STEVE BANNON WEEK: Another way Steve Bannon Dies (Spoiler, sorry)
Former White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon is sitting in the King Khalid International Airport absentmindedly twirling his straw around three ice cubes and a finger of watered down Glenlivet. His eyes, bleary and red, attempt to focus on the BBC News telecast showing a contingent of refugees coming out of a gate in the Hillary Clinton Airport.
“America is land of the free,” a cowled Iraqi woman says with pride to the camera as her husband and daughters beam behind her.
“We’re gonna die,” Bannon mutters incoherently to himself as he swigs the last of his drink. The images on the screen glow in the dark lounge, but no other travelers hear him. Only American passports gain admittance to this exclusive cafe buttressing the security terminal. Bannon had his passport revoked years ago, and he doesn’t have a travel visa, but he bribed an airline attendant in America and the security guard outside this lounge in Saudi Arabia.
“Another one a theeeth, Bob” Bannon slurs to the bartender, whose name is not Bob.
A young woman approaches and takes a seat in the empty bar stool next to Bannon. He doesn’t notice her at first, absorbed by the images flickering on the flat screen behind the bar. When he does, she’s wearing an expression that’s both repulsed and curious:
“Do I know you?” she asks as if she’s practiced the line.
Bannon hardly notices and is about to insult her before realizing she’s speaking fluent English, looks American and is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen.
“I hope chew do now,” he says very suavely.
With a maniacal gleam in his eye, he tries to paw at the woman’s waist, but she’s expecting it. She adroitly moves her private parts out of his sweaty hand’s range, and offers up a laugh of such coquettish abandon that the bartender, whose name is actually Abbud, almost trips and falls with surprise into the iPod register.
“You old brute. What AM I going to do with you?” she says, loud enough for Abbud to hear.
“I don know,” Bannon answers as he goes to squeeze her bosom.
“Hold on just a moment,” she says as she nimbly sidesteps his next sexual parry. “Do you have any idea when the next flight to Socotra leaves?” she asks Abbud.
“It’s leaving at 8:45 local time, ma’am. But they’re boarding any minute now.”
Bannon almost falls to the ground as he curses, grabs his soiled suitcoat and rushes out of the lounge towards his gate without remembering his bag.
The woman grabs his bag and goes after him.
Bannon is surprised to see her. He’s just pushed past a small crowd of late-arriving passengers to find his first-class seat, and — after he’s seated with a screwdriver in one hand and a copy of the Manheim translation of Mein Kampf in the other — she coolly saunters over to him to hand him the bag before sitting next to him in first class.
Somewhat stunned, but quickly recovering, he noisily gulps the remainder of his drink, and pats the ass of a stewardess helping an older woman to her seat.
“Another screwdriver, Tits McGee,” he says with a laugh. “I wouldn’t mind screwing you, and even letting you drive,” he says to his new seat mate.
“I always drive,” the woman responds with a smile, but Bannon doesn’t notice the vengeful glint that passes over her eyes as she says it. “Let’s get together when the plane lands, and then we’ll see about that screw.” When she says screw, she winks, but grimaces when she turns away from him.
Bannon passes out after his second screwdriver and the woman retires to the bathroom. When the plane lands, she shakes him awake and stifles a gag as he burps in her direction.
“We’re here,” she says with real excitement. “Where are you staying?”
“Berg All Salem. Some fucking shithole, probably,” he says, like it’s not his idea.
“You must mean Burj Al Salam. That’s great; I am, too. We can share a ride.”
“What, no. I have a limousine waiting.”
“You do?” she says with feigned surprise.
“Yes, I’m Steve Bannon. Of course I do. And it’s your lucky day because you don’t have to wait with the scum out on the street.”
Bannon, having slept through the worst of his drunk on the flight, is no longer slurring his words. But he looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his clothes smelling faintly of vomit, urine, and sweat. His hair was a tangled, unshorn mess of tresses standing on end and patted down with perspiration. If he weren’t wearing an old, ill-fitting suit, he’d be indistinguishable from the older fans dotting the grass at an outdoor Phish show.
