Red Meat Cures Cancer (12 page)
16
Fighting Back
I went straight home from the airport, exhausted by my swing out to the left coast. Uncut grass and a pile of mail, composed entirely of bills, Pottery Barn catalogs and campaign donation requests from Burton Roxby, greeted me upon arrival. Didn’t those mooks in his office ever quit? For therapy, I took some small pleasure in tearing up every piece of correspondence with his picture on it. A telephone message from Zeb Nettles, Tailburger’s public relations director, reminded me to watch
Larry King
and assured me that efforts were ongoing to get me on the show in the next day or two. A note on the kitchen table from my brother informed me he was out at a poetry slam, whatever the hell that was, and would be home late. Coast clear, I went to the small wet bar in my study, poured myself four fingers of Dewar’s and drank it neat.
There was no word yet on the impact of the boycott. It would take at least a day to see if store sales were down in any significant number. SERMON had been effective in the past at mobilizing large numbers of meat maniacs, but their success was limited to emotional issues such as food poisoning, where children died as the result of E. coli, salmonella or trichinosis. Here, Muffet would be simply advocating a health issue, and I was banking on the fact that most Americans would rather be fat and happy than thin and deprived. Traylor Hitch knew what he was talking about.
I moved slowly to the brown sofa sectional in my family room to watch Muffet on TV. Just a week before, this corduroy-covered monstrosity had been a place of passion for me. Now it was losing its status as fuck furniture and turning into a place of mourning. How could she sell me out? It still didn’t make sense to the Atomic Fly.
I had a few minutes before the show to click my way around the cable clusterfuck of worthless television. Ah, pro wrestling. Thank God for World Wrestling Entertainment and its fans. Talk about your primary markets for Tailburger. They didn’t get any better than that. Stadiums full of life’s fringe players. People who thought a three-hundred-pound man spitting on them and belittling other three-hundred-pounders in mock anger while wearing chartreuse tights was the world’s highest art form. It was a stockholder’s dream and a cosmic joke on our founding fathers. Its sheer preposterousness was a testament to how low our cultural brow had sunk.
Then there was the Home Shopping Network, where people paid hundreds of dollars for allegedly rare pieces of hastily constructed crap that they didn’t need and wouldn’t want minutes after its arrival from the back of a UPS truck.
I lit a Commodore, flipped my fifty-inch flat screen to CNN and heard the familiar refrain of James Earl Jones. The blue-hued backdrop of
Larry King Live
was next and its comforting effect on my eyes was undeniable. Larry’s owl-like appearance was unchanged with his slicked-back hair, thick tortoiseshell frames and generally natty attire. With a drop-dead gorgeous seventh wife and two new babies, Larry was the quintessentially greatest living proof our country had that women liked men with money and power regardless of their age or attractiveness. Muffet sat calmly across from him as the introductory music played. She looked better than good in a black sleeveless dress with a ruby red silk scarf around her neck and large diamond stud earrings. “Probably a gift from that dead husband of hers,” I mumbled bitterly in my scotch-induced delirium.
“Good evening. I’m Larry King. My guest tonight is Muffet Meaney, executive director of the antibeef organization Stop Eating Red Meat Now, known more commonly by its acronym, SERMON. Good evening, Muffet. Nice to have you on the show.”
“Thank you, Larry. It’s good to be here.”
She was kissing his ass already. Batter up. Here come the soft-balls.
“Muffet, your organization is the most vocal group in the country when it comes to beef. What’s going on here? What’s wrong with red meat?”
“It’s a killer, Larry. Simple as that. Studies show that the fat and cholesterol contained in cooked red meat clogs your arteries until you die of coronary heart disease or stroke. And if that doesn’t get you, one of the millions of bacteria crawling around on the meat will. Have you heard of the new strain of E. coli, Larry? It’s twice as deadly.”
She had to throw in the bit about the bacteria. That bitch.
“That’s what they say. Doesn’t sound too appetizing, Muffet.”
“No, it’s not, Larry. It’s a serious health hazard to the public. And now there’s evidence of a connection between food poisoning and IBS.”
“What’s IBS?”
“IBS stands for Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Larry. It’s a condition discovered by British scientists who have found a connection between exposure to foodborne bacterias and a lifetime of painful irritation to the victim’s large colon. Every time they use the bathroom, it just brings back memories of that one bad burger.”
“My word, Muffet. A lifetime, huh? Sounds highly unpleasant.”
“You bet it is, Larry.”
“Now, you’re calling for a boycott of Tailburger. Why this company? Why not one of the biggies?”
“Larry, as you may know, Tailburger has introduced a new ad campaign encouraging people to torture themselves.”
