"Ride That Horse to the Frickin' White House"... With Groucho Harpo Chico Nixon

By Billy Orton

"Ride That Horse" shows that when America sinks into deep division, even love gets twisted by hate. (Joe enters in chapter three.)

This political satire centers on the romance of Lori Lewis and December Carrera, who get dragged through the mud by a Divider-in-Chief, who swings the hammer of hate in his race for president.

First published in 2014, " Get Back On Joe Biden’s Horse" opens with slapstick comedy at the now-closed realm known as LIMBO, where three Jewish Angels -- GROUCHO, HARPO and CHICO -- play cards and drink coffee, while a main character -- NIXON's GHOST -- is resigned to spending Eternity emptying the dustbin of history.

Nixon's Ghost begs the Angel Groucho for another chance to resign -- this time from Limbo -- when an order from The-Almighty-Boss-in-Chief. For the dead president to be considered for a trip to Heaven, he must teach a newly-elected incompetent dork how to be great in politics.

The Jewish Angels and Nixon's Ghost act as the narrative thread haunting three story lines -- the romance of Lori and December, the race against Joe Biden, and a dead president teaching the rules of politics.

The dork is Long Beach Councilman Larry van der Bix, who cannot run away from the banana-nosed ghost. Since the dork's newly-hired Chief-of-Staff cannot actually see the dead president, she cannot tell if her boss is simply crazy or actually is haunted by a ghost.

After lifting his hand to take the Oath, the Councilman gets booed in his first speech, announcing he will learn how to be great by riding a horse across America to save his best friends, Lori and December.

In his year on horseback, Larry crosses the highways and byways of a deeply divided America, as a hate-spitting anti-politician -- Senator Dick Bomber – uses Lori and December in his race against VP Joe Biden. To thousands of disenfranchised horse riders, it doesn’t matter that Larry is insane, as he offers the chance to stand with four-word political declarations.

I didn't write this novel to slam Donald Trump, since I published this book before he had announced his race. And a second edition from September 2018 only adds the Jewish Angel Brothers to weave three stories and add humor into a subject that had become almost more fictional than my book.

NOTE FROM JAN 2021.... The actual Hater-in-Chief drew a mob outside the White House, spent over an hour frothing the crowd, and dispatched them to storm the Capitol. Is open violent insurrection in the Capitol any different than Senator Dick Bomber leading a Confederate cavalry charge to attack Larry and his peaceful horseback riders approaching the Capitol? (SEARCH "where is he" to find the attack.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billy Orton
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311862969

Billy Orton

Bill Orton is a writer who spent 25 years working for politicians and organized labor, but, after a stroke, became the luckiest soul in America, as now his only job title is "obscure novelist."

Book preview

Part I – One DAY

Chapter One – The Jewish Angel Brothers Horsewhip Nixon’s Ghost

A dark-haired Jewish Angel with round eyewear and a thickly-painted moustache wore a long tuxedo and chomped on a huge cigar. The Angel Groucho playfully pretending to rev the engine of a motorcycle mounted with a sidecar that itself rode a slowly-rotating carousel, next to the barn door of what otherwise appeared to be the front office for a family business.

Beyond the carousel, the Angel Groucho’s brothers sat at a card table drinking coffee. One of the Jewish Angel Brothers – a morphed giant duck wearing a cone-shaped hat – shuffled cards and quacked, while the other – in a tattered top hat and jacket – honked a smart-phone-slash-horn clipped to his chest pocket.

Someone pounded outside the bolted barn door.

"You’ve officially knocked on the official entry of the once officially important place called Limbo," yelled the smoking Angel, now idly sitting against a tall musical harp that serves as the motorcycle’s backrest.

Unlock the frickin door before I fall off a cloud! muttered a male voice. Ya make a president empty a dustbin and never let me back in.

The Angel Groucho got off the motorcycle, held his cigar, leaned forward, and paced in a circle around the rotating carousel, flicked ash into a dustbin set next to a seat at the card table. Say the Secret Word! demanded the Angel Groucho.

"One-sy…," quacked the Angel Chico, as the giant duck slowly dealt a card to Groucho.

The Angel Harpo aimed his smart phone and honked an image of Groucho’s card, and then entered a phone number.

