“So, okay. What do you want, Mr. Hoffa?”
Finally, there came a smile. “Call me Jimmy, why dontcha? Never been much of one for formalities.”
6
“And you’re Kenny, right?” continued Hoffa, making an easy transition from the previous chapter. “Kenneth, actually.”
“Kenny, right,” repeated Hoffa. “And you were brought here by a guzzler.”
“A gnuzzit,” Ken corrected him.
“Yeah, a guzzler,” agreed Hoffa. “Stupid race, even for godless aliens.”
“You believe in God, Mr... Jimmy?”
“Fucking-A right I do!” said Hoffa firmly. “But you could fill a book with what God doesn’t know about organizing.” Suddenly he smiled. “In fact, I think someone has. Called The Capital.”
“You mean Das Kapital?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. Anyway, we got us some work to do, you and me, kid.”
It had been a long time since anyone had called Ken a kid, but he decided not to mention it. Even up here, you didn’t mess around with Jimmy Hoffa.
“So what, exactly, am I here for?”
Hoffa stared at him. Ken felt like the burly man was staring through him.
“Why dontcha ask what you really want to know?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Ken.
“Don’t,” admonished Hoffa. “It’s a sign of weakness. Now ask.”
“Okay,” said Ken. “What does the job pay?”
Hoffa grinned. “That’s more like it.”
Ken waited a moment, then said, “Well?”
“Quiet, Kenny. I’m doing the math.” Hoffa closed his eyes, frowned, moved his lips almost imperceptibly, and then looked at Ken. “Here’s the deal. First, you get to live.”
“Was that ever in doubt?” asked Ken, suddenly nervous.
“Don’t interrupt. Second, you get five percent of my rake-off.” A brief pause. “Ah, hell--make that seven percent. You’re probably the only human-type person I’m going to be dealing with. And third, when we’re done, I’ll give you a planet of your own. You can be king of the kbajics, or muscha-muscha of the silky spaxxora.” Hoffa leaned forward. “What do you say, Kenny?”
“My own planet?”
“Your own planet,” replied Hoffa. “Of course, you’ll have to pay your annual dues to the Brotherhood.”
“What Brotherhood?” asked Ken.
“The one you’re here to help me organize,” answered Hoffa. “The United Brotherhood of Godless Alien Scum.”
“It needs a more dignified name,” suggested Ken. “Sir,” he added quickly.
Hoffa frowned. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe you got a point, Kenny.” A thoughtful pause. “How about the Federated League of Godless Alien Heathen?”
7
In Chapter 7 Ken stumbles into an orgy involving a jatt, three flap-pas, a kly, a fussy tlatla, an underage gnuzzit, two liucuz of the Southern variety, and Paris Hilton. It breaks the tension and serves as comic relief, as everyone knows you need at least five flappas-- one of each gender--for any kind of sexual encounter at all, but since it would take fourteen pages to set up the scene, even in this condensed form, we elected to leave it to the reader’s--and Ken’s-- imagination.
8
“He’s up to something, that much seems clear,” said the gnuzzit.
“How can he be?” replied Mistress Fuyd. “I mean, after all, he’s our prisoner, isn’t he? At this point in the interrogation, he should be a pushover.”
“The Kennedy creature thought he was a pushover too,” remarked the gnuzzit.
“Which Kennedy creature was that?”
“The one with too much hair who couldn’t keep his hands off females.”
“Oh,” she said, ashamed of her ignorance. “That one. Of course.”
“I wonder why the Hoffa requested this other human, this Ken thing?” continued the gnuzzit. “He seems obsequious, yet we know from our background check that there is no crime of which he is not guilty, possibly excepting bestiality.”
“Possibly?”
“You didn’t see his last bedmate,” answered the gnuzzit.
“What do we propose to do about him--or is it them?”
“We’ll keep a watchful four or five eyes on Hoffa, and if he tries anything deleterious to the ship or those aboard it, we’ll torture him.”
“That could be fun,” she said. Then she frowned--as much as an animated fignewton can frown--and said: “We’ll have to apply new methods. Cutting the cilia from his head and chin elicited no reaction whatsoever.”
“I know,” answered the gnuzzit. “But I’ve been observing him carefully. Have you seen those hardened protrusions at the end of his mandibles--you know, the ten manipulative tentacles? I may just take something sharp and cut off a sixteenth of an inch or so. That will have him screaming in agony.”
“Can I watch?” asked Mistress Fuyd eagerly.
9
“Now, you got that straight, Kenny?” said Hoffa.
“I contact all the gnuzzits and wichtigos...”
“All the gonzos and witches, right.”
“And I tell them that if they’re tired of working long hours for short pay and taking orders from the bluiptas and the rest of them, they should meet in your room after dark.”
“You left out the part about owning a full and equal share of the ship, a percentage of all the trade with Earth, and regaining their self-respect and being able to walk with their heads held high.”
“Jimmy, have you gotten a good look at the wichtigos? Both of their heads are on top of their feet. You get one of them to walk with his head held high and it means he’s been decapitated.”
“So think of something else to say. Don’t hassle me with details, Kenny. I’ve got my eye on the big picture.”
