81. During the course of Defendant BILL O’REILLY’s sexual rant, it became clear that he was using a vibrator upon himself, and that he ejaculated. Plaintiff was repulsed.
82. Immediately after climaxing, Defendant BILL O’REILLY launched into a discussion concerning how good he was during a recent appearance on “The Tonight Show” with Jay Leno: “It was funny, they used a big clip of me…”
Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of New York, Suit Filed Against Bill O’Reilly by Andrea Mackris
It had taken two months and a personal favour from his publisher to get a table at Crimbles, the new Di Chanti brothers restaurant. It had been in the papers periodically as a place where the rich and famous hung out, indeed Depp had had a birthday party for his shoes there only a month before, and had eaten Caribbean style shrimp ribs and pastry flown fresh in from Cannes. Coakes had no idea if Cannes was famous for pastry, but he’d been there for the film festival twice and was impressed that someone cared enough to send it all this way.
The booking was for two but Coakes had found it impossible to find anyone who wanted to eat with him. He’d remorselessly trawled his Filofax, even calling a dried turd from the show ‘Just Kill Me’, who he’d likened in review to a tick infested mullet. No one remotely credible or attractive would inhabit the ground zero of his sulpher without an hourly fee. None could stomach his great gasping air filled mouthfuls, his pauses to spit half chewed morsels back onto his plate, his fearsome paranoia of bad food and sabotaged dishes. Embittered waitrons singled him out in places like this and picked on him, serving him off food from the back of the fridge, cheese cakes spotted with blood from raw pork steaks, brown bin-salvaged salads.
Coakes appearance had a legendary and unfortunate effect upon the places where he chose to make his eat. The last restaurant to be mentioned in his column, in a tasteful off hand incidental way that was the hall mark of all his craven boasting, had made the “Whats Not” section of the Hot-list in three different West Coast papers the following day. Iago Coakes had a reputation as a kiss of death. Because of this, and for other reasons, Coakes always went to the rest room between each course, and farted copiously, big wet stinkers he had to wipe his arse after. Spreading the love, he thought cheerlessly.
Coakes had not dressed carefully, nor had he obsessively selected his most obtuse and shapeless white t-shirt from the Gap; the one that had a habit of creeping up his belly, with a coffee stain on one breast, under a crumbled gray shirt from the new Tiffany’s Classics line, and a crushed wool suit from Gant USA (a tailor who claimed, he noted, to match ‘the traditional American style with an European flair’) and a matching belt and shoes, in a deep ruby red, from Pearce and Pearce. The shirt was slightly too small, and it pursed at the bottom where his tum asserted the most pressure; gaping into the shape of an eye, revealing his hairless dead white belly with its unnaturally high and deep button and flaking dead skin.
He arrived on time, having taken a cab and not fantasized about killing the driver, a fat little Asian with dandruff to rival his own, who he would certainly not dream that night he had cut up, screaming for mercy, laughing at the blood, geysers of the stuff, before he finally choked his last, his anus stuffed with Brie and rats, his eyes gone, missing somewhere, maybe eaten, his ankles to be used as bookmarks. Having made Coakes wait, hovering and farting in the lobby, for twenty eight minutes, the maître d’ emerged from the near empty dining room to apologize profusely; to explain that there had been a mistake and Coakes’ table, booked under the name Hamilton, had unexpectedly broken and that he must leave. Half an hour later, following a minor fuss and an undertaking not to mention Crimbles in the paper, Coakes was seated, on his own and near the door to the kitchens, upon a fake Louis XIV chair at a glass table by Mongoose, with a complimentary sparkling wine cocktail. The room, he did not notice, was high ceilinged with floor to roof windows and potted shrubs arranged according to Feng Shui. Coakes would spend an hour trying to move the one nearest to him with his foot in order to disturb the water wind balance, which he neither believed in nor truly understood. One wall was plain uncovered brick, the rest done in faux 18th Century ornate plastering and refined coving. Coakes felt vaguely uneasy in the room, although he did not realize why, other than that it resembled the set of a budget historical drama.
He ordered broiled calves liver with marmalade and marzipan salad and a land crab fondant for mains with a side of freshly roasted garlic. His meal was delivered by dead eyed waitresses in black shirts and trousers from Hugo Boss, who almost dropped them onto the table; and served upon irregular geometric dishes with a predictable dribble of jús smeared around their side in a supposedly edgy manner. Coakes smiled at the food, piled into little towers, just the way the screaming red faced TV chefs from Europe did it. The meal was slightly salty, but otherwise unremarkable, the dishes so stylized he had no idea if what he ordered had arrived, but then as you couldn’t taste what was cooked on the television, he had no real point of reference. He did not draw a picture of a woman cut in half with a chainsaw on the tablecloth.
New York Times, Tuesday
..his hair looked grey, and as if it intended to become greyer. There were many grey buildings and the sky looked as if it had been drained of its colour, leaving it a deep blue stained grey. Everyone wore grey, or deep bluish grey.
There are several characters, or at least seven actors in the programme. It is difficult to tell. Their make-up and clothing were similar. They constantly repeated each others lines, parroting them mindlessly. This lent a dream like quality to much of the programme.
Sometimes a man opened a door. Often he would walk through it. The room was inevitably grey, or bluish grey, and cold radiated from the screen. Even the blood was a deep grey, nearly black, and the victims were female and a deathly pale grey.
