Crystal the Campaign Volunteer
- 2 years ago
- 21
- 0
Travelling The Campaign Trail With America's free porn video
I was trying to get up the energy to go down to the unemployment office when my cell phone rang. "Hey Bob," said my sometimes-girl-friend Lesley. "You interested in picking up a few bucks on the side?"
"Sure, as long as it doesn't involve honest work," I replied. "What's up?"
"Well my friend Melanie just told me that she heard of a job as a guide to some of the politicians who are coming in to Kansas City this weekend before the election" said Lesley. "I figure you've spent more time crawling around the bars and blues joints than anyone I know, so you've got to be as qualified as anyone in town."
"Oho, friend Les, you have DEFINITELY got your boy" I cackled, as I tried to keep Joanne from making noise. "I'm available as long as it doesn't involve anything before noon! What kind of income are we talking about?"
"I heard the figure of five hundred bucks for the day or weekend or something," she said, "but when I heard it was all expenses provided I knew you'd be interested."
"So who am I taking on a tour? That sax-playing hillbilly from Arkansas? I bet he can really party!"
"Jeez, Bob, get your head into the right millenium. Bill Clinton's been out of the White House ever since he got caught with that bimbo playing his trouser flute."
"Oh, that's right. Well I hear George was a real party a****l at Yale..."
"Wrong again, bubba. This one's a Georgia cracker.."
"That old peanut farmer? I doubt he'll be want to party very late?"
"Bob, I have really GOT to get you more politically conscious. This is 2012 dammit! Now take down this number and promise you'll call it - it's his advance man and he's expecting your call."
"OK."
I poked around and found some pants that had only been worn once or twice since the last time I had laundry money. I called the number and a snappy voice answered.
"This is Bob, and I heard I was to call you about taking your boy on a tour of KC's night spots. What kind of music does he like?"
"Oh, both kinds - Country AND Western," the preppy voice answered brightly.
"Say, honey, what's your name?" I asked (strictly because my momma taught me good manners.)
"Mah name's Annabelle," she sweetly replied. "And I'm so pleased to meet y'all."
"So when do we do this gig?" I asked.
"Well, tonight the Candidate has a speech at a rally for his supporters at Bartle Hall, followed by a meet-and-greet with his closest supporters at the Downtown Athletic Club, and then the Candidate would like to relax a little, enjoy some of Kansas City's barbeque, and then maybe hit some live music."
"OK, I'll be at Bartle around 8 - that work?"
"Oh, dear, you'll have to show up earlier than that - we have to run a security clearance on you. But that shouldn't take very long."
Shit. Security clearance? Yeah, like an unemployed rythmn guitar player has a Top Secret clearance. But I needed the dough, so what the hell.
******************
I arrived at Bartle Hall downtown about 6:30 and since I was too cheap to pay the parking (well, too broke is more the truth) I parked over at the Cathedral across the street. I knew they didn't give out parking tickets until Sunday morning. Walked across the street to where there was a bunch of signs saying announcing a rally, looked at the long lines waiting to get in, shrugged and headed for the back entrance. Fuck that standing in line BS with a bunch of guys who looked like lawyers and accountants and their uptight wives!
I slipped in the back and headed for the auditorium when a dude about the size of Magic Johnson in an undertaker's suit grabbed me and started growling about security. I said "Hey, man, I'm just here because Annabelle hired me to show
some dude around." He started growling into his wrist and cocked his head to the side - he was some kind of replicant, with a pink curly wire running from his ear down into his collar. Then he said "Yes sir," grabbed me by the arm, and started marching me backstage.
I'm starting to think "What the fuck did I just get myself into?" when they started patting me down. Fortunately when I changed clothes I left my stash in my other pair of jeans, so they didn't find anything but some matches and a half pack of Marlboros. They sniffed the Marlboros like they were some kinda contraband and gave me a dirty look that said "We don't smoke like you lowlifes" but eventually gave them back. Then they fingerprinted me and started asking questions about where I lived, where I worked, which political parties I belonged to, all that kind of crap. Didn't take long until they got to the part about "Have you ever been arrested."
A half hour later they decided that drunk and disorderly, unpaid parking tickets and a half dozen speeding tickets were not enough to make me a threat to National Security so they said to go on in. Annabelle was waiting, and she was worth waiting for - couldn't have been more than a day past legal, cute little tits, round little bottom and tight enough clothes you could count the change in her pockets. I followed her wiggly little butt up the ramp and into the wings where it sounded like a thousand drunken Moose Lodge types were whooping and hollering like they had just all won at the dog track.
