"A Wellesley Wench - The Saga Continues"

With apologies to parsifal,DainBramage,Charles Henrickson, hang 'em and other contributing FReepers from the original thread. I laughed and thoroughly enjoyed your original story. I attempted to fuse the main elements from the original thread and plod a bit farther. Maybe it will get the ball rolling again.

It was a dark and stormy night. The young girl stepped off the train from Chicago and waved goodbye to her two brothers, trying to ignore the coffee stain on her blue dress. As she picked up her suitcase and turned around she found herself face to face with another young woman, a slightly plump brunette wearing a stylish black beret.

"I'm sorry," said the young brunette, but I'm supposed to meet one of the freshmen here. I know her name is Hillary, but I am not sure what her last name is."

"Oh, that's me," said the young woman who had just stepped off the train. She threw the Negro redcap a nickel tip and continued. "I'm Hillary Rodham!" she said, ignoring the porter.

"So nice to meet you. My name is Gertrude Stone and I'm here to pick you up and take you to the campus." Hillary noticed that Gertrude was staring at her bosom and Gertrude noticed that Hillary noticed. An awkward silence ensued. Gertrude spoke first, breaking the underlying tension, and asked "Did you spill something on your dress?"

"Oh it was just my clumsy brother Hugh." she replied. "He's always making mistakes. He spilled his coffee on me as he was hugging me goodbye."

Sniffing a hint of something in the air, Gertrude asked, "Is that your perfume?" "No," Hillary replied. "That's the coffee. Hazelnut, I think. I never liked hazelnuts." As they turned and walked toward the waiting station wagon, the Negro redcap picked up several large suitcases, a lamp, and a paper bag filled with toilet paper, silverware and several ashtrays from the train's dining car. He quietly said to himself. "Well this is the last time I have to carry bags for these snooty white folks for pennies. Tomorrow I start my job as a White House usher. Yes sirrreee. Job security and no more cheap &%#$**!@'s like this b**** to mess with my life. No Sirreee!"

On a bench a few yards away a man sat, appearing to read a newspaper, but watching the pair intently. He put down the paper and lit a cigarette as if to signal someone. Instantly a car parked across the street turned in behind the departing cab, stopped to pick him up, and sped off. "That's her, follow that cab,” hissed the Russian sounding man.

As the car pulled out of the parking spot, the driver and passenger suddenly lunged forward when the Black Maria ran into an old pickup truck. A beat-up 1932 pickup truck missing several fenders and driven by a man looking all the world like some stereotypical hayseed from an H.H. Munro short story. The beat up truck had Arkansas license plates, plates that had expired several years earlier.

Having heard the collision behind them, the two women looked back. The station wagon lurched to a halt as they jumped out and ran to the burning wreckage. The Black Maria was totaled. The other car, amazingly, didn't appear to suffer any further damage. The driver side door of the '32 pickup swung open, and a silly-looking disheveled man fell out. The door crashed on top of him. A muffled groan came from underneath.

As the driver got out of the truck, the head of a young man peered up from the back of the truck bed. He was blonde, had a bulbous nose and was wearing a suit similar to the one worn by Spec Rose of the Porter Wagoner show. A stalk of hay dangled seductively from the young man's mouth.

"Gee, fellers," the older man said, "Ah shore am sorry to haf run into you all. The brakes on this old gal ain't too good. My name is McDougal. Roscoe McDougal."

The driver of the Maria stood by the car trying to straighten the kinks out of his neck. "If'n you put some ice on that Mister, it won't hurt so much", volunteered the young man from the back of the pickup. "My maw learned me that. She oughta know, cause she is a real-live registered nurse."

Before the Russians had a chance to reply, the driver of the pick-up started talking again. "Yep, my name is Roscoe and I'm bringing a friend of my son, Jimmy, up here to catch a air-o-plane to England. He's goin' to truck drivin school over there. He done went and got him a roads scholarship."

The next thing she could remember, when she told the story later, was a bright light. A bright orange, flamey light that made you warm, even hot. She could barely make out a figure near the source of the light. He seemed to have two pointed things on his head and a long tail.

"Come to me my child" he seemed to hiss. She turned and ran and everything went black again.

This was before the diagnosis of "post traumatic stress syndrome" had been discovered. In this simpler time, it was simply called demon "possession". The young man hoisted himself out of the pickup truck and ran to body of the fallen girl. He began massaging her breasts furiously.

"Stop that!" yelled Gertrude. "What are you doing to that poor girl?" "Stop I say. Stop!" The young man continued to massage the girl while he replied, "My maw learned me this, too. It's what you do to save people from heart attacks. This always gets the gals back home to breathing heavy."

Sure enough, the young Hillary gasped several times and came back to life. She looked straight into the face of the young country boy.

"It's hazelnut!" she yelled as she rose to her feet dusting off the gravel, which had embedded itself in the fat of her legs.

"Hazelnuts? What are them?" asked the young man. "Back home we got goober peanuts and pecans, but I never heard of hazelnuts. Now some of the folks that moved to Arkansas from Georgia boil their peanuts. But they're still peanuts for all that."

One of the Russians said, "I'm from Georgia. We grow hazelnuts there. My daddy grows hazelnuts and ships them over here to you Americaniskis. Make a lot of ruples doing it also."

At the mention of the word "ruples", the young man blanched. Roscoe picked up on this and said, "Ruples, Bill, ruples. Not scruples. Ruples. It's some kind of foreign money. Like French Francs. I got some over in Dubya-Dubya-Two while I was in the Army."

The men stopped to help Hillary and the other Russian off the ground. Dusting them off, Bill said, "Fellers, there ain't no sense in us turning this in to the insurance company. I mean your little car there is a mess and my pappy is in the car business. Well I bet we can fix you right up with something new to drive. Why don't we all go into that Chinese restaurant across the street and have us a coke and noodles. You ladies come on with us."

"But Vladimir!" the second Russian whispered, "That restaurant is run by you-know-who."

"But what about the female we came after, the Rodham Project?" Vladimir stepped down hard on Dimitri's toes and said quietly, "We can always get the female. Intelligence says she is going to Wellesley. You know that Natasha is always on 'Bimbo Alert.' We will get the pictures of this one and we will own her. But this young Americaniski rhubarb interests me. The plates on that truck are expired. That tells me he doesn't even have insurance. And yet his bluff was perfect. He did not flinch when he lied and even now tries to take me with his car-dealer family. Such a man has great possibilities."

"Oh, I see, daddy," said the red-nosed young man. "But what are scruples? I don't think you ever taught me anything bout tha'it."

Roscoe looked at him and said, "How many times I got to tell you I ain’t your daddy?"

There seemed to be smoke coming from a building across the street. Bill saw a man run out of the building screaming "No more black churches" and toss his gas can into the bushes.

That was to be the first of many black churches Bill would hear about burning here and in Arkansas.

Gertrude gasped at the flames and looked over at Hillary. She was laughing. Not an ordinary laugh but a deep guttural laugh that sounded otherworldly.

Inside, the restaurant was darkly lit, but as you looked around your eyes adjusted to the view. It was decorated in Chinese flags and dragons, and smelled like hazelnuts.

A small dark haired man rose up behind a glass tank filled with ugly fish and said "You welcome hea. Come, come. Sit, eat!

The six people entered the Chinese Restaurant and sat down at a large table. Vladimir and Boris looked around nervously. Gertrude looked at Hillary. Hillary looked at Bill. Bill looked at the cute female Chinese waitress. Roscoe looked at the menu. ‘Johnny Huang's Chinese Restaurant’ it read. The only other patrons in the restaurant were an elderly, Jewish-looking lady and young teenage boy. The boy was dressed in short pants, the type that went out of style for young men thirty years earlier. The two were engaged in a heated argument.

"But Momma, all the other kids laugh at me. They call me names. I just have to start wearing long pants."

"Sidney, how many times must I tell you? Tradition! Tradition is how we have survived all these thousands of years. No long pants until you begin college."

Sidney stared at his plate of limp noodles and inside him burned a rage that could never be slaked. Hillary overheard the discussion, and cast a look of sympathy toward him. When the old lady went to the restroom, Hillary arose and walked over to Sidney. She whispered something to him and he nodded. The interchange did not go unnoticed by Vladimir and Boris. The waitress bent over the hot and sour soup. This did not go unnoticed by Bill.

Passing the menu around the table, the six began ordering, little knowing that beneath the table a microphone was picking up their conversation.

Bill said, "I want some of this General Mao's Chicken". Vladimir and Boris both ordered Mongolian Beef. Roscoe had to have the entire menu explained to him and finally settled for the Mooshi Pork. "Kinda like pork on flapjacks, huh?" he asked. Hillary and Gertrude split an order of shrimp delight and two cherry cokes.

The conversation shortly turned to more serious matters. "So," asked Vladimir of Bill, "you are a Rhodes scholar, No? No doubt you are sad you will miss out on the Americaniski draft?"

"Yes, I had planned to go and fight for my country but it would not be right of me to turn down this scholarship. Darn shame after all that R-O-T-C training I had."

"Why Hell, Bill, I didn't know you felt that way, " said Roscoe. "I always thought of you as a feller who would rather make love than war."

"No, I really wanted to go to Vietnam, Roscoe. Saddest day of my life having to go and get that deferment.” said Bill, biting his lower lip with tears beginning to show in his eyes. "Like John Kennedy said, ‘ask not’….whatever. Well I remember shaking his hand while he stood there with his sore back and all, and thinking, gee I sure wish they had PT boats. I would go and hop right on one."

Vladimir looked across the table to Boris with a look that said it all, a look that said put on your knee bootskis, the snow is getting deep. "But Bill," Vladimir said, a wicked look in his eye, "I hear you Americaniskis have river boats in Vietnam that are very similar to PT boats. They speed into little rivers and deliver your Navy otters, I think they are called."

About that time a tall young man walked by the table handing out "Jesus Saves" Bible tracts. "Hello," he said, "my name is Brother Al, and I want to know if you are saved. I am attending a local seminary and I can feel your pain."

Bill pulled a small memo pad from his pocket and scribbled something into it. "Feel your pain", Bill said to himself, "Feel your pain."

"Well I sure feel my pain," said Hillary, pulling more pieces of asphalt and gravel from her legs. "Ouch, got some leg hair that time", she said.

Vladimir said to Boris in Russian "whatski youski thinkski comrade? Ifski weski canski getski herski toski workski forski uski itski wouldski lookski goodski inski Moscowski"

Boris glanced at the door and back to his colleague and replied (translated) "She seems to like the little slick-haired Jewish dweeb at the other table, maybe we should include him in our plans". "Yes" said Vlad, "Now I think we should order before they get suspicious, I think I'll start with a bottle of wodka, and then chicken fried steak."

Meanwhile, Bill was chatting with the pretty young waitress "Do you like noodles?" "Yes sir" she almost whispered. "You don’t know any a that Kung Fu stuff do ya?" said Bill as he pulled out a cigar.

Brother Al saw Hillary picking the asphalt from her thighs and said "Would you like a tract?"

"No thanks", said Hillary somewhat annoyed, “I saw Reverend King in Chicago before he was assassinated and his sermon had a permanent effect on me."

"No, but it usually shuts everyone up, and no one is ever smart enough to figure out he was never in Chicago when I was a kid, but stuff like this usually shuts up Sheeple."

The Rhodes scholar laughed, "Yea, I was deeply affected by the burning of black churches in Arkansas, where I'm from." They all laughed, while Hillary thought "What a ridiculous place to be from, it must be like Hell on earth."

"Coke anyone?" said the waitress. The group held up their glasses, the Rhodes scholar held up a small mirror, then realizing his error, put the mirror back in his pocket.

