[I will be soon be publishing The Winds of Destiny: The Inside Story of the Zuttville Candidacy and the Campaign to Legalize Pedophilia. Here are the first two chapters]
Of course if you are reading this, it is for at least one of two reasons: Because you’re interested in the great man who was Melvin Zuttville, or because you’re sexually attracted to children. I don’t recognize much of a difference between the two, because whether you’re the former or the latter, you are undoubtedly interested in finding out more about the man so crucial in letting true love reign. We all believe in you. We believe in your innate dignity and worth, and the necessity of joining together to help you in absolutely everything you endeavor, and to advance the rights of minor-attracted entities (I will not limit myself to so-called individuals). I am proud to be in your midst, and to have been part of the historic campaign on your behalf. I think it’s safe to say that everyone who reads this book is in belief or in practice a Pedophile. The pages that follow are dedicated to you—and to me.
We were all one, on that great campaign. This is what Melvin believed, and Melvin was a great man, and I know because I was his friend, and not only his friend but his admirer. He was a man as keen and capable as Hubert Humphrey, as competent as Walter Mondale, as staid and handsome as Mark Dayton. If born in another era he could have been as much of a rabble-rouser as Paul Wellstone, but as History would have it, his role was much smaller, though no less heroic, and no less transformational. It was Melvin who established our current acceptance of Pedophiles, who let bloom the flowers of every citizen’s Right to Be Sexual. He began the cascade of liberation which swept up to freedom so many of the poor creatures you are about to read about in this narrative. Everything you do with a Human Dog is sexual. If you scratch behind his ear he takes it just the same way as if you were smelling his crotch. Now they roam the streets with as much dignity as you or me. Be careful not to get sprayed!
I will try to keep myself out of this narrative as well as I can, though I know this will be difficult. This is Melvin’s story. But I was there on the campaign stops. I was there when the white supremacists cut off his finger. He never cried; he never screamed; he never vomited; he never urinated himself. I did—I cried; I screamed; I vomited. No, through the entire journey Melvin was his regular unflappable self, like a new Martin Luther King, bravely leading us into a promised land.
Minneapolis shone like a pearl in the setting sun, white and solid beneath the glorious pastel pennants streaking the sky. Little Somali girls rolled down the sled hills in black plastic niqabs, while Human Dogs stepped from their front porches to sniff the cold air, raise a leg, and heave happy huffs out of their ever-smiling faces. Men standing on streetcorners would sulk and brood until some guy came by with a subwoofer and a joyous orgy proceeded, and firearms might be waved, but few were little more than grazed. Holiday trees glowed in windows, and many menorahs, and many luminaries of Kwanza combusted or fell out of back windows, and some portraits of George Floyd were set against backdropped lights, and a few were given Santa hats. The poor and rich mingled happily in stark and sudden confrontations.
Downtown, it was the Party Convention. Three stories of the Hanover Hotel hummed and glowed with Congressmen and Congresswomen, party apparatchiks, sympathetic reporters, anxious true believers, servile hangers-on, dispensary advocates, senile desegregationists, silent bestialitists, a flying orchestra of inebriated gay men, and a deconstructed brick wall of beautiful lesbians. Families were encouraged to attend together, at least before eight-thirty, and some children stood around awkwardly as mayors and city councilmen bent down to ask them what they thought about playgrounds, and if they wanted to know how they were paid for.
It was a general party, but more than anything a victory celebration. The Party had taken both houses of State Congress, every statewide berth of the executive branch, each of the salvageable Districts of the Federal Congress, and a number of ancillary referenda on marijuana sales and environmental spending. The Opposition had been predicted to take at least one house of the State Congress and perhaps the Attorney Generalship, but when the votes had been tallied the results could not have been better. Love had won. The fascists were vanquished.
“There’s nothing left to do but dance!” cried Lieutenant Governor Peggy to kick off the festivities.
Spirits were high, courage was up, the owner of Bottleneck Distilleries now represented the Third District in Federal Congress and vodka was on filibuster. A coterie of masked beauties bobbled around with trays of kale-and-pesto foie gras with plastic glasses of vodka.
Melvin Zuttville and his roommate Zac were on the convention floor. I had met Melvin years ago when we were students at the U and we were both District Coordinators of the Get out the Vote Campaign. I had stayed in the Cities while he went to law school out east. He had met Zac there, and both had returned to St. Paul, where Zac now worked for a firm downtown. Melvin was still working for the Party, for Melvin was always working with the Party. He was one of the most brilliant individuals I’ve ever known: Conscientious, magnanimous, coolheaded yet devout, fervent yet measured, slow to anger but deep in anger.
