My Meter Is Running

 

Way back when I was a young man I suscribed to National Lampoon magazine. I would come out once a month and it was outrageous. It was a humor magazine. A few years ago I was talking to an knowlegebale book dealer and he informed that thes magazines are very collectible now. I managed to hang on to eight of them. That is where this story comes from. Bernie X is a ficticious New York cab driver and this story is outrageous. What I love is they mock a vice president of the United States. No, he goes beyond mocking. He tears him into shreds. 

Gerry

 

AFTERWORD

The following story was printed in a 1976 edition of National Lampoon. This story is being reproduced without their permission either written or verbal.


Cast of characters

Nelson Rockerfeller / Scion of the Rockerfeller fortune, Vice-President of the United States under Gerald Ford. Allegedly died of a heart attack in a New York City hotel.

Henry Kissinger Secretary of State during the Nixon and Ford administrations. This man was a major architect of the Vietnam War.

Lindsay, John V. Mayor of New York City in the years 1966 – 1973.

Ronan 

Bernie cab driver extraordinaire

MY METER IS RUNNING

  One thing you´ll never have to worry about . . . no matter what happens, Nelson Rockefeller will never become president. Y´know why, doncha? He´s a fairy! He is such a fucking fairy that they got to watch him day and night or else he´ll get killed-he´ll get assassinated. What does being a fairy got to do with getting killed? Listen . . . you got a few extra minutes? I´ll take you crosstown through the park and I´ll tell you the whole thing. I used to work for Rockefeller, y´know. That´s how I know the whole fucking story. I saved that cocksucker´s life a few years ago. Here´s how it happened.
One night I´m cruising downtown in the Village and I pick up these two guys. One of them is wearing dark glasses and one of those fedora hats with the big brims so you can hardly see his face. The other guy is some kind of spic. Looks like he´s not more than twelve years old. The guy with the big hat gives me an address somewhere in the east sixties. I´m riding along when all of a sudden I hear these slushing noises in the back. Then I hear moaning and groaning. I turn around at the next light and I see the little spic kid with that look on his face like he´s about to come. I can´t see the guy with the fedora, but you can guess where he was and what he was doing. I lean over and see that he´s got his head buried in the spic´s crotch with the hat covering his face so you still can´t see it. Fuck this, I said to myself. I don’t usually pick up fairies unless they really make It worth my while. I got a way of making them pay more than what´s on the meter. Anyway, I don´t want these creeps in my cab, so I stop and tell them to get the fuck out or I´ll wipe the floor with them. The little spico doesn’t even hear me. He´s still on cloud nine. The gut with the hat over his face looks up from the floor, swallows a few times, shakes my hand, and says, “Hiya, fella.” It’s Nelson Rockefeller. He gives me a big bullshit story about how important cabdrivers are, how we´re the best people in the world, the hub of our fucking city. I still remember he said we´re the hub, whatever the fuck that means. And then he puts a twenty dollar bill in my hand and gives me the old wink. This is supposed to make me his asshole buddy, his lifelong friend. To tell you the truth, I didn´t a good goddamn about Rockefeller being a fairy. He could have been give blow-jobs in Macy´s window at high noon for all I gave a shit. What pissed me off was how he tried to buy me with a lousy twenty dollar bill.
Now I´m no fucking blackmailer but I got mad and told him what he could do with his fucking twenty. All of a sudden he got scared. Maybe it had something to do with all the bad publicity he was getting at the time, his divorce and all. If I spilled the beans on him and his little spicky, it wouldn’t look too good. So I really had the son-of-a-bitch nailed. Maybe he could´ve had me killed, now that I look back on it. But right then and there he was shitting rainbow colors. What did I want, he asked me. A thousand? Ten thousand? Name my price. My own cab company? Nah, I didn´t need that fucking headache. “Better yet, why not quit driving a cab and come work for me?” he said. He said he´d give me a hundred thousand a year. I said “make it two hundred grand and I´ll take it”. He shook my hand to close the deal and I could feel his palm drenched with sweat. He was fucking leaf. He told me where to go and who to see about my job and promised he would take good care of me. I figured, what the hell, why not go along with it? Two hundred thousand was a lot more than I was making driving a fucking cab, right? Anyway, I didn’t have to hondle with him. It was easier for a guy like that to just give me a nice cushy job, to make it all look good. Or else give me a loan, like he did with all those other people, all those friends who also had something on him. Anyway, I didn’t feel guilty about it. A guy like that wipes his ass with thousand dollar bills every day. Two hundred thousand doesn’t mean shit to him.
