Squeeze Me - Carl Hiaasen Page 0,106
her counterpart.
The room went dark, and The Collusionists started playing “Hail to the Chief.” Crosby slipped out through the kitchen and headed back to his SUV, so he missed Mastodon’s entrance. Later, he and 18.4 million other Americans would watch the viral YouTube video, almost all of them wondering why the President of the United States was holding a Bakongo tribal fertility mask over his face, how he had come to choose such an unusual artifact, and whether it was a safe alternative for an N95.
In fact, the wooden mask was a replica that for decades had hung between the genuine head of a snow leopard and the genuine horns of a greater kudu on an oak-paneled wall in the club’s Safari Room. Christian himself had volunteered to fetch the mask following the accident, when Mastodon had refused to go to the hospital and bellowed that nothing would stop him from attending the Commander’s Ball.
Days later, on the long flight home to Copenhagen, the newly unemployed tanning-bed technician would rack his brain trying to figure out why the Cabo Royale had malfunctioned yet again. It couldn’t possibly have been sabotage—the machine had been locked down under guard since Christian completed the final tune-up. Had one of the replacement capacitors been faulty? Or one of the new relays? Also, against Christian’s advice, the President had applied to his skin a pungent cream advertised as a miracle bronzing accelerant, and promoted by one of his groveling right-wing radio stooges.
Whatever had gone wrong inside the Cabo, the result was arresting. Mastodon’s complexion was the color of eggplant when he punched his way through the canopy. His goggles were fogged, his signature forelock was spiky and charred, and the Velcro base of his skull cap emitted an audible sizzle. He came out raging.
Christian spent the rest of the night being interrogated by the Secret Service. The next morning, Spalding called to tell him what had happened during the Commander’s Ball. Christian said he was relieved not to have been there, though he would have loved to see Lady Tarzan in that skimpy Versace.
* * *
—
“My fellow Americans,” the President began, “thank you so much for coming to show your support. I can’t think of a more beautiful night in a more beautiful place to celebrate the beautiful achievements of my administration. Pause for applause.”
The last sentence wasn’t meant to be read aloud, but Mastodon’s view of the teleprompter cues was narrowed by the tribal mask’s slit-like eye holes. Regardless, there had been no burst of applause because the mask was also blocking the projection of the President’s voice—only a husky, muffled singsong reached the microphone, leaving the audience adrift. Some guests theorized that the President was attempting an authentic African dialect, to match his colorful face piece.
“Before we go any further,” he said, “I’d like to recognize two amazing young men who are here with us tonight, Charles and Chauncey Cornbright. Where are you, fellas? Stand up!”
The Cornbrights, Chase and Chance, didn’t move. They couldn’t make out a word the man was saying.
“Come on, guys, stand!” prodded Mastodon impatiently. He’d once played a round of golf with the brothers but he couldn’t recall what the hell they looked like. Neither of the snots had broken 100—that he remembered.
An aide crept to the podium and asked Mastodon to position the mask a few inches out farther from his face. He did, and it helped.
“As many of you know, not long ago, Chuck and Chandler tragically lost their mother in a horrible, violent crime,” he went on. “Kikey Pew Fitzsimmons was a close personal friend of mine and a founding member of the Potussies, my favorite bunch of badass Palm Beach gals. Where are you ladies? Stand, please.”
Seated at a front table, the Potussies arose shimmying and twirling imaginary lariats—a raucous detonation of red, white, and blue. Each of their gowns was more elaborate and blindingly tasteless than the last. When the women attempted to croon the President’s name, he cringed behind the mask thinking: These broads are already shit-faced.
“I want the Cornbright brothers to know,” he continued, “that we haven’t forgotten, and we’ll never forget, what happened to our precious Kikey Pew”—this time the mispronunciation drew uneasy murmurs—“and it’s my sworn promise to you, Chip and Christopher, that justice will be done, and justice will be harsh! Pause for applause!”
The crowd clapped with a vigor that sounded compulsory.
“These two outstanding boys were left orphaned by a vicious foreign criminal,” Mastodon growled on, “who