“Interesting. Torture how?”
“By ingesting as much deep-fried food as their bodies can handle—literally gorging themselves on oversize portions of fat-addled meat and french fries. To make matters worse, they’ve doubled the size of their leading burger and added three extra dollops of Cajun mayonnaise. We find this total disregard for the health of consumers to be more egregious than anything we’ve seen in our nearly fifteen years of existence. It’s outrageous and irresponsible, Larry.”
“Powerful stuff. Let’s take a call. Teaneck, New Jersey, you’re on
Larry King
.”
“Yeah, Larry, I wanted to ask Ms. Meaney if she thinks that Tailburger executives could be held criminally liable for the death of their company’s customers?”
“Criminally liable, Muffet? What do you think?”
“Well, I’m not a lawyer, Larry, but that’s something we’re going to look into. These people know what their products do to the human body and they should be punished for it. I know I’d like to see them do jail time.”
“Strong words from a strong lady.”
“Jail time? Now you’ve gone too far,” I shouted at the TV while Muffet continued.
“That said, Larry, I guess now is as good a time as any to announce that we will be filing a civil lawsuit, along with the various state attorneys general, against Tailburger and their bigger brethren, including McDonald’s, to get them to pay for the health costs our country incurs as a result of their food.”
“You heard it here first, folks. A civil suit is in the works. Thank you, caller.”
“Thanks, Larry.”
“Muffet, will this be as big as the tobacco litigation?”
“We think it will be bigger. Unfortunately, more people eat red meat than smoke, so it only follows that the health burden is greater.”
“We’re going to commercial, folks. Don’t go away.”
I called Zeb Nettles and got the number for the show. This one-sided diatribe had to be stopped immediately. After identifying who I was to the producers, I was told to stand by. I was drunk, desperate and angry now, not what you’d describe as an ideal caller.
“Okay, we’re back and we’re going to take another call now. Sky Thorne, chief operating officer for Tailburger, is joining us from Rochester, New York. Go ahead, Sky, you’re on
Larry King
.”
“Hello, Larry.”
“Hello, Sky. How are you tonight?”
“I was doing just fine until your psycho guest started calling me a criminal.”
“I don’t think she called you a criminal. She just addressed the issue raised by the caller.”
“Look, Larry. The bottom line is that Tailburger makes food that is loved by certain small segments of the American public. You can’t go to a midget rodeo, Turkish bathhouse or parole board hearing in this country without seeing someone with a sack of Tailburgers. Those who love dwarf tossing and Crisco wrestling and distributing Amway. They all love Tailburger. And they should eat it as often as they like.”
“What about the health risks, Sky?”
Before I could stop myself, it was out of my mouth.
“Larry, a new Corral Foundation study will show that eating large amounts of red meat can cure most forms of cancer. It’s really America’s wonder product.”
“Sky says it’s America’s wonder product. How do you respond to that, Ms. Meaney?”
“Larry, Mr. Thorne is self-deluded. He and his cronies pay scientists to create these bogus studies every year to mislead the public about the health hazards of red meat. It’s outrageous!”
“There are health risks in everything we do, Larry. Hell, it’s dangerous to get involved with shrewish harpies who head health organizations. Just ask Ms. Meaney.”
“Muffet, is there some history here between you two that I should know about?”
“The key word
is
history, Larry, because that’s what Sky is to me.”
“Powerful stuff. We’ll be right back.”
I must have passed out at some point during the show, because I woke up the next morning with the telephone still in my hand. I didn’t remember what I’d said, but my hope that it was all a bad dream was dashed as soon as I replaced the handset on the receiver. An incessant ring forced me to pick it back up.
“Hello.”
“Sky, what in the name of Ulysses S. Grant do you think you’re doing?”
The Link was not happy, so I tried to play dumb. My head throbbed from overserving myself.
“What do you mean?”
The Link was enraged.
“Calling into that show dead drunk. Are you single-handedly trying to destroy my company? Last night was a public relations nightmare. Our stock dropped eight points this morning. The boycott is killing us, and I explicitly told you not to get involved with that woman. Goddamnit, Thorne, you better turn this situation around fast or you’re gone. And I don’t just mean from Tailburger. I’m talkin’ about the whole industry. I’ll blackball you so bad you won’t be able to get a job flippin’ dog burgers in Korea. Do you understand me? Do whatever it takes.”
A tremendous surge of panic shot through my veins as the Link slammed the phone in my ear. I wasn’t sure what to do now. Suddenly, Muffet was gone and everything else in my life was in serious jeopardy. I called Cal and asked him to meet me at Pappy’s for breakfast immediately. The look on his face told me he’d seen
Larry King
the night before.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Sky, I’m worried about you. Do you have a booze problem?”