The barn-door pounding continued, and another voice babbled indefinable words.

Spiro always get the fun shit! yelled the dead president. Makes yer frickin coffee!

An antique MaBell Princess phone on the card table rang.

Hello? said Groucho.

Harpo silently laughed and showed the image of Groucho’s card to the duck.

Phones must get five bars in Purgatory, said Groucho, hanging up.

"Two-sy," said Chico, slowly lowering a card for Harpo.

Open the door! yelled the ghost, amidst babble. Spiro’s kicking the Hell outta me.

You should be grateful, barked Groucho.

The Jewish Angel Brothers looked to the barn door before continuing to do nothing.

The Princess phone again rang.

Hello, I’m must be going, said Groucho, immediately hanging up.

Harpo dialed again while Chico slowly lowering the last card, to himself.

Hello? repeated Groucho, tapping the Princess phone. I’m sad to say… Limbo’s gone today…. The Angel shook the phone. Actually, forever.

Babbling grew louder.

Spiro’s driving me nuts, yelled the ghost.

Let these workers continue to do nothing! yelled Groucho, flicking ash into the dustbin, as the carousel with the motorcycle’s sidecar slowly rotated.

The duck dropped the last card. "Three-sy!" quacked Chico, and the two non-smoking brothers smacked hands and slapped cards and grabbed for the deck, before the honk of a horn declared the Angel Harpo as the victor.

One day, I’ll learn to play this game, said Groucho, as Harpo silently laughed and Chico gathered cards and shuffled.

The son-of-a-bitch is trying to push me off the cloud, begged the grumbling man.

Say the Secret Word and I’ll open the door, instructed Groucho, as Chico again dealt. It’s a simple word that no one uses anymore.

"Please…."

That’ll work, said Groucho, waving his cigar, which sent a waft of smoke across the room, circling the doorknob.

The barn door magically swung open.

The smiling, immaculately dressed ghost of Spiro Agnew snatched the empty dustbin from Nixon’s Ghost’s hand and flawlessly leapt over the bottom of the barn door, gleaming as he handed it to Groucho.

The dead president with a banana-shaped nose struggled to climb over the barn door. Nixon’s Ghost wore a red cap with 37, a crumpled sports coat, flip-flops and bunny slippers.

You’re looking very much like a bum, said Groucho, flicking ashes onto the slippers. No doubt you’re a professional.

Handsome profile, muttered Spiro.

I was the frickin 37th president! yelled Nixon’s Ghost.

Groucho turned to the Vice President. Once again, Employee of the Day! he said, snatching a card and handing it to Spiro Agnew. "You’ve delivering the Dustbin of History for five years, six months and fourteen days in a row," said Groucho, to the gleaming Number Two Ghost.

"One-sy," again quacked Chico.

Me and Spiro are the last two still in Limbo, said Nixon’s Ghost, as he pulled a scrap of paper from his coat pocket. Everyone’s gone since the German Pope closed Limbo.

Harpo honked another image of Groucho’s card.

Maybe… you can… let us go? said the dead president.

You must think workers should stop doing nothing? indignantly said the Angel Grouch. How low can you go in Limbo?

Please, begged Nixon’s Ghost, handing the paper to Groucho. Take my resignation, effective noon tomorrow.

"Two-sy," quacked Chico.

You probably think Jewish Angels are infallible, barked Groucho, grabbing the paper.

I’m on my frickin knees, said the dead president, dropping to one knee.

Spiro Agnew lifted a mug of coffee, and smiled like Joe DiMaggio.

Groucho closely studied the scrap of paper. "You’re asking for an official order from the All-Mighty Omnipotent Boss-in-Chief!"

Maybe the German ex-Pope can swing a grandfather clause, muttered Nixon’s Ghost. "Resigning could actually be great… or, ‘near-great’ anyway."

Groucho puffed smoke from his cigar. Why look, said Groucho, as the smoke produced a sheet of glowing paper that floated next to a Mr. Coffee machine. You heard the Boss-in-Chief, commanded the Angle Groucho to Agnew. Deliver the order!

The Employee of the Day smiled, teeth gleaming, and carefully lifted the glowing paper.

Nixon’s Ghost looked down. One word – Him – wafted from the note and evaporated.

