little baldy, my “better-than-nothing” as the nasty gossipmongers call you simply because they’ve never been lucky enough to know your scrumptious, delectable tongue, long and soft when you kiss me all over my body, my body as perfect as that of an alabaster Venus, as you like to say. . . . But enough of these pleasures, my anonymous lover, let’s get to the point, which is the ever-increasing chumminess between that scheming MR and your rival, Secretary BH. You’re too good sometimes, my saintly little sweetheart: Your loyalty to the P blinds you to the people who want to bring you down, calling you an unscrupulous ass-kisser. That’s exactly what that diabolical little duo is up to: They want to make you look like another amoral ass-kisser who uses his proximity to the P to rise in the ranks hoping to become P himself at the next election. Let’s not play dumb, my darling T, we’re past the third year of the “period” (and I’m not referring to my heavenly hormones), and the only thing that matters now is the succession of the P.
This is how I see things. MR has allied herself with BH, whose strength is his alleged serenity and equanimity, his reputation as an honest man in a nation of thieves. He leaves all the dirty work to MR, who commands the P’s attention, since the P, as you already know, is a grateful man, and when they were nobodies MR was his sweetheart and taught him all the tricks of the political trade. The good and bad thing about the P is that he’s a grateful man. So find a way, my handsome, of making him more grateful to you than to anyone else. Things are getting hairy (sorry, sweetheart, that wasn’t a dig at you, my beautiful baldy), and if we really want to get what we’re after, you and I will have to find that diabolical little couple’s weak spot. We have an advantage that also happens to be a disadvantage. My admirable husband is like the Rock of Gibraltar. Nothing makes him budge; he’s boring but safe. Now, were he to hear about some shady move on the part of our little couple, he’d go straight to the P with the information, as sure as Moses appeared on the Mount armed with the Ten Commandments.
My husband is a genius when it comes to making people feel guilty. We all know that the P can’t bear to feel guilty. The only thing my husband needs to do, then, to make the P doubt, is reveal one of BH’s slipups. Believe me, my adorable tortilla, the best way to get the P on our side is by planting the seed of doubt in his mind. You know he’s a man who needs security, security, always more security. Let’s not fool ourselves. He’s even willing to tolerate corruption as long as it’s safe— that is, predictable and reliable. Take the case of our communications secretary, Felipe Aguirre. We all know, as does the P, that for every contract he authorizes he takes a cut tastier than a rumba dancer’s ass. The P knows it and doesn’t care, he’s got that theory of his about corruption as a lubricant, which to me sounds like getting done up the ass (I suppose! ). The communications secretary is a swine. It’s well-known, accepted, understood, however you want to put it.
But BH! Moral rectitude, honesty, and all those other things that don’t feed a man are what people (especially our ineffable Mr. P) expect from him. As such, my sexy baldy, all we need to do is catch BH or that shiftless MR in some kind of sleazy deal to thwart the latter’s ambition for power. The P already trusts you like no one else, for his own reasons. He’s always saying so: “I don’t make a move without T.” “T’s always more than enough for my needs.”
Even here in Mérida everyone knows what they say at the P’s office. “T is my most loyal servant, I could never make a move without T, I trust T more than I trust myself, T is the son I never had. . . .”
And so on and so forth.
My adorable little tortilla, we must be even more astute than the eagle that climbed the thorny nopal
This is how I see things. MR has allied herself with BH, whose strength is his alleged serenity and equanimity, his reputation as an honest man in a nation of thieves. He leaves all the dirty work to MR, who commands the P’s attention, since the P, as you already know, is a grateful man, and when they were nobodies MR was his sweetheart and taught him all the tricks of the political trade. The good and bad thing about the P is that he’s a grateful man. So find a way, my handsome, of making him more grateful to you than to anyone else. Things are getting hairy (sorry, sweetheart, that wasn’t a dig at you, my beautiful baldy), and if we really want to get what we’re after, you and I will have to find that diabolical little couple’s weak spot. We have an advantage that also happens to be a disadvantage. My admirable husband is like the Rock of Gibraltar. Nothing makes him budge; he’s boring but safe. Now, were he to hear about some shady move on the part of our little couple, he’d go straight to the P with the information, as sure as Moses appeared on the Mount armed with the Ten Commandments.
My husband is a genius when it comes to making people feel guilty. We all know that the P can’t bear to feel guilty. The only thing my husband needs to do, then, to make the P doubt, is reveal one of BH’s slipups. Believe me, my adorable tortilla, the best way to get the P on our side is by planting the seed of doubt in his mind. You know he’s a man who needs security, security, always more security. Let’s not fool ourselves. He’s even willing to tolerate corruption as long as it’s safe— that is, predictable and reliable. Take the case of our communications secretary, Felipe Aguirre. We all know, as does the P, that for every contract he authorizes he takes a cut tastier than a rumba dancer’s ass. The P knows it and doesn’t care, he’s got that theory of his about corruption as a lubricant, which to me sounds like getting done up the ass (I suppose! ). The communications secretary is a swine. It’s well-known, accepted, understood, however you want to put it.
But BH! Moral rectitude, honesty, and all those other things that don’t feed a man are what people (especially our ineffable Mr. P) expect from him. As such, my sexy baldy, all we need to do is catch BH or that shiftless MR in some kind of sleazy deal to thwart the latter’s ambition for power. The P already trusts you like no one else, for his own reasons. He’s always saying so: “I don’t make a move without T.” “T’s always more than enough for my needs.”
Even here in Mérida everyone knows what they say at the P’s office. “T is my most loyal servant, I could never make a move without T, I trust T more than I trust myself, T is the son I never had. . . .”
And so on and so forth.
My adorable little tortilla, we must be even more astute than the eagle that climbed the thorny nopal
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