Double-Cross

Double-CrossSo the other day I was sitting in my gubernatorial smoking tent, contemplating various shit that wasn’t as important as the stogie I was smoking at the time, when Manolo, my state-supplied manservant, opened the flap behind me and burst in.

“EEYYYYAAARRRGGGHHTM!” I said, scared worse than when I was giving birth in my super-smash hit box office movie Junior. “What the hell is going on here? Is it Maria? Did I run out all the hot water again?”

Manolo looked at me with the kind of fear-contorted expression that I’d seen so many times before on the faces of Mr. Universe contenders and ex-girlfriends.

“Gobernador Sarseneger,” he said, because he’s a spic and can’t pronounce my name properly. It’s not his fault though, after all if you’re born in Mexico City the only things you’re taught at school are which parts of your body not to get tattooed and which end of the donkey you shouldn’t put your schwanz in.

“Señor, han robado su Hummer! They have stolen your Humvee!” Manolo’s eyes started to stream. I immediately got up out of my chair and consoled him with a backhand slap.

“SNAP OUT OF ITTM!” I said as I ordered him to hand himself my handkerchief. “Which one Manolo, which Hummer? Which one is it? The red one with the waterbed inside? The tiger striped one with the leopard skin bucket seats? That one Cameron bought me that has a steering wheel shaped like the Titanic? Which one, DAMMUTTM?! Oh wait, oh nein, not the one…”

“Si, Señor,” he sobbed. “The one you groped Claudia Schiffer in after the Oscars in 1998.”

That was it. The worst shit I’d heard since someone read me the script for Jingle All The Way. I was even angrier than the day that broke-ass chump Willis phoned me to say Planet Hollywood had gone to ze coolerTM. I took the stogie out of my mouth and crushed it with my bare hands.

“Nein, NEIN! Crom! CROOOOOOOOMM!!” I rushed over to the flap that leads to the annexe of my gubernatorial smoking tent and ripped it open. As I did so I winced, blinded by the sparkling, ethereal light shining off of the ripped, pumped body of Crom standing in statue atop a carved bone altar made from one of the animals I knocked out in Conan the Barbarian.

I entered the shrine and prostrated myself before the altar, much like I did in End of Days but this time in front of a god I believe in, weeping and angered like a homosexual who’s left the Rohypnol in his other catsuit.

“CROM! CROM DO YOU HEAR METM?? Why have you forsaken me Crom? What have I done to deserve this villany? Crom! CROOOOOOOOOMM! EEYYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHTM! You knew that was my favourite Hummer *sob* and you knew that Claudia Schiffer is the most perfect example of Aryan beauty on this Earth *sob* and groping those Teutonic tits meant more to me *sob* than becoming Führer of Kalifornia or *sob* the birth *sob* of any of my children! Who has done this to me, Crom? Tell me who has done this to me so I may have my vengeance. And if you don’t tell me… THEN TO HELL WITH YOUTM! EEYYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHTM!”

“Who could it be?” I asked myself. “Those non-Governor bums Stallone and Willis? That green FUCK Lou Ferigno and his Pumping Iron Revisted where they made fun of my English? That jealous, flying faggot Copperfield? That wise-ass Kissinger getting me back for all those times I switched his Viagra for Vicodin? Who? Who’s the only guy I know dumb and broke enough to steal my most treasured possession and not even have the intelligence to ransom me for it..?”

“DILLON! YOU SON OF A BITCHTM!”

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