Bill whispered to the little waitress and she looked perplexed and said "You want 69 wit me? #69 fish heads and rice. I can no sit down to eat wit you!"

Meanwhile, at the next table the young boy in shorts began to cry and threw a tantrum.

Hillary became extremely agitated and finally yelled "SHUT UP YOU LITTLE F**KING JEW B*STARD!"

The waitress refilled all the cokes and Vladimir continued. "So, you're going to England. Will you be doing much traveling once you get there? Have you ever been to Europe?"

"Naw, outside of that one trip to Washington, I ain't hardly ever been out of Arkansas. Now around Arkansas I have gone pretty far. Been to Hope. Lived in Hot Springs. Even played in the marching band and went to Boys Town."

"What instrument do you play?" asked Boris, who had masqueraded as a cellist once while on a KGB recruitment assignment at a National Public Radio concert.

"I play the saxophone. I got it out in the pickup. Do you want to hear Blue Danube?" asked Bill. Sensing an opening, Vladimir inquired, "Bill, do you know what Blue Danube is?"

A puzzled look came over Bill's face. "Well, I ain't never heard no words to it, but I guess its kinda like Blue Suede Shoes or the Blue Yodels. Maybe Danube is a feller and he is blue because his gal left him. I ain't never knowed anybody named Dan-ube, but I know a Dan-iel and a Dan-berry."

Vladimir shook his head slowly. "No, Bill, the Danube is a river in Europe. A beautiful river with beautiful girls who live all up and down it and they are blue because there are not enough men to go around." Bill's eyes opened wide and he said "Gollee" and it took a good 15 seconds for the word to come out. Vladimir continued, "Yes Bill, more women than any man could ever satisfy in 10 lifetimes. And Bill, since I am a foreign diplomat, I can get you access to the Danube and the girls. Real girls who wear shoes, Bill. Sophisticated girls, Bill. Girls with all their teeth. Girls who don't chew tobacco Bill. Girls who smell good, Bill."

It is at that moment that Bill Clinton turned to the "dark side" of the force. It was for Bill Clinton, the Epiphany.

Meanwhile, across the table, Hillary sat demurely, sipping on her cherry coke. She was a complex girl, named after the famous mountain climber, Sir Edmund Hillary. Life ain't easy for a girl named after a male mountain climber. All her life Hillary had been afraid of mountains. Afraid of the Abominable Snowman. Afraid of snow and the cold. She swore she would never shave her body hair. She would never freeze to death in the snow.

She had been a tough, scrappy girl growing up in Chicago. Hog-Butcher to the world! The Windy City! And now, here she sat across a table from young hayseed from Arkansas. A state that worshipped hogs and named their football team after them. Across the table from a windy young man. Deep within the cold calculating mechanical pump that circulated the green-black bile throughout her nubile young body an idea began to grow. She would butcher this Hawg! She would ride his windy rantings and and soar to the heights of Everest. She would take this raw man-child and make him hers. She would pick his lower jaw up off the table and put his tongue back in his mouth. She would bitch-slap him upside his head and chase those thoughts of the Danube from his mind. She would keep this dog on her porch! She would rub his nose in the newspaper. . . (This is a literary segue way in case you all didn't recognize it!)

Meanwhile, as no one was looking, Bill took out his little mirror and placed on top of his right shoe. Stealthily, he slid his foot to a strategic place between the waitress’s feet. Looking down at the view in the mirror, Bill's faced blushed, and he said to himself "Shazzaam! They really are side-wise."

As they were finishing their meals, the waitress brought out a tray of fortune cookies. The chunky brunette with the black beret opened hers first.

"Want to get ahead in life?" it said. "Things will start looking up when you get down on your knees."

"Omigod!" she exclaimed. "That is so cool. . . . Say, Hillary, are you going to finish that egg roll?"

"Hey, that sounds pretty good!" Bill said. "But I wonder what they mean by 'is'."

"To make your fortune, always remember, stand by your man. And invest in cattle futures."

The meal was finished, and now came the check. Somehow, Bill convinced the other people in the party to pick up his tab. He belched a good, long, satisfied belch, and, as everyone else left the table, he quietly slipped the tip into his pocket.

Hillary did not know what to make of her new dinner companions. She cast a long admiring look toward the plump young brunette, but then her eyes couldn't help but move back toward Bill. Instinctively, Hillary picked up a package of cigarettes from off the counter while the cashier wasn't looking. She slipped the package into Bill's hand, and he slid it into his pocket.

At that moment, Hillary knew she would be seeing more of this young man from Arkansas.

Before they left, Hillary snuck back to the table and stuffed the flatware and dishes into her purse.

Hillary carefully placed the silverware at the bottom of her bag, to leave more room for the toilet paper she would steal from the bathroom... Damn it! They owed it to her! If there was one thing the brainy co-ed knew, it was what was owed her. And her list had started young.

Their car being destroyed, Bill and Roscoe offered the Russian "diplomats" a ride in the 1932 pick-up truck. The back end was covered in a layer of straw, beer cans, and chicken feathers. A well-thumbed torn Playboy magazine lay opened to the centerfold. "Y’all hop on in,” said Bill, "Me and Roscoe can drop you off wherever you need to go."

Gingerly, the two agents crawled into the pickup bed. "Is thees some kind of capitalist plot?" asked Boris. "I have never seen an Americaniski drive an automobile like this before." "They are from one of the southern areas of America", replied Vladimir, noticing the gun rack inside the cab of the truck. Vladimir considered himself an expert on southern America having watched many episodes of the Beverly Hillbillies.

"Well now tell me some more about these here Danubian gals,” said Bill. Boris whispered to Vladimir, "Are we safe talking here in this open vehicle? Is it bugged?" "I think it is," said Vladimir, as he began to scratch himself, "but not in the way you mean." "Now Bill,” Vladimir began, "It is important for you to keep this conversation strictly between us. Nothing we talk about can go any further. Capiche??"

"Cross my heart", said Bill, the fingers of his left hand crossed behind his back. "I promise to never, ever mention or remember nothing about what goes on in the back seat or back end of a car." Bill had made this promise many times to the young ladies of Arkansas, and throughout his career would always uphold the sanctity of automobile conversations.

Boris noticed the Astroturf. The scratchy green material lining the bed of the El Camino was worn in patches. Could this be an indication of things to come?

The car hurtled towards the airport, where the low drone of an incoming Cessna could be heard. "Oh S***!" exclaimed Bill "They're early! C'mon fellas, we've got a drop to make!"

Meanwhile, Hillary and Gertrude returned to the station wagon. "Well," said Gertrude, "that was certainly an amusing interlude!" She continued, "Can you believe that low-class oaf in the clown suit?"

"Yes", replied Hillary, "I can believe the clown suit, but I am not so sure you couldn't use such a person in some way. You could maybe even use a person in a chicken suit." "But, my God, Hillary, he was so, so, so, . . .gauche. He didn't even know what the Danube was. How did he ever get to be a Rhodes Scholar? I bet he paid somebody off."

"Yes, I thought that, too" said Hillary, with a nascent look of arousal in her eye. "I bet that little conniver bought his way into the scholarship."

The two girls did not say much the rest of the trip to Wellesley. Gertrude thought about Hillary. Hillary thought about Bill. The driver thought about his tip. Somebody was sure to be disappointed, and soon.

As they pulled into the stately compound, Hillary was shocked to see two girls kissing on a blanket near the front gate.

Gertrude saw Hillary staring and explained, "It's a little different here than the other schools. It's all girls and some of them tend to get lonely. But you'll get used to it."

Right about that time another large girl, with legs even larger than Hillary's, came out the front steps near the sign that read 'Administration'. She walked up to Gertrude and grabbed her rear and kissed her full on the lips. Hillary thought she heard a moan escape from Gertrude, and then the big girl turned to her and said "If I said you had a nice butt would you hold it against me?"

"Hi-Hillary, sir." Hillary was impressed by the direct, take-charge manner of the tall girl with the short haircut.

Hillary returned the crisp salute of the girl she would later find out was nicknamed "The General." The girl from Illinois picked up her bags and looked at her new surroundings. "You know, I think I'm going to like it here."

"Hillary," said the General, "I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship." Wellesley was like no other school Hillary had ever visited. All the students were girls, yet the restrooms were all lined with stand up urinals.

She went with Gertrude to check in and got her dorm room assignment. Her roommates name was listed on the sheet as Barnita Franks. She wondered what she would be like.

As she hurried to find her room she kept noticing things she might need and kept stopping to grab them and put them in her bag. She wanted to take a fire extinguisher off the wall, but dammit, there wasn’t enough room. She made a mental note to come back and get it later when she took the soap from the downstairs bathroom.

Her room number was 69, so that meant 6 flights of stairs or the elevator. She decided on the stairs, Lord knows she needed the exercise, and began the ascent. She wondered why the school didn’t have any blacks to carry the student's gear, like she had at home.

When she finally reached her room she knocked and opened the door and came face to face with a naked man, standing in front of a mirror pushing his genitals back between his legs. He had on lipstick and eye shadow and the room was full of music that sounded like "Crying, Crying". He looked at her and said, "What size are you? You look like a 16."

Hillary was stunned, confused--and yet somehow she found it all rather intriguing. But before she could get properly introduced to "Barnita," there was a sound at the door.

"Knock, knock." It was the General, Janet. "Hi, Hillary. Hi, Barnita. I thought I'd show the new girl around the campus a bit."

Hillary felt all warm and secure walking next to--soon, arm-in-arm with--the General. Her short, stubby legs--which were quite lovely, incidentally, in their own way--her short, stubby legs had trouble keeping up with the long strides of the tall girl from Miami.

"And over here," Janet directed, "in this room, our school is working on what is called the Human Gnome Project. It's really top secret. Oh, let me introduce you to our team leader. Hillary, this is Donna."

"And who is this with you, Donna?" Janet asked. "I assume this is our new male exchange student."

A very short young man with a surprisingly deep and resonant voice stepped forward and introduced himself. "Glad to meet you, Hillary. I'm Robert B. Reichhhhhhhhhh."

"Shh!" interrupted Donna, putting her finger up to her lips. "If we tell you, we'll have to kill you."

Hillary looked down at Donna's sturdy brown shoes. On one of them, she noticed a sharp, pointy metal tip sticking out from the toe. She figured she wouldn't press the question any further.

"I think it's time to go back to your dorm, Hillary." Janet took Hillary by the hand and led her back to her room, back to "Barnita."

When they got back to the room, Generalissimo Janet bent over and softly kissed her ear and whispered "I love you're perfume. It smells like tuna." Hillary sighed and said "It's hazelnut coffee, I'll see you later" and she quickly opened the door an entered the room.

Barnita was on the phone, so she sat down on the bed and pretended not to listen but couldn’t help it

"Oh my, I can't have a decent 18 year old football player for you until after 10 o'clock. No all my other boys are booked. Okay, he'll be there at 10. His name is Georgie Stefanop, and he'll do anything and say anything you want. Okay, bye"

That night, Hillary had an unusual and erotic dream about General Janet. She was giving a speech before a large number of people who were stark naked. As she stepped upon the podium, she noticed Janet, wearing a wet t-shirt with a likeness of Che Guevara on it. Janet hunkered inside the lectern, flickering her tongue like a huge chameleon that jiggled and was covered with scales. As Hillary began to speak, she noticed a tickling sensation that was not all unpleasant. In her best attempt at saying something relevant she droned on about "the children" and how freedom was really slavery, truth is a lie, and finally ending up with "We of this generation are looking for more penetrating modes of living...

Meanwhile, back at Huang's Chinese Restaurant, the last customers left and the doors were locked. The owner, Johnny Huang, was a deep undercover agent for the Chinese Communist Government. The waitress played the tape of the conversation for Johnny.