Chico quacked.

I’m not omnipotent, but the Boss-in-Chief is ordering the Jewish Angel Brothers to actually work, said Groucho, looking to Harpo, and motioning to the carousel.

The Angel in tattered attire pulled down his top hat, leapt onto the motorcycle, and loudly revved the engine.

The duck with the cone-shaped hat brushed his feathers and quacked.

It’s time for a ride, said Groucho, motioning to Nixon’s Ghost to get into the sidecar. And time never ends in Limbo.

The dead president climbed into a sidecar, as Harpo honked and powered the engine.

The Angel Groucho climbed onto the giant duck’s back, and pointed to Spiro Agnew. Open the barn door, said Groucho.

The Employee of the Day swung open the bottom barn door.

We must be off to see the Wizard, said Groucho, as the giant duck flapped his wings and flew through the barn door, followed by Harpo.

The motorcycle left the sidecar on the carousel.

Son of a bitch, muttered Nixon’s Ghost, as the three Jewish Angel Brothers flew through a clouds.

Groucho yelled. Throw! Out! The crook!

Nattering nabobs of negativism, observed Spiro, as he shoved the side car through the barn door.

* * *

Sweet Jesus! cried the dead president, hurling downward, while a giant duck fluttered up to him.

He must be, said Groucho, lying casually. Too bad there’s no library in Limbo.

Harpo, silently laughing, maneuvered the motorcycle to catch the side car.

Chico studied a map.

Where the Hell are we going? said the ghost in a voice of panic.

Nope, Jews don’t go there, replied the Angel Groucho, tapping the duck’s map and signaling downward. Faster!

A moment later, the four plunged straight down.

The dead president screamed.

"Descend twelve thousand feet to the USS Iowa and turn southeast to the Queen Mary," quacked the duck.

We’re approaching another elected bum, said Groucho, casually pointed to a rural California peninsula. I said, ‘Faster!’

The motorcycle and duck hurled downward, barely missing a 747 jet. As they rapidly approached the water, cargo ships looked like tiny toys approached America’s biggest ports, next to the Palos Verdes peninsula.

Sharp turn! ordered Groucho, pointing to a huge battleship with massive cannons.

Chico altered direction, but bumped into the motorcycle.

Everyone plunged uncontrollably. Seconds later, they crashed onto a stable, smashing open the roof and smacking down next to a sleeping horse.

Groucho jumped off the duck, brushed his tuxedo, and pulled the remnants of a crumpled cigar from his coat pocket.

Harpo shoved Nixon’s Ghost out of the side car and attempted to restart the motorcycle.

The dead president fell onto a pile of horse manure.

The waking animal looked up

Shit! cursed the ghost, flicking manure from the number 37..

A horse is a horse, of course, of course, said Groucho, pacing in a circle and wafting cigar smoke to the mare. We can ride Mr. Ed to reach our destination.

Harpo could not restart the motorcycle’s engine. The Jewish Angel climbed off, and strummed the musical harp that served as the backrest. The motorcycle disappeared.

The horse politely whinnied to Chico. "Carrot Cake is not -m-i-s-t-e-r- anyone."

Always get back on the horse, instructed Groucho, who sent another puff of cigar smoke. A massive saddle that would fit four appeared on the mare.

The Jewish Angel Brothers and the ghost climbed onto the horse and they rose through the shattered roof.

Close to the barn with a huge hole on the roof, a middle-aged woman pointed to the mare, and said to the man beside her, Buck, isn’t Carrot Cake floating into the sky?

Chapter Two – Nixon’s Ghost Wakes Up the Dork

Fireworks flew upward from a barge by the Queen Mary, as the horse landed on sand. No one watching Independence Day fireworks paid attention to a horse landed in Long Beach, nor could anyone – except the homeless – see the three Angels and a ghost climbing off.

What the Hell’er we doing? demanded Nixon’s Ghost.

Quite the opposite, said Groucho. This might be your ticket out of Limbo.

Harpo reached into a jacket pocket and pulled a coffee cup, and offered it to the horse.

How come I ain’t’a horse? asked Chico, as a mare licked coffee.

I’d horsewhip you, if you were a horse, said Groucho, poking his brother.

