I was driving down Route 94 through Detroit a couple days ago and something that looked like a witch flew out of the shadows and attached itself to my car. "What in the mudder-fried hell?!!!" screamed and thundered through my head.
I was scared shitless. The bedraggled mess of something that had a semblance of a woman was peering at me through the passenger's side window and screaming "Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!"
She had on a green gossamer dress that was covered in vomit and food particles. Even though the window was rolled all the way up, I could smell the foul stench of beer and whiskey.
"This has to be one of those phantom hitchhikers," I thought to myself. "And they say if you let a phantom hitchhiker into your vehicle, you'll never be heard or seen from again."
"Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!" the thing screeched like the opening scene of that hideous tooth fairy in that movie Darkness Falls."
"Get the hell away from my car you fucking witch!" I shrieked.
"Let me in! Let me in! Let me in!" the horrible monster yelled. Cars were whizzing by as if we were trapped inside the confines of a NASCAR race. The thing was drooling all over and spittle ran down her chin. It started banging its head against my windshield.
All of a sudden, I came to the realization, by looking at the thing's features, that "Hey, it's Hillary Clinton! I can't leave the Democratic Front Runner for U.S. President just rambling around on an interstate highway. Holy smokes, man, look at these lunatics flying down this asphalt! She's going to end up as roadkill! I've got to let Hillary in my jalopy."
So I flicked the door opener and Hillary opened the door and jumped in the passenger seat. "I need a fifth of bourbon. And some Coors. Do you have any crack?"
"Hillary, I'll buy you a fifth of Jack Daniels but I don't want you to be smoking crack in my car," I said sternly.
"That's fine. I can live with that. Now hurry. Get us to the state liquor store so you can buy me some booze."
We were downtown at a saloon called The Plastic Duck and Hillary and I were downing shots and beer like the old autoworkers of old. Money was no problem since Hillary was flush with cash.
"It's campaign money. I've got to be careful, but I can write it off as 'banquet expenses'," Hillary told me.
I couldn't find an open state liquor store since it was a Sunday night. I dropped Hillary off at a gas station and she sort of cleaned herself up in the men's lavatory. I bought her a halter top and a pair of hottie pants at a thrift shop that catered to Detroit's prostitute population (Lucy Sue's Thrift Store was anchored right in the middle of one of the Motor City's red light districts). I felt kind of bad making the Democratic Front Runner for President, the former Secretary of State, and the former First Lady look like a streetwalker. Hillary, however, seemed totally oblivious to it all. She was hammering down the shots and beers like a 450-pound gorilla with a very high tolerance for alcohol. She even offered to reimburse me for the $4.72 I spent on the outfit, but I told her, "Forgetaboutit!"
"So how did you wind up on the berm of Interstate 94?" I asked her.
"Oh, that silly jet I was supposed to be going from Detroit to Philadelphia in didn't have any booze on it so I sort of 'winged it' and decided to walk to Philadelphia and stop at every bar, saloon, juke joint, and carry-out store on the way," she said, guzzling a Lone Star long-neck.
"Oh, I gave a couple of speeches in Detroit for my campaign Saturday and I have to be in Philadelphia tomorrow for the same. Then it's up to New York City for more of the same. I'm getting sick of this shit and all I want to do is get wasted. Hey, do you have any crack?"
"No, Hillary, and if I did, I wouldn't give you any. You really shouldn't be smoking crack if you want to be the 45th U.S. President."
"Get me a shot. No, make it two. Oh, what the fuck, make it five," Hillary bellowed to the bartender.
"You're getting really fucking trashed, lady," the bartender shouted. "After all those beers and the five shots I'm shutting you off!"
"Go fuck yourself, asshole! Do you know who I fucking am? I'm motherfucking Hillary Clinton, that's who!"
"Yeah, and I'm Kim Kardashian," the burly guy snorted, shaking his head.
"Get me a Red Stripe," I told the bartender. "It's made with special herbs from Jamaica. They worship a marijuana plant over there and I think those special herbs may include marijuana leaves."
The bartender didn't shut me and Hillary off since Hillary handed him a couple of hundred dollar bills and winked at him.
"Okay, lady, I'll take it and you can drink all you want. I've got child support and all. But I don't believe for a minute that you're Hillary Clinton."
"I don't care who you think I am. Get me a Red Stripe, too, and five more shots. This dumbass I'm with won't let me smoke crack and I want to feel the marijuana flowing around in my bloodstream after I drink some Red Stripe beers."
"Hey, aren't you Hillary Clinton?" the bartender asked. For the life of me, I couldn't tell if he was being facetious or if he realized somehow, someway, that the horrid, surly, pathetic mess of womanhood perched on the barstool in front of him was actually Hillary Clinton.
He was a tattooed biker dude with a goatee and a leather jacket with some kind of outlaw biker gang insignia on the back of the jacket.
"Sure am," she said. "Now fetch all that beer and whiskey or when I become the 45th President, I'm sending your ass into a concentration camp. Either Operation Cable Splicer or Operation Garden Plot. Make it quick and make it stick, asshole!"
Hillary laughed and laughed and laughed.
The bartender and I didn't find anything funny about this. No, nothing at all....
It was 4 a.m. over 48 hours after I picked Hillary up on Route 94 and we were sharing a bottle of pink Boone's Farm wine. I don't know what flavor it was. About all I tasted was gasoline and kerosene by now.
We were both stoned to the bones and feeling no pain. We were in a vacant house and rats and mice were scurrying around. The motion of all those scabrous rodents flying around looked like pinballs in one of those great old glassed-encased games of yesteryear.
"So tell me about Bill. What's he like?" I asked Hillary.
"Oh, that motherfucking pig. Sometimes I think I drink to forget that I'm married to that swine. He'd fuck a rattlesnake it somebody would be crazy enough to hold the gaping mouth of such a reptile open for him," Hillary said.
"Hey, don't hog all that Boone's Farm, Hillary. You've drunk almost the entire bottle and I'm as thirsty as hell," I said.
To tell you the truth, I had no idea where my car was. I think that Hillary crashed it into a telephone pole, but I can't say for sure. Hillary insisted on driving the thing and wouldn't take 'No' for an answer. I tried to be stern with her, but she smashed me over the head with an empty bottle of Boone's Farm wine and so I threw the car keys her way.
It was a long night in that vacant house. Although it is summertime, I think it got colder than Greenland in there overnight. In the morning some men in black suits busted down the door, grabbed Hillary and put her in a wheelchair and carted her away.
"Mrs. Clinton, this can't go on like this," one of the men in black said. "You've been drinking way too much and now look what's come about? You're out here in a vacant house drinking with this wino."
While they were carting Hillary away, I heard her say, "Don't you dare tell anybody about this. I'm saving this for my memoirs after my eight years are up in the Oval Office. If you tell a soul about this I'm throwing your ass in a concentration camp!" she snarled.
By this time, Hillary looked as hideous as she did when she was standing along Route 94. She was a fucking mess.
"Hey, did we have sex last nigh?" she asked me.
"I think we might have, unless it was a nightmare. Without your clothes on, Hillary, you look like Bernie Sanders or Donald Trump without their clothes on. I think I might have turned into a homosexual over this two-day bender we've been on."