Chapter 11:
Mother of God!
That same night, while in our post-coital reverie, a snoozing Tina had her sticky inner thigh resting on my stomach, and Angie’s face was nuzzling my throat. Angie said dreamily, “Den, did you know that God is a woman?”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids, babe. That was one of the nuttiest things I ever read - Ayn Rand reveals the secret that God is a giant sack of female mitochondria?” Now I got a serious case of the giggles.
Angie jostled me. “Den, stop that. Someday I'll have to read those Ayn Rand books that are in our bookcase – the short books, anyway. Hey what’s a mito, a mitowhatchamacallit?”
“Mitochondria. Hmm. From what little I remember of my high-school biology, every animal and plant cell is loaded with them. I think their main function is to keep the cells clean.” Then I yawned, “Let’s get some sleep.” But Angie had already dozed-off during my dull lecture, and as I tried vainly to get comfortable, that phony Ayn Rand “interview” kept replaying in my head. Finally, I got out of bed and sat down at my user-unfriendly DOS-based PC. The World Wide Web had just come into being, and although my PC had one of the new web browsers (“Mosaic”), it was still hard to find specific information unless you already knew where to look (search engines were not yet available to the general public). But after browsing online forums and bouncing around between medical websites, I finally found up-to-date information about mitochondria on the website of the Periwinkle Medical Research Institute, which, as its homepage informed me, opened for business in 1976 with a 100-million dollar endowment from the billionaire industrialist and presidential candidate R. Jasper Periwinkle. Now PMRI was heavily involved in the new Human Genome Project, the on-going project to map the human DNA molecule. I didn't understand much of the medical terminology, but I managed to glean some very interesting facts about mitochondria:
1. Two billion years ago, mitochondria did not yet reside within the primitive nucleaic cells then current on Earth. But in that distant past, the two cell-types merged when a large anaerobic cell absorbed a mitochondrian cell but did not consume it - instead forging a symbiotic relationship between them, with mitochondria getting the short end of the deal. The mitochondrian cell now had a roof over its head, but it had to earn its keep by providing energy to the cell's nucleus.
2. The mitochondrion - a miniscule, lozenge-shaped “organelle” - aside from consuming the waste products of its cell host, converts glucose and oxygen into a powerful compound called ATP, which the rest of the cell uses as energy. Without ATP, an animal cell would obtain only about 7 percent of the amount of energy it receives from what “Ayn Rand” supposedly called the “hyper-altruistic” mitochondria.
3. The number of mitochondria within a cell varies with the function of that cell: muscle cells, such as those in the heart, are jammed-packed with them. Virtually all animal life, as it now exists, would be impossible without them. But ironically, mitochondrial DNA “programs” every cell’s death. This almost sounds like a case of a servant taking over his master’s estate.
4. Mitochondria, which swim around in the cell’s cytoplasm, outside of the nucleus, contain a small amount of DNA within their structure. In 1981, long before the Human Genome Project began, mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) was the first type of human DNA to be completely mapped.
But sadly, all is not beer-and-pretzels in this symbiotic relationship between the nucleaic cell and mitochondria. As in any marriage, there are bound to be serious problems: most of humanity will eventually suffer from mitochondrial diseases such as: Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, deafness, blindness, dementia, epilepsy, diabetes, liver toxicity and many scary-sounding cancers.
According to Ayn Rand’s philosophy (and the Second Law of Thermodynamics), it is impossible to get something for nothing. Thus, I speculated that any excessive “free energy” provided by the hard-working mitochondria must be paid back to Mother Nature by the premature death of the host.
During my internet search, I couldn’t find anything in the current medical literature about human mtDNA being inherited exclusively from the female line (as I had read in the tabloid article). On the PMRI website, I found links to UCLA School of Medicine, the Mayo Clinic, and the National Institutes of Health, but none of their literature about mitochondria even mentioned it. Next day, I stopped by the library and searched through stacks of The New York Times Index, and found few articles about mitochondria in the 30 years since the discovery of DNA - nothing that I hadn't already found online. I snapped the last volume shut and thought: Why am I wasting hours doing this? The goofball writer who had cobbled together that fake Ayn Rand séance was full of shit! Or so I thought.