Pretty soon a whole gang of Magic Johnson types in identical suits came barreling down the hall with a guy in the middle of them. I stepped back as they shoved past, then they headed out the exit onto the street. Annabelle grabbed my hand and said, "Come on, we're heading to the big bucks meet and greet." I stayed right with her, because I didn't want to let go of that soft little hand.
We got to the Downtown Club and the doorman gave me a really dirty look, like I wasn't dressed good enough or something. But Annabelle had put a tag around my neck like a backstage pass, and so I sneered something at the doorman as I strutted past his choked look. Fuck you, buddy, I am with SOMEBODY FAMOUS and you can't touch me. At least not this time...
Well there were a whole bunch of white, clean-cut guys in expensive suits standing around with drinks in their hands, slapping each other on the backs and "networking" each other like they were all in the used car business and practicing trying out their sales pitches on each other. Every one of them had good hair, good teeth, and shiny shoes - wasn't a pair of sandals or a ponytail anywhere in the room. The women were all trophy wife types, skinny with little boobs and lots of jewelry. The kind who only fuck guys who drive Porsches or Cadillacs. The scent of musk was in the air, the kind of smell that bitches give off when they are in heat. This was prime pussy territory, every female eying the other females like they were afraid someone else was gonna get laid by a bigger stud. The guys were all comparing dick sizes I guess, showing off whose wife was the hottest lay while the wives were all trying to decide which guy they should make a move on to CLIMB THE LADDER. Now I've seen a lot of women wet their panties over who gets to fuck the singer or the lead guitar player, and I know that the bass player is always a big black stud who gets the best pussy, but I'd never seen how rich bitches can calculate a guy's income by the tassels on his shoes or the silk in his suit so fast.
Well after a lot of flashbulbs popping and backslapping and slipping of envelopes into jacket pockets (and phone numbers into other pockets) and lots of toothy grins and encouragement of how swell everything was, I slipped off and grabbed a couple of drinks and some finger food. Hell, I wasn't going to be the only sober one in this crowd! I mean, thank God for the doobie I inhaled on the drive down or this would have been a bum trip, but thanks to the smoke I was getting the munchies. I tried hitting on a few of the drunker women, but they took one look at my dirty Nikes and laughed 86 proof fumes in my face. I've met whores who were more honest about the financial arrangements involved than these high class hookers were - at least a whore states the price in dollars, not percentages of net income!
About my third drink, Annabelle fished me out of a conversation with some dude about THE BANKING CRISIS (my idea of a banking crisis is when my ATM card is siezed by the machine and won't give it back) and she said "The Candidate is ready to go now. Let's go!"
Now I was never one to refuse a tight little set of buns like Annabelle had, so I followed her out the side door into the LONGEST LIMOUSINE I had ever seen. The fucker had its front wheels on 11th street and the back end was on 12th - hell, it had room to carry Mini Coopers for lifeboats! I finally got in the back and there were three or four women already in there, when Annabelle and The Candidate piled in, said "Whew - let's GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!"
The driver wheeled us out into traffic, and Annabelle turned to The Candidate and introduced us. I forget names as soon as I hear them unless they are attached to a really nice set of tits like Annabelle's so I promptly forgot his name, but he was a big fat dude with a mop of silver hair and kind of beady eyes. He could have passed for a Baptist preacher except his suit was too expensive.
"You hungry?" I asked, and he said "Shit yes. I'm starved after all that finger food. What's good around here?"
"Let's start at Arthur Bryant's" I said to the driver. "The original one." So off we went to the east side of Troost, where the night was black and the population even blacker.
We pulled up in front and got out, and gathered quite a few stares at the limo and the women. I didn't attract much attention because they're used to people like me, but some wolf whistles went up when Annabelle emerged from the car. Then the security dude from the front seat got out, and things were cool.
We went in and The Candidate started glad-handing everyone in sight. I'd already forgotten his name, but a lot of the people in there seemed to know him, and they started backing away like he had the clap or something. So he snapped his fingers for a waitress and the place got real quiet. REAL quiet. I cleared my throat and said, "Baby back ribs - a slab apiece. And beer - lots of beer."
Well, they found us a table right next to the kitchen door. The Candidate started to put up a fuss, and I adlibbed and said "This is the most prized table in the place, your highness. Down here, the closer to the kitchen and the food, the more important the person." Well, he seemed to buy it anyway. I liked it because the kitchen gave us a way out without going back through the front door.