The next morning I go to this address he gives me, a shitty looking office building in the garment district. For some reason, Rockefeller´s office is called the Intercontinental Shipping and Forwarding Company. It looked small from the outside, but I could see that it took up the whole fucking floor. For all I know, the whole building was Rockefeller´s. I had to fill out these papers just like any other job. Then I had to see this snotnose guy with a dark suit and little glasses.
Snotnose looks at my file. They already got a file on me. He notices that I am a licensed fag detective. The police actually gave me a special license because I work with them a lot on cases involving fags. I got a special knack for spotting them. No matter how straight they look, I can tell if they´re homos. So Snotnose gets a brainstorm. I´m going to be a fag detective for Rockefeller, a very important job. Why does Rockefeller need a fag detevtive? I ask. A good question, says Snotnose. And he tells me about his plot to assassinate Rocky. It seems that when Rocky bought Venezuela and Puerto Rico, the main thing he wanted to do with these countries was to find all these young spics and use them for his fag parties. Snotnose told me that Rockefeller was nuts about really young boys of the “Hispanic persuasion” – those were the words he used – kids about eight, nine, ten years old especially. He would get busloads of them, pay them to do all kinds of disgusting fag stuff with him and his homo friends. The snotnose said that most of the kids didn’t mind. A lot of them were fags anyway, so. Rocky was actually doing them a big favor. He was giving them enough money to support their whole families. But there was a small group of spics who were very mad at Rocky for what he was doing. They weren´t fags. They were so fucking mad that they wanted to kill him. Sure, there´s a very good security team guarding Rocky, he said. But the one area where he´s vulnerable is with his fag boyfriend. This is the one indulgence we have to live with. If he doesn’t get his fags every day, he goes crazy, like an alcoholic without his liquor. So we have to give him his spic boyfriends, but we have to maintain the tightest security possible. And that´s where you come in, he said. You will be in charge of screening all of Rocky´s boys, to make sure they are harmless, not fanatical killers. It seems that they got wind of this new revolutionary organization in Puerto Rico that swore to kill Rocky at any cost. Just a few weeks ago, he said they very nearly got him. He was campaigning down on Mulberry Street, in the Italian neighborhood, and somebody stuck a knish in his hand and of course, he took a bite out of it, and it turned out to be poisoned. You don’t eat knishes on Mulberry Street, but he´ll eat anything that’s put in his hands, Snotnose said. He still doesn’t know the difference between a knish and a calzone. But they managed to pump the poison out of his stomach.
Anyway, the security team would take care of everything. They just wanted me to be the fag expert on the team, as an extra precaution. So every day I would report to Intercontinental and look over a bunch of new spics, usually PRs or Venezuelans from Rocky´s ranch. He even raises them on the fucking ranch, like tomatoes-nice looking boys, mostly ranging from eight to about thirteen or fourteen. I had to give them a good once-over and my seal of approval. If I thought there was a rotten apple in the deck, I would tap the kid on the left shoulder. That was the part I didn’t like. I smelled out nine straights in the first two weeks, and I´ll never forget the looks in their eyes when the security guys took them away. Maybe they were really harmless, but I couldn’t take no chances. I couldn’t afford to split hairs and my word was final.
So everything was going along hunky-dory for a while and then the shit hit the fan. I get a call in the middle of the night from Snotnose. “Get your ass over to 655 East  Sixty-third street,” he said. “Go to the twelfth floor. When the elevator opens, press the twelve button six times. The door will close and the car will take you to the unmarked floor between twelve and fourteen. Get off and walk down a hallway to a door marked 13-F. Ring the bell four times-two longs and two shorts.”