"I think I detect a Russian accent among the two men in suits", said Johnny. "Weren't there three men wearing suits, Master J.?" asked the waitress. "You call that tablecloth the young American was wearing a suit?" replied Johnny.

"Yes", he said as he replayed the tape. "Those two were Soviets. The question is, what did they want with the two clowns and the two females? Did you obtain the license tag?" "Yes, Master J." she replied, "Arkansas, the Land of Opportunity, BR-549, expired two years ago. The vehicle is registered to Roscoe McDougal of Dry Prong, Arkansas."

Suddenly, they heard a noise from the direction of the restroom. Brother Al stumbled out of the restroom, eyes red and glazed over, a silly smile on his face. "Whoa that was some good stuff!!! Hungry though. Are you saved? Have you got any crunchy noodles?" he asked.

Master J pulled a pistol out from under his chef's hat and motioned to Brother Al to sit down. The waitress pulled the blinds down in front.

"Wait a minute there Gook Dude! You must be a narc. Well call my daddy! My daddy is a Senator! Oh wait a minute. Don't call my daddy! Just shoot me! I flunked out of law school. I'm flunking divinity school. Now I'm busted with pot. Daddy's gonna kill me. Just go ahead and do it. Put my body in a lockbox."

"Your Honorable Ancestor is an American Senator?" queried Master J. "What is his name?" "Senator Albert Gore of the Great State of Tennessee!" "Sit down young man, and let us talk," said Master J.

Meanwhile, back in the pickup truck, Bill, Roscoe, and the two Soviet agents raced along a narrow country road trying to catch up to a slow flying Cessna. This was proving increasing difficult because the top speed of the 1932 pickup truck was only 42 miles per hour. As the plane waved and wings and flew out of sight, Bill said, "Oh darn. Missed the drop."

Vladimir looked at Boris and then turned to Bill, "So Comrade, we missed your "package?" So what do you need, how do you say it, Merry Jane, some "stuff", some California Dreamin'?"

"No," Bill said. "Its my medicine. Maw said she would see I got a big dose before I left." "Well what kind of medicine is it?" Vladimir asked. "I don't know fer sure", said Bill, "but Maw's been feeding it to me since I was just a little tyke. I don't even know where she gits it."

Vladimir was confused. This was certainly a mystery that the KGB would have to solve if Bill was to become an asset to the cause. What was the secret of the mystery medicine???

Heading back toward the main highway, they passed a young man in a Marine uniform standing by the remains of an animal that had been hit by a car. The Marine gestured toward the truck with his thumb. Roscoe pulled over to the side of the road.

"Need a ride young feller? I reckon we can fit one more in back," said Roscoe. "Sho no" said the Marine and hopped in. What all the men had taken for a marine hair cut was actually just a bald head. "Where you heading?" asked Bill. "Wa ta bay sho no go kill guks fly fly" replied the marine.

"What the hell did he say?" asked the four riders at once. "Wa ta bay sho no go kill guks fly fly", the inarticulate soldier said. "What the hell's wrong with you boy, somebody cut off part of your tongue?" asked Roscoe. "Ma mout twa go kill kill guks fud fud twop." replied the soldier.

Vladimir softly said to Boris, "Is there anything the Americaniskis won't give a gun to?" The soldier continued, "Ma num Jim Jim Cavel go kill guks fly fly fwop." Bill offered, "You know he sounds kinda like some of them Cajuns I run into down there in New Orleans with Maw."

The soldier smiled and quickly said, "Yah yah naleans gud me gud twa twa froop. Me Jim Jim Cavel go kill guks fly fly. Whoooo weeee!" It was then that Bill noticed several small dead birds and what looked like a frog leg and lizard tail sticking out the Marines pants pocket.

The marine noticed that Bill was looking at the animals, and he pulled out a dead toad. "Gud fud you wan sho no," he said a bit off a leg of the frog and chewed it up. He handed the rest of the frog to Bill, who declined, and then he offered the frog to the two Russians. The agents recoiled in horror from the half eaten frog and the marine. A big smile broke out on the marines' face as he swallowed the leg. "Wuu yum, sho no gud," he beamed.

Not wishing to engage Bill in conversation in the presence of armed witnesses, Vladimir tried to think of a way to ditch the primitive Cajun. Trying his hand at pig-din Neanderthalese, Vladimir asked, "Lak gul gul sho no Jim Jim?" "Lak sho no, nut gud lak frug lag twa frwip.", replied Jim Jim. "Naw naw nut eet lak frug, lak lak gul lak hug hug " intoned the Soviet agent as he hugged himself.

A low simian smile came over Jim Jim. "Yo lak Mam Maw me lak." The agent continued, "Gul gul dere dere," said Vladimir pointing to the ditch beside the road. Jim Jim took the bait and dove over the side of the moving truck. Bill tried to dive over the side also but Vladimir grabbed his pants leg and pulled him back into the truck.

"Hold it right there, Bill, there's not really any girls over in the ditch." said Vladimir. "I wanted to talk to you about taking a trip after you get settled in at Oxford." Bill began to smile, "You mean to see some of those Danubian gals." Trying to sneak under Bill's radar with colloquial Americaniski slang, Vladimir replied, "Roger dodger!" A confused look crept into Bill's face, as he stated, "No, I'm the dodger, Roger's into other things."

Finally the pick up truck arrived outside the Soviet embassy. Vladimir and Boris slid themselves out of the truck bed and brushed the straw and chicken feathers off themselves. "Be seeing you all", hollered Bill, waving as the truck drove off.

"I never thought we would get here in one piece, Comrade," said Boris, scratching at invisible crawly things he could feel but not see. "We will have to go through delousing Boris, but it was worth it,” said Vladimir. "Worth it" queried Boris, "for one hormonal confidence man?"

"Think big like the Americaniskis?” said Vladimir. "We are going to get two for the price of one. I intend combine this rural Lothario and the Rodham Project." Boris gasped, "You can't mean that Vladavich," slipping into Russian vernacular. "The Rodham project started over twelve years ago, and has taken dozens of our best agents. And you are going to change the protocol?"

"How will you ever mate them?" Boris continued. "You know that we have programmed the Rodham project to like those of her own gender." "Yes, but it has nothing to do sex. Power is an aphrodisiac in and of itself. And remember, we need not actually achieve mating for our purposes." Boris nodded his head in agreement.

Meanwhile, back at Wellesley, Hillary had had quite enough of her roommate "Barnita," thank you. One night was enough to convince her to switch. "Do you think I look pretty in pink?" Hillary rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and looked up at her beefy roommate. "Barnita" was wearing one of Hillary's sweaters! "She" had gone through her drawers and tried on half her clothing! That did it! Hillary was out of there. Although she did like the black pantsuit that "Barnita" had hanging in the closet. . . .

Hillary went to the office and requested a change in room assignments. Gertrude, the plump young brunette with the black beret, happened to be interning there in the office, and she gladly volunteered to take Hillary on. "Yeah, Hillary, come room with me! We can have slumber parties and paint our toenails and all kinds of fun stuff! It'll be like so cool!" Hillary wasn't too sure about the intellectual stimulation that Gertrude would provide, but she did admire her spunk and spirit and great, big . . . sweaters.

So that afternoon Hillary moved into Gertrude's room. It was all decorated in pop art--orange and yellow flower decals, a bead curtain, seashells, an Archie’s poster. Gertrude smacked her gum and said, "Make yourself at home, Hill. I've got to get ready and get over to practice." The plump Californian changed into her uniform: first the top, then. . . . Before she put on the shorts, Gertrude stepped into what looked like an athletic supporter of some sort--a thong-shaped undergarment that Hillary had never seen before. Then after the shorts, Gertrude pulled a pair of kneepads up onto her legs. "Volleyball. I'm on the volleyball team. Gotta go. Coach Jordan gets mad if we're late."

Alone now, Hillary sat down on the bed and thought about all the interesting people she had met at her new school. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and soon drifted off to sleep. . . .

Green . . . a green emerald park, with a sea of white shirts all around. Where was she? It was Wrigley Field. Was she in the stands or at home, watching on Channel 9? It didn't matter. Ernie Banks was up, "Mr. Cub," his brown, nimble fingers moving up and down, up and down, on the bat handle. He swings--whack!--the ball sails effortlessly into the left-field bleachers. "Hey, hey!" Jack Brickhouse yells. The crowd goes wild. Daddy is cheering. Daddy loved Ernie Banks. "Why doesn't Daddy love me? Love me, Daddy, love me!" Daddy always wanted a boy, but he didn't get one until Hugh and Tony came along. "Hugh and Tony, Hugh and Tony, that's all I hear!" Hillary wanted to run her fingers up and down the bat handle of life. She wanted to feel that tensile strength coursing through her wrists. "I'll show them. I'll show them all!"

"It was like majorly cool! I'm getting really good at going down to my knees to dig out the ball." Gertrude kept talking as she changed out of her uniform. Hillary noticed that strange undergarment again as she pulled down her shorts. "C'mon, Hill. Let's get ready. We're going out for pizza with Jenny and Linda. I'm starved!"

Hillary flexed her wrists and curled her fingers. "Children," she thought to herself, "I'm surrounded by a bunch of children. But they may prove useful to me yet. . . ."

Vladimir and Boris entered the grounds of the Soviet Embassy. A klaxon began to sound and armed Soviet infantrymen surrounded the two agents. "Haltski!" ordered a Soviet Major. Vladimir and Boris were pushed to the ground by two soldiers in chemical warfare suits. "Dimitri, it's us," plead Boris. "Please don't shoot!" The two soldiers in the protective gear rubbed swabs against the two agents and placed them in protective bags.

Holding his nose, Dimitri looked at the upturned face of Boris, and motioned the soldiers to lower the weapons. "Peee-yew-ski!" said Dimitri, "have you been rolling in dead vermin?" "No, we have been riding in an American Arkansawski pick-up vehicle," replied Vladimir as he and Boris began stripping off their clothes. "With American savages, " added Boris. "One of them ate small dead uncooked animals," he added for emphasis. Dimitri threw a match onto the pile of clothing as other soldiers turned a fire hose on Vladimir and Boris. Boris pulled several chicken feathers from bodily orifices of Vladimir, who returned the favor.

The two agents entered the offices dressing as they walked. "Tell Colonel Lewinski we are here." barked Vladimir to a shapely young Russian woman, as he and Boris sat on a couch in the waiting room. A short prematurely balding man opened a door and gestured for the two men to enter. "And what do you want today, Vladimir, more money for the Rodham project?" "Yes," replied Vladimir.

While Vladimir argued with Lewinski, 40 miles away the same scene was being played at Johnny Huang's Chinese Restaurant. Master J. argued with his waitress, Ho Lum. "We must not tip our hand, Ho" exclaimed Master J. as he slammed his hand down on the table. Ho calmly kept popping snow peas with her 2-inch fingernails. "I honor you Master J., but Peking sent me here to discover the secret of the Rodham Project. If I fail, it will reflect badly on your organization here in the United States."

"Listen, Ho, those agents did not come to this place by accident! And those two barbarian males, the young one wearing the tablecloth suit? Do you not understand that there were deep cover agents of the KGB?" "But what about the two female perverts?" asked Ho. "That stain on the dress was real? It smelled of hazelnuts."

"Hazelnuts come from two places in the world, Turkey and Soviet Georgia. I tell you she is a deep cover agent." said Master J. "And the beaten up wreck of a pickup truck, it came from Arkansas, the Hawg State. This all fits with what we suspect about the Rod-ham project . . .uranium poisoning of pork products."

