, hours, perks and working conditions. We love business because it provides the jobs. Obama hates business and he will kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. Then what union does old Harvey organize then? I’m out work and so are many of my brothers. I hate Obama and swear to God if I saw him at this casino I’d rip his commie heart out with my bare hands!”
I look around the casino. The noise level is the usual high and no one save me has heard Harvey’s remark about Obama. “Hey, Harvey that’s dangerous talk! You can go to prison for up to five years if someone reports you to the Secret Service. It happened to a guy I know very well except he was talking about Clinton.”
Harvey looked over to the bartender and motions another round for the two of us “You’d rat out a man buying you drinks to the Secret Service? I doubt it. Also, you hate Obama as much as I do. You’re a Republican. You folks hate the Boss Nigger as much as I do. Especially you – You made up the poster and published it on the Internet for the entire world to see.”
We are quiet as the bartender professionally delivers the drinks and quickly cleans up the mess.
“Actually I don’t have the same personal dislike for the man you have. In fact, I wish him good health. Obama is a not very intelligent front man for a lot of very clever socialist guys like George Soros and Bill Ayers. If you go and shoot down Obama that crew will be waving his bloody shirt. You say you hate the idea of a Communist America, kill Obama and you create one the day after his funeral.”
Harvey kicks back his third or fourth shot in little over an hour chased by beer. He is entering the stage of the dangerous drunk looking for a fight. I wonder if he has a gun concealed on his person. They say the only worse thing than a drunk driving a car is a drunk with a gun. He looks around the casino again with red eyed rage and seemed to be willing that someone disagree with him.
No one pays attention besides me. A cheer breaks out at a gaming table and a woman yells, “I win!”
“In the Marine Corps I was in the infantry and I killed men before…wanna know how I felt?”
I say nothing. I’ll not give him a reason for throwing a punch or worse my way.
“I felt good. It was like shooting rats. The Marines even gave me a medal for my good rat shooting. I performed a public service. So what’s the difference in domestic and foreign rats? I’ll let you. The domestic rat is over here and he’s more dangerous: Obama is a commie rat who needs killing. Yes, if someone kills him it will set off nigger riots all over the country and civil war, but I say, let it happen. I say let all the rats come out of their holes and let’s kill them all! This is the only way to get rid of the rats. My old man was in the Union in the old days and he told me the real deal about the Reds. Do you know what the Union Brothers back in the old days did to commie rats that didn’t get the message and leave the Local? They killed them in the back alley after work. These Union Brothers were all WW II vets and the commie rats reminded than too much of the Nazis.”
I try to change the subject.
“Hey Harvey, the poker table over there is running hot. This is time to jump in and win a big pot.”
Harvey looks at me with a cold, calculating glance. In an instant he has pulled himself out of the drunk. This is Harvey the supervisor talking.
This fact sends a chill down my spine. I’m setting less than a foot from a killer made all the more deadly by his obvious intelligence and rage.
“I know what you’re trying to do and thanks. This is not the time or place to discuss presidential assassinations. But I’ve had this on my mind ever since the election. This so called Messiah is ruining the country. I’m going to do what has to be done.”
I think seriously for a moment about running for the door yelling for the police, but with my luck Harvey would nail me either with his gun, if he had one, or his big meaty hands. What to do? I can’t just get up and walk away. I’m the man that knows too much. Somehow I’ve got to convince Harvey that I’m not a threat to him.
I say in my best fake German accent “I hear nothing. I see nothing. I know nothing!”
Harvey laughed, “Sergeant Shultz of Hogan’s Heroes?”
“You got it, Harvey. Also, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Harvey motions the bartender over and settles the bar bill. I notice he gives a very generous tip. I can see that Harvey just wanted to get something off his chest by way of talking to a stranger. “He wouldn’t really try to harm Obama,” I tell myself.
Harvey stands up beside me and eyes the hot poker game a few feet away.
“Well good luck on the tables, Harvey; may Lady Luck smile upon you.”
Harvey remains jovial, “I think Lady Luck has turned into a bitch as far as I’m concerned, but thanks anyway ... I didn’t get your name?”
“My name is Sergeant Schultz, Herr Kommandant! I know nothing about Colonel Hogan.”
Harvey laughs, “You really think I look like Tony Soprano? I know I’m Italian looking. I get that from my mother. My father’s side of the family it gets me an Irish family name and an interest in politics. My grandfather Sean was alleged to have been a member of the IRA in the old country. On my mother side of the family I have an uncle they say was Mafia. Quite a family, heh? This was one reason I got hooked on the Soprano series, the family angle. I liked the Tony Soprano character. He was a ruthless SOB and a cold blooded killer with a heart of gold who always took care of his family. Tony was also a patriotic type of guy who loved the country. Tony Soprano reminds me of me. I like it when people say I look like him.”
“I wonder what Tony Soprano would do to Barack Obama?”