I do exactly like he said and I end up in this fucking gigantic apartment with all these stupid looking paintings and statues. I guess Rocky was having one of his big fag parties because I saw about a dozen little spickies and a bunch of his pals there. You know, Kissinger, Ronan, even scumbag Lindsay was there. I always knew that cocksucker was a fairy. Kissinger was still running around naked with his little button of a cock, trying to jump on one of the kids. He was drunker than a nigger cowboy on a Saturday night.
But everybody else looked very worried, very tense. “What the fuck happened?” I asked. “That´s what we´d like to know,” Snotnose said. Jesus, was he in a bad mood! “Because of your bungling, somebody got to Rockefeller,” he said. “That’s fucking impossible,” I said. “Every kid in this room was O.K.´d by me. They´re all fags. My mother should drop dead if they´re not all screaming homos.” But Snotnose gave me a look that cut me dead. “You slipped up on somebody in this room, Bernie. And now the boss is on the brink of death. First the Kennedys, then Martin Luther King, now it looks like the biggest and best of them all is going. All because of your fuckup.”
Just then one of the doctors comes out of Rocky´s bedroom. He looks pretty grim. No, he said, Rocky isn´t dead yet. He´s still hanging on by a slim thread. Luckily, he´s got a very strong constitution. But he´s going into a coma and it looks like he´ll be dead by morning. It seems that he was poisoned. He didn’t have anything to eat or drink, but he did swallow something, the doctor said. There was only one possibility. Somehow the killer got the poison into his balls through some kind of injection and when Rocky did his stuff on the killer, bingo, that was it-down the hatch and into the bloodstream.
Well there goes my 200 Gs a year, down the toilet, I thought. Who the fuck did I slip up on? One of those son-of-a-bitch spics was a fake fag. I was mad as hell and I started slapping the little cocksuckers around. They were all scared and yakketing away like chickens in that funny Puerto Rican style Spanish that nobody can understand. I was in a mood to kill the whole fucking bunch of them. Then I noticed one of them was dozing off-he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He´s one of the darker type PRs-what I call a shvugarican – that’s half shvugie, or Negro, and half Puerto Rican. He´s got a smile on his face like he´s happy and content. He´s not scared, like the rest of them. I shake the shit out of him to get him awake. You´re the son-of-a-bitch that did it, aren´t you? I said. He nods at me and says yes. Only I shouldn’t feel bad, he says, because he is a fag. He deliberately trained himself to be a fag so he could infiltrate Rockefeller´s parties and assassinate him. He sacrificed his masculinity for the revolution that would someday overthrow the imperialist Rockefeller. Yes, he was a homo, he said. But more important, He was a patriot. He said they had a method of injecting poison into his balls, so it would mix with his semen, making it a deadly weapon of assassination. He said the poison was made by their Botanica ladies - they´re like witch doctors. I should have realized they would have a fag killer. But still, it was no skin off my ass. I didn’t fuck up my job. I knew the guy was a homo. And then he falls asleep, and bingo – he´s dead. The doctors looked at him and said there was probably enough poison on his balls to kill an elephant. He died with a fucking smile on his face.
Swell . . . at least he got me off the hook as far as the blame went, but it still didn’t solve the problem of what to do with Rocky. His staff was on the phone all night, making arrangements for the biggest fucking doctors in the world to fly in. They came from the Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkins, Vienna, Heidelburg, Zurich. Guess what? Nobody knew a fucking thing about what to do. All they knew was that he swallowed some kind of spooky poison that a Puerto Rican witch doctor cooked up, and they didn’t know how to treat it.
It looked like Rocky was going to croak when one of the little spicolas tugged on my arm and told me how he could be saved. According to the witch doctors, the only way to neutralize the poison was with a different kind of semen, semen that would act like an antidote, if the semen was strong enough, it might work.
By now, the doctors were so desperate they figured anything might work. If Rocky was being poisoned by a witch doctor, maybe he might be saved by the same kind of medicine. Only whose come was the right one? So they made everybody in the room jerk off and they injected a few drops into Rocky´s arm . . . you know . . . like intravenous feeding. Nothing happened until they shot mine in. All of a sudden, Rocky woke up for a few seconds and his heart and respiration began to improve. So it was my come. I figured as much.