Master J. continued, "Our scientists have determined that ingestion of radioactive pork produces causes male sex organs to exhibit certain distinguishing characteristics which make reproductive mating difficult if not impossible. The few children which are born to such fathers tend to be very homely, with bulbous noses and stringy hair which further lowers their mating potential. Those young Americans are no doubt Russian subjects who have been exposed and sent to this country to confirm the experiments. They will not be able to find sexual partners. American will disappear."

Ho shook her head. No, the Russians have already lowered the birth rate with the Steinem-Freidan Project. No, I think the Rodham Project is far more devious than anything we can imagine."

Colonel Lewinski continued his talk with the two Soviet agents. "Looking here, is something you men are not knowing. We have person working on Rodham Project from inside--my daughter, in matter of fact. We place her at school Rodham girl is attend. Give her American identity, called 'Gertrude Stone.' Daughter manage to get Rodham girl to share room with her. Rodham girl know nothing, not suspecting. Daughter convincing as Americanski air-in-head. Five years spent in California paying off."

Boris and Vladimir were listening intently. This new information from their superior officer quieted them into silence. "What is being more, Agent Donna Shalalakashviliski is work there, too, on Human Gnome Project. Soon, gentlemen, all their base are belong to us."

Boris and Vladimir looked at each other. Boris asked, "Colonel, what is this 'All their base are belong to us' saying? Why do you talk so strangely? In fact, why we are we speaking bad English to each other at all?"

At that the phone rang. Colonel Lewinski answered it. "Is Mr. Big. Leave room now." Boris and Vladimir, somewhat puzzled and yet somewhat encouraged, stepped out of the office.

Boris and Vladimir returned to their room. "Vladavich, I think maybe that the Rodham project is in trouble, no?" Vladimir placed a hat over the bug disguised as an ashtray. "Boris, I think it is time that I fully explain the Rodham project to you. How much do you think you know?"

"But Comrade, should we even be talking about this?" asked Boris. "Do not worry," said Vladimir. "I have clearance to see that this project does fail." "Well, as I understand it the purpose of the Rodham project is to project a deep cover Soviet operative into the governmental structure of America. Someone who will look after our interest."

"That is partially right. But it is not the whole truth. You see, spies are a ruple a dozen. What we need is a true believer. Someone who cannot be turned from the path. A spy can be bought off. An agent can be turned. The purpose of the Rodham project is create a deep cover agent that does not know it is a deep cover agent. We want an unconscious agent of destruction."

"You mean the Rodham does not know that she is an agent?" asked Boris. "That is correct," replied Vladimir. "We have owned the Rodham since before birth. Through the use of encomium, an powerful mind-control agent, we have controlled the development of the Rodham project for 18 years."

Boris sat with a stunned look on his face. And yet, Vladimir had only revealed the tip of the icebergski.

Mario's Pizza Den was a favorite hang-out for the Wellesley girls. Gertrude, Hillary, Jenny, and Linda walked in and were seated at a large, roomy booth near the kitchen.

The waitress came over to take their order. "What'll it be, girls?" asked the tough-looking woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and the name "Ann" stitched on her uniform.

Gertrude spoke up for the group. "Hi, Ma!" (The waitress's name was Ann, but all the regulars called her "Ma.") "We'll take an extra-large pizza with the works. Oh, and I'd also like the house salad."

"Russ. . ." Gertrude caught herself and began again. "Uh, I mean, ranch. Ranch dressing." Gertrude shifted her eyes back and forth nervously to see if anyone had noticed her change in order.

The waitress left, and while the girls waited for their pizza, they chatted about the usual things girls chat about--boys, diets, nationalized health care. Hillary noticed that from time to time Linda would move the Chianti bottle with the candle, shifting it around to different places on the table. Hillary also thought that Linda might be a little hard of hearing, since she would frequently ask the other girls to speak up.

Finally, the pizza came and the girls dove in. Gertrude and Jenny jostled each other trying to get the first piece.

"Girls, girls! Settle down!" barked Hillary, restoring order. "Here, let me handle this. Look, you three are all a little too broad-beamed--especially you, Jenny. So you only get one piece. That's the key, Jenny--smaller portions. You can still eat what you want, just smaller portions."

"Gee, that's good advice. Thanks, Hillary," said Jenny gratefully, with a sudden gleam in her eye, like the light bulb had just come on.

"Gertrude, we'll put you on the same diet as Jenny--one piece. And Linda, well, you can have two pieces. I don't think slimming down is going to help you that much. And as for myself, since I arranged all this, I'll take half. Four pieces."

"Thank you, Hillary, thank you," the three girls spoke as one. "You are very wise and generous, and we are extremely grateful."

Hillary felt the power surging through her veins. So this is what it's like to be in charge! Hillary had the taste in her mouth, and it wasn't the pizza. It was the taste of power, and Hillary knew that she must have more.

"How's the pizza, girls?" a man's voice broke in. A dark-haired man, with rolled-up sleeves and flour on his apron, was standing at the table. It was Mario, the owner.

"Oh, just fine." This time it was Hillary speaking for the group. "You must be the owner. Nice place you have here."

"Thanks, we like it. Although, I don't know, I'm getting a little tired of the pizza game. I've been thinking about going back to New York and trying something else."

"New York, huh? Personally, I can't stand the place. But whatever you decide, Mr. . . ."

Hillary was interrupted when a little boy ran past--the same little brat who had been making noise all evening.

"Andrew!" said the owner. "How many times have I told you to not bother the customers! Excuse me, ladies, while I take care of this. . . ."

"Kids," muttered Hillary. "What a pain in the rear. It must take an idiot to raise a child. God knows I don't want anything to do with 'em."

With that, the girls got up and paid the bill and headed back to Wellesley. It had been an important evening for Hillary--not for the company, certainly, they were nowhere near her equals. But Hillary had discovered a newfound sense of power, the growing confidence that she could manipulate and control people. That night Hillary knew that her life would never be the same.

"Gosh, this seems like it's taking a week or more," Hillary thought to herself impatiently on the way back to Wellesley. The ride from Mario's only took a few minutes, but Hillary was eager to get back. She needed to talk to Gertrude. Alone.

When they got back to their dorm room, Gertrude sat down on her bed to take off her shoes and kneepads. (Gertrude had taken to wearing the kneepads at times other than practice.)

Now normally, at this point in the evening, Hillary would be over at her vanity, brushing the hair on her legs and armpits, but tonight something was bothering her. Hillary came over and sat down next to her roommate. "Gertrude, there are a few questions I've been meaning to ask you."

"You mean there are some things you don't know?" said Gertrude, laughing. "I mean, I've only known you a couple days, but from what I've seen, Hillary, you seem like the smartest woman in the world! But if you've got questions, fire away."

"Well, first," Hillary began, "that poster you have on the wall. Now I like to think of myself as pretty up-to-date--here it is, the fall of '65, and I think I'm pretty current on the latest groups. But this one--'The Archies'-- I've never heard of them. Who are they?"

"Oh, the Archies!" Gertrude exclaimed, cracking her gum. "They're just a local band I heard in a few anime clubs back in southern California. But I bet you, within three or four years, they'll be big all across the nation!"

"OK," Hillary continued. "Second question: The name of this school. Is it spelled "Wellesley,' with an 'e' in the last syllable, or 'Wellesly,' no 'e'. I've seen it both ways. And since you work in the school office, I figured you might know."

"Oh, we get that question a lot," the young intern replied. "It goes back to the founder of our school, Danforth Q. Wellesly. The family name was spelled without that extra 'e', but he liked to put it in, and the name stuck. But still sometimes people spell it the old way. Whatever."

"All right," said Hillary--and then suddenly her tone turned more serious. "I've got one more question to ask you, Gertrude, and I want you to give me an honest answer." Hillary was looking at Gertrude straight in the eye--something which Hillary rarely did. Gertrude was thinking to herself, "Why is she looking at me with an almost laser-like intensity?" (Which also was rather strange, since this was the fall of 1965, and not many people had heard about lasers at this point. But Gertrude was pretty good at anticipating trends, being from California and all.)

"Here is my question, Gertrude," Hillary said solemnly. "Why, when we were back at Mario's, why did you change your salad dressing order to Ranch from . . . RUSSIAN!"

"Drat! You found me out! You really are the smartest woman in the world!" Gertrude realized her cover was blown. "Yes, it's true. I really am a Soviet agent. And my real name isn't 'Gertrude Stone'. It's Lewinski, Monishka Lewinski. My father is colonel--my father is 'a' colonel in the KGB, and I've been specially trained and planted here at this school. In fact, I'm part of a vast left-wing conspiracy up and down the Eastern Seaboard. And my assignment, Hillary Rodham . . . my assignment is you!"

"We are seeking permanent agent of influence here on American soil. Someone on the inside. And we figure that with your natural talents at manipulation and your cold-hearted thirst for power, you could be just the person for us."

"Why, this, this . . ." Hillary stammered, at a loss for words. "This is wonderful! There is something I need to tell you, Gertru--I mean, 'Monishka'. I am a fellow traveler. I have been since I was a little girl. I have long admired the Soviet system . . . and their people," she added blushingly. "Monishka, we are sisters!"

The two comrades embraced. "But Monishka," said Hillary, pulling back from the hug, "surely you must know that here in this backward patriarchal society, a woman has no power. How can I do anything of significance?"

"Ah, for that, my sister," Monishka said knowingly, "for that we will need a man. He may gain the throne, but you, Hillary, you will hold the power!"

"A 'useful idiot,' eh? But where will we find a man like that here at this all-girls school?"

Hillary and Monishka/Gertrude sprang up from the bed and rushed to the door. They opened the door to see two young men standing in the hallway.

"Oh, yes. How could I forget?" said Hillary. Hillary and Monishka looked at each other and exchanged a quick wink.

"And this here, this is my new buddy, Mr. Jim Cavel," Bill continued, motioning toward the bald young man from Louisiana. "He's a Marine."

"Pleased to meet you, Jim. I'm Hillary, and this is my roommate, Mon--um, Gertrude."

"Why, thank you, Jim . . . I think." Hillary extended her hand in a welcoming gesture. "Would you two like to come in for a while?"

"Well, we was jus' drivin' around, and I picked up Jim here, and, well, neither of us has to be anywhere just yet, so we thought we'd stop by and look you girls up!"

"Well, Bill, you and your amusing friend are most kind," Hillary replied. "Can we offer you two a drink?"

"What kinds of coke do you have?" Bill asked. "I'll take an RC if you have it. And a Mountain Dew--you know, that drink with the old hillbilly on it--for Mr. Jim."

"Oh, that's OK. Actually, we were wondering if you ladies would like to join us in a different kind of treat. This here is a genuine, top-grade marijuana cigarette. Would you like to try it with us?"

Bill lit up the reefer, got it started, and passed it to the girl from California. Gertrude took a deep, long drag on the joint. Bill thought to himself, "Woo, that girl could suck a small car through a garden hose! Yes!" Hillary looked at Bill looking at Gertrude and thought, "Well, I can see where this one's weaknesses lie! I can take advantage of that."

"I think I've changed my mind," Hillary interrupted. "Here, Gertrude, let me take a puff." Hillary inhaled on the joint and noticed that now Bill was looking at her. After a few moments and a couple of coughs, Hillary passed the weed on. She didn't like the taste at all, but she was willing to do her duty for the cause. She would tease and tantalize the young rube from Arkansas, playing a little hard to get--not like the other girls. A little challenge--that's what would set the hook in this boy's mouth.

"Bi' Clanto heya ha' bi' telli' me 'bou hiz planz!" said Jim Cavel, from out of the blue. "He set hiz mie twa be Preziden' o' theez heya U-nited Stae! Strai' tuda to'! Sho no!"

"Is that right, Bill?" asked Hillary. "If I understood Jim correctly, you plan to be President someday?"

