So there's this piece in The Guardian by Chris McGreal on the trainwreck that's shaping up in the Virginia governor's race. McGreal's no doubt a typical debauched drunk from the UK, but he gets it mostly right even if he does quote Larry Sabato. But McGreal didn't talk to The FatMackeral. What follows is a somewhat true story which unfolds in a lurid dive on the Virginia-West Virginia border called "Bukowski's." Oh, the links. Some of them are useful, too.
Yours in fear & loathing homage, Halloween 2009...
I'm in this dingy sports bar with my batshit-crazy pal, The FatMackeral, a social recalcitrant of uncertain provenance and even more uncertain means of support. The only thing anyone knows for sure is that he sells black-market firearms at gun-show flea markets across the Middle Atlantic. (His specialty is serious firepower of Israeli make & manufacture, which is as curious as it is unlikely given his views on the Middle East [don't ask]).
Anyway, the FatMackeral's knocking back Manhattans and has three unfiltered Camels lit strategically around the place like slow-burning post-it notes for serial conversations with the few hooch-hounds who'll put up with him, of which I am one. My attention's divided between the toob and this new NFL where you have to play touch with quarterbacks, an ancient Wurlitzer jukebox with "Smoke of a Distant Fire" on it and an X-rated couple at the end of the bar whose resemblance to Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway is creepy.
FatMack: "I knew her at a gangbang in Blacksburg when I was selling amyls to Hokie Pokies in '73." He tugs his head towards the TV. From my blur, the first thing that registers is, "What Kennedy did Jack Kemp mate with 50 years ago?"
Oh. Bob McDonnell and His Perfect Family From Hell. Trick or Treat. Only thing that's missing is the framed law degree from Pat Robertson U. I start to pontificate about The New Tyranny of A Resurgent Religious Right when The FatMackeral, all business now, interrupts.
I don't know if The Mackeral is pre-ideology, post-ideology or meta-ideology or just a Jeff Dahmer trivia freak because he thinks it's funny. There's no known "-ism" that applies to him. He's all no-bullshit bottom-line. But there is an "-asm"--iconoclasm. He's the kind of joker who'd tell a Pew poll with a straight face that Fox is too liberal and MSNBC's too conservative in a heartbeat. If he gave a shit about Fox or MSNBC.
"So," he says, "Elmer Fudd's done and the closet sex-freak's gonna sweep a teabag nutjob in as Attorney General, huh?"
He taps an ash and sullenly sees there's only one knock-back slug left in his glass: "Bad for business, pal." Shoots me an evil look, and, "Thought you tol' me it was neck-and-neck after Elmer whipped poor ol' Terry's ass in the primary...Hey, 'genius,' what the fuck happened?"
I'm scrambling. Treat The Mackeral right and he buys, so: "Ask Larry Sabato. First bad sign was, this fall, Elm...Creigh...went negative on the Anita Bryant master's thesis. Had to. You know, try'na to fire up the women and all the commies in northern Virginia, but then, El...Creigh... trips on his own dick. Every liberal in the country's head's about to explode over health care and this public option deal, and he announces that Virginia'll re-join the Confederacy if he's governor and ObamaCare gets passed."
Know this about The FatMackeral. For him, Democrats in power are good business. The more liberal the better. No one knows for sure if it's true that he bought a rum distillery in the Caymans last winter for the express purpose of sending premo hooch to the McAuliffe campaign by the caseload, but no one doubts it, either. Because, until "The Muslim," as Mack--he thinks it's affectionate--calls him, came along, no one was better for business than the Clinton gang.
The FatMackeral always backs Dems, but very quietly. Can't let that get out to his customer base. He even wears an Impeach The Muslim Socialist button to gun shows. It has one of those Obama-as-Joker faces but overlaid by a red gunsight. The Mackeral doesn't think too much of his client base, much less their political acumen. He's only too happy they're too deracinated and dumb to know that Obama's not the least damn bit interested in stirring up the 'necks over guns when he has far bigger fish to fry than them these days.
But, as The Mack says, "Business is Business, and right now BHO's the best meal-ticket I ever had."
He peels a Benjamin from the rolled-up wad of bills he carries around like Pacino in Donnie Brasco and face-ups it on the bar.
"Listen," he wheezes, "you libs just make damn sure you get the funding upped for the Horrigans. Don't want nuthin' bad goin' down on my gravy train. Gonna make a few calls myself. Beck maybe better get his punk ass another Costner."
He gently settles the empty glass on the counter, cheerfully advises Mickey and Faye that the "rubber machine" in the bathroom's "out" but "why the hell should they care," and goes to leave.
I don't have to look up to know that he's paused at the door and caught me furtively eyeing the Benjamin: "Chin up, 'genius.' There's still North Carolina."
The FatMackeral disappears into the night.