They brought us the ribs and half a dozen pitchers of beer, and we dug in. Pretty soon The Candidate was smacking his lips, spilling barbeque sauce down his front, and chugging beer like he was in hog heaven. As soon as everyone saw him enjoying the food, the temperature dropped about twenty or thirty degrees in the room and I began to think maybe we'd get out of there alive.
Then the shit hit the fan. A pimp came in, saw who was at the table, and began laughing. His ho's both started laughing too, and then his thugs started scowling. The Candidate stood up and stuck out his hand like he was working a club full of Republicans, and the pimp just stared at it a while, then took a napkin and carefully wiped it off, then handed it to the nearest waitress.
The Candidate didn't know how to handle this, so he made another mistake. He reached into his suit and the moment he did, the pimp's thugs whipped out some BIG FUCKING GUNS. Of course, then our Secret Service dudes whipped out their guns, but it was rather obvious that they had fewer and smaller guns than what was pointing at us. From all corners of the room, in fact. It was getting warm again, and I could see a dark stain starting to spread around The Candidate's crotch.
"Fuck," I thought to myself, then said "Hey Willie, how's it going?"
Willie looked over at me, and said, "Things are going real good, Bobby. Real good. You doin' OK?"
"Yeah" I said, not taking my eyes off the hand cannon his main man was holding. "I got this gig taking these dudes around town showing 'em the best food and blues the town has tonight. So I brought 'em here to start."
"Yeah, well, they've eat and now it's time to go," Willie said.
"Sure is," I replied. "Come on now, let's square up and split" as I edged to the door. The Candidate, his girls and his heat slowly got up, dropped a pile of bills on the table, and followed me out to the limo. Which was now missing its hub caps and TV antenna.
"You saved our lives" gushed Annabelle as we pulled away. "How did you do that?"
"Oh, Willie's an old fan of mine," I said. "I used to have business arrangements with him." I didn't mention that the business arrangements involved pawned musical gear and somewhat illegitimate pharmaceuticals - I mean, what did that matter to them?
"Well I thought that was GREAT BARBEQUE" said The Candidate. "So now LET'S HAVE SOME FUN!" And with that he slapped one of the girls on the ass, and reached the other hand up another one's skirt. They giggled and the driver asked "Where to now?"
When nobody answered, I thought what the hell, let's make a night of it. "BB's Lawnside" I answered. "Let's see who's playing tonight?"
**************
To Be Continued
"Sure, as long as it doesn't involve honest work," I replied. "What's up?"
"Well my friend Melanie just told me that she heard of a job as a guide to some of the politicians who are coming in to Kansas City this weekend before the election" said Lesley. "I figure you've spent more time crawling around the bars and blues joints than anyone I know, so you've got to be as qualified as anyone in town."
"Oho, friend Les, you have DEFINITELY got your boy" I cackled, as I tried to keep Joanne from making noise. "I'm available as long as it doesn't involve anything before noon! What kind of income are we talking about?"
"I heard the figure of five hundred bucks for the day or weekend or something," she said, "but when I heard it was all expenses provided I knew you'd be interested."
"So who am I taking on a tour? That sax-playing hillbilly from Arkansas? I bet he can really party!"
"Jeez, Bob, get your head into the right millenium. Bill Clinton's been out of the White House ever since he got caught with that bimbo playing his trouser flute."
"Oh, that's right. Well I hear George was a real party a****l at Yale..."
"Wrong again, bubba. This one's a Georgia cracker.."
"That old peanut farmer? I doubt he'll be want to party very late?"
"Bob, I have really GOT to get you more politically conscious. This is 2012 dammit! Now take down this number and promise you'll call it - it's his advance man and he's expecting your call."
"OK."
I poked around and found some pants that had only been worn once or twice since the last time I had laundry money. I called the number and a snappy voice answered.
"This is Bob, and I heard I was to call you about taking your boy on a tour of KC's night spots. What kind of music does he like?"
"Oh, both kinds - Country AND Western," the preppy voice answered brightly.
"Say, honey, what's your name?" I asked (strictly because my momma taught me good manners.)
"Mah name's Annabelle," she sweetly replied. "And I'm so pleased to meet y'all."
"So when do we do this gig?" I asked.
"Well, tonight the Candidate has a speech at a rally for his supporters at Bartle Hall, followed by a meet-and-greet with his closest supporters at the Downtown Athletic Club, and then the Candidate would like to relax a little, enjoy some of Kansas City's barbeque, and then maybe hit some live music."
"OK, I'll be at Bartle around 8 - that work?"
