We sat in the midpoint. The exact centre between our houses. Triangulation is a powerful mathematical tool not usually used to find the midpoint. In this case it had been. This made us friends of ExxonMobil. We met there, in the Midwest. This amorous relation was one that must remain secret. I wondered if either of us had been tailed. It was probable. The ensuing commotion would destroy the race. The media would lampoon, laugh and then a not so effeminate Vietnamese man would win.

She had arrived wearing a formidable disguise. She was dressed as a King parrot. I had already been waiting there, in the darkened park, in amongst the shadows for a few minutes. Thus it was that I was exuberant to see the bountiful array of colours on her. Even the moonless night could not diminish the extravagance of her feathers which were perky and bristling and if she had been disguised as a dog as she had on so many other occasions, her tail would have been wagging.

Our meeting spot was directly in front of a dingy train station, there were few street lights and if clouds hadn’t obscured the view of the heavens no doubt we could have seen more shooting stars than cars. Only commercial trains seemed to go past. Carriage after carriage. The sound was like a xylophone with only two low sombre notes played repeatedly each time louder than the last. If only the noise was deafening we may not have had to endure it.

I was dressed as Elvis. The face paint had taken many hours. My jowls were bulky and sagging under the weight of plasticine. She commented when she arrived, “You look stressed”. For some reason her dogmatic comments always stunned and somewhat excited me. I wondered what made me appear stressed. Could it be the dazzling white suit with blue stars embroidered to the shoulders? No, it must be my face. Or, more specifically, my eyes. My eyes which receded in pain due to the acidic nature of the face paint a trusted aid had chosen.

Revenge is a dish best served in a drive through. Served quickly, and given without delay to an expectant customer. The bill is given and the customer is surprised by the poor quality of food and can’t believe that they have been going to the same place for years without ever noticing it. These were the thoughts of the King parrot as she nibbled on the camembert which Elvis had brought her.

How does she manage to nibble on camembert? It’s a cheese which is not easy to nibble, especially in the arid evening heat of the Midwest, where camembert has a gooey consistency almost as soon as it is removed from the fridge. I grabbed her head and lapped up the remaining camembert in her mouth. She tasted like two day old pizza, unmicrowaved.

A man with two dogs hastily walked past us, the lonely street light illuminated the trio for a few brief instants. One of the dogs looked like Colin Powel disguised as a human. My bowels shook. The King Parrot muttered sweet somethings in my ear and another train of dizzying length ramshackled past us. The park bench struggled to maintain dignity and I suddenly felt afraid and embarrassed.

All the shops were closed. I wanted to go somewhere to change my Calvin Klein underpants. Luckily I had brought a spare pair inside the upper left pocket of my Elvis impostor suit. I had parked a fair way away next to a golf course. “I have to go to the bathroom”, I murmured to the King parrot. I plucked one of the feathers off her face and disappeared into the darkness.

On my way to the car I saw the man with two dogs again. His face looked pallid as if he had seen a polyglot. The Midwest sure was monolingual I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have left my lover alone in this barrio. I acted on my remorse and retraced my steps to the park bench. Not a bird in sight.

We had special mobile phones so as to keep the secrecy. 18004455279 I typed in the digits slowly and deliberately. Behind some nearby droopy chrysanthemums I could hear her phone ringing. I slowly approached the sound where I found her phone with a note wrapped around it. I couldn’t quite make out the words; it looked as if she had used a pen which was on its last legs, this seemed apt. Perhaps I had an aid who could decipher it. No, probably not, I pulled out my lighter and burnt the note. A decision which I immediately regretted. Maybe there was an aid who could recreate the note from the ashes and then decipher the handwriting. I put the ashes into my back pocket and walked towards the golf course.

On my way back to the car I found her. It was chaos. The dogs must have gotten to her. She was clearly dead or dying. I could tell by her rabid breathing. There were feathers strewn over and around the gutter where she lay mangled. The plethora of colour of her remains did nothing to remove the grey dark surrounding landscape. Her colourful political demise tasted like camembert. What A bumma.

(Optional next paragraph which is pretty lame)

Obama chewed the brie hesitantly as he returned