24
11:00 AM – 12:00 PM

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Gustave: B | Grade It Now!
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Kiefer kombustion

The time is 11:05:17 AM. At The Stable Of Sensuality, the Kieferettes are in the process of hiding Igor's body. They have found a giant can -- it looks like a Claes Oldenburg sculpture of an oversized sardine tin -- and they place it facedown over his body. Hey, it's literally the giant can of whoop-ass that Bride just served up! Oh wait, my friend Larry just informed me that this is probably a horse's water trough. Bride feels gross about having to kill a man. Spawn -- whose hair keeps getting bigger while her vest keeps getting smaller -- feels pretty cool about the whole thing. I mean, it's not like she had to have non-consensual sex or kill a man in self-defense. Their ethical debate is cut short by a beeping noise coming from the TerrorCorpseCan. It's Igor's beeper. They flip the can over again. Bride winces as she removes the beeper from Igor's back pocket. Oh sure, she'll deal with someone's privates for a cell phone but she's not doing a necrophilia scene for a mere beeper. She checks the number on the LCD display and warns Spawn that the TerrorSquad is probably going to come looking for Igor. They cover up Igor's blood with some hay, overturn the can again, and put the beeper back in Igor's pocket. I don't know why they bothered. Bride sees a couple of TerrorMinions coming. She tells Spawn they need to hide out until these guys pass.

The FauxYorkMobile approaches some cyclone fencing -- the perimeter of the TerrorKompound. Kiefer parks and grabs a blanket from the trunk. Good thinking. I hate it when I have sex outdoors and pine needles get up my butt. His cell rings. It's Nina. She's got the satellite photos, but they're a few hours old. Kiefer is "ready to receive." I'll say. Nina sees plenty of GunWieldingTerrorMinions in the photos and begs Kiefer to let her ask SubstituteKiefer for some CTU backup. But Kiefer doesn't want no stinking back-up. Say it with me now: it's his family in there. Plus, adds Kiefer, CTU could screw things up and make this "another Waco." Nina sends him the satellite photos, which the WhateverTechnology places in Kiefer's Palm Pilot instantly. Kiefer komes back to the FauxYorkMobile, cuts the duct tape around FauxYork's legs, and takes him out of the car. "What are you doing, Kiefer?" asks FauxYork as Kiefer spits on his face and wipes the dried blood off of him. Okay, last week Kiefer threatened to shove a towel down a guy's throat, and this week he's into spit. I'm trying not to be one of those gay men who sees homoeroticism everywhere, but…I'm seeing homoeroticism everywhere. I wasn't aware of this until the last couple of years, but one of the leather bars in the West Village has a "spit" night. A friend of mine used to go to them, and I'd be like, "Spit? Is there any bodily fluid that isn't sexualized?" Not to be TMI or anything, but my kink level is pretty low. And I'm not saying this like I'm more moral or restrained than anyone who likes kinky sex. I simply don't get adventurous sexually because I never truly want to. But, yes, there are times -- on a fantasy level -- when I could see how S&M or role-playing could be appealing. I understand that it might be fun to be tied up. I understand that it might be fun to be spanked. I even understand how it could be fun to be humiliated and called nasty names in bed. Spitting I don't get. At all. My friend says he gets off on it because it's a "degrading head trip," but I will always associate spitting with being in fifth grade and having "lungey" contests with my friends. I did not have sexy friends in the fifth grade. All I can picture is either a dark West Village industrial loft space full of ten-year-olds having "lungey" contests or some dentist wearing Sans-a-belt slacks taking the suction tube out of my mouth and telling me to spit into the basin on the left, and neither of those things are getting me excited in the least. So anyway, once FauxYork is looking a little cleaner, Kiefer makes him drive the FauxYorkMobile the rest of the way to the TerrorKompound, since that's the only way he'll get access. FauxYork isn't too thrilled with the idea. "If Gaines thinks for a moment that I brought you here," says FauxYork, "he'll have no problem killing us both." "Then we should avoid Gaines," says Kiefer, pressing FauxYork doggie-style against the side of the car, his face pressed up against his ear and the gun aimed at his neck. They drive off.

The time is 11:09:23 AM. Palmer and Poor Man's Hume Cronyn drive somewhere while escorted by Palmer's Secret Service detail. PMHC is musing over the fact that the assassination attempt will give Palmer a bump in the polls when he notices that Palmer is looking a little funny, so he asks him what's up. "You've been off your game since you talked to Kreepy Karl," he says. Palmer tells PMHC about Kreepy Karl's plan to take care of Theo's shrink, the key source in Maureen Kingsley's pending story. PMHC tells Palmer that if he's really worried about Karl, he'll call the therapist himself and warn him. Palmer already called him. PMHC scolds Palmer for potentially exposing himself.

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