Illustration by Brian Glossup
By Bob Freville
Monsieur Manafort was overworked, undersexed and potentially under indictment. He yearned for the days when he and his betrothed, Kathy, would go on holiday to exotic places for some fun in the sun.
Alas, Madame Kathy wasn’t speaking to Monsieur Manafort ever since the 1990s when Monsieur handled some financial matters most clumsily. One could compare Monsieur’s financial misdealings to his handling of a hot potato. Like removing a baked potato from the oven barehanded, Monsieur snatched hundreds of thousands of dollars, stuffed them in his pockets and misused them.
But that was a long time ago, and many headaches and ethical breaches later, Monsieur Manafort found himself facing some serious finger shaking by those who govern the law of the land.
Never a man to waver, Monsieur Manafort stuck to his guns in the wake of allegations that he knew some nasty Ukrainians with deep man-love for our political enemies. He stuck to all guns, even those with bump stocks.
But this gun-sticking did not last long after the blue meanies put the screws to him at a federal level. When the FBI raided Monsieur’s home in 2017, he began to fall apart like a tired blow-up doll.
“What if they find my stash of Hillary nudies and realize I’m a sexual defector?”
This was but one of the many skeletons that Monsieur Manafort didn’t want tumbling out of his closet. There was also the matter of that old camcorder footage of him Jello wrestling with his father’s poker buddies in the Sixties…when he was but a 14-year old boy in a cheap floral nightgown.
Ah, those had been simpler times, times when a man could still be a man. Times when a man could practice his personal sexual proclivities in the privacy of his parents’ basement without having to publicly condemn his own soul to the fiery furnaces of Hell…for the good of the Party.
Times had changed dramatically for Monsieur Manafort and his ilk. His friends had left his side or fled to parts unknown. Some had even been taken into the system, absorbed by it entirely.
In Monsieur Manafort’s eyes, the perfect vacation would be one spent with his old friend, Viktor Yanukovich, but Ole Yanni no longer returned Monsieur’s calls. No, this would have to be a solo holiday, one spent alone or, at least, unencumbered by handlers, yes men or angel investors.
“This is going to be a lovely holiday,” Monsieur assured himself half-heartedly. He forced a cheerful smile as he bumbled his way onto the concord bound for a strange but not quite new land.
The voyage on the Trans-Siberian railway had been a series of mishaps. First, Monsieur Manafort had slipped on a banana peel and used the bosom of a mother of three to break his fall, then a porter had obviously taken illicit substances and decided to force Monsieur’s penis into his mouth. Finally, as two stout stewards were carefully escorting Monsieur away from this melee, one of them mistakenly slipped their wallet into Monsieur Manafort’s overcoat.
After much hoopla and confusion, the train arrived at its destination and Monsieur stepped out of the car with tears in his eyes. This was not going to be any modest seaside resort for Monsieur. No, sir. This was the future of the Manafort man.
Manafort’s wrinkled eyes oozed as he took in the sights. Oh, if only Viktor and Oleg could see it now! Monsieur Manafort said a silent prayer as he passed the Red Square. By the time he reached the Moscow Kremlin, he knew that this was not to be a holiday.
After all, people are not on holiday when they are home.