The Road to Philadelphia 2016 (NSFW)

Tacoma, WA

I wake up with the covers pulled off the side of the bed and her head nestled into my armpit, lying beside me. I look down and decide that there’s something about her red lipstick being smudged along the shaft of my cock in the morning that’s endearing. I get up and walk over to the shower where I turn the water on and let it run down my head, cleaning the filth from the night before. She’s still in bed when I walk back into the room and get ready for the convention that is across the street from the hotel. I throw open the blinds and stand there naked in front of the people milling about conducting their donkey business. She tilts her head toward me and moans in irritation. She flips her body over to face the wall and reaches for the sheet that isn’t there, trying to cover herself. I decide to let her struggle with this for a few moments, as I linger there in front of the window seeping it in.

I get into my khakis, black Nike’s and Cascadia t-shirt, throw on my sunglasses and walk out the door.

In the lobby there are donkeys milling about the café drinking coffee and having breakfast with their buttons. I get a few compliments on my shirt and some blank stares as I walk into the morning sunshine.

The convention hall has a life size cut out of the presumptive nominee for President of the United States, and next to hers is a cut out of a local sports broadcaster running for office in the 8th. I see him standing next to himself, and he’s much shorter than his poster. He’s in the middle of doing something with a camera in front of him. I smirk in the direction of his handlers as I pass, up the second set of escalators to the convention floor. It turned out that he suspended his campaign several weeks later, but at the time my first impression was that he would win. And it turned out in the end that he did win, but that’s a whole nother story.

On the convention floor, there were these donkeys that agreed with those donkeys and those donkeys that disagreed with the other donkeys, and some of them weren’t even donkeys at all. Elephants masquerading as donkeys. If you could picture such a sight. For three days they planned to go around in circles like this, arguing with each other about which donkey was worthy enough to be called the greatest donkey. They ask me if I’m a donkey too, to which I respond that I am a hyena and am promptly shunned.

After a few hours of observing this circus, I’m reminded of my more pressing issues and decide to go back to check on my girl with the red lipstick and the stash of Mary Jane, Lucy and the other powdered white girls that I left with her. When I get back to the hotel room, she’s gone. There’s a note on the bed:

I took your drugs. Don’t call to ask for them back. I’m taking the next few weeks off. See you in Philly asshole!!!”

At least this time she left a note. She took the cash that I had left in my suitcase. Apparently I’m a slow learner when it comes to women. With nothing left to do I head down to the hotel bar where they’re serving bottomless Bloody Mary’s and mimosas. It’s a boozy brunch special, which is perfect for my sentiments. I decide on the mimosas on account of the extra sodium, and ask the bartender about where I can find some fun in this town. He has a hard time explaining it to me. I decide I would create my own. It’s not even two in the afternoon and I am very nearly inebriated. Again.

I ask the bar tender if he had seen a tall and skinny blonde girl with big tits and hair that came down to her ass. He tells me she was just there an hour ago in the same seat drinking the same mimosas, and that she kept going into the bathroom and coming out muttering something about George Artem under her breath.

He asked me if I knew who that was and I responded in the affirmative, letting him know who I was. To which something clicked in his little brain and he enthusiastically proclaimed.

“So YOU’RE the asshole!”

Struggling now, I make my way back to the hotel room to type it all down and get in front of my Lenovo clam shell, watching the pacifier cycle around and around. The machine doing both something and nothing at the same time, booting up from a drained battery.

It finally flickers and Microsoft reminds me to update my OS, and Word kindly tells me that its subscription has expired and that I should try their new version, which is in the cloud. I lose my entire train of thought and wish for one of those manual typewriters the good old boys used to complain about.

A few weeks pass and it gets slightly hotter in the Pacific Northwest as June turns into July, and it is a fantastic early summer for our neck of the woods. Soon July will be ready to turn to August, and the world to descend upon the great City of Philadelphia. The City of Brotherly Love. The First Capital of the United States of America. The host of perhaps the last ‘democratic’ convention of the once great Republic of America.

Philadelphia, PA

It’s 95 and feels like 130 with the humidity when I get off the American Airlines flight the night before the festivities. On the ground we are ‘Washington Donkey’. I make it a mission to report the status of this to the State delegation by the morning.