"Yes, ma'am!" said Bill with a beam. "I'm a-gonna make sumptin' of myself someday. Be President, just like my hero, JFK."

"JFK, huh?" said Gertrude. She looked over at Hillary. No words had to be spoken. They had found their useful idiot.

"Pardon Me," said Bill, thinking it felt awfully weird asking someone to pardon him without offering something in return.

The strange man Bill had bumped into mumbled "so'kay" and hurried to the door. As he started through the door the Mossad agent known only to a few as Marcso Riches looked back at the clearly stoned palooka. He didn’t look like much, thought Riches, but his handlers had warned him, this man was one to be wary of.

As he passed the cashier, Riches put down enough money to cover the tab minus the tax, and hurried into the foggy night.

Before he did, though, Riches asked the cashier if she knew anything about the fellow who had just left.

"Who, him? Nah. Just came in here and ordered an RC and something called a GooGoo Cluster. I told him we don't carry either of those things. Then he made a pass at me and stumbled out. He was kinda cute, though."

"Oh, there was one other thing," said the busty young cashier with the low-cut rhinestone blouse and a little too much make-up. "He heard me humming a song I wrote, so he told me he was a musician, too. He said he plays the saxophone, but he can't right now, because his is in such bad shape. So I told him that if I were rich, I'd love to give him a good sax. That's when he made a pass at me."

"Yeah, it comes with the territory," said the young cashier, glancing down at her ample cleavage. "Guys think a girl like me is only good for one thing. But I want a man who will respect me for my mind and my soul. I'm an artist, darn it! My heart belongs to me! Love is a battlefield! I will survive! No matter how much I'm tore down, wore down, fed up, messed up, I still get up livin' for love."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to carry on like that, but sometimes I just have to get things off my chest."

"Well, you have," he said, his eyes drifting south. "You're a very lovely young woman, and you've been very helpful, miss, miss. . . ."

After getting the girl's phone number and paying for the Swiss chocolate he bought (minus the tax), Riches then hurried out into the foggy night.

"Ehud! Pincus! Get in the car! We've got to follow that schlemiel in the pickup truck!"

Meanwhile, Johnny Huang's Chinese Restaurant re-opened for the evening trade. Customers slowly trickled in and sat at the tables. Ho delivered menus to the customers but when she came to a table in the back of the restaurant, instead of giving a menu to the two men sitting there, they gave her a menu. She sat down and pulled the menu out of the plastic lamination.

"So, it is Rittle Rock where the young American comes from, " she said in a half-questioning manner to the two men. Earlier in the day Ho had utilized the Chinese restaurant spy network to trace the license tag on the pick-up truck. "He's a Rhodes scholar???" she asked incredulously as she read the information. "High school president, student government leader, musician," she continued. "But where is the hog farm connection?" she asked.

One of the two agents spoke, "We have only just received this information by fax, Ho.", he said. Our man in Rittle Rock knows well of this one however. "He is marked for greatness in the nation state of Arkansas. Already he is an acknowledged Zen master and bender of reality." "And who do we have in Rittle Rock ?, she asked. "All this report indicates is that it comes from ‘Web'. I know we have a ‘Web' there. We have a ‘Web' everywhere.

"Ho, you know I can not reveal the name of our operatives there. In fact we have many operatives there. We have saturated the area with Chinese restaurants. All I can say is that this Birr Crinton has led a charmed life. Despite being chased many times by the fathers of the few remaining virgins in Arkansas, he has escaped without serious injury. Even now he is mysteriously protected from the American war draft. "

"But where is the hog connection? Do we have a hog connection? The Rodham project must have hog products. " Ho insisted. The agent replied, "We have not yet found a hog connection, Ho. There is, however, a chicken connection." He continued, "The nation state of Arkansas produces several products. Hogs, chicken, rice, aluminum, and untaxed alcoholic beverages. The citizens are uncivilized, even by American standards. Few of them wear shoes unless forced. Many of them live in metal housing on wheels. They have few sexual inhibitions."

All this confused Ho. She turned to the agent and said, "Get the best people we have on this. Is Riady available?" Riady was a long time deep cover agent of the Chinese government. He was currently on a secret mission in Indonesia. The agent replied, "I do not have the authority to request his reassignment, Ho." "No matter", she said, "I will see to this matter."

Meanwhile, back at the Soviet Embassy, Vladimir continued his explanation of the Rodham project to a rapt audience of Major Lewinski and Boris. "The Rodham project was created in the ashes of the Great War. Our glorious leader, Joseph Stalin, was amazed at the damage that one lunatic could do to a nation like Germany. He decided that if one idiot could do this much damage to a nation that had been the cultural leader of the entire world, what could an army of idiots led by the master idiot of all time do to the United States."

"So, Stalin decided to recreate another Hitler in the United States. Thus the Rodham project was born. To insure a proper result, the exact conditions that gave rise to the development of Hitler must be duplicated. The dysfunctional family. The sexual frustration. The hubris. The greed. The disregard for other people and disregard for common notions of right and wrong. All of these we could program in such a way as to create another Hitler for the United States. And now I tell what but three agents in this country know. The Rodham project is only one of many such projects."

When Vladimir revealed the heretofore unknown scope of the project, Boris and Lewinksi gasped. "But how can we manage this? The cost would have to be staggering!" "Of course, replied Vladimir, "But tell me, how much do you think a nuclear missile cost to make, prepare and maintain? "Millions and millions of ruples" replied Major Lewinski. The Vladimir asked, "And how much would it take to make, prepare, and maintain a "wooden" nuclear missile?"

"Wooden missiles?" asked Boris and Lewinski simultaneously. "Wooden missiles" replied Vladimir. "That is the real reason Khruschev turned the Soviet fleet around in the Cuban missile crisis. He was afraid if any of the ship were sunk, the missiles on board would float and the secret would be out." Both Lewinski and Boris put their heads in their hands and moaned to themselves.

By now Bill Clinton was well down the road, driving along at a good clip in the pickup truck. Having caught up and now tailing Clinton was Mossad operative Marcos Riches, with his assistants, Ehud and Pincus. Closing the gap fast was Johnny Huang and the lovely Ho Lum. And now, behind them, came the Soviets, Vladimir and Boris and Lewinski. Finally, bringing up the rear, was Lewinski's daughter, Monishka/"Gertrude" and her roommate Hillary. Everyone, it seems, was after Bill Clinton.

Bill pulled up to an old Victorian-looking house and walked in. After a moment, Riches, Ehud, and Pincus pulled in quietly around the side and snuck into the house without being noticed. Soon Johnny Huang and Ho did the same. Then Vladimir, Boris, and Lewinski. Last of all, Gertrude and Hillary.

It was a dark and stormy night. The lightning outside would flash from time to time, sending a little light into the otherwise dark house. Where was Bill? Where were the others? Suddenly, the lights came on in the room! Somebody had flipped the switch! There they all were, assembled in a large, old-fashioned drawing room, something like you might imagine from the game of Clue.

The man who had flipped the switch now fully entered the room. "All right, all right, what's all this then?" said the man, in a distinctly British accent. He was wearing a beige trench coat and one of those hats that British men like to wear.

"Right. Now, let's start with you, the Chinaman and the lovely tart. . . . What was your name again?"

"Don't play the 'I-no-speakee-English' game with me, young lady. I said, What is your name?"

"Look, I'm on the Continuity Squad, not Vice. I don't care what you do for a living. Just tell me your name."

"Right, Miss Lum and Mr. Huang. Now you just said, and I quote, 'So, it is Rittle Rock where the young American comes from.' But we all know Birr Crinton--uh, Bill Clinton--grew up in Hot Springs!"

"Hot Spring Rolls?" asked the waitress, this time trying the 'no-speakee-English' ploy. It didn't work. It never does. Major Gaffe had caught them, red-handed.

"Now to you, Mr. 'Marcos Riches,' also known as . . . Marc Rich! I don't know where you're going with the strange spelling, but it's a minor violation, and we'll let you off with just a warning this time
*cough* . . . for a small fee."

"Speaking of spelling," Gaffe continued, "you Wellesley girls, we let you get away with the Danforth Q. Wellesly story--a very nice recovery, I must say. And the Archies poster . . . well, that one we should have picked you up for. Just don't let it happen again."

"Now, as for you Russians," Gaffe went on, taking a puff on his pipe. "You first, let's get this straight: It's Vla-di-mir, with an 'i,' right?"

"And now we come to you, Major Lewinski--or should I say . . . Colonel? That's right! Just now in the last panel you're going by 'Major' Lewinski. But back in #52 you were 'Colonel' Lewinski!"

"Is fair cop," admitted Lewinski. "I could try to explain away, say Mr. Big called and busted me down to Major, but would be cheap and easy out."

"Very well, then," Major Gaffe concluded. "My work here is done. Let's do try to be a little more careful out there, shall we?"

The Englishman turned and walked out the door. Now all eyes turned to the man everyone was chasing, Bill Clinton. The young man from Arkansas looked around the room at everyone staring at him, and, with a nervous chuckle, he bit his lower lip. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning crackled outside. The lights in the room flickered for a moment and then went dark. When they came back on a few seconds later . . . Bubba had left the building! They all raced out to their cars and resumed the chase.

Bill Clinton was scared. There was no denying the fact. Hot on his tail were several carloads of foreigners and some obviously perverted young females from Wellesley. Yet, in a depraved way, the chase excited the young man from Hope. Or Hot Springs. It was there that Bill Clinton experienced for the first time, the inner feeling that no matter what he did, no one would ever catch him. Even in a slow beat up pickup truck.

And a new thought began to germinate within his medusa-amigo, his magenta-armadillo, his menudo-amontillado, oh heck , down there in the reptile part, the payola cortex of his brain. He had proceeded throughout six chapters of confusion with a lame story line, obvious contradictions, and bad spelling and yet it took a smart aleck Englishman, Major Gaffe, to discover it. This would sure make his life easier. People would just overlook and forget these types of things. So what if the story didn't make sense. As long as he watched out for smart-aleck Englishmen he would survive, things would go off without a hitch....hitch.....hitchen'...Bill's attention was diverted by a hitch hiker on the side of the road.

It was the Cajun troglodyte that Bill had met earlier in the day. Jim Jim Cavel or something like that. Somehow he had been accepted into the United States Marine Corp. Bill suspected that Jim Jim had been hit in the head a few times too many during the "Bull in the Ring" exercises and was now classified as a tacking-dummy second class. But Bill had always valued loyalty over intelligence and Jim Jim seemed loyal. He pulled the truck over and Jim Jim climbed into the truck cab, knuckles first.

. "See chase chase Bill. Bill ok. Jim Jim come run lak mushrat un swamp. Sabe Bill Bill.", the young Marine grunted. Bill knew that he had found a friend for life. Someone who would always be there for him. He pulled the pickup truck back onto the road and eventually got the speed back up to 42 miles per hour. Unfortunately for Bill, this was about 1/3 the speed of the pursuing vehicles who even now began to appear in the rear view mirror. "Jim Jim, I need help," said Bill.

It took a little over a minute for the young Marine to mentally process the request. His brow furrowed, his ears flared out, and a moronic smile appeared on Jim Jim's face. But his reactions were not governed by rational human thought processes. He possessed the instincts of an animal. He crawled out the nonexistent rear window of the truck into the truck bed. Waiting for just the right moment he launched himself into the air and landed on the windshield of the Mossad agent's car. The agent braked to a quick halt. The Soviet vehicle piled into the rear end of the first car. The Wellesley girls slammed into the Russians. Johnny and Ho completed the chain reaction pile up.

