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A tall man wearing a trench coat and dark sunglasses flagged my car down. When I stopped, he told me, “We have to use your car.”
“What? What’s this all about?”
“Official business.”
“It can’t be done,” I told him; “I’m on my way to work.”
“Actually we sort of goofed up: we ran out of gas. But this is governmental.” He flipped open his wallet and flashed a badge so quickly the glimpse was subliminal. “And if you don’t give us your car, we’ll be forced to confiscate it.”
“Who are you anyway? F.B.I., C.I.A., N.R.A.? —What?”
Parked off to the side of the road was a sleek black limousine with dark tinted windows. The vehicle appeared to be armor-plated. The rear door opened, and a man stepped out smiling. Shoulders pulled back and chin thrust forward, he strutted toward my car. “Howdy, mister!” he said. “We need your car. Ours is broke down.”
“No.”
“We got to get somewheres before ten a.m.” He smiled at the man in sunglasses, giving a conspiratorial wink. “It’s big business.”
“That’s too bad,” I told him, “because I’m on my way to work.”
“This is government business.” The man smiled again. “You know who I am, dontcha? You watch TV, no doubt.” He turned one profile, then the other, all the while flashing a series of smiles, some jovial, some boyish, mischievous, one proclaiming I’m just one of the boys down home, and a few other smiles merely smug. I noticed his eyes were somewhat squinted, almost pig-like and his lips thin. —Or no, he had no lips at all, just the mouth, with his upper “lip” coming down to a point in the center, like turtles have. That provides them with a hard point for tapping their way out of the shell after they’re born.
I told him, “I don’t watch much TV, especially hillbilly comedies. And you do look sort of familiar. But you’re not taking my car.”
Turtle-mouth’s smile vanished. He turned to his aide. “Tell him who I am. Let him know. And then boot his dang ass out of that car!”
The aide told me, “This is your president.”
“No. he’s not.”
Turtle-mouth spoke up again. “I sure am.” He looked to his aide for confirmation. “Ask the Supreme Court if you don’t believe me. Them’s the boys that put me there. They’ll tell ya.”
“Not my president.”
“Who am I then?”
“The imposter in the White House? I don’t know. You tell me.”
The turtle face flamed in anger. “I want this man arrested! Arrest him!”
Hesitantly his aide asked, “On what charges, sir?”
“Insurrection! Treason! I want him took in immediately! Imprisoned! I want him investigated. For treason! Terrorism! Fur — for threatening the President of the United States of America! For attempted — coup! He tried to coup us — throw over the legitimateness of the presidency! For disobeying the Constitution. I want him — investigated! —His whole family investigated. Where’s he from anyways? What’s his people? His background! His religion! What’s he registered as? His family too — I want the whole shooting match exposed! Investigate them all! Then throw them in prison! All of them! Family — friends — his half-brother, half-sisters! His whole tribe! And then executed! As terrorists! Without a trial! This is top secret. You understand what I’m saying? Sensitive matter! Immediately!”
I just shook my head. I told the aide, who seemed to have a bit more self-control than the Turtle did, “That’s what happens when they put a small-town sheriff into a big job.”
Turtle Face told his aide, “Get my driver over here!” Then he changed his mind and called toward the parked limousine. “Zeffer! Get your butt out here, boy! Tell this hick who the hell I am!” He added, “Zeffer is my mentor.”
A tall man with overdeveloped muscles stepped from the driver’s seat and out of the limo. His beefy body looked about to burst the seams of his chauffeur uniform. “Ya! I come, your excellency!”
I asked the aide, “His name is Zeffer? What kind of name is that?”
The limo driver had approached close enough to hear my question, so he answered instead. “You have vord similar in English: zephyr. Ein grossen vind. A big vind.”
“A gross wind?”
“You know dis vord?”
“That’s a fart, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Vassever. I come aus big family, vell-feared in Mittel Age: Krompkrompgrubers. Dey start out mit Wolfgang der Grosse Kase — der big cheese —you ever hear tell of him? He have zvillinge dotters — tvin daughters — Dodo und Poopoo, tvin daughters. He scare die Scheisse aus dem Vorld back in Mittel Age. He vipe aus whole country. For freedom. No slaves no more. All dead. Free. Same ting. Is not so? He just march in dere — kromp-kromp-kromp into town, burn it, kill um all. No halfveys. Grube dem. Dat’s how ve got der name Krompkrompgruber. From Wolfgang der Krompkrompgruber.”
Turtle face told him, “Zeffer, go back there and page my top general! Tell Brownie, get down here lickety-split.”
“Lickety— ? Ah, ya. General Braun-nase Von Buschrimmer.”
“Yeah, him. Tell him I got to be at the Strom Thurman High School by ten a.m. They’re giving me my honorary diploma.”
I stared at the man incredulously. “An honorary high school diploma?”
“Why sure.”
His aide nodded. “Yes. The President has passed his gas — his class — in English.” “Not just ordinary English,” the Turtle interjected; “advanced — reme-DEE-al English.”
I asked, “You mean remedial English?”
“Well, I say ee-ther, you say eye-ther. Yeah. And I got me a B-plus too,” he added with pride.
I stepped out of my car. I handed the car keys to his aide. “Here. Take him away. I don’t want to deprive him of his diploma. Anything that adds to his communication skills is an improvement. ”
Turtle Mouth hesitated a moment; then he told his aide in a lowered voice, “There don’t need to be any report of this incident. You understand? It’s for security.” He winked. “Top secret.”
And so it shall remain.
(Although my car was returned next day, I’d appreciate it if they would compensate me for the gasoline they used.)