“Since when did four or five drinks a night make you an alcoholic?”
“Sky, you need to slow it down.”
“What I need is a favor.”
“Of course. Just name it.”
Pappy came by and served us two espressos, then hovered above us until we each took a sip and gave our approval.
“The espresso’s delicious, Pappy.”
Pappy smiled like a proud father.
“I enjoyed you on
Larry King
, Sky.” Pappy stared at me like I was a circus attraction.
“Thanks, Pappy. Hope I didn’t scare anyone in your family.”
“Not at all, Sky. Very entertaining show.”
Pappy left, satisfied with his encounter with a semicelebrity.
“So what’s the favor?”
“I want to put Tailburger into the industry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not really. It pretty much goes against every fiber in my body to do this.”
“Will you stop the self-righteous, sanctimonious bullshit? You guys are already selling sex. You’d only be pushing it a little bit farther down the continuum. Hardly an enormous leap.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m out of other options.”
“Is it the boycott?”
“Not really. That’ll hurt us a bit, but most of our demographic doesn’t care too much about their personal health. We’ll lose a few that way, but it’s the whole Torture campaign. It’s just stalling out on me. Junderstack’s dead,
Dongwood
’s barely breathing and the lead singer of Blatherskite dove into a mosh pit and broke his neck two days ago in San Antonio. Their whole tour has been canceled. Pretty soon the SERMON suit will kick in and the company will be totally fucked.”
“This is just bad luck. You’ve got to shake it off. There’s always a new campaign right around the corner for you guys.”
“You don’t understand. This is it for me. If Tailburger doesn’t reach a five percent market share by the end of the year, I’m out of a job and I lose my pension.”
“Jesus, Sky. You can’t control that.”
“Try telling that to the Link.”
“Once you get involved with me, you realize there’s no going back. It’s a permanent stain.”
“Jeez, you make it sound so great.”
“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
I nodded at Cal and took another sip of espresso. I didn’t really want to cross over into the unsavory business of pornography. When you’ve got to keep something a secret from the people you care about, it’s a sure sign you shouldn’t be doing it. This wasn’t something I’d rush home to tell Ethan and Sophia, or even King, about, but what choice did I have? This was the one way left I could see to pull Tailburger out of its tailspin. The Link had given me my orders—do whatever it takes—and I would carry them out like a good Union soldier.
17
Plot
ALBANY, NEW YORK
Henry “Plot” Thickens, New York’s attorney general, had his eye on the governor’s office in Albany. Having made a name for himself with his tough stands on crime and consumer fraud, he was part of the conservatism, some said fascism, sweeping across the Empire State. The Republican incumbent, Mario Puma, was vulnerable, having failed to live up to his promises to cut taxes and televise state executions.
Originally a mentor to Thickens, Puma had isolated himself from even his closest allies by marrying an acknowledged transsexual named Joey. The installation of a hyperbaric oxygen chamber in the governor’s mansion and the presence of Aerosmith at all official state dinners hadn’t helped his cause either. Still, to win the gubernatorial election, Thickens would need an enormous war chest and a strong turnout at the upstate polls. I figured that Tailburger’s money and Burton Roxby’s endorsement, strategically placed together, would be the perfect cheese to trap our rat.
We met for drinks at Jack’s, an old-style hangout for politicos located straight down the hill from the state capitol building. To walk inside was to be transported to another time. The waiters, all dressed in white tuxedo jackets with black accoutrements, frantically scurried about with trays overhead, delivering immense New York strip steaks to anxious customers. Billie Holiday’s voice and a jazz accompaniment played unobtrusively in the background. Roxby (still holding up bill 214 in the Agriculture Committee, listeria provisions and all) and I took a table and waited for Thickens to arrive. The headwaiter, Andre, breezily arrived and took our orders: a Diet Coke for the wussball Congressman and a Long Island iced tea for yours truly.
“You’ve got to be careful about what you say, Sky.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that there’s a thin line between a legitimate political donation and a bribe.”
“Well, you’re the expert in bribery, that’s for sure, but I’m not bribing him, Burt. I’m simply asking him to exclude Tailburger from the SERMON lawsuit.”
“In exchange for what?”
“What do you think? How about a big sloppy blow job? I’ll get down on my knees right here at this restaurant and give him the best head he’s ever had in his life. Do you think that’ll do the trick?”
I saw Thickens from afar, which wasn’t difficult to do. A former football star at Penn State, he was six four, three hundred pounds and had a neck like a tree stump. Steroid use had destroyed both his hairline and his complexion. A knee injury had shortened his NFL career with Philadelphia and led him to law school, but it hadn’t stopped his incessant talk about playing in “the League.”