The plot was formulaic. A man, or men, and a woman, there were never more than one, tried to solve a crime, often violent and perverse, against a woman, which somehow brought their own, his own, personal problems into new light, or some sort of relief and collective healing. The whole production was grey…
It was to the surprise of everyone, save himself, that Iago Coakes won a Pulitzer for his review of CSI Boston. United Artists bought the film rights for a cool million dollars plus 5% of gross. Coakes was invited to dinner at the Whitehouse and interviewed on the Tonight Show. Tom Cruise portrayed the paper in Edmund White’s Tony winning Broadway adaption. Suddenly Coakes was everywhere, all at once, and people other than vice officers began to recognize him in supermarkets. Success flushed him, and after Lumley blew him in the toilets of the Viper Room, his chode stretching the loose skin of her cheeks like a schoolroom ruler, he hung out with Moss and Doherty, bemused as to who these drug hoovering stick insects were. The British loved him.
Dinner with Bill Reilly, Crimbles, 20.15 Wednesday
Cast;
Iago Coakes a television critic.
Bill O’Reilly TV anchor man.
Franc Cortez the Maître d’.
Javier Salazar the Waiter.
STAGE; Three Tables, set for two, are spaced evenly across the stage, dressed in white table clothes and silver cutlery. At each table, 2 high backed chairs face one other. A single spot burns on the center table. Light operatic music is playing.
Iago Coakes is already at table pouring water and drinking. We wait 12 minutes. ENTER STAGE LEFT CORTEZ & O’REILLY
Iago - Welcome Bill.
Bill - Shut up Coakes, I don’t want to hear it. It’s unamerican to arrive on time.
Iago - No bother at all, none to mention.
Bill - Quiet! Have you ordered yet?
Iago - No.
Bill - In that case I’ll have what he’s having.
Iago - And I’ll have the same.
EXIT RIGHT CORTEZ
Bill - Disgusting.
Iago - I’m sorry?
Bill - These gooks. Everywhere. Leaping the border from Morocco. Their fingers in my food. It makes me ill just thinking about it.
Iago - Ha ha, good one Bill.
Bill - Shut up… Let me ask you something, how’s life treating you since the gods pissed a jizz of blessing upon you?
Iago - Oh you know..
Bill - Shut up. Just kidding, go ahead.
Iago - A lot of bitches, a lot of ass. And Bill, those fucking whores, they swallow. Fucking hot ass bitches.
Bill - Fucking A Coakes (They high five) God Damn, I have gotta get me some pussy, get my dick wet, tonight, split some fucking whores ass. It’s an Irish thing, are you Irish Coakes?
Iago - I’m American Bill.
Bill - Good answer. Let me ask you a question. Are you up for some pussy tonight Coakes?
Iago - In the words of our greatest president, ‘Everybody wants to be loved.’ (He slowly climbs onto the table, twice slipping off and begins a series of airhumps, before climbing even more slowly down)
ENTER SALAZAR RIGHT, pours wine.
Bill - (loudly) Server, what’s your name?
Salazar - Hello, my name is Javier Salazar. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
Salazar pulls a rapier from his belt, runs toward O’Reilly. O’Reilly leaps up, tearing off his suit to reveal a US army uniform, and lifts an M-16 from his suitcase, all while Salavar continues toward him in slow motion. O’Reilly takes down Salazar, and sits back at the table, as other restaurant staff tactfully remove the corpse.
Bill - (panting) The war.. It never ends.
Iago - Christ Bill, they want you dead.
Bill - With a weak congress, those bastards know that all that lies between them and the destruction of out great republic, is me, Carl Rove, and the John Wayne’s holy ghost.
Iago - Those dirty towel heads.. ( He looks down at a Chinese waitor wiping blood from the floor, cuffs the man on the back of his head .) Fucking chica’s. I wouldn’t put my cock-robert near a fucking chica, skank would give me AID’s just looking at it.
Bill - Shut up.
Iago - What?
Bill - You know as well as I do that heterosexual Americans cannot contract that communist disease.
Iago - Do you know what I want? Some dirty little Eastern European chick.
Bill - One of those little hollow eyed sparrows with bruised faces? You just know they’re slaves, literally property. Yeah, I could handle that.
Iago - I know a guy who can set us up.
Bill - Make the call.
EXIT RIGHT COAKES AND O’REILLY
It’s late, Coakes is sweating, streams of the stuff pouring off his shoulders. His eyes are closed and the cocaine drip has soured the back of his tongue. O’Reilly grunts and Coakes opens his eyes to see him pounding away at the girls ass, his shirt unbuttoned, his hands clamped to her hips, a bargain bucket of fried chicken balanced on her back, bones and chewed corn husks covering the bed. Coakes barks a laugh and they high five, clasp hands - two sweaty, wet, warm palms pressed together - and meet each others gaze, neither making a noise, until O’Reilly cries out and empties himself into the once tiny, ruined white ass. The girl stops suckling at Iagos chode to pant, until a sharp smack starts her up again. O’Reilly giggles and looks up from felching the girl, grins his goo covered teeth wide, sticks out his tongue, spits mother of pearl onto Coakes belly. Coakes, horrified, falls back amongst the poultry carcasses, almost severing his dick in the girls mouth, and in a second Bill is on him, licking his own cum off Iago’s stretch marks. He mounts Coakes, and they begin to frot, Coakes terrified but eager, the girl off to one side, surprised and disgusted. With a start, Coakes and O’Reilly share the mythical simultaneous orgasm.
The rest of the night they spend yelling and laughing, snorting horse off the girls thighs and from her clammy untouched vagina, and once, giddily, from one another’s anuses. Next morning, red eyed but still giddy, they hug and laugh like soldiers returned from war. O’Reilly leaves, promising ‘a real evening next time’, and Coakes slinks back to bed. When the cleaner enters, for perhaps the first time, he ignores her completely.
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