DOOMSDAY DISPATCHES 6: “Was there a second penis at the South Trail Cinema?” (The Pee-Wee Conspiracy, an ongoing investigation)

Stephen Miller checking his Grindr account

Senior White House Policy Adviser and unrepentant chicken-hawk Stephen Miller has spawned much ink and pixels since his SS Gruppenführer-like appearance on the February 12th Sunday news scrums to explain the New Reality. Miller is ideally suited to the task. When it comes to declamatory speech and Mussolini-esque disdain for human communication, a free press and anything close to objective reality, one thing’s for sure: this boy’s got game.

Since he set hearts aflutter with his post-metrosexual alt-sexy turn in the barrel as sacrificial White House Swine-of-the-Week, there has been unprecedented interest in this hard-scrabble kid and Wayne LaPierre disciple from the mean streets of Santa Monica. My own investigations lead me to the seedier quarters of West Hollywood’s gay Mecca, into the orbit of the mysterious “Mister Jakes,” a shady porn impresario and rumored procurer of catamites for everyone from Henry Kissinger to Justin Beiber.

Not Mr. Jakes but a guy who looks just like him.

These days Mr. Jakes holds court in a dive off of the main strip called Le Pissoire. Sydney Greenstreet-like, wearing a rumpled linen suit and occupying a rear booth in the establishment, he wheezes appreciatively at the buttocks of a passing serving boy before spilling what he knows.

“I was running an escort service in Sarasota for gentlemen with discerning taste,” he rumbles. “There were a few girls — mostly doe-eyed, child-like things . They were popular, too, but Saint Stephen was the angel of my heavenly choir. Oh, he was in demand! A delectable bit of boy-flesh. I groomed him myself, having experienced his greatness first-hand in the men’s public washroom of the Sarasota Greyhound station.”

“And how did Paul figure into this?”

“Ah! My dearly adored Pablo of fond memory.” Mr. Jakes hoists a tiny china teacup to his lips. “There are clients. And there are clients who become friends. And then there are dear and cherished friends.”

“And which was Pee-Wee?”

“Please! We don’t call him that. Are you not aware of the omerta regarding the true identity of clowns? Those who practice the art must never share their clown name. Likewise, a clown must never tell others who he is when not in mufti.”

“Clowns don’t speak.”

Those words would turn out to be prophetic. Little did I know that I was on the trail of something hot, and about to plunge headlong into a labyrinth of danger and deception worthy of Raymond Chandler. For the arrest of Paul Reubens (alias Pee-Wee Herman, alias Uncle Paul, alias Captain Wiggly) created an impression on the popular imagination as indelible as that of the Zapruder film. Like the tragedy in Dallas, the shake-down in Sarasota represented the beginning of a long and damaging fall for America. But it also bore a second similarity.

The Paul Reubens arrest — or, as we here at the Doomsday Dispatches prefer to call it, “the Pee-Wee Hoax” — birthed a cover-up intended to hide the full truth and, in particular, the identity of a second assailant — a second gunman (of the grassy knoll variety) present in the theatre that day and for whom Paul Reubens took the fall. WAS THERE A SECOND PENIS AT THE SOUTH TRAIL CINEMA? We here at the Dispatch will not rest until we know the answer. So stay tuned.

NEXT WEEK: Sean Spicer, American werewolf