Noticing the wrecks Bill continued on for a mile or so and pulled slowly into a dirt road by a tiny farmhouse. If he drove slowly enough he would not raise any dust. He covered the truck with hay from a nearby rick and crawled on his hands and knees to a clothesline. He hid behind a woman's petticoat hanging on the line. It was soft and Bill could still feel the warmth from the now set Sun. A comfortable feeling came over Bill. A sense that he had found something long missing from his life. It was not the last time that Bill would hide behind a petticoat.

Meanwhile the agents and the Wellesley girls stumbled from their wrecked vehicles. Only Ho still had the presence of mind to continue the chase, on foot. Unobtrusively she disappeared into the woods and proceeded unnoticed in the direction she had last seen Bill going. The Mossad agent helped the young Marine to his feet. Luckily for Jim Jim, he had hit the car headfirst and done far more damage to the car than the car had done to him.

It had been a strange day for Bill Clinton. The simple country bumpkin had come to this town on his way to La Guardia Airport in New York. From LaGuardia he would fly to England to begin his studies as a Rhodes Scholar. La Guardia to England he thought and England to La Guardia. Already it seemed like a figment of his imagination. But back to the here and now. Here, a small farm in the middle of nowhere. Now, hiding behind a petticoat hanging on a clothesline. And in the darkness. ... Well, that would be there and then, not here and now.

In the meantime, Ho, the beautiful Communist Chinese agent was hot on Bill's trail. It was not as hard as it seemed. It was dark, sure enough, but Ho simply followed the trail of chicken feathers that had blown from the back of the pick-up truck bed. That and the strong smell of oil from the worn out motor. The chicken feathers ended at a driveway on a narrow dirt road. The sign on the mailbox read "Curry". Ho crouched in the darkness and swiftly removed her waitress uniform, white support hose, and Keds tennis shoes. Now Ho was dressed for action. A black dress. Black stiletto heels complete with shoe phone. And a whip.

Silently she moved in the dark from hiding place to hiding place. Now behind the half buried tires that framed the driveway. Now behind the plastic flamingoes. Another swift sure move and now behind the sofa sitting in the yard. A quick leap and now behind the 1959 Dodge on cinder blocks. A scurry and a mince, and now behind the pile of beer cans beside the front porch. A careless move, a slip of the stiletto heels and the beer cans began to rattle.

Bill heard the rattle and knew he had move from his safe position behind the petticoat. He grabbed a shawl from the line and covered himself. Now he crawled to a rick of hay. But Ho was too good, her reflexes to finely honed to miss the stealthy creep. (Creep is a verb in this story, not a noun!). She strode openly to the hay rick and pulled the shawl off Bill. "So, this is our phantom of the rick shawl!", she said. Bill cringed. This female was not like the simple country maidens, the ersatz Daisy Maes he had known in Arkansas. This woman seemed threatening in some undefined way. .

Ho thrust the butt of her whip into Bill's nose. It was an easy target, after all, even in the dark. "Ouch!" Bill yelped, "That hurt. Watch it huh?" "Put some ice on it," Ho replied. Ho knelt like a feral animal in front of Bill, her face to his. "We are going to have a rittle talk, Birr Crinton. I am going to ask you questions and you are going to answer them. Do I make myself clear?" Bill smiled sheepishly, knowing that he was real good at answering questions. "Well sure. Hey aren't you that Chinese gal from the Restaurant."

Ho whapped Bill upside the head with the side of her whip butt. "I ask the questions here, Birr. And actually I am from Bangkok." She whapped Birr, er Bill several times on his head again. "Nice Thai, lady! Nice Thai. Be a nice Thai with that thing. Ouch!" Bill begged as he rubbed his head. "I got it now. You ask and I answer."

"What is your to connection to the Rodham project?" Ho demanded. "The Rodham project. What is that? I don't know what you're talking about." Whap! Whap! Whap! The handle of the whip landed against the side of Bill's head several times in rapid succession. "The Rodham Project! The Rodham Project, you lying swine! You know full well about the hogs and the secret plans." Ho insisted. Remember that Ho thought the Rodham Project was a Russian plot to introduce radioactive pork products into the American food stream. Close but no Cigar! With that verbal hint, Bill thought that Ho was talking about the Arkansas Razorbacks so he ad-libbed an answer.

"Oh, that Rodham Project," he lied. He thought to himself that Rodham must be some new recruit. "Well I hear that Rodham is going to red-shirt. But we should still go all the way. If we can get past Texas." Ho repeated the information to herself, "Red Shirt? Get past Texas?" She put two and two together and got something other than four. "Why must you get past Texas?" she asked. "Well, heck we always got to get past Texas. They're tough every year. Now the Horned Frogs and Rice, pushovers. We can handle them. The Red Raiders are supposed to have a cannon this year, but it still comes down to the Longhorns. That's what the whole thing is about. That's always a shootout.

Ho could hardly believe what she was hearing. The Rodham Project had grown beyond contaminated pork projects. The Soviets were tampering with beef, rice, and horned frogs. Come to think of it, earlier she had seen dead frogs in the pockets of the stunned Marine laying in front of the Mossad vehicle. And beyond the food contamination, the Soviets were arming youth gangs, the Red Shirts, and a communist militia, the Red Raiders. Staggering.

"Yep," Bill continued. "Most of the time we're down there in Texas. But I guess we're home too. Have to split with Little Rock though so we can recruit. But no matter how we do, it's the Longhorns." Now Bill was talking about the fact that Arkansas, a member of the Southwest Conference, was the only non-Texas team. And because Arkansas is a small state, its home games were split between Fayetteville and Little Rock. And the Longhorns were the Texas mascot.

But there is only so much training you can give your agents. Ho could be forgiven her misinterpretation. But what concerned Ho most was the "Rice." Did the Soviets plan to contaminate the Chinese food supply? She could not let the Soviets know that she was on to their plans. She had two powerful weapons at her disposal to turn Bill Clinton into a double agent. She also had sex and a credit card.

Now Bill Clinton, for all his sexual escapades was still relatively naive in the ways of Amore. But he had never met a "Ho" before. Since this is a family novel, let it just be said that Ho turned him every which way but loose. And Bill could be forgiven for not rising to the occasion. He was the first American male Ho had met with this problem. He was used to docile Arkansas farm girls, not sexual tigresses trained in the love secrets of the Orient. It was here that Ho coined the undercover name for Bill Clinton. "Impotent-U.S", later shortened to simply, "Impotus." And Bill came away with more than a new nickname. He discovered the Chinese were willing to pay big bucks for what they wanted.

Ho gave Bill one last, long, lingering kiss. For Bill, it seemed like it lasted for more than a week, maybe even eleven days.

"There," said the beautiful Chinese agent, "now you be a good boy and maybe there'll be more where this came from."

"Well, Miss Ho, it's sure been a pleasure to get to know you. Anything I can do to help you and your people, you just let me know."

"We'll be in touch," purred the slinky Chinese operative. And with that, she was off--up the driveway, past the mailbox marked "Currie" (or, as someone had misspelled it on the other side of the box, "Curry"). Ho slipped back into the darkness like a sleek animal, like a crouching tiger or a hidden dragon.

As Bill stood there with a silly grin on his face, zipping up his trousers, he caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder. He looked back at the farmhouse and saw someone standing behind the screen door, looking out. Apparently, it was the farm wife. She must have been watching the whole time. Then he heard a man's voice, coming from the upstairs. "Betty, you downstairs? Is everything OK?"

Bill gave the woman an OK sign and a big thumbs-up. She waved and closed the door.

Moments later, who should come walking down the driveway but Jim Cavel, Gertrude, and Hillary!

"Bill, we found you!" said Hillary. "Our car is a wreck, but we found you on foot, thanks to your friend Jim here. He put his nose down to the ground and tracked you all the way here."

"Yeah, sho no!" grinned Jim Jim, getting up from all fours. "Trick I loin fum da bu'hou' ba' ho' i' Looziana!"

"We were worried about you, Bill," cooed Gertrude, reaching over the clothesline to give him a hug. Bill seemed to enjoy the embrace from the girl in the black beret.

"Ahem," interrupted Hillary. "I think it's time to get back to Wellesley before the others catch up to us. Let's go."

They all piled into Bill's pickup, Jim Jim in the back, the girls up in the front. Hillary made sure she sat next to Bill before Gertrude could.

"Heck if I know. Seems everybody thinks they can get something out of me. And you know what? Usually I'm willing to oblige 'em! People seem to like me better that way."

"Hmm, that's very interesting," Hillary responded. "You know, I like you, Bill," she said, sliding a little closer to him on the car seat and putting her hand on his leg.

"You do, Miss Hillary?" said Bill, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to glance over at the girl from Illinois. She was not the prettiest pig in the pen, not by a long shot, but she seemed to have some mysterious power to get her way. "Hey, you know, I never did get your last name yet, Hillary. What is it?"

"Rodham. Hillary Rodham--for now, that is. Maybe someday I can add another name to it. Make some cookies for my man. . . ." Hillary snuggled down a little closer to Bill's lap and held his hand in hers.

"Rodham!" Bill thought to himself. "Isn't that the name that Ho was telling me about? Some 'Rodham Project'?" Bill knew it had something to do with hogs, but that was about it. He tried to put two and two together, but was only coming up with three. "Oh, well, no use worrying about that now," he thought. "Here I am, with two gals in a pickup truck. What more could a man want?"

"You know, I like you, too, Bill," said Gertrude from one seat over. She was licking her large, luscious lips as she talked. Bill smiled at Gertrude, peering over Hillary's head, and made a silent kiss with his lips. No use havin' only one filly in the barn when you've got plenty of oats for more, that's what the Clinton men always said.

For Hillary, as long as she knew she had Bill on the line, that was good enough. If he happened to have eyes for Gertrude, too . . . oh, well. More leverage for her. Heck, she had eyes for Gertrude herself! As long as Bill would be her ticket to power. . . .

When they got back to Weleleseleye, the four friends went up to Hillary and Gertrude's room. They sat down on the floor with their backs against the bed and the wall. The chatting turned to the usual things--money, sex, power--but for some reason, Bill was unusually quiet.

"Really?" Bill perked up at the idea of someone paying to hear him speak, before he realized it was just an expression.

"Can't stop thinkin' 'bout tomorrow," Bill began. "As you all know, I plan to be President of the United States someday. And I want to be the best President I can be. So that's what I'm thinking about, how to prepare myself for that great day. My foundation is that I have a deep and abiding respect for the Constitution of the United States. I respect the rule of law, our system of justice, the need for integrity and honesty in public life. I think the President should set the highest moral example for our citizens, especially for our children."

Hillary did not know what to think. The words were just pouring forth from Bill's mouth now.

"I believe in a limited government, constitutionally defined. I don't care what Johnson says, with his 'Great Society'. . . . The era of big government is over! Let's roll back the powers of the federal leviathan and return power to the states and to the people! That's what I believe! That's what I'll stand for! That's what I'll fight for!

"And speaking of fighting, when I get back from serving my tour of duty in Vietnam, I plan to work for a strong national defense. I love the military!

"So let the word go forth: Bill Clinton is the man who will bring character, duty, and honor to the White House. As my word is my bond, I plan to have the most ethical administration in history!"

The three others sat there, silent, enthralled with the speech they had just heard. "Really?" Hillary asked, dumbfounded. Gertrude, too, asked, "You really plan to do all those things?"

Bill looked at Jim, and Jim looked at Bill. After a long second or two, they both burst out with an uproarious, "BWAHAHAHAHA!"

"April Fool's!" Bill cried out, laughing so hard that tears began to stream down his face. "Oh, I can't stand it! You fell for it, hook, line, and sinker! Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Why you, Bill Clinton!" Hillary shouted, shaking her fist at him in mock anger. "Don't lead us on like that! For a minute there, we actually believed you! Besides, this is not April, this is September 1st."