The beach crowd chanted Ooo and Aww as the fireworks lit the sky.

We are we with a horse drinking coffee? demanded Nixon’s Ghost.

Horses infrequently drink coffee, replied Groucho. Too much caffeine.

The giant morphed bird pounded his feathers. But why a duck?

You can be a pussycat tomorrow, said Groucho.

The massive sustained bombing continued without a secret.

Harpo whispered to the animal ear and the mare flew off.

What am I doing here? repeated Nixon’s Ghost.

You can resign from Limbo by teaching another bum how to be great, so get to work, instructed Groucho, waving his cigar toward a tall building a century old alongside the beach.

What work am I doing? asked Nixon’s Ghost, as horse shit fell onto the 37 hat.

You never know if something’s great until the dustbin of history is full, said Groucho, handing a newspaper to the ghost. Only bums see you, so visit one up in the penthouse.

Nixon’s Ghost looked on the front page of the Grunion Gazette, which showed a dork in a cowboy suit. The ghost looked up, and saw Groucho and Harpo lying on the duck’s back. Since tomorrow’s the bum’s Swearing In, you can cuss all you want.

The three Jewish Angel Brothers flew upward, to the penthouse of a century-old building, left a magical cloud of red-white-and-blue smoke that embraced a stone gargoyle.

The beach crowd chanted Ooo, as the Jewish Angel Brothers disappeared.

* * *

Nixon’s Ghost – wearing the stinking 37 cap – sat near a stone gargoyle and read the local newspaper, near a couch with a sleeping dork, amidst a hoarded mess in the penthouse apartment. Horse shit. The ghost looked at a drooling, unkempt dork. As he tapped away flecks from his hat, a waft of colorful smoke puffed around him. Shackles emerged and locked the ghost with red-white-and-blue chains. Nixon’s Ghost furiously wagged now-shackled wrists to Long Beach Councilman-elect Larry van der Bix. Yer gonna ride that horse to the fricken White House! The dork – in a deep sleep – dreamed of a colorful cloud, and sat in a wheelchair, next to a horse, as Franklin Roosevelt sat at a conference table of the battleship USS Iowa. Next to the horse, a movie star or rodeo princess shuffled a deck of Rolling Stone magazine playing cards. Larry van der Bix watched Nixon’s Ghost flash a Peace Sign, splashing a red-white-and-blue cloud as the dead president cleaned away horse shit inside America’s last great bubble bath. We’ve got shit to do, Cowboy, so learn the rules, instructed the dead president. A rubber ducky sank the shackled ghost’s battleship. Larry snored. First rule… never make Elvis wait. Three Eagle Scouts serviced coffee and slice of carrot cake to FDR, the dealer and the horse. The horse held a mug in one hoof and a dessert in the other. Greatness includes shoveling shit. The horse whinnied, dunked and chomped. So wake up and smell the coffee! The movie star shuffled but didn’t deal. Rule two… time keeps ticking, so use it or lose it. In his dream, Larry held a dainty saucer, jammed a fork, but could not penetrate the carrot cake. Larry dunked cake to absorb coffee, but the dork could not have his cake and eat it too. Wake up and take some frickin notes! Nixon’s Ghost threw the Grunion Gazette newspaper at the sleeping dork, who flailed his arms. Maybe it’s great to get on some danged horse. Larry continued snoring. Just… DO IT!

* * *

Councilman-elect Larry van der Bix awoke on his low-grade stained coach, across from his low-grade flat screen, inside his dusty unmopped penthouse apartment, on the waterfront of Long Beach, California. Outside the window of the magnificent apartment filled with shit sat a Jewish Angel, honking a horn, and laughing while playing cards with a stone gargoyle whose principal job is to serve as the water spigot during rainstorms. The inarticulate anti-politician had poured several hundred thousand dollars of lottery winnings into nightly constituent town hall dance parties, with a Cambodian surf guitar group as the house band, during his campaign.

Smell the frickin’ coffee, Cowboy, said a dead elder statesman with a banana-shaped nose, near a coffee table on which sat a ten-gallon hat.

Larry wiped away drool and stuck a finger into his ear.