“Gentlemen.”
Roxby stood up to shake hands with Thickens. I didn’t have the energy.
“Hello, Plot. God, you look great,” Roxby gushed.
“Nice to see you, Plot,” was the best greeting I could muster.
“You two see the fog this morning?” Thickens asked.
“It was pretty thick.”
“Damn straight. I’ll tell ya, it reminded me of my days back in the League. Of course you guys remember the Fog Bowl in ’88. We were playing the Bears up at Soldier in the first round of the play-offs. I’d just come off of I.R. and my knee was still killin’ me.”
For a brief moment, Andre saved us.
“Something to drink, sir?”
“I’d like a Seven and Seven.”
Unfortunately, Thickens didn’t miss a beat.
“So anyway, you can’t see anything out there. I mean even the guy lining up against you is a little cloudy. Third quarter comes and I snap my fibula. You know how you hear the pop?”
Roxby and I shook our heads, but Thickens wasn’t waiting for an answer.
“Well, I heard the pop. So I stick the bone back under the skin, take a few cortisone shots and get it taped up. A few minutes later, I’m sitting on the bench when Coach Ryan comes over to me. He says, ‘Thickens, you’re going back in the game and I want you to take out their quarterback.’ So I ask him if I’m going back in at end or tackle, since I’d been alternating between the two, and he says, ‘Neither, you’re going in as our twelfth man.’ ‘Twelfth man?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t we only allowed eleven?’ ”
By now, Roxby and I were done with our drinks and praying for Andre to come back.
“Then I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, ‘Don’t be an asshole, Thickens. They’ll never see you in all this fog.’ And they didn’t. I smashed through the line, broken bone and all, and took McMahon’s head off. We lost the game, but that was some of the most brilliant coaching I’d ever been around. (Pause) So anyway, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I want to talk to you about the SERMON suit.”
“Sky, my office hasn’t decided what our role will be in that suit. I’ve had a few preliminary meetings with Muffet Meaney, but nothing is definite.”
“Oh, you’ve met with Muffet?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Do you know her, Sky?”
“I may have met her once or twice.”
“Some number, eh?”
“She’s attractive.” My reply seemed suitably understated.
“Not only that. She’s a real fuck monkey, too. I had the most wicked backache by the time I made it home from D.C.”
I hid my extreme displeasure by biting down on a swizzle stick and reminding myself that I needed this guy. Then Roxby, for no reason other than to hear his own voice, decided to get into the mix.
“Look, Plot. It’s no secret that you’re planning to run for governor next year. Now Tailburger is one of the best corporate constituents in my district, and I’m very interested in seeing them thrive. They employ a lot of people, and they pay a lot of taxes. That said, I’m also very interested in seeing a pro-business Republican governor, preferably one with a dickless wife, take office. I think you can be that governor, and I’d like to tell the three million voters in western New York how I feel.”
Roxby’s words made me feel a little bit better about Muffet, but not much.
“Burt, I would of course welcome your support in any future campaign I may or may not undertake. I would welcome it openly. But this SERMON suit is something that involves the health of the citizens of New York, and as attorney general, my first obligation is to them.”
My tone was direct as I jumped back into the fray.
“Let me tell you what I want, Plot. Help me broker a side settlement before the suit starts, or even better, use your influence with Muffet Meaney to get us excluded entirely.”
“Sky, if you think I can promise you either of those things, you’re crazy.”
“I don’t want to insult you, Plot, or worse, end up tossing some gangbanger’s salad in Attica state prison, but Tailburger would be most appreciative of any efforts you could make on our behalf.”
“As would I,” Roxby chimed in.
“I understand, and I promise I will try. I know it’s a competitive time in the fast-food industry and these lawsuits can be damned expensive. Let’s just keep talking. Keep the lines of communication open. You know, it reminds me of being back in the League. Seems every week I was getting hit with a palimony suit or attending a child support hearing or getting slapped with a restraining order. You name it, I saw it. Shit, I spent more time in the local courthouse than in the film room. It really got me interested in the legal profession.”
“I’d love to hear more, Plot, but I have to get back to Rochester.
My daughter, Sophia, is coming home for the weekend from college.”
Roxby followed my lead with his own lie.
“I’ve got to go, too. Big date with my wife tonight. Have to keep those home fires burning.”
“Okay, gents. Then we’ll be talking.”
“You got it, Plot. Thanks for your time.”
“Thanks, Plot.”
Roxby and I left, pretty well convinced that Thickens could be manipulated. It would mostly take money, but if it saved Tailburger from the SERMON suit, it would be worth every penny.