The airport workers are threatening a strike. I travel light, never checking a bag, exactly in preparation for this type of scenario, I think to myself. The other passengers are waiting for the baggage carousel to start as I stand outside and light a Marlboro waiting for my rental shuttle. They’re nervous. My shuttle arrives and I tip the driver a ten spot in solidarity. The carousel starts as we depart the terminal.

Some kids on board joke about an explosion on the Blue Line in Chicago that happened that same day. Apparently a viral video. Didn’t make the MSM, and Rahm Emanuel was most certainly not in any of the headlines.

All eyes on Philly. All eyes on Bernie. The Clinton Coronation. The “End of the Republic”.

I get in my rental and type my destination coordinates into the GPS. I get one of those ‘hills have eyes’ kind of feelings driving up the winding road from the airport past FDR Park and into West Philly late at night. The history is as thick as the humidity. Some poor soul has driven his car straight into a lane divider and is crumpled up in the front seat, his neck limp, and I assumed him dead, from the quick glimpse I had of him and the small group of witnesses surrounding the car, panicked with adrenalin, deciding what to do. Just another 9.11 Call.

I’m at 52nd and Locust and it isn’t the prettiest part of town. Chinese food served for cash behind bullet proof glass at 2 in the morning. The Checkers is the only place that takes debit this late at night. The whole block is like a scene straight from ‘Idiocracy’, except the evolutionary cycle is not totally complete. There are still humans working in this picture.

I’m the only white face around for what seems like miles. People ask me what the hell I am doing in Philly. I tell them I’m there to watch the donkeys do their thing. They smile politely when I tell them I’m trying to make something count, remember something that mattered, which is the point that they start to walk away.

Life is not good in West Philadelphia in the middle of summer, 2016. Away from the lights of the convention and the downtown hotels, people live on their corners, trying to get by, trying not to kill or steal from each other. Trying to make an honest living in the working class. Even the vocational programs are closed for the summer, so the education you get is the education you get on the street. Tough luck kids, welcome to the real world. 
Yet it is still a representative democracy. A “Republic” they say. Someone, probably a donkey, is there at the convention hall at the Wells Fargo Center, supposedly representing these people. It turns out, that in a Republic: the leaders lead, the rulers rule, and all the learned people, well they can eat cake too; but, when it comes to working people and getting by on a dinari, well then we’re very truly on that slippery slope to Hell.

I get to the house after a round of Checkers. Two chicken sandwiches, a load of cheese fries ‘Philly Style’ and a 24 ounce Sprite. A $15 tab, and a meal fit for a King in these parts, where the minimum wage is $7 and a Quarter an hour.

I get to the room and she’s waiting for me there, lying naked on the bed in the dark with the ceiling fan running on high and the windows wide open to let the air flow. I leave what remains of my checkers bag on the mantle and disrobe onto the bed beside her. She’s passed out from whatever drugs she’s been able to get her hands on that day, and from the looks of it has probably already sucked some strange cock the day before. I stick my fingers in her pussy, and yes, it’s just as I expected. She moans a little and props her ass further into the air, spread eagle with her face in a pillow at the head of the bed. I’m hard.

The next morning I make good on my promise. I ride into the raging thunderstorm to the City Tavern, a few blocks from Penn’s landing and the Delaware River. Where I snap and share a photo of our Washington Donkey, letting them know that we’re on the ground, and we’re watching.
The plan for the week is to take in the sights and the great history that the city has to offer. The Philadelphia Art Museum, the Avenue of All Nations, Independence Hall, the First Bank of the United States, the Liberty Bell, the Rodin Museum, City Hall, Washington Square, Eastern State Penitentiary, Carpenter’s Hall. The list goes on. We try to check them off one by one, keeping eyes and ears alert for the smell of politics.

