by Hannity Hannity
Vol. I of Putting the S&M in Shouts and Murmurs
Loosely inspired (and completely not-work safe) by I Foxed (m)Ann Coulter in the Roger Ailes, Hard
Coulter, commentator of my choice, fire of my loins. My spin, my soul. Cole-ter: the tip of my tongue tripping over two of my terrorist-torturing, traitor-trouncing teeth. Coal. Ter.
She was A, plain A in the morning, standing five feet ten in her size eleven combat boots. She was Ms. Coulter in sensible slacks, Commentator Coulter on the air, and Syndicated Columnist and Best-Selling Author Ann Coulter in print. But when I was in her arms, she was always Ann.
(the whole sick tale)
I wasn’t listening to what Senator Kennedy was saying. I knew of what he spoke, for I know of what his kind always speaks: surrender, sedition, and sexual shenanigans. His bulbous, bobbing head filled the video monitor, connected via satellite to his den of treason in Washington, D.C.
No, I was staring at her. Her long blond tresses. Her red tongue, licking her lips like the cheetah, ready to pounce on the labored, tired, obese Irish Wolfhound before her. And the round lump in her throat, so much like mine, but smoother, more supple, free of stubble. God, how I wanted to touch her.
I heard the buzzing from the senator cease. “You know what, Senator Kennedy?” I said. “You are a Four-Alarm Liar. I should get out the fire extinguisher to put out the blaze in your pants—if you were wearing any!”
A babble of nasally Hyannis Port exasperation filled the canal of my ear, but my auditory senses were drowned out by the sharp, sinewy laugh coming from that heavenly blond mouth.
Alan began to snivel in protest, but I cut him off. “That’s all we have time for today,” I announced. “Tune into Hannity and Colmes tomorrow as we discuss America’s universities: centers of learning, or brothels of the Left?”
The red light went off on the camera. “Jesus, Sean!” Alan whined. “Don’t you think you went a little overboard on Kennedy? The man is a senator, for Pete’s sake.”
I pulled my lips back in a smile. Every once in a while, Alan’s spine would straighten, triggering a complaint, a suggestion, any kind of unsolicited idea. I so enjoyed snapping it back into 1000 pieces. “Alan, whose name is first? Who’s the star here?”
He shook and couldn’t look into my eyes. “All I was saying is I think...”
“You think?” I replied. “You think when I ask you to think, and when that camera’s off, that moment is never.” I leaned in close, so only he could hear. “I make one call, one fucking phone call, Alan, and I’ll have Paul Begala here licking my boots. Capice?”
Alan nodded. As he slinked off the set, Ann leaned over the particle board desk and touched my hand. “I loved the way you handled Kennedy,” she said. “Christ, I hate that Chappaquiddick cocksucker. Too bad he knew how to swim.”
I looked down at her hands. Her fingers wrapped completely around my wrist like the roots of an oak. I could feel the heat from her palms sinking through my jacket, into my skin, racing to my heart.
“Thank you,” I said. It was an effort to speak, I wanted to get to my knees and pant, suck in the breath around her.
“What are you doing tonight, Sean?” she asked.
“N-n-nothing,” I stammered. English failed me. I was an infant, learning to talk, walk, cry, eat. My legs wobbled like a foal’s.
“Let’s blow this taco stand,” she said. “I know a place where we can really get away from it all.”
She blindfolded me on the trip. She insisted I not know the location of her compound until I was “initiated.” “Sorry, Sean, baby, but I’ve been burned before. I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with O’Reilly.”
The sensory deprivation allowed me to focus on the deep rasp of her voice. She was so sure of herself, of her beliefs, of the treason of liberalism. I believed it, too, but there were times—few, but still times—when I felt the bubble of doubt rise. Could we be wrong? Did Alan sometimes have a good point?
“I don’t know why you let that schmuck Colmes talk,” Ann said. “I’d tell Ailes that I’d do a show with al-Zarqwi before I’d partner with a stab-you-in-the-back liberal. At least you know where the terrorist stands.”
“Alan’s not so bad,” I said, “he’s harmless. And sometimes he does a better job of making my points than I do.”
She laughed, then coughed, deep and wet. I heard the whine of the electric window, felt the rushing, pungent blast of turnpike air, and heard Ann spit into the wind.
“That’s my impression of moveon.org,” she said. I laughed, maybe too long, but at least the laughter kept me from saying something foolish and irrevocable.
