I have the honor to present as this weeks guest post from "Friends of McDougal
". I transcribed this post from 100% cotton rag acid free paper, with the seal of a seventh degree notary, so it must be true, even the parts that seem, not true. "Friends of McDougal
" is also good friends with the author of the script for the movie "The Hanged Man
"....So with this intro I will let her rip! Kind Regards and enjoy JW How I met mule, a tale based on honest facts by "Friends of McDougal"
(JW took the liberty to title this post, pretty catchy eh?)
I first met "the mule" in Tehran in December of 1980. He was smuggling six pounds of Laotian hash into France via a circuitous route that he explained led him from Cambodia to Beijing to the Middle East before reaching his final destination. He was hopped up on mescaline and Iranian moonshine and was defecating on a stone fence outside of the Ayatollah's summer home.
I was there with my master the Honorable McDougal doing some freelance "diplomatic" work for the yet appointed Mr. Haig, and must admit I was very surprised to see another American in Tehran in the midst of the Hostage Crisis -- especially one so obviously drunk and disrespectful to Messr. Homeini.
McDougal and I were disguised as Liberian pool hustlers, regaled in black face and Dashiki with single shot .38 caliber "pool cues" and our wit and martial arts skills as our only weapons. It was a tense time, made even moreso by the fact that McDougal was on the 11th day of a violent meth jag, and had grown paranoid and prone to hallucinations and uncontrollable violent outbursts.
McDougal, I'm sure you're all aware, is a large bear of a man -- standing somewhere in the neighborhood of seven feet tall and weighing more than a Volkswagen Microbus, so we were anything but inconspicuous. Add McDougal's violent dyspepsia and fits of misguided rage, and we were fortunate to have averted a nuclear disaster or the death of the 66 American hostages.
While McDougal is currently organizing his 2008 Presidential Campaign, he has historically claimed no allegiance to any particular country. However, the CIA contract was rich and would fund McDougal's operations for the next ten years if he pulled this mission off. (While McDougal ultimately failed in his efforts, the Reagan contra kickbacks for his silence were far greater than the originally agreed upon wage. Unable to have McDougal killed, as the Cabinet had originally ordered, the administration was forced to shell out a high seven figure payout over six years to keep McDougal quiet about the arrangement.)
But I've gotten way off track. I came here to talk about "The Mule."
As noted previously, when we first encountered the mule, he'd dropped trow and was defecating outside of the Ayatollah's summer palace in Tehran. McDougal found this HILLARIOUS, and knew immediately that we must befriend this insolent lad (the mule couldn't have been more than seven years old at the time).
As we discussed the state of world affairs in our fake African dialect, we learned that the mule had been tricked into having the majority of his large intestines removed by an Italian doctor (the same Italian doctor, we later learned, who saved Andy Warhol's life after being shot by that Solanas chick). In their place, a burlap sack had been sewn and a six-inch silicone zipper installed in his pelvis.
The Mule said he had run away from home at the age of five to join a traveling freak show carnival, and lacking any freakish skills, had moved his way through the ranks from yak lady attendant to dung operator to his ultimate position as drug smuggling "mule." The Mule had been told what his contraband was, but was young and naive and had no idea how much poison he was transporting, or what its intended purpose was.
He knew his was an important mission, but was devoid of any ethical or personal safety concerns. The mule knew only that he'd been assigned a job by the freakshow cartel, who had become his surrogate parents, and he could not let them down. As for his public defecation, he knew only that he had to go (a frequent occurrence due to the fact that he was no longer in possession of most of his entrails).
McDougal thought the whole situation hillarious in a Paggliaci sort of way, and decided to make it his mission to save the mule's life. We took the lad to an underground Methodist Men's Lodge in Emamshar, where McDougal proceeded to feed him large quantities of ethyl alcohol until the boy was rendered unconscious. He then carefully unzipped the lad's pelvis and removed the heroin. McDougal then disposed of the drugs the only way he knew how -- he smoked all six pounds of it.
A few months later the hostages were released (in spite of our failed mission) and McDougal, the mule, and I wandered into the crowd and travelled back to D.C. with them. We were a bit conspicous (a giant, a wee lad with a surgically implanted zipper and a full beard, and myself a devlishly handsome Hollywood-type), but no one seemed to notice. While our names were never listed on any official hostage list, if you research the hostage release photos carefully, you count 69 souls exiting those buses.
The mule and I seldom speak of the incident these days, and McDougal claims no recollection whatsoever. But the mule and I have remained the closest of friends ever since.