"I know, I know," Bill answered, holding his side and wiping away the tears of laughter. "But Jim and I figured we could really get you girls with that whopper."

"Whoo-hee, Billy boy!" cackled Jim Cavel. "You dun ha' dem hook li' a cawda' dow' o' da bay-oh! Dey 'bou reddy be toss i' da gumbo! Jes' nee' a 'iddl cay-anne peppa! Sho no!"

Jim Jim kept on laughing, with a deep braying-like sound, closing his eyes, rocking back and forth, and raising and lowering his hands on his thighs. The other three just stared at this strange creature, and Hillary leaned over to Bill and whispered, "Don't you think his head looks like a serpent?"

Bill watched as the television went from channel to channel and finally settled on a prison movie called "Chained Heat." He watched as a prison doctor had all the inmates lined up and gave them shots. A commercial came on advertising a blood drive to benefit veterans, and that’s when it hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Hillary's thoughts turned back to her childhood, and how she always got what she wanted. She remembered how she fought for a trip to Disneyland. If she didn't get it, there would be hell to pay! Thoughts on the trip from her journal;

''I remember getting on the plane, and looking out the window on the right side. That wing seems huge. I wish I could think of a word to describe it. Men are working on it, I hope they get it fixed. The pilot has just told us that the plane can't be fixed, and we have to board another one. I am in the same seat on another plane. Looking over the wing, it seems to go on forever. I would have to describe it as vast. Fuel is leaking and we have to leave again. Are the b@stards trying to stop me from going on my trip? They better not be. We reboard the first plane and I get the same seat. Men are working on the wing again. It must be a conspiracy to stop my trip. A conspiracy of vast right wings!''

Meanwhile, deep in the heart of Texas, a little boy stirs from a fitful slumber.

"Yes, dear. You were out of it for quite a while. We kind of thought there for a minute you were going to leave us."

"But I did leave you, Mom. That's just the trouble. And I tried to get back for days and days. Seemed like almost two months."

"There, there, lie quiet now. Your math is a little fuzzy. You just had a bad dream."

"Your mother's right, son. Don't get yourself all flustered with this dream thing. Wouldn't be prudent."

"But it wasn't a dream, Pop! It was a place. A strange place--a blue place, everything was blue. I knew I wasn't in Texas anymore. And it was filled with all kinds of strange people. There was a girl named Hillary who wanted to rule the world. And a guy named Bill who-- Pop, he kept coming between us, and there was nothing we could do to stop him! And then there was this other fellow named Jim Jim, who had a head like a snake and nobody could understand what he was saying. . ."

"No, Mom, this was a real, truly live place. And I remember that most of it wasn't very nice, but some of it was pretty funny. But just the same, all I kept saying to these people was, 'Get out of our house! Get out of our house!' And finally they did leave--sort of. Doesn't anybody believe me?"

"Sure we do, Bar. Now, son, how many times have I told you to lay off the Chinese food? That Oriental stuff doesn't set too well with us Bush men. Can give you all sorts of hallucinations."

"You're right, Pop! Oh, but anyway, I'm home! Home, here in Texas! Don't mess with Texas! And this is my room, and-- Hey, who took my dresser? And what happened to my nightstand? And that picture I had hanging on the wall. . . ."

"Nixon. Dick Nixon." The name burned in Hillary's mind. How she hated him. Oh, sure, she'd been a Republican way-back-when. She'd even passed out his campaign literature to her Jewish relatives. But now, she hated him.

There were a lot of reasons for her to hate him. Oh, his politics weren't so bad, and she was able to use them to her own advantage. He was a liar -- but that was more a cause for contempt, because he couldn't get away with it. And he did want power ... Hillary could almost lov... er, like him for that.

No, she hated him because he'd lost to JFK. That shifty-eyed bastard had lost to JFK. And now Bill Clinton was off in England, playing JFK to the ladies, hosing it up along the Danube, along the Thames, and along any number of other European rivers that he'd never heard of.

Hillary hadn't heard from Bill for months. "Gertrude" always knew where he was, though, and whom he was with. She seemed to take a wicked pleasure in telling Hillary the salacious details.

Damn! Clinton would have wanted to be president even if Nixon had won. If Bill Clinton had met Dick Nixon instead of Jack Kennedy, maybe he'd stay focused on getting power instead of laid.

Dick Nixon. The bastard. She'd get him, somehow. She'd ... ahhh, yes. That was it. That was it.

She turned to Gertrude, who was pretending to study. "Hey, you know what?" Hillary smiled thinly, doing a poor job of looking innocent and surprised. "I think I've figured it out. I think I know what I'm going to do once I get out of here."

Hillary flushed, a tickle in her belly. She lowered her head, looking at Gertrude through her short, thin lashes. "I want to be a lawyer. I want to work for Justice."

Gertrude smiled. For an instant it wasn't a warm smile. It was cold, calculating. Frightening. But it was sudden -- it flickered by so quickly that Hillary thought she'd imagined it. When she checked again, the look wasn't there. "I'm getting edgy," thought Hillary. "I've really got to work on that."

By this time Gertrude was smiling shyly. "I heard something about Bill today," she whispered. She blushed (Monishka was proud of her ability to blush at will). "He says he wants to go to law school, too. I think he's applying to Yale."

("Oh, please," thought Gertrude. "You only just decided, and now you've already decided on a school. That's about as likely as you winning a Senate seat from New York.")

Hillary scanned her closet, and picked out a nice black pantsuit marked "Thursday". She knew it was only Wednesday, but the black pantsuit marked "Wednesday" had torn, when she bent down to stuff the floor mat from the hotel in her purse.

She chose not to shower and shampoo again, because she didn't have time. The appointment with the young sister of the sergeant of arms of the Black Panther Party was in an hour.

Just thinking of her rendezvous with the young Nubian princess made her tremble with anticipation. How long had it been since she had crossed the line and had the brown sugar? It seemed like forever! She remembered there had been the funny haired girl with the Jewish name....Whipee Goldberg, that was it.

Hillary chose a purple satin wrap for her shoulders and left the apartment. She unscrewed the bulb from the light over the next door down and put it in her purse, then walked to the elevator.

The door was open and the elevator man looked at the floor, knowing not to look in her eyes, and asked, "Going Down?"

When Hillary hit the street she focused her hawk-like eyes up and down the busy avenue, searching for a cab to take her where her desire was leading. Soon a yellow taxi pulled up and driven by a fellow in a beard, black stove pipe hat and long dark braids. He rolled down the window and said in an unusual accent, "I beg your pardon, but could you possibly arrange for..."

At this, the future Marxist queen yanked open the door and rammed her ample body into the back seat. A slender young girl cowering in the back said "Hi, I'm Nita Lowie and I've admired you from afar for sooooo long!" At this Hillary raised one of her tree-stump like lower appendages and kicked the earnest young thing out the other door, saying "OUT OF THE CAB, BITCH!"

The cab springs creaked as Hillary crawled into the cramped back seat. The driver flipped over the timer and said "Where to lady?" Hillary snapped "I'm no lady, I'm Hillary Rodham, and I'm very important, now take me to the Black Panty Party headquarters, and make snappy!" The driver swung heavily laden cab into traffic and took off.

Soon they had to stop at a red light, next to a brown colored Honda Accord, with tags that read "Phoster".

She looked over at the lawyerly looking man and thought, "I'm gonna drive a car like that someday, with a man just like him, and we're gonna drive to the park and get out and walk through the trees. He's gonna want to talk alot, but I'll stop him, cause I just want to hear the world go round". That's when she heard the sirens and snapped out of her daydream just as the P.D. unit sped past.

As she traveled through town she noticed the neighborhoods changing and seeing more poor people and blacks.

Soon they pulled in front of the headquarters and Hillary gave the driver the light bulb from her purse and some forks and spoons and ran in.

She ran head long into a tall thin black man dressed in all black with black shades.

"Are you Huey Long? I'm looking for your sister Licky Long. She invited me to a Black Panty Party"

Much later, as the young self-confident and once again refreshed coed left the headquarters of the Black Panty Party, she tried calling for a cab. To Hillary’s astonishment, she was unable to emit anything audible from her mouth. She simply could not verbalize; both her intellect and her tongue seemed to be physically paralyzed. Regions of her oral cavity had muscles she never suspected to exist that were screaming out in agony.

In an introspective mood now, too exhausted to yell, picking some coarse and annoying black fibers from her teeth, she proceeded slowly and thoughtfully to the bus stop. As she boarded the bus she became even more meditative. This type of mood always frightened her. To avoid panic, she tried a mental trick that had worked over and over again in similar situations; namely, to formulate a public policy, and invent a great and brilliant social engineering scheme that would solve this all too human problem. She would prove once and for all to her father that she was not just a pitiful excuse for a son, which he had always wanted.

First of all, she said to herself, “People who need People”. “If only these idiots had studied Sweden in their cheap Community Colleges”. Then as the bus made it’s way through Greenwich Village, taking notes, she saw a young child being accosted by a homosexual wearing an African tribal dress, which did not quite cover his… “package.” She also noticed a thin white male, er, person of whiteness, sporting a ponytail, and of the male gender, on the corner. The ponytail guy was actively attempting to get the attention of the fellow in the dashiki. He had in his hand a large roll of duct tape, which he brandished at his presumed lover.

A large bird circling on the other side of the bus distracted Hillary. When she finally looked back, the two flamboyant homosexuals were gone, along with the child.

At this she said to herself in a state of amazed enlightenment, “it truly takes a village to raise a child!”

After Hillary saw the village people leave with the child she turned forward and watched as the f**king jew b*stard driver pulled over at the next stop.

A round-headed young black man boarded the bus and moved down the aisle and sat next to Hillary. He looked over at her and introduced himself "Yo babe, whas up?" She decided ignoring him was best, so she just stared ahead. "No need to worry momma, I'm cool. My name is Ron, but people where I live on Commerce Street call me Brown Ron, Brown Ron at Commerce". Brown Ron stuck out his hand and Hillary reluctantly wrapped a hanky around her hand and shook with the Black guy from Commerce.

The arrogance of this white lady from was really pissin’ Brown Ron off. He stood up and moved into the aisle. He looked back down with a scowl and said, "You a B!tch lady. I need you like I need a hole in da head"!

After which Hillary stood up in a rage and pumped a .45 caliber slug through Brown Ron's jelly curls. As she surveyed the grey matter splattering the scene, she said to herself, "um, ahh, you know... I should have waited until, ummm, ahhhhh, you know, he was on an airplane somewhere, ahhh, or in a park outside of DC, ummmm, ahhh, you know."

The squad of 12 wet-suited Red Chinese female operatives moved stealthily across the darkened beachfront property, which was illuminated only by a quarter moon. Their black rubber raft left at the beach, the Red Chinese spies now jogged obediently in a single file behind their leader, Lieutenant Quang Ling Ho of the People's Republic of China's People Liberation Army special ops squad, a.k.a. "The Battling 'Beauties' from Beijing." The dozen little commies jogged in a quick double time--expressionless, except for the occasional glance when each one's small eyes set wide apart in roundish faces made more round by their diver's hoods, peered about for any signs of activity on the seemingly empty beachfront. They jogged on, their AK-47's held in front of their smallish chests, their sandaled feet beating a steady cadence into the sand below, each communist girl's buttocks grinding a bit inside the slick black bikini-bottom-like divers briefs they each wore. Well trained, the Red Chinese squad of female commandos maintained silence. They were on a special mission, having entered the USA through their student visas that summer. Their contact was to meet them here. Suddenly, Private Cheung stopped, and the skinny pigtailed commie cadre uttered a small gasp and pointed at their target....A large Beach House where HE was staying. The pigtailed commie whispered orders to the other girls in her squad. They circled around to take out the FBI guards in the front. It was time for a little payback. AK-47's on hips with safeties off, the squad advanced toward the house. A television set illuminated the first floor family room. A man was watching re-runs of "The Capital Gang" and chugging popcorn as he uttered guffaws. The Red Chinese deftly picked the lock to the sliding door that faced the beach, slid it open, and lithely and silently stepped inside, AK-47 ready to spit hot lead.

