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Claus. She said I was the entertainment and when I asked if that meant I got all of the payment for the gig, she said yes, so I was not about to argue. When she came out in a very short dress that was cut low and hugged her body, I have to confess I was ready to say forget the gig, let's just stay home! I mean, she had on gartered hosiery and makeup and the whole 9 yards. Again, this should have tipped me off, but....So we pull up to Emily's house and Tina parks the car in the grass at the back of the house. Strange. She said she was making room for all of the people that were coming. We walk into the basement family room and there's a banner greeting us saying "Merry Fucking Christmas to All My Naughty Girls!!!" and there is a cartoon dick at either end of the banner and smaller pictures of dicks all throughout the words... I am just staring at the sign as Tina and Emily share a quick hug and start chitting and chattering about how much fun it is going to be and who all was going to. There was nothing and she was. The was that was she was dirty, bloody, bedraggled and dripping."Mr. Secretary!" she spoke into her microphone."I object," shouted the Ambassador from the United States. He was a sterling example of American Statesmanship, silver haired and graceful, dressed impeccably and enraged."Mr. Ambassador? To what do you object?" said the Chair."I object." To what do you object?" To the Presence in the Seat of that Perfidious Nation. That Stain on Humanity, that THING from the Princessapality." It was all so dramatic except that the finger on the hand at the end of the extended arm pointed not at the object of his intention but, rather, was crooked, and pointed to the floor.The Ambassador was quivering in supposed rage, but, in actuality, he was enraged because he had lost control of his arm. His--finger--would--NOT-- Point!His personal assistant was rapidly shoving parers and property into the attaché case marked The United States of America. The PA, the actual.
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I thought that my kitchen was small, but Eloise’s galley kitchen made a telephone box look spacious. ‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ she said. ‘And glasses are in the cupboard in the living room, just around the corner. You’re in charge.’ I grabbed a couple of glasses and a couple of bottles of Peter Pickleman light stout from the six-pack in the fridge. ‘I assume that you’d like one.’ ‘Does that Pope fellow have a balcony?’ I poured two beers and passed one of them to Eloise. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Cheers.’ Eloise took a sip (well, a draft, really) and went back to chopping (with considerable expertise) a couple of shallots and an assortment of mushrooms. And then, from a pot of barely simmering water, she produced a couple of bright green plastic-wrapped ‘sausages’. ‘Looks interesting,’ I said. ‘Duck breasts,’ she said, ‘wrapped in savoy cabbage leaves.’ She stabbed one of the fat sausages with a meat thermometer and watched, intently, as the needle rose. It stopped at 55°C. ‘That.

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