"Oh, dear, you'll have to show up earlier than that - we have to run a security clearance on you. But that shouldn't take very long."
Shit. Security clearance? Yeah, like an unemployed rythmn guitar player has a Top Secret clearance. But I needed the dough, so what the hell.
******************
I arrived at Bartle Hall downtown about 6:30 and since I was too cheap to pay the parking (well, too broke is more the truth) I parked over at the Cathedral across the street. I knew they didn't give out parking tickets until Sunday morning. Walked across the street to where there was a bunch of signs saying announcing a rally, looked at the long lines waiting to get in, shrugged and headed for the back entrance. Fuck that standing in line BS with a bunch of guys who looked like lawyers and accountants and their uptight wives!
I slipped in the back and headed for the auditorium when a dude about the size of Magic Johnson in an undertaker's suit grabbed me and started growling about security. I said "Hey, man, I'm just here because Annabelle hired me to show
some dude around." He started growling into his wrist and cocked his head to the side - he was some kind of replicant, with a pink curly wire running from his ear down into his collar. Then he said "Yes sir," grabbed me by the arm, and started marching me backstage.
I'm starting to think "What the fuck did I just get myself into?" when they started patting me down. Fortunately when I changed clothes I left my stash in my other pair of jeans, so they didn't find anything but some matches and a half pack of Marlboros. They sniffed the Marlboros like they were some kinda contraband and gave me a dirty look that said "We don't smoke like you lowlifes" but eventually gave them back. Then they fingerprinted me and started asking questions about where I lived, where I worked, which political parties I belonged to, all that kind of crap. Didn't take long until they got to the part about "Have you ever been arrested."
A half hour later they decided that drunk and disorderly, unpaid parking tickets and a half dozen speeding tickets were not enough to make me a threat to National Security so they said to go on in. Annabelle was waiting, and she was worth waiting for - couldn't have been more than a day past legal, cute little tits, round little bottom and tight enough clothes you could count the change in her pockets. I followed her wiggly little butt up the ramp and into the wings where it sounded like a thousand drunken Moose Lodge types were whooping and hollering like they had just all won at the dog track.
Pretty soon a whole gang of Magic Johnson types in identical suits came barreling down the hall with a guy in the middle of them. I stepped back as they shoved past, then they headed out the exit onto the street. Annabelle grabbed my hand and said, "Come on, we're heading to the big bucks meet and greet." I stayed right with her, because I didn't want to let go of that soft little hand.
We got to the Downtown Club and the doorman gave me a really dirty look, like I wasn't dressed good enough or something. But Annabelle had put a tag around my neck like a backstage pass, and so I sneered something at the doorman as I strutted past his choked look. Fuck you, buddy, I am with SOMEBODY FAMOUS and you can't touch me. At least not this time...
Well there were a whole bunch of white, clean-cut guys in expensive suits standing around with drinks in their hands, slapping each other on the backs and "networking" each other like they were all in the used car business and practicing trying out their sales pitches on each other. Every one of them had good hair, good teeth, and shiny shoes - wasn't a pair of sandals or a ponytail anywhere in the room. The women were all trophy wife types, skinny with little boobs and lots of jewelry. The kind who only fuck guys who drive Porsches or Cadillacs. The scent of musk was in the air, the kind of smell that bitches give off when they are in heat. This was prime pussy territory, every female eying the other females like they were afraid someone else was gonna get laid by a bigger stud. The guys were all comparing dick sizes I guess, showing off whose wife was the hottest lay while the wives were all trying to decide which guy they should make a move on to CLIMB THE LADDER. Now I've seen a lot of women wet their panties over who gets to fuck the singer or the lead guitar player, and I know that the bass player is always a big black stud who gets the best pussy, but I'd never seen how rich bitches can calculate a guy's income by the tassels on his shoes or the silk in his suit so fast.
Well after a lot of flashbulbs popping and backslapping and slipping of envelopes into jacket pockets (and phone numbers into other pockets) and lots of toothy grins and encouragement of how swell everything was, I slipped off and grabbed a couple of drinks and some finger food. Hell, I wasn't going to be the only sober one in this crowd! I mean, thank God for the doobie I inhaled on the drive down or this would have been a bum trip, but thanks to the smoke I was getting the munchies. I tried hitting on a few of the drunker women, but they took one look at my dirty Nikes and laughed 86 proof fumes in my face. I've met whores who were more honest about the financial arrangements involved than these high class hookers were - at least a whore states the price in dollars, not percentages of net income!