We take the rental into the city and leave it by Boat House Row. The white Philly crew team houses, lined up by the order of their coated crests, rest along the Schuylkill River. The white future taking form as the athletes prepare for the rest of their lives, maintaining their privileged way of life. No skulls, no vessels found on the corner of 52nd and Locust or anywhere near West Philly. Just a Checkers with processed chicken and other such scraps.
The Uber into City Center is uneventful. It tests our patience with Philly traffic. The entire city is blocked off in one way traffic to accommodate delegates and other donkey dignitaries. We run into the Secret Service around the Union League and decide to stick around. The President must be in town. We think. Then we think it’s the Madame Secretary. Then the mania kicks in, conjecture upon conjecture, and we’re in a stand-off with the SS having followed Debbie Wasserman into a back alley basement.

The Philly Cops are gooned into running around for the agents. Keeping watch over the seven hotel exits. Front, back, two to each side, and of course, vertical. We stick around at Chris’s and order drinks to their outside patio. Miranda keeps them coming, and the next thing we know we’re sharing the MJ vaporizer she brought with her from our Great State. This plays as somewhat of a novelty, and all of a sudden we are the favorite out of towners. Bill, who might be the owner, gives us VIP passes to the evening jazz show.
Three or four Tito’s and Seven’s in the psychosis is setting in heavy. The senses are trigger tight. Marco, the bartender at South, invites us over for drinks for the second half of the week. He’s a New York Jew living in Philly, because, of course, it’s cheaper.

After a few laps around the block, the SS decide to cool down. No one is going to jail today. The protesters aren’t coming they think. Debbie Wasserman and HRC are not surrounded. Their location remains secure they think.

We decide to let it go and join some rallies. Have some fun. Socialist Convergence in FDR Park at 5pm. The reports of evening thunderstorms ring true, and the rain starts to come down as soon as we step out of Chris’s. We make it to the Blue Line Train and get our tokens Southbound towards FDR. We’re soaked, and her neglect of wearing a bra is immediately evident through her plain white t-shirt. I’m hard again as she rubs her ass against me on the train. I have to hide my erection with my sweater as we get off, pulling it up into the thread of my pants. The old tuck up.

The crowd has gathered under a tent. Several hundred. Maybe over a thousand. We get up to the front and the security is abysmal. A thin rope separates the mob from the Green Party presidential candidate. I know a few of the people behind the line and offer my help with controlling the thin perimeter.

Stein is speaking and the crowd roars. I don’t even discern what she’s saying remaining focused on scanning the crowd. Thunder follows strikes of lightning around the tent, and the rain comes down even harder. Eventually the Party officials break up the rally, realizing that the metal scaffolding of the tent effectively acts as a massive lightning rod and that it is unsafe to stay. We break up the crowd, stack up the chairs and clean up the trash. East Coast people have no actual concept of re-duce, re-use and re-cycle. They leave their plastic scattered under and around the tent, having ran for cover under a nearby freeway overpass.

Once we’ve ‘left no trace’ we decide to take Bill up on his VIP offer. The show starts at 8 and it’s already 8:30. It’ll be 11 by the time we get there.

She gives me head in the Uber home, which is when I learn that there’s nothing better than receiving cunnilingus in a thunderstorm. After another round of hot, wet sex at home, we show up at 14th and Sansom Street around midnight and elect a seat at the bar drunk off our own endorphins and the cannabis vaporizer that we had smuggled into the Commonwealth. 
The seating area is half full and the jazz band is playing the old Watermelon Man jig. An old, fat fuck banker is getting a tug job under the table from his 22 year old escort. I meet eyes with her and to his immediate, blue balled, dismay she gets up from behind the table, fixing her tight dress to cover more of her thighs, flipping her shoulder length hair. She stumbles a bit in her heels and the banker catches her ass as she nearly falls into his lap. She giggles and steadies herself, getting up and turning towards the washrooms.

The one I’m with, catches me looking at her, putting her hand on my crotch and slapping me in the face simultaneously. I must be thinking out loud, because these witches can literally read my mind. She pulls back her shot and follows the 22 year old into the women’s room that’s behind the stage. I follow suit; pull back my whiskey and head to the men’s.

We’re back across the street from the Union League, and this must be how the world works. I was almost expecting the President to walk in, or that royal cunt Debbie Wassermann. Things begin to slowly fade to grey as I’m in front of the urinal and the continued drugs and the drink begin to take their effect.