Mad Dogma
Page 2
Chapter Three
He reeked. A deplorable stench, an old man smell, whiffs of stale B.O. emanated from him. I was tempted to ask if his robes were machine washable or were they dry clean only materials. Instead I asked him.
“Do you have any deep dark secrets?”
“My deepest darkest secret is; I have got hemorrhoids.”
He’d said this for shock value I pretended to be indifferent to this asshole’s asshole.
“Tell me about your family.”
“My sons know they are better than other sons because I’ve told them and told them that. Sometimes they don’t know it. Sometimes they know nothing. My daughter was married to a head of State, Idi Amin. He married out of gratitude for my support. But that foolish girl divorced him. Yes for a time I was Idi Amin’s father-in-law.”
“What about your love life?” I bravely asked and feared what his reaction might be. His face broke into a huge smile.
“My lover, there are many of them, lover, lovers who is counting. They helps me to get my physical releases. Womens can clearly see I am sensual. I fall in love in clusters or mosaics, if you will. My eyes don’t want to focus on one at a time.
It’s sometimes difficult for me to disrobe. There is nothing wrong with the appearance of my body. It’s because my outfits are so great I hate to take them off.”
I asked him “When you walk into a room, what do you notice first?”
And he said.
“When I walk into a room the first thing I do is check to see if there is a mirror.”
“Describe yourself to me,” I said and he got suddenly testy.
“I have already done that. Go now, beat it, leave this place, we are done.”
He screamed red-faced and I wasted no time getting the hell out. The attractive Amazon grabbed my arm and said
“This way, come, I will escort you out.” She spoke beautiful English with a contrived Oxbridge accent. I asked for my recorder and she gave it to me but snatched my notes. The Gregg shorthand made her suspicious.
“What is this? It looks like Arabic.”
“Yes that’s what it is,” I lied hoping she couldn’t decipher the insulting comments and rude observations I’d jotted down.
“Oh, I am as fluent in Arabic as I am in English,” she said pretending to read it hoping to display language skills and the ability to read and talk at the same time.
I wondered where Gaddafi got her; maybe from a modeling agency in England similar to the one in Italy.
“This report is just fine. Your Arabic is spot on,” she said.
I asked
“Why was I, of all those journalists, given the privilege of an interview?” I figured she’d say I looked the most honest, compassionate, understanding and intelligent.
“It was because you were the least threatening. You are female, pushing 70 and short?”
“Oh!” I said and went away feeling like Betty White.
About Reta Ross
Slap stick comedy or practical jokes are not funny to me but satire is. Serious incidents with a light spin on them can often be hilarious. I once gave a speech at Toastmasters on public hangings. I had them rolling in the isles. Several members of the audience suggested that I enter a humorous speech contest. But that would take away the element of surprise and make it not so funny
Other books by Reta Ross
Novels
Artful Deception (A Paranormal Romance)
Focused Desire (A Contemporary Romance)
Retro Flex (Short Stories Collection)
Humor/Comedy Short Stories
A Royal Scam
Venus Fly Trap
Alien Christmas
Mad Dogma
(Coming soon Necessito Medico (I Need a Doctor)