But somehow, the excitement of that little hunk of come was too much for Rocky, and in a few minutes he started sinking fast. All of a sudden the medical machines and wires attached to his body started to jump and make noises. The doctors knew there wasn’t much time for anything fancy. Not even for intravenous feeding. They decided there was only one way to save Rocky – an open heart blow-job. They figured the fastest way for me to come was to get a terrific blow-job from one of the fags, and I would shoot my gun right into Rocky´s open heart, to get his ticker working again. The fact that I just jerked off didn’t matter to them. I had to get it up fast and get it up good. That was no problem to me since I normally can come fifteen, twenty times a night. But I´m not crazy about getting blow by a fag. In fact, I can´t stand them. They turn me off. I hate the son-of-bitches – I´m allergic to them. They´re the only people who can´t turn me on. And there´s no time to get a broad, so there´s no other choice.
Hurry the hell up, yells one of the doctors. Who´s the best cocksucker in the room? They tried all the little spics on me. The poor guys were sucking and licking and stroking and doing everything they could, but my pecker was still as soft as a rabbit´s ass. Everybody was screaming at me, cheering me on, begging me to get a hard-on. The doctors were ready to cut Rocky open as soon as I signaled I was about to come. I was getting scared. I wasn’t holding back on purpose . . . although I was used to holding back my come for hours when I had a hard-on. I was just helpless.
And then, the miracle happened. Rocky opened his eyes for a split second and saw me standing there with my schlong hanging out. His eyes got bright, and he croaked, “Bernie . . . Bernie.” I forgot to tell you that Rocky was secretly in love with me from the moment he got into my cab. Fags are crazy about me, too. I can´t help it. Anyway, when I heard this I had to act fast. I gritted my teeth and shoved my lip cork at Rocky before the doctors could stop me. He grabbed it and did something terrific that made my joint shoot up like a fucking rocket. I don´t know what he did, but all of a sudden it was as big as a salami. So when the doctors saw what was happening, they opened him real fast. In no time I shot my gun into the spot they showed me. I never came so fast and so hard in my life. Then they closed him up and crossed their fingers, hoping the next miracle would happen. A couple of minutes went by and sure as shit, his heart started beating stronger. The machines were all showing the right signs. The cocksucker was coming to life. My come saved his life. To tell you the truth, I was impressed with Rocky. I was touched by his feelings. Fag or no fag, it was a remarkable thing for him to do. He must have had a great will to live.
Well, a few days later, Snotnose came by and said that they wouldn’t need my services anymore. He gave me a couple of hundred bucks severance pay and that was it. He said that from now on, Rocky couldn’t afford to fool around with fags. The doctors insisted that he be put on a strict antifag regimen – some kind of special injection or serum or some kind of shit that takes away all sexual desire. So they didn’t need a fag detective anymore. That´s all the thanks I got for saving the son-of-a-bitch´s life! I´ll bet you that Rocky is still getting his supply of little spics. One of these days, he´s gonna do it again, and bingo – it´ll be all over. The papers will say he died of a heart attack. But you and me will know better. And the next time he´s not going to have Bernie X around to save his fucking ass, believe me.

Gerry´s Book Talk

My Meter Is Running

30-12-2019

  Way back when I was a young man I suscribed to National Lampoon magazine. I would come out once a month and it was outrageous. It was a humor magazine...

Sir Thomas Phillipps, Vello-maniac

30-12-2019

    This is an article that appeared in the weekly magazine named Abe Books. Abe Books started about 1960 and was put out of business by the computer in the year...

Howdy

10-10-2019

Today I want to talk about a book called "Moods of Future Joys" by Alastair Humphreys. My favorite part of working at La Perla Bookstore is going through the boxes...

My Uncle Ray

10-10-2019

My uncle Ray told this story about 25 years ago: There was a bussiness man in New York City, he worked in an office with all kinds of stress, deadlines...

Gerry´s Booktalk

10-10-2019

A few decades back when I was a 16 year old sudent in highschool, our civics teacher gave each one of us students a book. They were about 28 kids...

  • Address:

    Pedro Moreno 1530 Col. Americana
    Guadalajara (México)
  • Email:

    This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

  • Phone:

    01 33 1525 3015

© 2019 English Book Guadalajara. All rights Reserved.
Website by Webmaster México