* * *
That day, I stopped by the committee headquarters and worked on the computerized mailing list I had been compiling for months. I was doing it the old-fashioned way: rummaging for names and addresses in phone books and a reverse directory of Las Vegas, focusing on areas where most local Democrats lived. Soon after I arrived, I received a phone call from a man who identified himself only as Mark, claiming to be a friend of Dub Dawson, who in turn was a good friend of the congressman. He wanted to visit the committee office but didn't want to go into details over the phone. I invited him right over, in anticipation of some sort of political contribution. Sure enough, he delivered two thick envelopes containing a total of $20,000 in cash. Most of the money was going to be kept by our committee, to pay expenses – and we didn't have to report the donation since Williamson had not yet declared his candidacy. The tough-looking man wearing dark glasses spoke with a slight southern accent: "With best regards from Mister Dawson, and there'll be 20,000 mo-ah when the congressman is officially in the race. Oh yes, and eventually an additional 20,000 on January first." He glanced at his watch. "Well, I have another appointment soon, so I - ."
"Wait - you're leaving? Don't you want a receipt for the money?"
"It's not necessary. Another representative of Mister Dawson will contact you to verify that I gave you the money. Future contributions will be made by personal check." I almost decided to turn down the money, but this shady transaction had been entirely legal. Nevertheless, I got the account book out and wrote an entry: 7/14/91 - Received from Mark: $20,000 in hundred-dollar bills. Looking at the bills more closely, I realized that few of them were consecutively numbered, and many appeared to have been well used. At least it can't be traced, I thought with relief, along with a touch of guilt.
* * *
After only one week in drug rehab, Chesty, looking bleary-eyed, arrived on the set to film a crucial love scene with the newly hired Lance Steele, coming out of retirement for his first film in many years. With his house in ruins, Lance needed the work. Director Jim Walter, always the showman, had hired Lance in the hope of capitalizing on the publicity swirling around between him and Tina.
In a scene to be filmed in a few days, Tina's character - Dominique - walks in on Lance and Chesty as they wrestle in bed. After Dominique discovers then that Chesty is really a man, she impales him on a sword, and then she "rapes" Lance. But after finding out what a hot stud Lance really is, she falls in love with him and they settle down in Rancho Cucamonga, California.
Back at the Alexander Estate next morning, I asked Tina in bed: "Is Chesty working today? How's he doing?"
"Chesty went back to the clinic last night. He didn't look so hot."
Angie picked up my new cell phone from the nightstand. "Gee, Den, this phone is so small! It's like one-a those communicators on Star Trek." She put it up to her ear and then punched a few keys. "Hey, the battery must be dead - "
"Dammit - please, Angie, that's for official Department of Agriculture business only!” They laughed incredulously.
Tina said, "Aye-aye, Cap'n Kirk! He's probably a CIA hit-man, Ange."
"I'm just a clerk, Uhura - gawd, I sure loved those big sexy legs of hers - "
"A clerk with a 5,000 dollar cell phone? You’re too cheap to buy one with your own money."
Angie wheedled, "Can you get me a car phone, Den? It's only a few thousand for the phone and 200 a month for service."
I cleverly changed the subject: "Hey, wanna play around? Hmm?"
Ten minutes later, my cell rang for the first time ever. Tina groaned in the midst of a climax, "Don'tcha dare answer it yet...Gawd, that's it...ohh-fuck-I'm-cummin'-ya-bastard!"
On the twelfth ring, I answered it, huskily whispering my codename, “Typist.”
"This is Atlas,” replied John Gall. “You have the go ahead to start working. Are you alone?"
"Uh - no?" He immediately disconnected.
I got out of bed and switched on the morning news: "Russian Federation President Boris Yeltsin and Soviet Premiere Michail Gorbechev jointly announced that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will cease to exist on January 1, 1992...President Hedges tonight will announce the details of the latest US-Soviet Nuclear Arms Reduction Treaty..."
When Gall phoned again at 8am, I took the call in Tina's bathroom. I said, "Could you speak up? Sounds like a party going on."
"Yeah - the NSC staff is throwing an office party to celebrate the end of the Cold War. The President sends his thanks for your help during the past year, Denny. Now he wants you to help us find Saddam's hidden nuclear labs and nerve-gas storage areas. How would you like to fly in an SR-71 spy-plane? The president has authorized a program to test Human Intelligence gathering for the Air Force. The missions will take you out of the country, but you won't be parachuting into North Korea or anywhere else," he added with a chuckle. "First you'll need to undergo a battery of medical exams and flight training at an air force base in California, to see if you're a suitable candidate."