About my third drink, Annabelle fished me out of a conversation with some dude about THE BANKING CRISIS (my idea of a banking crisis is when my ATM card is siezed by the machine and won't give it back) and she said "The Candidate is ready to go now. Let's go!"
Now I was never one to refuse a tight little set of buns like Annabelle had, so I followed her out the side door into the LONGEST LIMOUSINE I had ever seen. The fucker had its front wheels on 11th street and the back end was on 12th - hell, it had room to carry Mini Coopers for lifeboats! I finally got in the back and there were three or four women already in there, when Annabelle and The Candidate piled in, said "Whew - let's GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!"
The driver wheeled us out into traffic, and Annabelle turned to The Candidate and introduced us. I forget names as soon as I hear them unless they are attached to a really nice set of tits like Annabelle's so I promptly forgot his name, but he was a big fat dude with a mop of silver hair and kind of beady eyes. He could have passed for a Baptist preacher except his suit was too expensive.
"You hungry?" I asked, and he said "Shit yes. I'm starved after all that finger food. What's good around here?"
"Let's start at Arthur Bryant's" I said to the driver. "The original one." So off we went to the east side of Troost, where the night was black and the population even blacker.
We pulled up in front and got out, and gathered quite a few stares at the limo and the women. I didn't attract much attention because they're used to people like me, but some wolf whistles went up when Annabelle emerged from the car. Then the security dude from the front seat got out, and things were cool.
We went in and The Candidate started glad-handing everyone in sight. I'd already forgotten his name, but a lot of the people in there seemed to know him, and they started backing away like he had the clap or something. So he snapped his fingers for a waitress and the place got real quiet. REAL quiet. I cleared my throat and said, "Baby back ribs - a slab apiece. And beer - lots of beer."
Well, they found us a table right next to the kitchen door. The Candidate started to put up a fuss, and I adlibbed and said "This is the most prized table in the place, your highness. Down here, the closer to the kitchen and the food, the more important the person." Well, he seemed to buy it anyway. I liked it because the kitchen gave us a way out without going back through the front door.
They brought us the ribs and half a dozen pitchers of beer, and we dug in. Pretty soon The Candidate was smacking his lips, spilling barbeque sauce down his front, and chugging beer like he was in hog heaven. As soon as everyone saw him enjoying the food, the temperature dropped about twenty or thirty degrees in the room and I began to think maybe we'd get out of there alive.
Then the shit hit the fan. A pimp came in, saw who was at the table, and began laughing. His ho's both started laughing too, and then his thugs started scowling. The Candidate stood up and stuck out his hand like he was working a club full of Republicans, and the pimp just stared at it a while, then took a napkin and carefully wiped it off, then handed it to the nearest waitress.
The Candidate didn't know how to handle this, so he made another mistake. He reached into his suit and the moment he did, the pimp's thugs whipped out some BIG FUCKING GUNS. Of course, then our Secret Service dudes whipped out their guns, but it was rather obvious that they had fewer and smaller guns than what was pointing at us. From all corners of the room, in fact. It was getting warm again, and I could see a dark stain starting to spread around The Candidate's crotch.
"Fuck," I thought to myself, then said "Hey Willie, how's it going?"
Willie looked over at me, and said, "Things are going real good, Bobby. Real good. You doin' OK?"
"Yeah" I said, not taking my eyes off the hand cannon his main man was holding. "I got this gig taking these dudes around town showing 'em the best food and blues the town has tonight. So I brought 'em here to start."
"Yeah, well, they've eat and now it's time to go," Willie said.
"Sure is," I replied. "Come on now, let's square up and split" as I edged to the door. The Candidate, his girls and his heat slowly got up, dropped a pile of bills on the table, and followed me out to the limo. Which was now missing its hub caps and TV antenna.
"You saved our lives" gushed Annabelle as we pulled away. "How did you do that?"
"Oh, Willie's an old fan of mine," I said. "I used to have business arrangements with him." I didn't mention that the business arrangements involved pawned musical gear and somewhat illegitimate pharmaceuticals - I mean, what did that matter to them?
"Well I thought that was GREAT BARBEQUE" said The Candidate. "So now LET'S HAVE SOME FUN!" And with that he slapped one of the girls on the ass, and reached the other hand up another one's skirt. They giggled and the driver asked "Where to now?"
When nobody answered, I thought what the hell, let's make a night of it. "BB's Lawnside" I answered. "Let's see who's playing tonight?"
**************
To Be Continued
Mei
- 12.04.2021
- 14
- 0