A waitress came by with a tray.
“Can I interest you in vodka? It’s one dollar per glass.”
“I’ll take two. I hate clear alcohol,” said Zac. “One sip and I forget it’s not water.”
She gave Zac two glasses.
“Do you have any salt? I like to know my drink won’t be disturbed. No one drinks your vodka when it’s full of salt.”
“I don’t have any salt.”
“Plebian services. Third world quality. The waitresses don’t even have salt for my vodka. The key to happiness is to develop a taste for something that literally no one else enjoys. It’s the only way to assure you’ll be left alone in this world.”
“Zarathustrian,” said Melvin.
Zac quickly drank his right-hand vodka, then the left. “That’s fine, man. Whistles down the throat like blood through a Kenyan vein. God bless the humble DUI attorney tonight.”
The vodka waitress was a Somali girl in a headdress and yoga pants giving a tight view of all feminine topography below her waist. Zac tried to keep her near him by constant conversation. She was young, and too dumb to talk about anything but the contents of her tray and pockets.
“Do you enjoy these events?” asked Zac. “Must be fun to cavort with the sausage-makers.”
“I guess. I just serve drinks. I don’t know,” she mumbled.
“You know I really think it’s appropriate for a waitress to have some condiments on her. You don’t even have napkins. What’s happened to quality of service? Who’s advising you girls?”
Melvin chipped in: “Back in the day, when you waitresses were unionized, you would have had salt on hand, along with a lot of other condiments. Of course, you’d also have had employer-supplied health insurance and four weeks’ vacation every year.” He began to ask her about her employer and which, if any, benefits she received, but she had to admit she knew more about what was on her tray and in her pockets.
“Look at this stupid whore with her burqa,” Zac commented to Melvin, when the Somali was out of earshot. “It’s all an insult to me. A good waitress should give you passing impressions that that abhorrent Thirteenth Amendment has been repealed, that her dedication to you is more than perfunctory, and possesses a kind of nobility to it. This dumb whore can’t even get me a napkin. And yet she’s the only attractive girl here.”
“If you can pull yourself away from the hired help, you’ll see there are plenty of women in the Party, and a lot of them are desperate to settle down.”
“Give me helpless, my friend, not desperate. I want a captive prisoner, not some freak hobbled by the rigors of thought and age. By Jove, you used to be able to get laid at these things. But now even the young people are old, and obese as Caesar’s pliant men. Given me men who are fat!—and, oh, they heeded the call! All the young people are aged like hard cheese, and here I am in search for brie.”
“It’s fundamentally a networking event,” said Melvin glumly. “As are all these events.”
“Damn it, man, we’re too old to network! Our networks should be paying dividends by now. This Party is corrupt. It should be making its rank-and-file rich, and if not rich at least comfortable. What kind of organization only sanctions and satisfies my ideals? I should have revenue streams by now. I knocked on doors for these cheap bastards. I ought to be rich as a Jew, but only the Jews here are as rich as Jews, and that’s not even what it used to be.”
“We could bring back the spoils system.”
“I don’t need to be spoiled. I need recompense. A nice Norwegian wife; a stately Semitic intern, a harem of Somalis. Failing all these, property connections; friends in high places, or at least bureaucratic cellars. My fair Jove, I’m tempted to become Republican.”
“Don’t talk that way. It’s not worth losing your soul over.”
“Haven’t we done our time? Do you remember when Swinegore was getting grilled for being too fat? I’m the one who told him to promote ‘muscular economics’ and girdle his fatty arms into massive biceps. You’re the one—Melvin Zuttville—who laid out the positive demos on obesity that let that fat bastard sleep at night. You’ve greased more gears than anyone in the state, and where is the respect for your work? Where is the reverence for a good and faithful servant? All personal politics has broken down and been replaced by ideals—that’s why we’re destitute.”
Melvin shook his head. “I think there’s hope still. Politics gains as civilization becomes refined. The problem is finding one’s place in a more advanced environment.”
“Nonsense. As Clausewitz said, Politics is sex by other means. Savage man spreads his seed through polygamy and rape. Civilized man spreads it through ideology. Both sex and politics are about domination and pleasure, but only one is perverse. Hence all these sick freaks amidst. The great leaders could thrive only in less sophisticated times: Caesar, and Alexander, and Genghis Khan. As politics becomes more refined, those deriving orgiastic satisfaction from their verbal emissions come to dominate. They evolve into sick and twisted creatures like those before us, and all fertility and virility founder and die around them like rank emissions in a sodomite. Civilization is perverse, below the dignity of a man of red blood.”
Zac was drunk on vodka.
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