"And what if I don’t want to?"
"No problem - if you're worried about it for some reason, we should have no problem finding someone else." The polite tone of his voice conveyed the insinuation that I was too scared to do it.
"Oh hell, I'll do it. It sounds kind of fun." Foolish macho pride had compelled me to go along with it. Now I really was scared.
* * *
Next day, at the studio, Angie and I watched Tina and Lance performing in a supposedly R-rated sex scene. The scene took place on a king-size waterbed. While Chesty's stand-in lay covered with blood in the corner of the set, Tina and Lance's stunt-double traded fake punches and then they wrestled mightily on the waterbed. After lunch, Tina and Lance got down to business.
Between takes, Tina joked with the cinematographer: "Don't get within a foot of Lance's wanger, if ya want it to stay outta the frame." Tina was naked and Lance wore only a flesh-colored pouch around his package. The make-up people sprayed oil on them to simulate sweat. The takes got more intense as 5pm rolled around. I began to wonder: Was that in the script? I know that realism is demanded, but really!
They were now simulating intercourse, Tina on top. When the sheet began to slip off Tina's body, the cameras, which carefully avoided showing the pair's groins, kept filming. Tina clung to Lance's chest and she bucked her hips in a double-time beat. The sheets slipped a little more, exposing a very long, thick penis playing peek-a-boo inside Tina's pussy. Angie and I gaped at them as Tina laughed and sobbed. I couldn’t help thinking: Not a bad hard-on for an old geezer. Christ, he’s bigger than John Holmes! I blushed when Tina raved, with her ass working a mile-a-minute: “Fuck that pussy, muthafucka, YEAH!” Thirty seconds later Lance gasped, in ecstasy, I supposed.
Jim said, “Cut - print it! God, that even gave me a hard-on.”
Tina yelled, "Lance, what's wrong? He ain't fuckin’ movin'!"
Someone yelled, "Oh fuck, call 911!" Tina's eyes shot to mine - she and I froze in position.
Then Jim screamed shrilly, "Who knows CPR!" Tina slapped Lance's face and pounded on his chest. I ran to the bed and tried to remember how to perform CPR correctly.
"Tina, wait! I'll pump his chest 15 times - yeah 15 - then you give 'im mouth-to-mouth for five breaths. Tilt his head back! Move his tongue outta the way!"
Minutes later I heard a rush of footsteps coming from the studio loading dock. Walkie-talkies squawked. The paramedics hurriedly started to defibrillate Lance's heart: "Blood-pressure 80 over 50...fast and weak pulse - no pulse - he's in arrest! Clear!" Zap! "Once more! Clear!" Zap! "All right! Pressure 100 over 70...pulse 80...I think we got 'im back, buddy."
As the medics wheeled away a breathing but unconscious Lance, I told Tina: "You're a hero - again."
"Why, 'cause I nearly fucked him to death? Ha! Jim'll probably leave it in the final cut."
I suddenly thought of the media. "Tina, I'm heading back to Vegas immediately. I don't do interviews,"
"Oh sure - strict Department of Agriculture policy."
"That's right. You be sure to tell 'em that.
* * *
Back home in Vegas, I eagerly watched Showbiz Today in order to get the latest Hollywood dirt about Revenge of the Amazons. Crystal Schwartz babbled, "Lance Steele is convalescing at Richman Hospital tonight. Tina Kincaid, his quick-thinking leading lady in Revenge of the Amazons, performed CPR on stricken Steele until paramedics arrived..." Video footage showed the cast surrounding Steel's hospital bed. The leering Tina and Tammi Lorraine kissed Lance's cheeks as flashguns popped, and cash registers rang in my head. Schwartz gushed, "A love scene with Steele and Ms Kincaid was scheduled at the time of heart attack. Director Jim Walter neither confirmed nor denied the rumor that cameras were rolling at the time."
Jim's image came onto the screen. "You'll just have to wait til the picture is released this fall." Then Jim subtly winked.
Schwartz cooed, "Lance and Tina Kincaid have been seen together at clubs in Century City near Hollywood. Ms Kincaid's only comment was - "
Cut to Tina: "We're very good friends. I just loved his cowboy movies when I was little. And he's very good-lookin' for an old goat." Then Tina smiled like Mona Lisa.