“Well, there’s one more detail I have to bring up,” said Ken.
“Yeah? What?”
“You want everyone to meet in your room after dark.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yeah, well, where we are, it’s been after dark for ten billion years, give or take a month.”
Hoffa looked out a viewport. “Okay,” he said. “When you’re right, you’re right.” His expression became threatening. “Don’t be right around me too often, unless you’re agreeing with me. Got it, kid?”
“Got it.” Ken paused. “So when should I tell them to show up?”
Hoffa pondered the question for a moment. “Tell them to show up when they’re sick of things as they are, and want their rights, their self-respect, and especially a sizeable piece of the action. Then stand aside so you don’t get trampled.”
“They’re aliens, Jimmy,” said Ken. “Do they care about that stuff?”
“Kid, there are three truisms in the universe. Two of them have to do with women. This is the third. Trust old Jimmy on this.”
Ken had planned to tell every member of the crew below the rank of quaslodit. But after he told the first dozen aliens he met, he had to flatten himself against a bulkhead to avoid the mad dash to Jimmy Hoffa’s room.
10
“Do you really think it’ll work?” asked Mistress Fuyd.
“It worked every time I tried it back home,” said Hoffa. “Maybe the bliptas and the floppies and them others call the shots, but you carry the mail.”
“All of our mail is electronic,” the gnuzzit pointed out.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Hoffa. “Like I said, you carry the cargo-- even if the cargo is nothing but a bunch of bloodthirsty gonzo and witch scum, meaning no offense. If you go on strike, commerce and conquest both come to a stop. The wheels don’t roll.”
“We don’t have wheels,” pointed out another gnuzzit.
“Shut up,” said Hoffa. “The wheels don’t roll, the wings don’t flap, the nuclears don’t pile. Choose whatever fits.”
“What do we do when the bluipta or the fussy tlatla come after us wit
h a punishment party?” asked Mistress Fuyd.
“How are they gonna get here? You control the ships. You control the gas pumps.”
“We don’t use gas.”
“Okay, you control the plutonium pumps. Don’t hassle me with details.” He looked around the room. “Think about it. How are they going to make you go to work?”
“They’ll threaten to torture and kill us,” answered the gnuzzit.
“See?” said Hoffa with a triumphant smile. “A dead man can’t fly a ship! You’ve won already.”
“So they’ll stick to torture,” said the gnuzzit.
“How are you gonna read a chart if they gouge out your eyes? If they cut off all your hands, do they think you’re going to push all these little buttons with your nose?”
“Actually, we could,” said another gnuzzit.
“That’s defeatist talk!” snapped Hoffa. “I’m telling you, we can bring the galaxy to a standstill. Maybe even the whole solar system.”
“Somehow I think there must be more to it than just killing our engines and demanding better treatment.”
“Right,” agreed Hoffa. “The very first thing we need is a pension fund. Since none of you have had any experience in that area, I’ll take the job myself, onerous as it is.” He paused once more. “All right,” he continued. “Now it’s time to elect a leader, someone who will call the shots. I modestly put myself forth as a candidate. Are there any others?”
One of the wichtigos seemed about to step forward. Ken immediately walked over to it and let it see that his hand was gripping the hilt of a knife he had in his pocket.
“None?” said Hoffa. “Then I guess I’m elected.”
“And you’re sure that a general strike always succeeds?” asked Mistress Fuyd.
“Always.”
“And unions are always successful?”
“Every single time,” answered Hoffa.
“I have checked your record,” said Mistress Fuyd, “and your own race incarcerated you.”
“Pure jealousy,” answered Hoffa. “And if you checked all the records, you’ll see that the Teamsters continued to run even while I was in stir. That’s why I offered to be your leader. I’ll take the heat, and you’ll keep on truckin’. Or jettin’. Or whatever.”
A wichtigo stepped forward. “Why are you here at all?” it asked. “Why aren’t you back on Earth, organizing strikes and pension funds and whatever else it is that you do?”
“You want the truth?” asked Hoffa.
“Please.”
“I’m a modest man, and I was so popular people wouldn’t leave me alone. Gorgeous oversexed women kept breaking into my house to thank me for helping them obtain full dental care. Politicians from both parties kept asking me to run for President. Fortune and Business Week were always after me for interviews, and the Christian Science Monitor wanted me to write a daily column on the strong moral code that led me to become such a successful man of the people.” He paused and shrugged. “What could I do? They had become too dependent upon me. So I faked my own death, took just enough money from the pension fund to meet my modest needs, and I was leading a humble incognito life under an assumed name in the presidential suite of the Hong Kong Hilton when one of your gonzos--”
“Gnuzzits.”
“Gezundheit,” said Hoffa. “Anyone, a gonzo snatched me and brought me up here.”
“And all that is absolutely true?” said the wichtigo dubiously.
“As God is my witness,” said Hoffa, holding his right hand up.
“I guess we’ll take your word for it,” said the wichtigo. “For now.”
“You don’t take anything at face value,” said Hoffa. “I like that in a man--or a whatever-you-are. You got a name, son?”
“Mercortule.”
