Che cazzo vuoi!
Eh? What’s this? I fall asleep with Frerreta and now this? Quella ragazza! Cabron! What is this business I’m wearing? I look like a pazzo. And Freretta? Where is she? Who is this chica next to me? In silks, no less. Strange get-up for a groupie.
That Lonzo’s going to get a butterfly for a paycheck the way he takes care of me!
Thus wakes Silvio Barducco, silver-tongued Italian pop star and lead singer of the group “Stronzo! Tua madre!”, on the morning of 11 January 2009, in the body of president-elect Barack Obama.
Meanwhile, in Bologna…
Must have that action list checked over by some of the Crimsons, or… Wait a second! Oh my god! I’ve been kidnapped! First seconds! First seconds! They say it’s the first seconds that count! I gotta escape! Now! Now! Now! Now!
President-elect Obama, in the body of Barducco, hurls himself through a tangled bead curtain, stumbles into a door-frame and passes out with the last rays of afternoon light in the great city of Bologna that Sunday afternoon, the eleventh of January.
Barducco is still slowly ascertaining his surroundings and deciding which of his lackeys to hang by the testicles, when Michelle Obama begins to stir.
I have not slept with this woman before. No. No. And did I…? Let me just… No. My team smells clean. I could start with something. I’d really rather have a coffee, though. Is she from the record company, maybe? If she is, I’ll have to do her, and dirty. Just because. A journalist? Too old. She smells like a burlap sack.
“Eh. Eh. Ehhh! Ehhh! Lady! You’re breathing on me! You. Smelly chica! Stop breathing on me!”
Rompipalle! She gives me a look like my mother. Oh, what did I do to Freretta to make her so angry that she’d leave me with her personal trainer.
Meanwhile, Barducco’s so-called consigliere, Lonzo, has come to his boss’s aid, after hearing a strange thump come from Freretta’s bohemian boudoir.
“Jefe! Capo! You done fucked ya noodle, boss! There ya are. All’s ya need is a little ristretto. Or maybe a little basuco. Eh?”
They’re speaking Italian. Italian! Think Barry, think! Italian Red Brigade? No. Al-qaeda in Italy? Not likely. Oh, my head hurts. They must have drugged me. But where am I? Why haven’t they restrained me? There’s a window. Maybe I can…
“Capo, easy, capo. Silvio, my boss, you need to take it easy. You gotta sing tonight, in only three hours, eh? Smoke some of this, eh? We’re gonna have to put some make-up on that little punto negro, eh?”
Negro?
As Obama, reeling confusedly inside the fat and drug-addled body of Barducco, wonders whether his captors are linked to Civil War reenactors, and further whether “singing” is a euphemism for talking under torture, Barducco is busy sweet-talking an upset, and frankly unwilling, bella Obama.
Dispetossa. “You’re angry, yes? But, let’s be honest, eh? I’m the star, you know? I’m the star, so let’s be a big girl now.”
Strega. But look at those thighs. I’d bathe in vinegar to have those wrapped around me. Where am I, anyway? Reminds me of a suite I had once in Monte Carlo.
Barducco, as was his wont first thing in the morning, slid out of bed, flung off the pajamas he was unaccustomed to and paced to the tall Georgian doors leading to the balcony. He’d hoped to find a pack of cigarettes there, the sun rising over a casino and perhaps even a glimpse of the Mediterranean. But, as he swung open the doors, he heard the woman behind him shriek and felt a strange sun on his skin…
…to be continued…
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