STEVE BANNON WEEK: Steve Bannon Eats a Hot Dog
It was just past three o’clock in the afternoon when Steve Bannon, a gross 63-year-old man, pushed ruefully through the back door of the White House, a folksy screen door banging shut behind him.
He sighed heavily, dropping a Jansport backpack to the ground as he walked immediately to the fridge for his favorite snack, a cold hot dog. He had had to scream at no less than seven trembling female interns in the first three days of the administration (this was no man’s job), but now there was always a full pack ready whenever the Hunger struck him again. He grinned a little when he saw the crisp, clear plastic in the middle of the shelf. Six little cylinders, smooth and shining in their salty ham-water leavings, and lit from behind — meat cradled in plastic like an industrial food pieta.
Cold. Reliable. His.
Slowly — savoring the wet, slick jumble of them in his hand — he fished out a cold, compressed stick and bit into it. Or tried. He bit one of his own fingers like, three times first — it was hard to distinguish which was which. Finally, he found joy.
He sighed again, this time in satisfaction — a cold, porky wind whistling through a mouthful of mush.
There was nothing better than this. The foamy parting of the mechanically separated meat under his teeth made him feel strong. He could hear it as it yielded to him, hear the little air bubbles whimpering their breathy last under his yellowing incisors. He briefly considered pouring some yellow mustard into the melange of meat on his tongue, but no. There was a purity to this. The flavor that was more sweet than savory, the slight coating of fat on his tongue, the way that the snack seemed to accentuate the taste of his own saliva. Also, French’s was too spicy for him.
Steve chewed with his mouth open, wanting to hear. The sound was truly wet now — he’d heated the meal with his own mastication. Like primal man, he thought in satisfaction. I have made fire. I am the fire.
He swallowed, savoring the way it stayed in a single lump in his throat. It always resisted him. It always succumbed.
Steve considered the remaining half of the hot dog. Sometimes, on days like this, he transgressed. Sometimes, when the Hunger rose too hot inside him, conquering the slender tube of pork with his teeth didn’t give full release to the power he knew he had to express. Sometimes, he needed to bring a little extra to the table.
You’ve done so well this week, Steve, he thought shakily. You can have this. Give yourself what you need.
He pushed the hot dog lengthwise into his mouth and shoved his fat tongue into the center, the plastic top note of the fridge somehow still present deep in the heart of the dog, assaulting his taste buds. He felt it split in his mouth and let out a powerful grunt that rattled through his sinuses, yes, he was a conquistador, a god, a king, and his enemy was cold and in pieces on his palette. His molars sought out the fragments in his mouth, a pack of wild coffee-stained hounds set loose at the thin, salty blood packaged to keep his prey moist and fresh in the packet. A thin, reedy whine of satisfaction followed the deep gulp that sent the last bite down his gullet.
He didn’t notice Sean Spicer in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes wet and red — always wet and red. Steve never noticed Sean standing in the doorway. He never saw his red, wet eyes. But Sean could feel the Hunger stalk these hallways. He always knew when to wend his way down to the kitchen. He always arrived just in time to see Steve gnawing on his fingers in a hot-dog-fevered haze. He always saw the water roll from the hot dog and soak into the cuffs of Steve’s shirt. He always saw the dull pink meat churning in Steve’s teeth. He always watched.
He liked to watch.
Steve Bannon, mottled face shaking in exertion, reached for another hot dog.
