March 2017

“If you were Merrick Garland,” I asked Emma, “would you rather have a fruit basket or flowers?”

“I’d rather have a pint of ice cream,” she said. “Or a bottle of bourbon.”

If you enjoy the ongoing adventures of Justin T. Fairchild, Social Justice Warrior, be sure to check out the new Liberty Island e-book featuring America’s favorite Constitutional Trotskyite. SNOWFLAKE’S CHANCE: THE 2016 CAMPAIGN DIARY OF JUSTIN T. FAIRCHILD, SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR is available for download at Amazon.

Trump (I refuse to say the word president in the same sentence with his name) had just nominated Neal Gorsuch to the Supreme Court, ignoring President Obama’s wise counsel to appoint Merrick Garland to that post. The Republicans had successfully managed to hijack the Court, leaving democracy in serious peril.

“Maybe a fruit basket with some chocolates, then,” I said. “You know, something to show him that the real America supports him and not Trump’s stooge.”

“Remember what the FBI agents told us,” Emma said. “We’re not supposed to do any political activism. Speaking of that, did you ever talk to the landlord about cleaning out the old campaign office?”

“No,” I said. I had—rather foolishly, as it turned out—extended the lease on my campaign office through January 2019, thinking that I would use it as my Congressional district office. I know it sounds stupid now, but I’d just heard a story on NPR that said that Trump was dragging down Republican officeholders nationwide, and since that was just what I wanted to hear, I assumed it was so.

“They said they would cancel the lease, but only if you went in there and cleaned out all of the junk.”

“Do I have to? It seems so final.”

“Paying for commercial space we’re not using for the next two years is even more final.”

“Oh.”

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Cleaning out my old campaign office was a little bit easier than I thought it would be. It turned out that all of the furniture and the electronic stuff had been leased to us by my super-PAC, and they had swooped in the day after the election and repossessed everything. So I just had a small mountain of campaign literature to clean up, and I hauled it all away in my Prius to the Bristol County recycling center. I drove back to headquarters for a final sweep-through, and congratulated myself on a job well done.

So as far as I was concerned, that meant that I could stop by the local convenience store for some snack cakes. But when I went to the cashier, I saw that the little poster with my name on it was still up—the one that said “Do not sell Butterscotch Krimpets to this man.”

“Sorry, Mr. Fairchild,” the cashier said. His nametag said “Addison.” I remembered seeing him around campaign headquarters—he’d been one of the small army of ex-Bernie Sanders supporters from the local college.

“Good to see you, Addison,” I said. “I’ll take this back and get some grapes or something.” I decided not to correct him about my name; with how much weed the Bernie Bros smoked, it was a wonder he was standing upright.

“Um, Mr. Fairchild, if you have a moment, I was wondering if you might want to talk out back for a minute.”

“That’s okay,” I said. I had never smoked marijuana—my mother had said it was strictly for Mensheviks, which tells you something—and wasn’t in a hurry to start. You need a clear mind to fight effectively for social justice. “I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to hook you up. I just had a question.”

“Really, I need to be getting back home,” I said.

“Because I can bring a couple of those Krimpets from the storeroom.”

I gave Addison a long, hard look. “Give me a minute and I’ll meet you back there.”

 

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Addison was as good as his word, and had a little black bag full of Butterscotch Krimpets.

“Thanks, man,” I said. “I’m trying to cut back, but it’s hard, what with this Administration we have now.”

Addison ran his hand through his curly hair. “Yeah, that’s what I was trying to ask you about. I got this e-mail, you see, from this guy my dad knows in St. Petersburg.”

“Is he trying to sell you a beachfront condo? Because global warming is going to make that a very bad investment.”

“No, Mr. Fairchild. The other one. The one in Russia.”

It took me a second to realize he was talking about Leningrad. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I think he might have sent it to me by mistake. Anyway, he’s in New York next week. He’s some kind of import-export guy, you know?  A real secret agent man.”

“And he sent you an e-mail? Are you sure he’s not a Nigerian prince?” I’d not had good experiences with Nigerian princes.

“No. He says he has the goods on Trump.”

My hands tensed on my bag of Krimpets. “Is he serious?” I asked. Anyone could say they had the goods on Trump. But a Russian spy would have the real deal, if anybody did.

“You gotta understand. I don’t trust this guy. But if there’s even a little chance that he can bring down Trump, I think we have to take it. And all he’s asking is twenty thousand dollars. That’s a bargain, if you think about it.”

“And how are you thinking about getting this twenty thousand dollars?”

Addison’s Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. “I mean, Mr. Trudeau, I don’t have twenty thousand dollars. My student loans are like ten times that. But you’ve got Fairchild money, right?”