I begged to resign, and they stick me with a clown, said the ghost, who lifted his shackled wrist, and flashed a Peace Sign, which sent another waft of smoke toward the couch. Groucho must be laugh’in for sockin’ it to me. Smoke wafted to the ten gallon hat.

Larry sat up, and reached for a remote, next to his hat encircled by colorful smoke.

The Angel Harpo wandered onto the balcony, sat upon a stone gargoyle, plashed colored light, and they flew into the sky.

Ride a horse…. Save America, grumbled Nixon’s Ghost, reading Limbo’s order aloud. Why not a frickin gargoyle.

Larry – whose lifetime accomplishment before winning the lottery and an absurd election had been graduating from Will Rogers Middle School – lifted the remote, causing the smoke around the cowboy hat to dance. The dork looked at red-white-and-blue wafting around chains shackled on a ghost. Larry batted his eyes.

Don’t waste time, Cowboy, we’ve got shit to do, said Nixon’s Ghost, jumping up, as would one leading depressed fraternity members out to an absurd battle. "Put on the rhinestones, so we can just… do it."

Larry yawned.

Henry would get this twit to stand for something, said the dead president, of a principal deputy who took late-night calls when the earlier resignation made Nixon drink hard. Maybe frickin’ Spiro can slap him around.

Larry looked at a slouching ghost, squinted, and returned to channel surfing.

It’s a thin order, but you’re gonna save America, said the ghost, flashing another Peace Signs. Smoke lifted the Stetson for several seconds. Everyone’s got shit to do.

Larry kept watching TV.

I’m not sure why yer ‘The One,’ ya son-of-a-bitch but let’s just do it, said the ghost.

Larry scowled angrily at the dead president and kept watching a Spanish-language variety show hosted by a well-dressed dark-haired mid-50s man and a stunning early-20s bleached-blonde wearing a skin-tight dress.

The Angel Harpo honked, landing on the flying gargoyle, who returned to being a stone water spigot. The Angle floated through the closed window, and sat with his legs on the couch.

Do I just tell the twit ‘The Shit’ about shit, said a dead president, himself haunted by hiding the truth of his own shitty thoughts and deeds during decades in politics.

Harpo honked approvingly.

Alright, said Nixon’s Ghost, surrendering to the Jewish Angel. Listen, Cowboy, and listen good.

Harpo double-honked.

Okay! said the ghost.

When the dead president stopped arguing with a ghost he couldn’t see, Larry quickly turned away, to continue watching Spanish TV.

I’m supposed to teach you to be great, said Nixon’s Ghost. Since Limbo is where I sleep, I guess the first rule is one I never followed.

Larry repeatedly blinked his eyes, wiped his ears, and slapped his cheeks.

Rule one, said the ghost, studied the five-word order. Start by not doing ‘Bad Shit,’ cuz I did plenty, and look what I got.

Harpo gently honked.

I don’t even get coffee, grumbled the dead crook.

Larry turned his eyes briefly away from the hot blonde, to see the babbling ghost. "… There is no ghost telling me about shit…." Larry turned back to a television show in a language he doesn’t speak.

Everybody does ‘Bad Shit’ but do too much and ya fall down The Mountain, said Nixon’s Ghost, studying his shackles. Explains why The Hill is sinking deeper into Purgatory.

Larry kept watching a Spanish-language show, based on a theme, I want to be blonde.

The ghost babbled. "If ya never do ‘Good Shit’… well, ya fall down The Mountain… and roll off The Hill… into The Fire."

Harpo repeatedly honked.

Larry stared at the ghost with red-white-and-blue shackles.

At least Hitler gets to burn, said the ghost.

One big honk from the Jewish Angel.

Larry rapidly blinked his eyes.

Ya don’t care about shit, said Nixon’s Ghost, whose first resignation buried America’s politics under his own massive pile of shit.

"… There is no ghost in shackles sitting next to me…," said Larry.

We can be great again, or, ‘near-great’ maybe, said the ghost, flashing Peace Signs. But if we don’t work together, I can’t resign again.

"… There’s no ghost talking about resigning…," said Larry, flipping channels.

Next story, announced infotainment, "Vladimir Putin rides a horse… bare chested."

Larry rushed to the kitchen.

Friendly honking soothed the dead president.

Maybe the German who shut down Limbo can swing a sweetheart deal with the on-duty Pope he lives with.

