TRISTAN
The President and Mrs. Fox
request the pleasure of your company
at a luncheon to be held at
Cadaveri Restaurant
on the tenth of August
at one o’clock
I am not cutout to be a party planner.
Getting faux White House stationery was surprisingly easy. An associate of mine has a talented wife whose calligraphy is exceptional. Having them delivered to the Senate Committee was as simple as dropping them off in a random mailbox in D.C.
A fake lunch menu is easy to whip up with plenty of examples on Pinterest.
Creating a fake restaurant from the shell of a building that used to be a Pink Salmon… there’s the rub.
It took two days to remove any logos inside the building after I snuck in. The tables and chairs were still there. Theframed nautical flags hung on indigo walls, only slightly coated in dust.
But more importantly, there was a private dining room beside a door leading into a hallway for servers going to the kitchen—the perfect area to stage my masterpiece.
To avoid detection, I focused on the building's interior so no one would notice a handyman coming in and out. I made sure to stage the dining room perfectly with linen and porcelain and everything to make this an elegant feast fit for the kings these pathetic sons-of-bitches wish they were.
Luckily, I don’t think these senators have seen the inside of a Pink Salmon in thirty years, if at all. Too low-brow and tacky for them.
Meanwhile, Pink Salmon was my family’s special occasion treat for a graduation or a milestone birthday. I have fond memories of fried shrimp, cheddar biscuits, and endless refills of Pepsi—the only time my family had name-brand soda. Dad bought Pep-tastic Cola, a dollar-store brand, but it never tasted the same. Not that three kids needed sugary soda in the house, but Dad didn’t want us to go without because money was tight. He was a saint who earned his wings, putting up with three of us on his own.
After whipping up a mock website for a new Italian fine dining experience at this location, I mailed out my invitations. Three barrels of gunpowder were brought over. I’d arranged them strategically around the private room like old wine barrels, so it appeared bougee and elegant. I even set framed stock pictures of Italian cities on top of the barrels. Top-notch interior design, if I do say so myself.
At quarter to one, the seven main healthcare-hating Committee members trickle in one by one. First is Arnold Hoffnagle of Nebraska, his arms swinging like an ape as he wanders into the lobby. He’s on the list for RepresentativeMcArthur’s pedo ring. And he isn’t the only Committee member on it.
Standing in a suit and tie like a good little host, I instruct him to take a seat on the benches lining the wall.
His eyes scan the empty restaurant in confusion until I tell him, “The Secret Service asked to reserve the entire restaurant for the afternoon. For security.”
Arnie nods as he makes the connection with the few brain cells that remain. His beefy hand runs through his two-toned grey hair.
William Vandike from Wisconsin enters with his cane clutched in his left fist, leaning on his antique walking stick that costs more than the last car I borrowed.
Well, the last car I stole. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.
“Will, how are you?” Arnie doesn’t bother to stand as he holds out his hand for Will to shake, which he does before sitting.
Will adjusts his Rolex before notching his cane between his thin knees, his pant legs rising enough to reveal a glimpse of blue socks with white stars. How patriotic. But not as patriotic as him slashing his healthcare relief for veterans all across Wisconsin. The homelessness rate among veterans nearly doubled in his state within six months. And the suicide rate rose too.
But, hey, he got a really nice luxury camper van out of it for him and his wife to tour the country. I guess in his eyes, a few veteran lives for a camper van is a bargain.
“I was worried I’d be late,” Will wheezes in his weak voice. “My driver took a wrong turn and had to do a U-turn. It banged my shoulder against the door.”
Arnie shakes his head in disapproval. “I’d be speaking with his company if I were you. Lawsuit waiting to happen, reckless drivers.”
Or you could follow the law and wear a seatbelt?
I pretend to flip through my fake menu—one that still has the Pink Salmon specials printed inside—man, a Maine lobster tail and popcorn shrimp sound good. I’m starving.
