Mr. Cain's Problem

Herman Cain was seated in massive wing chair, so large he looked like a baby in it. He snapped his fingers and immediately a thin, tuxeo-clad servant in large prescription sunglasses appeared from "around the bend" and presented him with a covered silver dinner tray, which he opened. In it was a large clock adorned with various cured and spiced meats: pepperoni, capicola, prosciutto, etc. Mr. Cain impatiently thrusted the meat aside and looked at the clock. "Goddamnit fucker. I told you and your faggot twins to go out and wash my hens by half-of and here you are standin' all dumb with your shitty meat." He rose from his wing chair. "FEED THE HENS," he belched two octaves lower than his normal speaking voice, with his eyes wide and veins bulging. He spat and then automatically corrected himself: "WASH THE HENS." A green rotary telephone suddenly rang. There is a moment of great suspense. It continued to ring. Herman Cain did not move, only looked suspiciously at the phone. "Eeeyyyyeeess liiiike gooolldd flooowwweeerrrss," the servant whispered directly into the camera, with a strange accentuated drawl and a knowing smile. The telephone rang louder and louder, as though multiple telephones were cropping up in obscured locations but their utterances were heard as though they were "right there." Herman Cain began to yell over the din of telephones, "IT  BETTER HAD NOT BE"--the servant at this point began to roll his eyes and mockingly lip-synch along with Cain's diatribe, pointing out to the reader Mr. Cain's tiresome predictability--"THESE LIMP LEGGED BITCHES TRYING TO WRAGGLE SOME MORE GOLD NUGGETS OUT OF A DRY-ASS HEN TURD." The telephone rings continued. The main telephone seemed to have grown, and now looked like a giant play-phone: ugly, relentless, and plastic. The servant did a coquettish gasp and covered his mouth, drawling with giddily curious excitement: "Oh well ain't that phone mighty big!" Cain was unamused. Finally he clammered to the phone, hastily and sloppily. He picked up the receiver. "It's me," the phone replied, in a voice reminiscent of a six-year-old boy with a bad cold. Mr Cain made an urgent mumbling sound with closed lips, and flapped his right arm. The servant scrambled to remove the deli meats from the dinner tray, but couldn't pick up the clock. It seemed to be stuck. He ran to Mr. Cain and Mr. Cain expelled steaming black vomit all over the precious timepiece. "Fucking faggot!" Cain yelled, panting and slurping up bits of vomit from his lips. "It's me," the phone said again. Cain turned his attention briefly back to the phone receiver. "I KNOW IT'S YOU YOU CROOK! GIVE ME A GOD-DAMN MOMENT OF PEACE! YOU'LL GET THE EGGS, YOU'LL GET THE GOD-DAMN DIRTY OLD HEN EGGS!" After replying to the phone's veiled demand he beat his servant once over the head with the receiver, which was hollow and plastic. The servant died instantly, his body jerkily crumbling into a compact pile of steaming entrails on the massive Persian rug. Mr. Cain returned to his phone call. "It's me," he said. There was no reply. The phone seemed to have gone elsewhere, and he was left with only the shell of the once-established contact. He began to weep. He thanked the woman for handing him a box of tissues, which he spat into and returned. "All my life," his monologue began predictably, "I've been shooting for the stars, climbing up and selling my shitty old eggs at a peasant's return. And damned if I haven't got to put my dick in a boilin' pot of peas at the first sight of great victory now that all these red faced bitches each want a special egg in return for a couple bygone feels of the sweaty old steam-hole. This is what a man," he wept, farting and gasping, invoking Primo Levi at the defense of his fragile and beautiful manhood, "must come to...to give himself over to the sweaty hand of God. And I will. Twice. Three times. One hundred times."


2 Bacon Tinued