The door suddenly opened...all heads suddenly turn towards the door questioningly. "Oops...didn't realize ya'll were working in here," he said, embarrassing himself slightly. "Sorry to have interrupted you ladies and gentlemen," he said, as he backed out the door, shutting it again quietly. He then turned and quickly shuffled down the hall from whence he came, realizing he had entered the wrong room.

As the small Chinese scientist shuffled down the hall and into his makeshift lab, not wondering at all who the heavily armed Orientals were, for they had looked like the cleaning crew to him through his half inch thick glasses.

It looked like a giant egg roll with fins on one end, and the words "Ho Lee's Smoke" in big red letters painted on the side.

Wen knew the Masters in Beijing were pissed because he hadn't gotten all of the 450 million pages of secrets from Los Alamos.

He had only gotten them 449,999,000 pages, a terrible failure! So it seemed his only way to save face was to build his own bomb, and destroy the one who had left him in prison for so long.

One of the Red Chinese frogwomen walked up to the small scientist. "Comlade Ree!" the short, pigtailed Red Chinese female agent said angrily. "Your work is substandard! Why have you not yet finished? Has riving in USA make you razy???" The scientist merely smiled a thin, devious grin. He looked around. Then he gestured for the uninvited visitor to step forward. "Come closer, I will whisper a secret in your ear" he told the scantily clad, moonfaced Asian scuba spy.....

Meanwhile, Hillary stirred from her slumber. Her heart was racing and she was breathing heavily. What a strange dream. (She’d been having quite a few of those lately!) It all seemed so real, pumping a round into the top of that uppity Brown Ron’s skull. It bothered her that she’d actually used a handgun in her dream. Hillary knew there were much better methods to deal with those people than get her own hands dirty.

As her eyelids fluttered open, she saw Janet standing beside her bed gazing intently at her heaving chest. “Janet, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, um, I was just passing by your room and I noticed you were having a nightmare. Wanna talk about it?” Janet asked as she stroked Hillary’s cheek.

“Oh Janet, it was horrible, I used a HANDGUN to deal with an uppity Negro in my dream. There must be some way to come up with safer guns and safer bullets!”

“Quit Joshin’ your Elders, Hillary. Guns belong in OUR hands. Someday OUR people will control the planes, the bombs and the TANKS!” she thundered, clenched fists raised.

Hillary noticed the fire in Janet’s eyes and understood that Janet loved power as much as she did. That common hunger made Hillary feel much closer to Janet. The memory of her earlier dream made her blurt out “How do you feel about Che Guevara Janet?”

“He’s one of my heroes, of course” Janet whispered huskily “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if you’d like a T-shirt with his likeness on it. It might be nice to wear when you’re all wet and getting out of the shower.”

“The shower? That reminds me, I need to go take a shower, let me know if anything happens.” With that, Janet bolted from the room.

Hillary threw back the sheets and put her favorite pantsuit back on. It wasn’t too crusty yet, so she could probably wear it a few more times before having to wash it. She found the Wellesley gardener outside chatting with that hayseed from Arkansas. “Bill, what are you doing back here?” Hillary asked “Gertrude told me you were wandering the banks of the Danube.”

“Oh, hi Hillary, had a little trouble at Oxford so I came back to the states. I thought I’d come see Gertrude. Oh, and you of course. When I pulled onto the Wellesley campus, I saw Gennifer here lookin’ like she could use a little help with her Flowers. I was just telling her how smart you are with Roses, what with tending the roses over at that law firm you interned at last summer.”

Hillary knew Bill wasn’t telling her the whole truth. She was about to cuss the oaf out for his impudence, when without warning everything went black again for Hillary. This time, she didn’t pass out, she went into a trance-like mode. In her mind’s eye she could see the orangey bright light again. As her eyes adjusted to the bright orange flames, she could more clearly make out the figure near the source of the light. He spoke distinctly this time.

“HILLARY.”

“What in Hell do you want?” demanded an angry Hillary.

“YOU of course, but that will come in due time.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy trying to work my way into the seat of absolute power?! Quit interrupting my life!” Hillary shrieked.

The creature looked perplexed. “Don’t you know who I am?” intoned the Prince of Darkness.

“I don’t give a !*&^%$ who you are. I don’t think you know who I am! I am Hillary Rodham. Now stop doing this vision thing or I’ll really make your life Hell!!”

The beast threw back its head and cackled. “My life already IS Hell!”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘is’ anyway, mister?” Hillary inquired.

“Remember that line my child, you can use it later through your Arkansas sock-puppet. You really are a chip off the old block my child.”

Hillary crossed her arms and scowled “Your child? Please, don’t flatter yourself!”

“ENOUGH!” Satan thundered “The time has come to reveal your true purpose on earth.”

Private Cheung looked incredulously at the scientist. “You clazy Comlade Ree!” Private Cheung said. Dr. Lee had just confided in the young private his scheme to take over America for the PLA and the motherland.

“Private Cheung report!” Lieutenant Quang Ling Ho barked.

“Dr. Ree say he see a time in future when China make every-ting for stupid, razy Americans. He say he tah-king to man in smaw south state who wirr have monoporey foh every-ting Americans buy. These estabrishments of War-Malt wirr make cash frow to The Pawty foh wohld Domination.”

Lieutenant Ho shook her head. Dr. Lee was truly insane. “Move out Ladies! Our mission is over!” Ho commanded. The bevy of Battling Beauties from Beijing double-timed it back to the dinghy and paddled off into the partially moonlit night.

Hillary went back to her dorm room. Gertrude was kneeling next to her bed looking at something. “What are you doing Monishka?”

“I’ve found something over here under this loose floorboard Hillary. It appears to be a journal from a former resident of this dorm room. You know, the one that supposedly haunts the dorm.”

“You don’t mean Elly Rosefeldt?”

“The same. These are her innermost thoughts Hillary! We could know what a Wellesley legend’s day-to-day life was like.” Monishka/Gertrude exclaimed.

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you this Gertrude. I have been having late night discussions with Elly Rosefeldt from the day I arrived.“ Gertrude looked at Hillary trying to decide how to respond. “ Would this be the nights you have fish before bed? I know you are always say the weirdest things in your sleep, and I distinctly smell the odor of fish on your breath when you talk in your sleep. By the way, who is ‘Beelzebub’ anyway?”

”What? I don’t eat fish Monishka, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know I’m a meat and potatoes kinda gal. Hey, you sound like you don’t believe that I talk to Elly or something. She IS real Gertrude. She tells me things. Secret things. She knows everything that happens on this campus.”

Dr. Lee worked feverishly on his device. “Yes,” he mused, “Ho Lee’s Smoke will make honorable ancestors proud. My shame will be erased.”

The egg roll-shaped device was his working prototype for a much larger device he hoped to build for the motherland upon his triumphant return to Beijing. Dr. Lee crouched behind a mound of dirt outside the lab at Los Alamos and pressed the large red button to detonate the device.

Nothing happened.

Dr. Lee let loose a stream of colorful expressions. After a few moments, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed “Why? Now my shame will not be erased. I have dishonored my ancestors.”

Just then he heard a familiar voice. It was Ho! What was she doing here?

“Don’t worry Dr. Lee. I have a plan to acquire all the secrets we need to make our weapons effective.” As she spun on a spiked boot heel to leave she looked back over her shoulder and said, “You might want to grab a fire extinguisher Lee. It looks as if Ho Lee’s Smoke has started a little fire.”

Jim Cavel sat cross-legged on the ground silently chewing on a pile of crawdads he had found in the bar ditch. The gleam of the full moon shining off his bald, serpent-like head reminded Bill that he was supposed to be somewhere at midnight. “Jim Jim, what were we ‘sposed to do tonight?” said as he leaned against the side of his newly acquired El Camino. Boris and Vlad had sprung for it as a token of their gratitude for his protesting work against the war of oppression in Vietnam.

“Sho no we goin tah Mena taget dedrugs”

“Oh yeah, Mamas medicine run! We best hurry Jim Jim! Good thang we got a faster ride this time.”

Jim Jim hopped into the back, freshly upholstered with new AstroTurf®, as young master William mashed the gas pedal to the floor.

“Whoo-eee dat dun go real fast!”

“That’s right, Jim Jim. My Rooskie friends says there’s plenty more where that came from if I just help them out a little when they need it. Women too. Is this a great country or what? It’s like, ‘Money fer nothing. Chicks fer free.’ I can’t wait to see what Ho’s got to counter-offer to work for our Chinese friends.”

Bill smiled wide as he thought of another ‘negotiating’ session with Lieutenant Quang Ling Ho of the People’s Liberation Army.

“Da plane boss.” Jim Jim grunted from the bed of the El Camino.

“Ah yes, what a country indeed.” Bill thought as he watched the package land on the ground by the railroad tracks. Bill sent Jim Jim over to retrieve it when he noticed two teenage boys watching the ‘medicine’ pick up. He made a mental note to himself that he’d better talk to his state trooper friends about keeping everyone away from his Mena medicine delivery area. They might want to take his precious medicine. It was The Precious, and it was HIS!

Hillary had come of age at Wellesley. She had bullied the administration into letting a student speak at the commencement exercises next year and she knew exactly who was going to give that first historic speech. General Janet had helped ‘persuade’ reluctant staffers and in return only wanted what any woman at Wellesley wanted anyway. Hillary popped a curiously strong mint in her mouth from a tin that Bill had brought her back from his short stay in England.

As she walked back to her room from the administration wing, she couldn’t help but think of that Rube from Arkansas. Although she wasn’t attracted to him, of course, she knew that her ‘Unholy Father,’ as he called himself, had decreed that they form a partnership. Her Familiar friend Elly Rosefeldt had also been insisting that she enter into a union with Bill. When she dreamed lately, her thoughts always turned to Bill standing over her in a hospital room speaking Russian. It was all so strange. On top of that, she always had a headache, even when she slipped the aluminum foil beanie on under her hat.

She let her favorite sexy pantsuit drop to the floor, pulled on her nightdress, and crawled into bed. As she drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, the voices returned stronger than they’d ever been. ”You must go to Little Rock next week Hillary. You need to go, Da, er, yes you want to go…”

Hillary sat up in bed wearily and slurred “Okay already! You sonsabeee….”and fell back into her pillow asleep. The next morning, for some inexplicable reason, Hillary started making plans to travel to Arkansas. This surprised her because she hated everyone in fly-over country. But the need was so compelling she couldn’t resist.

Hillary arrived in Little Rock and happened upon the crowd of aggressive girls protesting. She scanned the crowd of Womyn assembled in front of her. These were fellow-travelers! Sisters who understood the Patriarchal Oppressor System and vowed to overthrow it.

She saw a pregnant woman across the street shaking her head at the N.O.W. gang and something snapped within her.

Running up to this mocker, she screamed into her face “What’s your problem, Breeder? You don’t like the idea that womyn can be beautiful and free from men?” To which the lady calmly replied “Get out of my face you stupid Yankee carpet-bagging bitch, before I teach you some manners.”

Realizing she was physically no match for the healthy Southron lady, Hillary retreated hissing “I’ll be back here soon to rule you rednecks, mark my words!”

Webb watched this charged exchange with an even higher state of arousal. Here in this sea of delightful gems he had seen the crown jewel, the very queen of the harpies herself. He knew he had to have her. He must have her. He vowed that day she would bear his child if it was the last thing he ever did.

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