Tina phoned me from L.A. as the show ended. "Are you happy now, shy-guy?"
"Sure."
"We're you jealous?"
"Honestly, yes - for a few seconds." I wasn't lying.
"You better say that - "
"It's not like you were sneaking around or anything - "
"But you were jealous. You’re gettin' almost normal."
"If you knew what my job was like, you wouldn't say that. I have to leave town for several weeks on business."
"Yeah, business. Just be careful with that James Bond shit, Hercules. You’re not as tough as ya think."
"Thanks, that really makes me feel better. Y'know, I'm surprised that Lance has heart problems, even at his age. He's in real good shape for an old dude."
"He was fine til I tried the ol' squeeze-play on 'im."
"Oh no, not that!” The Vaginal Vise Maneuver! To say the least, I rather enjoyed it when she did that to me.
"Was that too over-the-top?"
* * *
Gall ordered me to the downtown Federal Building to see the Passport Control Officer, who handed me a US passport and military I.D. card. For the next several weeks at least, I was to be a Master Sergeant in the US Air Force. Then I discovered what my new job involved: I would ride in the back seat of an SR-71 as it overflew Iraq on spy missions.
At first glance, the sorties to Iraq seemed redundant. But at this time, the US still had only one working spy-satellite orbiting Earth, due to the continued grounding of the Space Shuttle after the Challenger accident almost five years previously. I asked Gall, "Why fly over Iraq when I can do it from home?"
"I may as well tell you now - you won't be flying to Iraq til you show the Air Force that RV really works. There will be some test flights first - over California and Texas."
A few days before I departed for Beale Air Force Base, Jane told me: "Marcus and Sandra found some college kids to register voters at a dollar-a-pop. Hope you don't mind. They're hitting places like food-banks, rescue missions, and city parks - most of them vote Democrat."
I looked at the filled-out registration forms. "This is gonna end-up costing me thousands. Are you sure it's legit? A bunch of homeless people?"
"Sure - even they have the right to vote. If they lie about their residency or citizenship, that's their problem. Cliff's National Campaign Manager asked us to do it, so I went ahead with it. Marcus has been great - he's registered about two hundred this week - ah, here he is now."
Marcus walked into the office. He was so handsome that it pissed me off. "Greetings, Denny. Greetings, Jane. I have brought more campaign contributions." He handed me five $1,000 checks. Naturally, all the contributors were female.
Two attractive young co-eds stepped into the office. Marcus said to me: "Allow me to introduce you to Ashley and Cora. They have been hired to register voters." Ashley and Cora gazed lovingly at his angelic-looking face.
* * *
With the production of Revenge of the Amazons now complete, Tina and Angie came home from L.A. a few days later. Hours before I was to leave for my Air Force duties, they returned from a routine check-up at the fertility clinic. Tina stomped into the house, Angie following her in tears. Tina yelled at me: "They're gone! And it's all your fault, ya son-of-a-bitch!"
She had never angered me so much before. I turned beet-red and yelled back: "Hey, shut the fuck up! What's wrong? Angie, sweetie, why the tears?"
Angie bawled, "Ah-ha-ha-hoooo!"
Tina maniacally raved: "Somebody stole our babies! An' I think you know what happened. Every time some weird shit goes down, you always turn out to be the one who started it - if you say that cocksuckin’ aliens did it, so-help-me-Jesus I'll shoot'cha!"
"Tina, baby, I dunno what...maybe they self-aborted." Two tears crawled down my cheeks.
"Miscarriage? Hey, doc, don'tcha think at least one of us woulda noticed? Now turn off the waterworks an' march your ass down to the clinic so they can get more of your worthless sperm - "
"I can't - not yet. I'm leaving on a business trip -"
Angie's blubbering got louder. Tina, frothing at the corners of her mouth, screamed, "Hey muthafucka! Get the fuck outta here!"
Righteously I protested, "Now-hold-on-just-a-fucking-minute. I own this joint!“ Now her knuckles popped against my left eyebrow, cutting it slightly. “Fuck! All right-all right! Mind if I grab my goddamned suitcase?" I immediately embarked on my secret mission, which was evidently safer than being at home.
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