We kept the talk small for the rest of the trip. Tax cuts, war in the Middle East, court nominations, Michael Moore, and why the First Amendment needed serious amending. She told me why Joe McCarthy was a hero, why Jimmy Carter was a traitor, and why Hillary Clinton would be her dream opposition candidate. I didn’t tell Ann that I knew her arguments by heart, memorized like Shakespearean prose, iambic talking points unrhymed.
The car stopped. She pulled off the blindfold. “We’re here.”
The ATF would never be able to burn this place to the ground. It wasn’t a compound, it was a castle, a fortress of freedom. The stone walls stood ten feet if they were an inch, forming a perfect circle around a matching manor house that appeared as solid as it did regal. “The house that Slander built,” Ann said.
“It’s...it’s...wow,” I stammered. God damn it, Hannity, I thought, get a hold of yourself. And apologize to God for swearing. “I mean, I feel like I’m in Europe.”
Ann frowned. “Gee, thanks, just what I wanted, to give the impression of unemployed socialist cowardice.”
“Oh, Ann, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I...I...”
“Kidding, Hannity,” she said, punching me in the shoulder. “You have been around Alan too long.”
“No, no!” I retorted. I stood up straight and pushed my chin forward. “Of course I meant Old Europe, when men were men—“
“And the sheep were nervous!” Ann finished. “Good, I was worried you were going Democratic on me there. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who’s soft.”
I swallowed. I stared into her eyes, blue pools of Aryan breeding, too pure to corrupt with my unclean Irish-Catholic genes. I kept up the front, “If there’s one thing I’m not, Ann, it’s soft.”
She smirked. “Come on, I’ll show you the armory.”
She kept her weapons immaculate. Oiled, clean, ready to empty a clip into a government agent or a Muslim terrorist on a moment’s notice. I held a Beretta in my hand, looking down the barrel.
“Confucius say two Berettas in the hand are better than one Robert Byrd in a Bush!” Ann said, handing me my pistol’s twin. “Ever done two at the same time, Hannity?”
I shook my head no. Her unspoken reply told me that she had. “But I’ve fired plenty of guns,” I countered. “Nobody can get a shot off quicker than me.”
She grabbed my free palm and slapped the pistol in it. “The key to shooting, Sean, is control. Especially if you’ve got two hot pieces in your hands.”
She led me to the shooting range, a three-lane field about one hundred yards long. She moved two human-figure targets within pistol distance. “Let’s see you in action,” she said, sitting back to watch.
I took a deep breath and flicked the safeties off. My fingers worked the triggers, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. I fired controlled bursts at two targets, nailing a dozen head shots. She clapped politely. “Not bad, Sean, for your first time. You should have seen Limbaugh when he tried it. He kept blaming it on the pills!” My ears burned at the sound of another pundit’s name, even if she was criticizing him.
“The real key, though,” she said, unlocking a footlocker next to the range, “is being able to shoot straight without letting your emotions control you.” She pulled out two pictures of Them. Black and white, smiling their deceitful, pseudo-centrist grins. Bill and Hillary. Ann placed them over two new targets, sending them back 50 yards. She moved close to me, her pale lips near my ear, the tingle of breath, the smell of cigarettes and sweet, unfiltered conservatism. “Universal health care,” she whispered. “Somalia. Chinese spies. Whitewater. Gays in the military.” Each word exploded, setting off a fuel dump of rage inside my head. A crimson filter covered the firing range. My blood raced, to my hands, my heart, and into my loins, my anger mixing with desire into a Molotov cocktail of lust.
Ann took a deep breath before one last barrage. “Higher end-of-presidency approval rating than Reagan.”
I let out a howl, my arms flipping up, my fingers a blur. The ends of the pistols were awash in flame. It wasn’t until I heard the click-click-click of empty chambers that I stopped. I leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Looking up, I had landed only a couple body shots on the photos.
“It’s good to feel your hate,” Ann hissed. “To feel your rage. To feel...” Her hand slid over my pants. “...your wants, your needs. But feeling is only half the battle. I’m going to teach you the pleasure of righteous anger mixed with cold-blooded control.”
She went back to the footlocker, pulling back a false bottom. When she stood up, she held a sleek, mammoth, black dildo, attached to a studded leather harness. “Sean,” she said. “Say hello to the Fill-a-Buster.”
My lips quivered. I wanted to run at first—that was my mind talking. Don’t do it. Don’t give in. But I wanted to give in, wanted to feel what she had to offer. Like the red clouding my vision, desire gripped my necktie and pulled me forward. I couldn’t speak. I only nodded mutely.
“Are you sure?” she asked, a coy finger to her lips. Again my head bobbed up and down, as dumb as a dog begging for a treat.
“Reload,” she commanded, “then strip.”
