showin' up. I, of course, was in charge of media access for the soiree. Wasn't worth fighting off half of dead Cleveland media pitching woo for favors, so I just let in every pointless hack who ever scribbled "press" onto their fedora. Never heard the holy host choir sound so glorious.
That is, until Bob Hughes showed up at the press entrance. Apparently, somebody downstairs decided Hughes could have a day pass, so he shows up in rags singed by eternal hellfire all sweaty from pushing money bags around since kicking the bucket 25 years ago.
"Allright, Dot, here's my day pass, now let me in you old hag." Thinks he's pullin' rank.
"Why don't you go visit your Saint Reagan, jackass."
"I'm here for Arnold! Come on....." So now Hughes is begging. Pathetic. I take a swig of Four Roses from my flask, decide to save his dignity for him.
"What's in it for me?"
Hughes pulls this out his pocket.
I laugh in his wretched hellfire scorched face.
"Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck? You gotta do better than that, tough guy."
Hughes fidgets, rubs the double folds on his puss encrusted chin, coughs it up. "ALLRIGHT! I happen to know all about the little racket your boy's opponent is runnin'." Now we're gettin' somewhere. Feeling sorry for him, I pass the flask, Hughes downs it in a shiver of desperation.
"Let's talk backstage." Ol' Dot is a sucker for Republican begging. We end up in the green room, Hughes gets busy between my legs, I let him think he's pleasuring me for five minutes, yawn, then lay down the law.
"Here's the deal. You cough it up, I'll talk to Arnold, see if he can put in a good word to St. Pete, maybe your purgatory days are over. Maybe."
Hughes involuntarily orgasms right there like a dormant volcano, now I have to make him wash down the green room with chlorine and iodine. Send him to quarantine for disinfecting, a physical, the usual protocol for purgatory entrants. "Come back when your corpulent whored out fat ass is presentable."
My scoop is suddenly veerrrry interesting.