Loud honking made the ghost shake his shackles.

Alright, grumbled Nixon’s Ghost, while Larry rused to get a beer.

Starting early? said the president who drank hard as the claws of truth tightened. Look, I don’t care who ya are or why ya won, but we gotta work together, cuz there’s no middle up the middle anymore.

Larry flipped channels to a music channel and Dengue Fever, the Cambodian surf guitar group he had hired as the nightly house band for his absurd-but-victorious campaign.

Maybe it’s the frickin Cambodia shit? muttered the ghost, who had ordered a sustained secret bombing on a neutral nation. Nixon’s Ghost slapped the Stetson – next to Harpo’s top-hat – and knocking both off the coffee table. Where’s Henry?…. Bastard knows everything.

Larry saw two hat slide off the coffee table. He looked at the ghost, who shrugged, while the dork picked up his Stetson. The top hat floated back to the coffee table. Larry flipped to watch Godzilla blow fire.

We can make things great when you get sworn in, Cowboy, effective noon tomorrow, said Nixon’s Ghost.

Larry closed his eyes.

I’m begging ya, begged the dead president. Help me resign from Limbo!

Larry ignored Nixon’s Ghost, and flipped to Apocalypse Now to watch a Marine talk about napalm.

The ghost took a deep sniff. I love the smell of shit this morning, nostalgically uttered the ghost. Smells like victory, for a great resignation.

Councilman-elect Larry van der Bix stared at Nixon’s Ghost, wiped his eyes, before flipping again. An Army Three Star General sat at a wide table, between Vice President Joseph F. Biden, Jr., and a tall, attractive mixed-race Asian woman, during C-SPAN coverage of a Senate confirmation hearing.

Harpo repeatedly honked, aggressively tapped a cell phone.

"It’s that dude who married Lori and December before the bombs," said the dork.

Bingo, Cowboy, said Nixon’s Ghost. Your first lesson just started.

Chapter Three – In Walks VP Joe Biden

Larry stared at Nixon’s Ghost, who stared back at him. The dork cracked open a Budweiser, took a drink, and set it on the coffee table, next to his Stetson and a crumpled top-hat. Larry stared at both, and flipped up the volume.

Lucky bastard, said the ghost. No chugging when yer dead.

The Angel Harpo invisibly tapped a cell phone.

On the big screen, the silver-haired Chairman of the United States Senate Armed Services Committee tapped his gavel and spoke in a hoarse voice at a packed hearing inside Room SD-G50 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building, for the confirmation of a nominee to be the next chief of the U.S. Central Command.

A smiling Vice President sat at the witness table, facing rows of the Committee Members. Next to Joe Biden sat another smiling politician, and an Army General wearing dress greens.

The Chairman thanks our Vice President for joining Senator Mary Traynor, of Hawaii, who is sponsorship the Administration’s nominee, respectfully stated the Chairman, himself ending a fifth term of service to the people of Michigan. How refreshing that Senator Traynor’s sponsorship gives our second-newest Member a wonderful beginning on this Committee.

Me and the General are each born and raised in Pearl Harbor, interjected the newest Senator of Hawaii. His dad was Navy with my dad.

Hawaii always sends the best to this chamber, said the Chairman, who watched patiently, as the Vice President stood with a ship’s engineer’s daughter and the Three Star General to pose for rapidly-shot cameras. After photographers stopped, the smiling Vice President embraced the beautiful, tall Hawaiian Senator, saluted and shook hands with the soldier, waved to the Chairman, and exited the packed room, to applause.

Always fun to do that Senate shit, said Nixon’s Ghost, his shackled hand touching the moisture outside.

The Jewish Angel’s phone delivered a recording. "You’ve reached a number that does not exist. Harpo repeatedly tapped. Just a moment, please, Mr. Angel."

Senator Mary Elisa Traynor shook the General’s hand and walked to the end of a long row of Members. She took up her seat, between a moderate Republican who looked like a rock star and a barrel-chested conservative Democrat each elected several months earlier.

Welcome back, neighbor, said Jerry Lee Boone Jr., a young curly-haired Republican from Kentucky. Few expected the professional comedian and son of a scandalous rock-and-roll piano player to win a tough primary, but Jerry Lee earned victory with viral social media showing Jerry Lee chopping trees and hurling the knives of his descendent, Daniel Boone.

