CELL PHONE NOISE
“Haberman here.”
“Maggie, ya muff-eating cooze! It’s yer boy, Big Steve.”
“Hey, Bannon. Don’t you usually call me at three in the morning?”
“It’s always three in the morning for me, milk-ass.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s true. LACTOSE IN THE LATTER REGION!”
“Jesus. How high are you?”
“I had breakfast on a yacht. I had lunch in jail. I think I deserve a little something to take the edge off.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Hell of a day, Milky. I didn’t even know the Post Office had cops, let alone a SEAL team. The way they boarded us, I thought they were there for the drugs.”
“There were drugs on the boat?”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve really got your toes over the edge of the board, huh?”
“My lifestyle requires multiple revenue streams. The guys I hang out with like to have Art Fights.”
“Art Fights?”
“You whack each other with expensive paintings. I saw a Chinese tech billionaire break a Mondrian over some Saudi prince’s head one night. And that’ll run ya, Mookie. Wanna have high times, gotta have deep pockets.”
“That’s abhorrent.”
“Yeah, well, some people like going to ball games, and other people like plotting coups on mega-yachts with shadowy figures in loose control of crazed militias.”
“You’re the second type.”
“I’m the second type, yeah. That’s my passion, that shit right there. Hanging out in a castle outside Bratislava, getting loaded on PCP with some rogue colonels from Burkina Faso, and wiring two million into their accounts just to see what’ll happen. God, I love that shit.”
“I like spending time with my kids.”
“I have no dealings with children.”
…
“You said that weird.”
“Milky, I’m being railroaded here.”
“Ah. You’re changing the subject.”
“This indictment is all bullshit. They don’t have dick.”
“They seem to have all of your financial records, plus an extensive collection of text messages in which you and your co-conspirators openly discuss how to make the crimes you’re knowingly committing look legal.”
“They indicted me on two charges. Two? If Johnny Jackboot has anything on you, he charges you with a dozen crimes. Two? Two’s a fishing expedition.”
“But the two charges are wire fraud and money laundering. They’re not, like, shoplifting-related.”
“I fucking love shoplifting.”
“Not surprised.”
“That’s one of the reasons I wear so many shirts. Lot of places to hide purloined candy. I haven’t paid for a Kit-Kat in decades.”
“Great.”
“Maybe ever.”
“Bannon, you’re in a great deal of trouble here.”
“Me? Naaaaaaah. Now, Stumpy is in some thick shit. But not me.”
“And by ‘Stumpy,’ you are referring to Brian Kolfage, the Air Force veteran who lost both legs and an arm to a rocket in Baghdad?”
“Yeah. Stumpy.”
“Tasteful as always.”
“Well, we’re not pussies, Monkey.”
“Maggie.”
“We’re men who can take a little ribbing now and then.”
“You stole millions of dollars from a charity.”
“But my point is that we did it in a masculine way.”
“I do not understand how your head works, man.”
“Stumpy loved it when I called him that. Made him feel like one of the gang. Besides, he’s got himself a pair of Lieutenant Dan legs now. I like to stick fridge magnets to ’em when he’s not looking.”
“That’s terrible.”
“He loved it. One time, he didn’t love it, so I called him ‘Kol-fag.’ And then after that he loved it. Good kid. You see that boat I helped him pick out?”
…
“You’re trying to make hi the patsy, aren’t you?”
“Every deal needs a fall guy, and to be honest: I just couldn’t resist making the guy with no legs the fall guy this time.”
“You are a wicked man.”
“Yeah, right? See, here’s the thing: I’ve been dead a bunch of times. Medically dead. For, like, seven or eight minutes at a time. And during none of those mortems did I see an afterlife. There’s no Heaven. There’s no Hell. We will not be judged. And so I figure I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
“But why don’t you want to do something good, something that helps people?”
“Because it’s more fun to plan international con-jobs on yachts.”
“You really should be more concerned about this, Bannon.”
“Big Steve’s gonna be fine. I’m getting the Dolly!”
“The Dolly?”
“Pardoned!”
“Her name is ‘Parton.'”
“Close enough! Fucklips knows I have enough on him and his mongrel spawn to put the whole family away. He doesn’t want me cooperating. He’s panicking. I bet Yarmulke-dick had to talk him out of pardoning me today.”
“Yarmulke-dick?”
“Jared.”
“Obviously.”
“He might be behind all of this. Little globalist hasn’t liked me since I spanked him.”
“What?”
“I spanked Jared. Physically. He was popping off in a meeting and pissing off the President. So I put him over my knee. I had both the weight and shirt advantage over him, so he couldn’t squirm away. Raised some hell on that ass, Magaroni.”
“Makes sense why he wouldn’t like you.”
“Pussy. You know how many times I got spanked in the Navy? It was constant. You spanked, and you got spanked. It wasn’t personal, it was just ass-stuff.”
“I don’t think Jared secretly orchestrated your arrest.”
“The President’s son-in-law is granted powers beyond your mortal ken. It’s in the Constitution.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It might not be. That might have been the ketamine talking. Hey, Murgle: You wanna hang out?”
“No.”
“I’m already on another yacht.”
“Are you committing more crimes?”
“Yes!”
“Big Steve rides on.”
“I’m having a ball being me.”
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