The Devil’s Own

By Minim Calibre
Notes: Going to Hell, and not the Special Kind. Henry Kissinger/Deep Throat. R.

Dr. Kissinger picked up the hard, black plastic of the receiver. Pudgy fingers slipped into the old-fashioned dial and pulled… once, twice… seven times in total. Always a local number, no matter the locale.

“I’ve been expecting your call, Dr.” The voice was soft, dark, smothering. Disappointed, but not angry.

“You wish for me to resign as head of the commission.” It wasn’t a question, just a request for confirmation.

“It’s for the best, Dr. You would risk everything you’ve worked for, everything I’ve given you, just so you can expose Rumsfeld? When his actions have been no worse than your own?” Chiding laughter.

“He pushed me out. Me, Henry Kissinger.” The old familiar anger rose in an old man’s chest, grudges a quarter century gone, full and round and ready to unleash.

“And he’ll get what’s coming to him, in the end. I told you, I’ll take care of you. I’ve taken down presidents and preachers for you, don’t you remember, my boy?”

He remembered. Remembered all of it. “I’m old, not stupid,” he snarled.

“That’s my boy. Nixon should never have demeaned you. I would have made him great, but you were my favorite son, and I had to choose. Resign the commission, and I’ll take care of everything, as I always have, as I always will.”


“Very good, Dr. Are you listening carefully?”

“Of course.”

A chuckle from the other end. Caustic and cool, sharp and soothing. Wrong, so wrong. “Undo your trousers, Dr.”

He moved his hand slowly to his fly, unhooking the button and sliding the zipper down until heavy wool parted, exposing the white cotton of his boxers.

“Take yourself in hand, Dr., for me.” Silky voice, oozing demands. As it always had been, as it always would be.

Hands grown thick with age fumbled beneath his undergarment, grasping flesh sprung to life from the promise of revenge. Women—they were nothing. Power—he’d had more power in his lifetime than any one man should by rights. But revenge, respect, reputation—those were the things that mattered. Those were the things that would be remembered, long after his bones were dust and ash. He stroked himself, eyes focusing on a spot in the distance, and listened as the voice on the other end of the line told him everything he wanted to hear.

“Cicero, Caesar, Churchill, all children playing at games compared to you, my most accomplished apprentice.” Approval, honey-sweet, flavored the words, embraced him, captured him.

With a stifled grunt, he came into a linen handkerchief.

“I will tender my resignation in the morning,” he whispered, and hung up the phone.

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