At the end seat sat an unsmiling Dick Bomber who stared out to Mary Traynor’s body. As Senator Traynor glanced downward, she saw a thick scar throbbed on the Member’s cheek. The Vietnam-era Marine earned the seniority rank as 100th in the Senate, and lowest seat on the Armed Services committee.

"Your call, Mr. Angel," came a voice.

Are we doing this Senate shit? asked Nixon’s Ghost, while Larry took another drink.

Hello? asked the Angel Groucho. Hello, I must be going….

The Angel Harpo repeatedly honked.

Larry looked around to another voice. I am not hearing a Marx Brothers film.

It ain’t no money, Cowboy, grumbled Nixon’s Ghost, as an invisible Angel spoke silently to a phone number that didn’t exist.

Looking back to the screen, Larry watched Lieutenant General Allen Goodwrench sit down alone at the testimony table. Directly behind the Nominee sat a One Star general in the audience front row, leaning forward to whisper to the General.

The Chairman of the Armed Services committee motioned to the scar-faced man next to the Hawaiian Senator, and tapped his gavel. "I now recognize the newest Member of this Committee, who has ten minutes to question the Nominee."

Larry gasped and spit beer onto the red-white-and-blue shackles. It’s that rapist! He looked around during rapid honking.

Phones must get five bars in Purgatory, said the Angel Groucho, on a scratchy connection, but order the bum to horsewhip the Elected Devil. The call ended.

Larry looked around as the Angel Harpo repeated honked.

At least the plumbers didn’t work for the Devil, said Nixon’s Ghost, before nervously turning to the invisible Jewish Angel, who calmly honked.

"… There is NOT a ghost or Groucho Marx…," recited the newly-elected dork.

Larry and Nixon’s Ghost each quivered to the sound of a huge honk.

"Thank you, Mist’uh Chairman, said Senator Dick Bomber, the Tea Party Democrat anti-politician who was expected to win so huge a landslide that the combat Marine spent most of October 2014 touring Afghanistan. Allow me to congratulate General Allen Goodwrench, who – if wreck-uh-mended by this Committee, and confirmed by a majority of Sen-uh-tuhs – shall earn a Fourth Star, and take on the job of running the U-nited States Central Command." The high-profile fact-finding tour weeks before the election bought free in national press and social media. The Vietnam combat Lance Corporal used the tour as a last paycheck of 24 years on the House of Representatives, before winning his first term in the Senate.

They should’a just let Lori finish killing him! growled the Councilman-elect.

The invisible Angel honked.

"Who the Hell is this bastard?" asked Nixon’s Ghost, repeatedly waving to Larry, who worked hard to pay no attention to the dead president.

On the television, a scar on the Senator’s face twitched, as he lifted a sheet of notes. "You’ve been in the U-nited States Army for a very long time, General…."

Forty years, Senator, said Allen Goodwrench, wearing government-issued olive greens. My dad got mad, cuz I went Army, the day after the last helicopter flew out of Saigon. The General nodded to the Senator of Hawaii. Dad was Navy.

"Wreck-uhds show you finished high school two months later, and took E-1 in the summer of 1975," said Bomber.

Independence Day… as a buck-ass Private, said Goodwrench, setting off polite laughter in the hearing room. Pardon the language, Sir.

"There is no need to uh-pola-gize to this old Marine, said Dick Bomber, showing a faint smile. This grunt in Vietnam knows what it is like to be greeted, getting off ‘The Bus.’ "

Thank you, Sir.

"I am just a little owl-duh, but this Lance Corporal clearly saw very different fireworks on that Fourth of July, smiled Senator Dick Bomber. Rare that a General is spared the whore-uh of combat."

The General weakly smiled.

The freshman Senator put on eyewear and scanned papers. "You did not qualify for West Point, but must’ve enjoyed the cum-furt of years in Europe, night classes and office-uh school."

"In those… early years…, said Goodwrench, yes, Sir."

