It’s a good thing I arrived in Geneva when I did.
We landed at Geneve Aeroport in my longtime friend, E. Hobart Calhoun’s G550 and were whisked away to the Geneva Convention Center in a Tesla limousine driven by company founder Elon Gated Muskrat. The ride was smooth, except E. kept getting shocked every time he touched a button to lower the window or open the door.
“It is an electric car, mi amigo,” Elon said from the front seat in his smarmy South African Canadian brogue.
E. said the shocks actually stimulated his brain, which thrilled me. I brought E. along because he’s not only an expert in international law and negotiations, but also a part-time oenophile and has a minor in Farsi Etymology from Harvey Mudd University.
As soon as we arrived at the 20-story Geneva Super 8 hard by the shores of Lake Geneva, E. and I were taken in tow by State Department Spokesperson-On-Deck Marie Harf-Harf. I did not recognize her in her head-to-toe black burka without an eye-slit. At first I thought she was Cousin Itt from the Addams Family, but as she glided closer I recognized those black-rimmed glasses on the outside of her head cover.
Harf-Harf passed us off in the hallway outside the penthouse to another State Department spokesperson bigwig wearing a full-length black burka with an orange wig on top, Gin Socki. Always prepared, E. started singing “Buckle Down Gin Socki” from E.’s favorite Broadway musical, Best Foot Forward. Gin sang a line or two with E. then opened the penthouse door.
There was the Secretary of State, John Beresford Tipton Kerry, in the center of the room inspecting the dance pole the State Department had installed for entertaining the Iranian mullahs when they let their thawbs down after long, strenuous days of making stuff up.
I gaped at the Secretary’s appearance.
His thawb only came to his knees. On his head he wore a black and white checked keffiyeh, out the back of which hung a mullet that Billy Ray Cyrus would have been proud of.
“Why are you dressed like this?” I asked him.
He pondered a moment, rubbing the massive chin at the bottom of his lengthy, somber visage, which moved less than the faces on Mount Rushmore. He looked down at his bare legs, removed his keffiyeh, and casually flipped his mullet with his Ichabod Crane fingers.
“We had one of Yasir Arafat’s old headdresses in a closet at Foggy Bottom. Gin Socki did the mullet with extensions. This was the longest thawb we could find. I’m over seven feet tall, you know. Taller than Genghis Khan.”
I noticed the Gs were soft in Genghis.
“Yasir Arafat was an Arab,” I whispered towards his ear, which was two feet above my head. “These guys are Persians. And they are mullahs, not mullets.”
“Whatever,” he said. “What’s important is we’re driving a hard bargain. They’ve agreed they won’t have a nuclear weapon and a long-range missile capable of delivering it over ten thousand miles until January 20, 2017.”
“Why that specific date?” I asked.
“Who knows. The White House provided it. And look at this tattoo Value Added Jarret did on my neck in the Oblong Office.” He lifted his mullet and “Apres moi le deluge,” was inked, prison-tat style across the back of his three-foot-long neck.
“You know what it means?” I asked.
“Nah. But it’s got moi in it. I speak French fluently and that means “me,” so that’s all that’s important. And hey, about that January 20, 2017 deadline, I was against it before I was for it.”
Harf-Harf and Gin Socki grabbed the Secretary and pulled him out the penthouse door. E. and I made our way down to the Super 8 restaurant run by Wolfman Hockey Puck and had lunch, confident that the Secretary was deep in negotiations with the mullahs, driving a hard bargain.
Late in the afternoon, we watched from the Lake Geneva shore as the Secretary wind-surfed back and forth to the cheers of mullahs on the beach. When he passed us on the shore, he insisted we join him and the mullahs in the penthouse to relax, he said with a wink.
E. and I showered and changed in the Tesla and joined the party in the penthouse. When we walked in, Harf-Harf was twirling on the dance pole in her head to toe burka, looking like a Rorschach blot in a blender. She threw back her head in a provocative move, and her black-rimmed glasses flew off and hit one of the mullahs hard in his right eye.
Thank Allah he took it all right. He even joked “now I’ll look like Harry Reid.”
E. and I rode in the Tesla back to the airport. E. was in a funk, but a few shocks from the cup holder and the door lock put him in a better mood.
We took off in E’s G550, and soared above the EU sponsored clouds into the bright blue sky. Given the attention to detail I saw in Geneva, I was certain there was no way we’d get a bad nuclear deal from the mullahs.
Michael Henry is a HottyToddy.com contributor and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. A graduate of Tulane and Virginia Law School, Henry published his seventh novel, Finding Ishmael, in April, 2014.