“Saudi Arabian Jenkins!”
“Yes, Mohammad bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, First Deputy Prime Minister, Honorary Fire Chief, three-time Sheikh of the Year recipient, Tamer of Seas, Sculptor of the Dunes, Defender of Some of the People?”
“We would never pay off Western journalists, either in straight cash or through elaborate junkets, would we?”
“Oh, no, sir. That would be wrong.”
“Gotcha. So, call the Western journalists we’ve paid off and tell them about the new plan.”
“Plan, sir?”
“I’m getting a Gay Eye for the Straight Guy. And then immediately executing the homosexuals, but I’m looking forward to the makeover. Jenkins, I’m talking to several publicity companies and they all say I should be more beloved.”
“Publicity companies?”
“Branders. Jenkins, did you know I was a brand?”
“I didn’t, sir.”
“I totally am. I need a logo. Are those kosher in Islam? Find out about that, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So me and these publicity companies sat down and you would not believe the things they were telling me. Laid out a path from today to global domination. Starts with the Insta.”
“I would imagine.”
“The Insta is its own world, Jenkins. There’s science involved. What time you post. Which content gets posted when. Captions. May the buzzards choke on my sandy bones the captions! There’s math, too. All sorts of ratios. How much professional bling to behind-the-scenes ‘just chillin’ out’ shots?”
“I wouldn’t be able to imagine.”
“It’s evolving as we speak. The followers want to see the real you, but they also want the glamour. Now I’m handicapped in that area because 60 or 70 percent of glamour is ass. I post a shot on the Insta of me and cousin Tookie with the hyenas? I get a couple hundred thousand likes. Those are pity likes, Jenkins. They’re sarcastic.”
“You’re reading a lot into this hypothetical.”
“But the same picture with, like, a fine female standing there displaying all sorts of pulchritude? That’s millions of hearts. That’s the gold. That’s engagement and now folks are becoming part of the Mohammad bin Salman story. Oh, you know what the publicity guys said? I should get a dog.”
“That would not play well with your base at all, sir.”
“Cat?”
“Much better.”
“Great. Cat gets a name and an Insta account, too. Make it happen, Jenkins! Faster than the Prophet flew from Mecca to Medina!”
“Sir, slow down.”
“We’ll need several camera crews, and editors, and some computer nerds, and all of them need a boss and a place to work and equipment. Chop chop!”
“Why? Why are we doing any of this, sir?”
“Because we can’t get the reality shows without the base from the Insta. I have a great relationship with Andy Cohen. See him every time I’m in Los Angeles. I pitch, I pitch, I pitch. I tell him, ‘Fuck it, I’ll buy all the ads myself.’ Still won’t do it. ‘Build up the base on the Insta,’ he says. Maybe he’s right? Very smart, good guy. I invite him here all the time.”
“Andy Cohen is a publicly declared homosexual and Jew.”
“Oh, I would have him executed, but I still have to invite him. Rude not to.”
“Your manners are rivaled by none across this arid land! Your tent is open to the four winds, and your robe is open to the breeze. The Umayyads look upon your rule from the ancestral heights and say, ‘We should have done it like that guy.'”
“I’m in a good mood today, Jenkins, so I’ll ignore your mockery. We have a whole schedule for fame and notoriety and celebrity and infamy.”
“Didn’t those words used to mean different things?”
“They used to, yes. Anyway: I burst onto the Insta. The yacht. The ice. Drop a video talking about my favorite ride, the custom Ferrari, and how it was my way of reminding myself to navigate around the haters. Sometimes it seems the world’s a highway full of haters, Jenkins. You want to tell them, ‘I bought this castle for all of us,’ but they don’t listen and instead now you got versions. That’s going to be my catch phrase.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, now we got versions? You understand the meaning, correct?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a disagreement over fact and everyone involved has a different perspective, or version.”
“And maybe there will be a sound effect. WH-PASH! Now we got versions! Or perhaps a bell is rung.”
“Uh-huh. Lion of Islam, Sword of Allah, Idol to Millions, Fashion Plate and Knower of Several Languages and Understander of a Couple More–”
“Get on with it.”
“–Performer of Pitch-Perfect Celebrity Impressions Crown Prince, who will you have these beefs with to the point where you are declaring ‘versions’ in public?”
“Cardi B, Germany whoever.”
“Oh, sir, no.”
“I’m gonna get the beef broiling.”
“Please don’t broil a beef with Germany via Instagram, sir.”
“You haven’t let me finish.”
“Flog me with whips made from the skins of infidels.”
“After the beef runs its course, we show love. That’s a Same Page Alert. Whereas before we had Versions? Now we are on the Same Page. And this makes me so happy that I, like, build a children’s hospital in New Mexico or something. And also we take pictures. with the hyenas.”
“I don’t think we should let Cardi B near the hyenas until she’s had her baby.”
“Ooh, good call. Those hyenas would be uncontrollable. How long has she been pregnant for?”
“Year-and-a-half, at least.”
“Okay, and now check this out: I build the base. We’re not talking bots here. Real followers. The Salmaniacs are showing me so much love. The beefs are thriving. And then: boom. rehab.”
“Camel milk and biscuits, would it be a terrible idea for you to go to rehab. That would be a bad look in one of those frozen hippie communes where the government pays you to walk around all day shooting dope into your dick. But here? It’s a bit more conservative, sir.”
“Well, we’re not gonna call it rehab, turkey-dick. I’ll go falconing or something. But here’s the important thing: I’m gonna release a note on the Insta being honest about my struggles with mental health and anxiety and depression and whatever. Millennials love that shit.”
“The mental health confession is becoming a well-worn trope amongst the generation, sir. Again: why are you doing this?”
“Because right before I came up with the plan to rebrand myself as a hip, cosmopolitan Millennial, I came up with a plan about Yemen.”
“What was that, sir?”
“What if there just weren’t any Yemenis? Like, none at all. That would solve so many of my problems. I wish I could just snap my fingers. Jenkins–”
“The Infinity Gauntlet is not real, sir.”
“Just keep checking Ebay. Anyway, I realized I was gonna need a lot of PR cover if I wanted to…what’s a nice way to put what I want to do?”
“Besides ‘genocide?'”
“Obviously. Nice. What’s the nice way to say it?”
“Creating an instant buyer’s market in real estate.”
“Good.”
“The Scouring of Sana’a.”
“That’s ominous. What are we, goths? Whatever, we’ll come up with something. But, yeah, I wanna kill 27 million people and I need everyone to love me to do it.”
“Why didn’t you just say that, boss?”
“I shouldn’t have to explain everything to you, Jenkins.”
“We’re going on Insta. Should I reach out to DJ Khaled?”
“I’m shocked you haven’t already.”
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