“I’ll remember it,” promised Hoffa. “Anyway, I think this has been a successful first meeting. My vice chairman Kenny here will let you know when we’re having the next one. But I got a good feeling about this. I wouldn’t want to be a floppy stockbroker a month from now.”
“Flappa,” Mistress Fuyd corrected him.
“Flappa to you, too,” said Hoffa, shaking what passed for her hand. “Thank you all for coming.” After they had filed out, Ken approached Hoffa.
“So you faked your death!” he said. “Everyone always wondered.”
“The feds wanted me dead, the Mafia wanted me dead, even the Teamsters wanted me dead. I figured the only way I was gonna survive my murder was if I committed it myself.” He looked around to make sure the room was empty. “Now to business. You know that little bastard, Mercantile?”
“You mean Mercortule?”
Hoffa nodded. “When everyone’s asleep, find an airlock and put him in orbit.” He grimaced. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lippy alien.”
11
It took seven months for the Brotherhood of Enlightened Aliens to bring the galactic economy to a screeching halt.
It took two weeks of negotiations before the races that ruled the Sevagram, or at least the Spiral Arm of the Milky Way, agreed to supply medical and dental care to the gnuzzits, the wichtigos, arid the other oppressed races of the sector, as well as vacation time, sick leave, personal days, profit sharing, and 401Ks. They dug their heels in--not that any of them actually had any heels--at committing never to deal with a non-union shop, especially since there was only one union, but after another general strike they capitulated.
Things went swimmingly--which is probably a poor way of stating it, since there were a lot of things in the galaxy, and many of them spent their entire lives immersed in water or more noxious liquids, coming to the surface only to chat with fishermen, sing folk songs, and sign up for the union. Let us say, then, that things went smoothly-- yes, that’s the word: smoothly--for the better part of a year. Everyone, even the toothless raxiia, received dental care; everyone, even the muskagogees, who laid 4,000 eggs a month, got paternity leave. Everyone worked, everyone got a handsome pay raise, everyone looked forward to a retirement in which every need was taken care of thanks to astute management of the union’s assets.
And then one day the pension fund was gone, and so was Jimmy Hoffa.
12
The President followed H. Saddler into the small fourth-floor room in the Executive Office Building. It was 4:05am, and there was no one there except a lone guard who was totally loyal, to Saddler if not the President. Even the Secret Service had been ordered to remain in the underground passageway leading to the White House.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” asked the President.
“Mr. President, it is more than necessary. It is essential. Even if you weren’t at a twenty-three percent approval rating in the polls, this is an opportunity you can’t pass up.”
“It’s not my fault!” muttered the President. “Paraguay and Uraguay sound so much alike! Someone should have corrected me when I gave the order to attack.”
“That’s in the past,” said Saddler. “As is Uraguay, alas. But what you’re doing now will make you the most important President since--”
“Truman?” interrupted the President hopefully.
“Think bigger.”
“The Roosevelts?”
“Bigger still.”
“Honest Abe himself?”
Saddler nodded.
“And you’re saying this one meeting will accomplish that?”
“This one meeting will be the first step toward accomplishing that.”
“And how did you hear about this, Mr. Saddler?” asked the President. He wanted to be informal, to call the man by his first name, but he didn’t know his first name, and it seemed awkward to just call him “H.”
“I have my sources.” Saddler looked at his wristwatch. “He’s due here any minute.”
“It occurs to me that the guards will never let him in.”
“Then it’s fortunate that I sent them all home, isn’t it?”
“But... but what if some thief sneaks into the buildi
ng while they’re gone?”
Saddler smiled. “This is the Executive Office Building, Mr. President. You don’t really think there’s anything worth stealing here, do you?”
The President considered it. “No, I suppose not.”
“When you get right down to it, the most valuable thing here is a list of the better escort services in Washington DC--and even if someone steals a copy, there are four hundred more in the building.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Saddler.
Jimmy Hoffa entered the room, peering into the darkened corners to make sure no one besides Saddler and the President was there.
“Mr. President, say hello to Mr. Hoffa.”
“The Mr. Hoffa?” asked the President.
“Call me Jimmy,” said Hoffa, pulling up a chair.
“Mr. Hoffa has a proposition that I think will meet with your approval, sir,” said Saddler. “Jimmy?”
“Right,” said Hoffa. “I’ve spent the last few years... well, elsewhere. And in the process I learned a lot of things that affect the security of the United States, which I love as if it was my own country.”
“It is your own country,” said the President.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Hoffa. “Anyway, I had to leave my last position in a hurry, and I have reason to believe some of my former associates are gunning for me--especially one called Kenny.”
“Should I know why?” asked the President.
“It’s not important,” said Saddler. “Go on, Jimmy.”
“Anyway, I didn’t come back empty-handed,” said Hoffa. “I’m prepared to make a deal.”
“What have you got that we could possibly want?” asked the President.
“A list of every illegal alien in the country--names, addresses, IDs, everything.”
“And in exchange?”
“You get me the best plastic surgeon on the East Coast, give me a new face and a new identity, and put me in the witness protection program.”
“All that, just for identifying a few illegal aliens?” said the President dubiously.
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