"Ah, ‘those early years,’ General, said Bomber. I so very much appreciate direct answers. The Senator removed his eyewear. Did not ‘those early years’ spare you from Grenada and Lebanon, while you earned a college degree and slept in a cozy bed in Brussels? Bomber took a sip of water, and watched the silent General. Is that not accurate, General, about ‘those early years?’ "

"Cozy is a generous word about a continent gripped by worry of potential nuclear war, Senator, said Goodwrench, but, yes, I took a bachelors and earned O-1 in Belgium."

This E-5 in Lebanon watched colleagues get blown up by a truck while you earned LT, in Brussels, said the Senator. Public Affairs, is that correct?

Yes, Sir, with NATO.

Direct, said Bomber. I like that.

Larry drank beer and growled.

"Son-of-a-bitch is a bastard," grumbled the dead Commander-in-Chief.

Harpo honked.

Goodwrench sat rigid.

"Wreck-uhds describe a fast lehn-uh, said the Senator, flipping paper. Press contact during demonstrations over Mr. Reagan’s tactical missile deployments. Maintained or-duh during massive peace rallies in Buh-lin. The Senator smiled. And all of that, when you and this grunt each still had curly, dark hair. Bomber pointed to the two Senators beside him. How wonderful to be young and beautiful, like my colleagues from Hawaii and Kentucky."

Jerry Lee Boone and Mary Traynor each smiled politely.

The General also smiled. Thank you, Senator.

You must have enjoyed peace rallies featuring the fine-and-beautiful Germany women, as The Wall got torn down, said Bomber smiled and his facial scar twitched.

Yes, Senator, replied Goodwrench, commanding hundreds of military personnel.

Were you not given a nickname, General? asked Bomber. The Fix-Uh.

"I… don’t pay attention… to such things, Sir," said the General.

"Ah, but everybody else does pay attention, General, said Bomber, in quickening pace. Did you not pull Ma-juh, after The Wall came down, while comrades languished for lack of opportunity? And quickly as Lt. Cuh-nul, during Desert Storm, under Bush the Fah-thuh?"

Allen Goodwrench nodded.

"And were you not an ideal Bird Cuh-nul, and lay-tuh a One Star, under Mr. Clinton, and a Two Star, under Bush the Son, holding a Division in Iraq?" asked Bomber.

The General said nothing.

The elderly Committee Chairman lightly tapped his gavel. Since this is your first meeting, Senator, please learn to smile more during a confirmation hearing. The Chairman motioned to the Nominee. It’s up to you, General."

The General stayed silent.

We’ve each pulled government pay, smiled Bomber, leaning forward, "but while you climbed the ladd-uh, I simply served as a Member of the U-nited States House of Representatives when Nine-Eleven bloodied this Nation. The Senator finished a glass of water. I am among very few Democrats to declare independence to cast an ‘Aye’ vote for Iraq."

The General turned and whispered to his personal deputy, while the One Star texted.

The Chairman lightly tapped the gavel. Time is a precious commodity, Senator.

He’s got that right, said Nixon’s Ghost, watching Larry rush off for another beer.

Chapter Four – Love Glows Like Sunshine

Pumpkin, I gotta go to work, said Lori Lewis, kissing her wife’s cheek, as the two laid in bed.

Then I’m taking a shower with you, said December Carrera, following her tall muscular blonde wife into the bathroom, where the two shed PJs, climbed into the tub, and pulled the shower curtain closed. "Husbands have duties to perform."

Under a shower’s embrace, Lori kissed December’s nose, soaped, shampooed and switched spots to lather her hair. December luxuriated in the steaming water, her head leaned back, a river rolling over her large breasts, and a hand at her thigh. C’mon, Baby, take care of your wife.

Lori slipped the soap into December’s hand and wrapped an arm around her wife’s back. She leaned forward, kissing until December’s mouth opened. The two explored one another’s tongues. Lori’s other hand caressed December’s breasts, lifting and squeezing and groping and pulling soft flesh.

As they stood under the water, December’s knees buckled and her body melted into Lori’s, and she dropped the bar of soap to wrap an arm around Lori’s broad shoulders. Shampoo foam streamed down their cheeks while they kissed. December pulled Lori’s hand downward between her thighs, replacing her own. Be a good husband, Lambchop! Lori easily penetrated her wife and stroked slowly, her thumb at times grinding, as