I have Fairchild money, which is in a trust account, and it is in a trust account because of, well, you know, those Nigerian princes I was telling you about. And knowing a little bit about scams, I can tell you that I thought that this sounded like a scam. But you know what? Addison wasn’t wrong. If there was even a one percent chance that this wasn’t a scam, it was worth twenty thousand dollars. It was worth a whole lot more than that. It was worth the future of our country, and how do you put a price on that?

“I think we can work something out,” I said.

 

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We ended up meeting in the parking lot of the International House of Pancakes in Parsippany, New Jersey, because that seemed like the most likely place for international espionage.

“Follow my lead, Addison,” I said.

“Do you know Russian? Because I don’t think his English is any good.”

“Not a bit,” I lied. I don’t know a great deal of Russian, but my mother speaks it fluently—although she primarily uses it for cursing. I figured the less that this guy knew about how much Russian I knew or didn’t know, the better it would be for us.

The Russian got out of his car—a nondescript white rental with Arizona plates—and came over across the parking lot to where we were waiting. “Comrade Addison, Comrade Justin. So pleased to see you. Do you have my money?”

“Not until we see the goods,” I said.

“I need to know I am not dealing with amateurs, here,” he said. “Show me money, or I go back to Manhattan.”

Addison went towards the trunk of the car, but I grabbed his arm before he could open it. “I need to know that what you have is the real stuff,” I said. “Otherwise you don’t see a cent.”

The Russian looked hurt. “Our intelligence organs worked very hard to procure this particular video file,” he said. “I assure you. As you say in your country, urine for a real treat.”

Oh, my goodness, I thought. Did he just say what I thought he said? Could he have… control yourself, man.

“Anyone can say they have video,” I said. “Do you have a really good live… stream?”

“I assure you,” he said. “High definition. And it is golden.”

“Mr. Fairchild, does he have the pee tape?” Addison asked.

Oh, please, let it be the pee tape. “I don’t know,” I said. “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof.”

“And extraordinary money,” the Russian said.

“If you have what you say you have, you’ll have it. But you have to show me proof.”

The Russian clapped his hands. “Very well. Let us go inside and see just how international American pancakes are.”

 

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We settled into a booth in the back of the restaurant. Addison got the Swedish pancakes, and the Russian got the blintzes. I got a cup of coffee without bothering to ask if it was fair-trade or shade-grown, because some things are more important.

I had the Russian’s cheap Android tablet in my hands. It was showing… well, it’s hard for me to describe. I was watching it for the third time, and I still didn’t understand everything I was seeing. But the essentials were all there. The fat, naked man lying in the bed with four buxom Russian sex workers, engaged in aggressive micturition. It was everything I had imagined it would be, and worse.

“So, Comrade Justin, is it worth twenty thousand of your American dollars?” the Russian asked.

“Well,” I said.

“I just realized something,” Addison said. “You know what we’re doing here. We’re colluding with the Russians. The same way that Trump was.”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” I said.

“Trump colluded with the Russians. And Hillary did, too, with that reset button stuff. I don’t think we should collude with this guy.”

“Your friend is correct,” the Russian said. “Why should you be left out? Collude.”

“You know who never colluded with the Russians?” Addison asked. “Bernie Sanders, that’s who.”

“He colluded with the Soviet Union,” I explained. “And, no, this isn’t collusion.”

“Of course it is,” the Russian said. “It is fine, Comrade Justin. No one will judge you. You are doing this from the highest moral virtue, of course.”

“I don’t want to be a part of this anymore,” Addison said, and stormed out of the IHOP.

The Russian smiled. “So, let us get down to business. Twenty thousand, yes? Cash?”

Addison and the Russian were right, of course. I was colluding with the Russians. But I wasn’t a traitor. I was trying to bring about constitutional Trotskyite government, and I absolutely guarantee you that Trotsky would have paid $20,000 for the pee tape.

 

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It took me a little while to figure out how to pay for everyone’s food on the little plastic kiosk thing, but once I did, I met the Russian outside, opened up the trunk of my Prius, and handed him a nondescript Ellington College backpack filled with hundred-dollar bills. He handed me an external hard drive with a copy of the pee tape–I doublechecked to make sure I wasn’t being scammed—and he shook my hand, and disappeared into the Parsippany night. I watched him pull back on the highway, and waited for Addison to show up. He got into the car a few minutes later, and we wordlessly drove back to Bristol County.

“Mr. Fairchild?” he asked me at length.

“Yes?”

“Did we do the right thing, just now?”

“I’m sure of it. This will be the end of Donald Trump, you just watch.”

“But then we get Pence.”

“And Congress impeaches Pence after the 2018 midterms, and then we get Pelosi as President. She appoints Hillary as Vice-President, resigns, and we have Constitutional government again.”

“Oh.”

We drove along in silence.

“Mr. Fairchild? One more thing.”

“Of course.”

“Is that really what it looks like when women pee? I’ve never seen that before.”

“Yes, it is, Addison. Yes, it is.”

*******