Down to hell to interview Bob Hughes

Haven't covered a political race this fabulous since Ralph Perk set his hair on fire, so I roll over to Ralph's weekly canasta game for a refresher. Carl Stokes, Jimmie Garfield, various politicos, plus the usual drunks. Pour myself a scotch, Perk deals, I cut to the chase, ask him where's Bob Hughes.

"You need to take the escalator downstairs, Red."  Calls me Red all the time, thinks it turns me on. I'll do anything to get a story, so I grab Joel Rose from the table, "You're comin' with me, I need some backup."

Joel decides he wants to do some sight seeing. "Art Modell! We gotta see Modell!" This is why I didn't ask Nev Chandler - like I need this. So I humor him, let him bring Pete Franklin along for kicks. Pete starts makin' calls, next thing I know I got a delegation, every one of 'em makin' eyes at me. Great. This'll end well.

Down we go, passing through Nine Circles and whatnot. We hit the Fourth Circle, come upon Bob Hughes in all his eternal Sysyphian reward, pushing boulder sized money bags around. Shit's bubbling up out his mouth, rats chewin' on his crotch, the works. "What the fuck you doin' here, you nappy-headed old hag!" Hughes thinks he can scare me off. Guess he forgot I interviewed Hitler.

I tell Hughes either he coughs it up or I'm leaving Joel behind to get creative on his ass. Hughes folds, says his filthy internet age progeny are so sick to their stomachs they're mumbling to themselves like Jim Backus channeling Magoo on the brown acid. Whatever. Some scoop. That stopped being news back when I was still pleasuring Sam Miller for charity.

Our work done, we do Joel's sight seeing. There's Modell, gettin' chewed upon by Satan himself robotically repeating he ain't no Ted Stepien, like that'll help. Otto Graham takes a selfie in front of Modell's pusstulent boil encrusted chewed upon ass cheeks. Pete starts yellin' at him, Lyle Alzado moons the fucker, I just head back up the escalator with Betty Cope. Men, for christ's sake.

Back upstairs, Rocky Colavito throws a party to celebrate. Otto's Art selfie gets framed with Marilyn Shepperd's panties from Joel's private collection. Fastest I've ever seen a punch bowl disappear since Gary Dee's Fred Griffith countdown soiree. Madge, Betty, and me end up pole dancing the night away.

No scoop yet, but at least me & Betty got a frat boy jock party servicing out of it. Back to the shoe leather.