There was a knock on the door of the Oval Office.
"Come in," barked LBJ.
Two marines marched in. Manacled between them was a young Cuban soldier in fatigues, Alberto. (Rather improbably, Alberto uncannily resembled the cute young Mexican illegal, Alberto, whom the perv used to whip for a small fee in Houston all through the mid nineties). Delicate, golden brown skin - - like coffee with a fair amount of coffee mate. (Lighter than the Indian perv actually.) Thin, golden fuzz beginning on his upper chin. Large dark eyes and pretty full crimson lips. The only feature not perfect was his rather long nose, and that was good for would-be sadists to twist savagely. Nicely hung, though that wasn't LBJ's thing, and isn't the perv's either.
The two marines saluted LBJ smartly. The Cuban boy glowered at him, and gazing pointedly at Castro said in Spanish, "Commandante, I haven't told the Yankees anything. You can trust me."
"Now look here, y'all," drawled LBJ. "I don't want you talking any of that _d_a_m_n_ed wetback gobbeldygook while you are in the Oval Office of the greatest democracy in the world the US of A."
Hoover knodded approvingly. While LBJ unaccountably had a great deal of respect for the nigras, like any true Southwestern boy, he had nothing but contempt for them _d_a_m_n_ed freeloading, fruit picking, greasers south of the border.
Castro said to the soldier, "Alberto, your country needs you."
"Si, commandante," said the boy drawing himself up proudly. "Do you want me to face a firing squad."
"Not quite," said Castro. "I want you to allow the Yankee president to torture your haunches."
"Haunches, commandante?" said the boy in some bewilderment.
"Flanks," suggested the Cuban politician tentatively.
"Flanks, commandante?" said the boy in some bewilderment.
Plain talking Yankee that he was, LBJ couldn't resist, "I'm going to whup your ass, son. And after that I'm going to _f_u_c_k_ you six ways to Sunday with my finger, with my fist, and perhaps even with my godgiven, king-size pecker. I'm going to have you bleeding out of your virginal, Commie rectum son, just you see."
"Mother of God," declared the innocent Cuban boy indignantly, "What is this perverted capitalist filth this man is talking, commandante. Nothing will touch my rectum but toilet paper. And since there is a shortage of that in Cuba, I usually wash it myself. Sometimes, no doubt my finger has slipped in, and it has felt good, but I have immediately rebuked myself thinking of the revolution. I am no whore, Commandante. It's only women who are _f_u_c_k_ed, and even they are _f_u_c_k_ed in front, unless one doesn't want bambinos [the perv's ethnocentrically substituting Italian cliches for Spanish cliches here, but what the hell]."
"For the good of the proletariat, my son," declared Castro piously. "Nothing is perverse. When he tortures you, think of the international starving masses. Think of the depredations of global capitalism. Think of the glorious revolution and the solidarity of all workers. . . "
Alberto's eyes began to glaze over. Dearly as he respected Castro, those windbag speeches of his could put even the most loyal comrade to sleep.
One of the marines, a _s_e_x_y black boy from Georgia wriggled slightly with excitement that even his military discipline could not control. The talk of an ass whipping had reminded him of what his redneck DI had once done to him during bootcamp in Parris Island.
Hoover glared at him. Misreading the situation, Hoover thought that the _d_a_m_n_ed nigra was getting excited by Commie propaganda.
Stay tuned for more pervie variations on a theme by Halberstam.