When the unlikely pair get to the hotel, the woman lets him grab her ass as she leaves the limo. During the ride she’s studiously avoided the orbit around him where he could cop a feel, but he insisted she leave first and she was vulnerable in that moment.
Unruffled by the grab, and channeling her subsequent anger into the task at hand, the woman walks into the hotel with an easy, practiced sashay. Bannon licks his lips as he watches and follows her in.
As he’s checking in at the front desk, the woman casually drops a piece of paper next to his hand and hurries to catch a closing elevator. He looks up brusquely to see her but the doors have already closed.
Ten minutes later, there’s a rap at her door, and she can see through the peephole it’s Bannon.
She brushes her skirt down over her legs, takes a deep breath and opens it up with a smile that could light up even the dingiest corners of the world.
He smiles back like a crocodile that’s spotted a young hippo near the shore. As she turns to lead him into the apartment, he rushes towards her and attempts to push himself onto her right in the hallway.
With the agility and footwork of a ballerina, she pirouettes around his lunge and casually tells him with studied calm, “Lets have cocktails first, if we could.”
“I’ll give you some cock,” Bannon says, fiddling with his fly.
“You really are a poet,” she says and hands him a pre-poured Scotch on the rocks. “Oban,” she tells him. It’s actually Johnnie Walker Red with a small tranquilizer added, but she figured — correctly — that he wouldn’t know the difference. She didn’t have the money to splurge on real single malt.
“Hmmm.” Bannon can’t help but wolf it down as he glares at her over the top of the low-ball glass. “Now, where were w — ” At that moment, Bannon loses his balance and she catches him in her arms to lead him to the couch.
“So tired all of a sudden,” Bannon yawns. “What’s going on?”
“Perhaps you’d like a little pick-me-up before we get down to business?” she asks him.
“Sure. Er, what do you mean?”
“You know, a little jolt of energy.” At that, the woman brings out a small mirror with two pre-cut lines of white powder.
“Oh wow, I haven’t done this since Harvard,” he says. “But where did you get it so quickly? We just landed?”
“I have a connection,” she says with a coy smile. She takes a small bump of the line closest to her and hands him the mirror and bill.
Bannon furrows his brow like he’s deep in thought. He’s trying to remember how he got here and why he shouldn’t have a little fun. He dips his nose to the proffered bill, and lines it up with the powder. But when he snorts, he doesn’t feel the medicinal bite of cocaine — it’s something else.
Blood gushes down Bannon’s shirt and Mary Louise Piccard comes out from the bathroom with a petite, fearsome-looking Middle Eastern woman.
“MARY! What are — what is going on?” Bannon shouts as he looks toward the woman who invited him in. But she’s already gone, he can see the door to the room closing shut behind her.
“Hello Mr. Bannon,” says the intense Middle Eastern woman. “My name is Samiyah. You don’t know me, bu — ”
“WHAT!” Bannon interrupts. “Just what the hell do you think you — ?” It’s at that moment Bannon realizes he can’t moves his toes, or his feet, or legs or arms or hands, or even his head. He’s totally paralyzed.
“As I was saying,” Samiya continued, “My sister, Lina, was killed when the SEAL Team 6 raid you ordered hit a compound near my home on January 29, 2017. The woman who just left put me in touch with your ex-wife and they both helped pay for me to be educated in America.”
Bannon realizes he can’t even speak up to respond — his vocal cords are frozen by whatever they’d given him.
“We’re here to teach you a lesson,” Samiyah continues. “And to show you just how powerful a pissed off woman can be.”
At this point Mary makes sure she’s in Steve’s line of sight because he can’t turn his head anymore. She smiles widely at her ex-husband, as she takes out a gigantic dildo with a Nazi symbol on it.
“A little-known fact you might not have heard. Hitler liked to have his prostrate milked,” she tells him as she jars him in the side with a pocketknife and sees the pain flit across his eyes. “Good! We were worried the drug might dull the pain a bit, but the dose was correct; you’ll feel everything. Also, this isn’t a normal dildo.”
The glee on her face would haunt Steve for the rest of his short, miserable existence.
“Have you seen the movie Seven?” she asks her terrified husband, knowing full well he can’t answer.
