"The only answer to 'why?' is 'because I said so!'"
Donald Pimp couldn't believe anybody--anybody!--had the nerve to ask that question, much less her. Lady Liberty. Formerly of New York harbor. Formerly of the tired, the poor, the huddled masses. Now a dancer in his club. Not anybody known for saying anything at all, and here she was questioning him.
Him! Donald Pimp! Builder of Towers! Appropriator of Statues! Destroyer of Patrimonies! Landlord of Capitols! Had she asked why when he'd had her moved to her present position at Rouge State? No, she had not. Was she just too flabbergasted? Was she just now finding her voice?
It didn't matter in the sense that it could change his mind. His mind wasn't up for changing.
It did matter in the sense that it pissed him off and made him want to have her blasted into sand, which ordinarily he would do right then and there. But. She was the trophy that gave him cachet with history. And that "but" is what really galled him. Hesitation. He thought with his gut. And even though his gut was bigger than it used to be, it was still quick on its feet. If it said she should be pulverized into cat litter, then do it! Not acting on impulse made Donald Pimp feel constipated. Come to think of it, he was constipated. His gut was telling him to go to the bathroom and make an effort.
"You better get out on the floor if you know what's good for you, baby. You're asking me to justify myself. That will never happen. My deeds are their own justification."
If only justification could move his bowels, he thought as he got out of his $28.5 million dragon chair. Hell, who else on earth could do what he'd just done? Who else in history? He'd just bought the monastery of Mont St. Michel, razed it, and then--stroke of genius--he'd moved his gentleman's club, Rouge State (a.k.a. the U.S. Capitol) all the way from Washington, D.C., to France and had it rebuilt where the monastery had been! And to prevent anyone from doubting his exquisite sense of flare (or was it "flair"? His gut had never been that much of a speller), he'd garnished the Capitol dome with the famous windmill sails from the Moulin Rouge in Paris!
Why? Why? Did it really matter? The only answer was because he wanted to, and because he could. In today's world, it was expected. Ayn Rand's question had been "Who is John Galt?" And now, only a few years later, he, Donald Pimp, had answered the question. He was John Galt. Well, no, he was Donald Pimp, but that was even better, because he--Donald Pimp--was real! And when he had led the secession of the plutocrats, who was going to stand in his way? The U.S. government?
Puh-leeze. The Reagan revolution had taken care of that. A solid majority of Americans had decided that the gummint was the problem and, pfffffft! Bye-bye, gummint! So much for the much-touted American exceptionalism. "The last best hope" for humanity? Haha! Who'd said that, Lincoln? Asshole. Fighting a war to save a governmental system. Separation of powers? Bill of Rights? The hell with that. It was billing rights! Greed was the grease of history. And he, Donald Pimp, was the Saudi Arabia (or Turkey, or China, or wherever the hell they made grease) of greed. He was beyond anything the earth had known. He carried the earth! He was Atlas!
Only now, sitting on the toilet, he wasn't so much shrugging as straining and grunting and wondering what to do about her. Lady Liberty. He couldn't have people asking him to justify himself. Much less a statue. And that look on her face. You'd think she could look like she was having fun when she was taking her clothes off for his clients. But no, she just had that look of morose determination. Where had that gotten her? Objectively, off a pedestal and into a strip club!
If only she could sing, he thought through a long, straining push, she'd give new meaning to the term "torch singer."
And the rumor going around now was that some Irish terrorists were going to liberate her. Liberate Liberty. That was hilarious. It sounded like an ethnic joke. Three silly Irishmen. One Catholic, one Protestant, and one Alcoholic. Oh, wait a minute, that's the Irish Trinity. Hahaha! The Irish four-leaf clover. "But that was just three things!" Exactly! Hahaha! He wasn't worried about them. He'd put a pub out on the Mont St. Michel tidal flats and had switched the times of high and low tide on the hours of operation. And he doubted that Irish terrorists traveled by yacht. They should be Donald Pimp!
Plunderwear, part one
Plunderwear, part two