Part 9 of My Soap Opera, “Decadence”

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8. To Recap: Sebastien Van Der Miles is running for President and has been preparing for the Election Eve Big Presidential Debate. However, his campaign hit a minor road block when his brother, Miles, and his lover/butler, Manuel were assassinated by a brainwashed Miles at a campaign rally. The brainwasher remains at large. Meanwhile, Detective Bryan Mantis and his Partner The King of Europe have been searching for the identity of the mysterious man or woman that has been picking off the Van Der Miles family one by one.

Dylan McDermott, not the actor, rolled over in his luxurious silk bedsheets and kissed Kendra Von Puter on the cheek.

“Is this crazy, Dylan?” asked Kendra, “I mean you’re chairman of the Democratic National Committee and you’re running my fiancée’s campaign! If word ever got out to the press we’d all be ruined!”

“Frankly, I don’t care,” yawped Dylan, “I’m thinking if it’s not the side-effects of the cocaine, then this must be love.”

“Oh Dyli!” screamed Kendra as the two embraced.


“Well, I quit,” whispered Bryan Mantis as he surveyed the grizzly site. He’d failed to save Miles or Manuel and was sick of watching Sebastien sob in the corner.

Bryan put down his gun and his badge and made his way casually to the exit.


“It was the cocaine, wasn’t it?” asked Kendra.

“Ya,” responded McDermott as he packed his things and left Kendra’s apartment.


“You can’t quit, Bryan!” screamed the King of Europe, “What about Kendra or Sebastien? We can still save them!”

“Too many people have died, King, and I’m sick of it. I’m getting out before it’s too late.”

“Don’t be a coward!”

“Don’t call me a coward. You surrendered to the Germans!”

“Fine Bryan. Leave. Quit. But I’m going to find the murderer!”



“Talk to you later.”



“Okay, Sebastien,” began McDermott, straightening his tie, “As you know, the election is tonight at 11 PM.”

“Election?” asked Sebastien quizzically.

“The presidential one. You’re running,” responded McDermott.

“As Lincoln?”

“No Sebastien, you’re a democrat,” sighed McDermott.

McDermott reassured himself that the election was tonight and he soon wouldn’t have to see this simpleton anymore. He decided to take a vacation after the election. Maybe he’d go to Cochrane, Alberta. Seems fun there.

“So what do I need to do?” asked Sebastien.

“There’s the 2016 presidential debate tonight. You’re leading Boehner in the polls 10:1. All you need to do is show up and look pretty and for the love of god not use the n-word.”

“I can’t promise that,” screamed Sebastien.

“Jesus Christ! You can’t use it! It’s a terrible, hateful term and you can’t have it coming out of the mouth of the goddamn president.”

“Reagan used it!”

“The eighties were a different time, Sebastien,” sighed McDermott. They had had this conversation so many times. McDermott wasn’t sure whether Sebastien was just a horrible racist or he didn’t understand the sociological connotations of the term.

“Rick Santorum used it!”

“He’s a Republican. You’re a Democrat. The rules are different for us.”

“Obama used it!”

“In a book,” McDermott buried his face in his hands, “In a goddamn book.”

“What’s a book?” asked Sebastien, shocked at hearing a new word.


Bryan walked into his twelfth-floor penthouse apartment and took off his hat and sighed. It wasn’t long until his turtle Rupert came sprinting out from his little house and leapt into Bryan’s arms and the two hugged.

“Oh Rupert,” Bryan sighed joyfully, “You’re my best friend.”

Rupert looked at Bryan knowingly, as if to say, you’re my best friend too.

Bryan felt something he hadn’t felt in a long in a long time. He smiled and put Rupert down on his immaculate granite countertops, where Rupert ate a little bit of lettuce and fell asleep.

Bryan turned to look at his drugs and realized he didn’t need them anymore. He picked them up and flushed them down the toilet. Bryan was finally clean. He even called his ex-lover, Susan, to apologize for how much he had hurt her. Susan forgave Bryan instantly and seemed to have something else to tell Bryan but he was out of day-time talking minutes.

Bryan walked over to his spotless Versace couch and sat down and turned on the television. Rupert hopped off the counter and on to Bryan’s lap and nudged Bryan knowingly.

“What is it, Rupert?”

Rupert looked at Bryan with a tinge of exasperation, as if to say, you know what it is.

“Damnit Rupert, your right. I can’t just abandon my friends like this. All I want to do is sit here and watch Frasier with you, like we do every night, but they’re in danger and only I can stop it.”

Rupert tapped Bryan on the hand, communicating that he was right.

“I hate how you’re always right,” murmured Bryan playfully.

Rupert cuddled Bryan’s arm, telling him to be safe.

“I’ll be safe, Rupert,” whispered Bryan reassuringly as he picked up his badge and his gun, “Keep Frasier ready, I’ll be right back.”


John Boehner sighed deeply, wiped his hands on his sleeveless I’d rather be fishing t-shirt, and asked, “What was the question, again?”

“Mr. Boehner,” the debate moderator continued, “There’s been some concern that you’ve been emotionally disengaged from your campaign. This is only the second time you’ve appeared in public since you secured the GOP nomination. When asked, directly, whether you want to president you sighed and said ‘not so much’. How do you respond to allegations that you do not have the drive necessary to be president?”

Boehner sighed again and eventually responded, “I resigned from Congress for a reason. I just want to spend time with my kids and my grandkids. I was in Congress for a quarter of a century. Isn’t that enough? I was supposed to teach my family baseball this week. Instead, I’m here.” Boehner enunciated “here” with such disdain that it shocked the audience to their very core.

“Are you deliberately trying to tank the election?” asked the moderator to Boehner, “I mean, you even picked Ron Howard, the most hated man in America, as your running mate.”

Boehner gave the moderator such an aggressively furious glare that the moderator jumped out of their seat and turned to Sebastien.

“Interesting answer,” screeched the moderator, “Now the next question is for the Democratic candidate, Mr. Van Der Miles.”

Upon hearing his name Sebastien smiled and did finger guns to the audience. He could see his campaign manager, Dylan McDermott, standing just off stage and mouth “don’t say the n-word”. Sebastien gave Dylan a discrete thumbs up.

“Now, Mr. Van Der Miles-“ the Moderator began before she was interrupted by Boehner suddenly standing up and running out of the room.

“Sorry about that,” the Moderator continued, “Mr. Van Der Miles, how will you defend American interests at home and abroad?”

Don’t say the n-word, Sebastien thought to himself.

Sebastien cleared his throat, and began, “Well-“


“ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS NOT SAY IT!” screamed McDermott at the top of his lungs backstage after the debate.

“Did I do that?” asked Sebastien sincerely.

“Jesus Christ,” yelled McDermott again as he started hyperventilating, “You are so fucking fired. So fucking fired. Get the fuck out of my sight you piece of shit.”

These were the first and last times McDermott ever swore in his entire life. Sebastien was shocked and taken aback and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

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