I slid two fresh 15-round clips into the handgrip, set the pistols down, and removed my suit. The cool night breeze sent lightning bolts across my skin. When I picked up the Berettas, the surge of power and desire stirred me to full arousal.
Ann waited until I was finished before stripping her power suit. Her body was completely blonde, the only darkness on her delicate frame coming from her eyes. She was almost boyish in figure, save for the two tell-tale signs of womanhood. She covered one of those with the harness. The Fill-A-Buster stood out, mocking my attempt to compete. It was if I had just bitten into the apple of Eden, my lustful bravado washed away by a flood of eye-opening self-consciousness. I faltered, mentally and physically.
“Don’t get all soft on me now, Sean,” Ann said. She motioned to a bench. “Place your elbows there,” she said, showing me how to crouch against the bench. “Eyes forward!” she snapped as I felt her cold fingers on my hips.
A wave of sensory input stormed my brain, overrunning my synapses: pain, pleasure, shame, acceptance, fear, longing. I had unlocked the cell, let my true feelings dash up the stairs and stand in the sunlight. I was receiving what I had always wanted, from the person I had always wanted.
“Aim,” Ann grunted. Her breath came out in puffs.
“AIM!” she cried. One hand grabbed my hair and pointed my head toward Them. “It’s 2009, Inauguration Day, and there they are again!”
My hands moved with a will of their own. The barrels of the pistols pointed downfield. “Steady,” Ann gasped. “Stay in control, Hannity. Short bursts on my command. Ready? Fire!”
Bap-bap! Head shots.
Bap-bap! Right through the fake, traitorous smiles.
“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
The shots rang out, Ann’s voice growing louder with each retort. Down to my last two bullets, she could no longer speak the command, just a scream toward the moon as I emptied all of my chambers. She fell forward, her face on my back, hot breath on my cold skin.
“That,” she said, “is how you talk to a liberal if you have to.”
I sat in my office, dreaming of her. I could still hear her voice mingled with the shots. I stared at the photo on my desk, her sunlight hair forming a halo over the headstone of a fallen hero, Joe McCarthy.
A shadow crossed my thoughts. Alan stood in the doorway. He held a manila envelope in his hands, the paper slightly dark from palm sweat. “Hello, Sean,” he said. “How was your weekend?”
“What the fuck do you want, Alan?” I shot back. “The show meeting’s not for a half hour.”
He stepped—no, strode—across the room, his mouth broad with a look of anticipation. He turned the manila envelope upside down. Three photos fell out. There I was, firing both guns. There was Ann, directing me from behind. Our faces as clear and crisp as the air that night.
“Remarkable that they came out so well,” Alan said, his words pounding in my head like a speeding wave. “The others are a little more...entertaining...but these captured that classic Hannity face the best.”
“I’ll...I’ll fucking...I swear to God, Alan.”
He put his hands on my desk and leaned forward, his eyes level with mine. I could see the wan silhouette of my face in his glasses. “You better thank God that I haven’t released these to the press. And believe me, if some unfortunate accident befalls me, the vast liberal media will get these.”
“What do you want?” I grunted. My chest felt as if it would collapse.
“A little Aretha Franklin,” Alan said with the grin of a hanging judge. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, you miserable, bootlicking, up-the-cornhole Irish fuck. There’s going to be some changes around here.”
“That concludes our show for tonight,” Alan announced. “Tune in tomorrow when we discuss the Iraq reconstruction: has the President lead us into a never-ending Middle Eastern quagmire? Our guests will be Wesley Clark, Howard Dean, and Hillary Clinton.”
I stared ahead into space. Three weeks of staring into space. Agreeing with Alan. Acknowledging the legitimacy of dissenting views. Nodding in approval when a parade of donkey Senators criticized the second-best president of my lifetime. I was as empty as one of the spent casings on Ann’s firing range.
I shuffled back to my office, looking down at my feet, noticing the way staff turned sideways to avoid any possibility of touching me in the hallway. I closed the door, slumped in the chair, and picked up the phone.
The dial tone challenged and mocked me. Why would tonight be any different? She wouldn’t even answer my calls anymore, not since that first night. I trusted you, I thought you were a better man than that, I wouldn’t put my paycheck ahead of my principles. The dial tone changed into the shriek of having the phone off the hook. I placed it back in its cradle. It was over.
She was right. I should have told Alan to take his pictures to the world. It would have ruined my career, but my career was already sliding toward ruin. Without my knee-jerk reactionary retorts, I was Alan as he used to be, a conciliatory bit of window dressing. If I had come clean, I would at least still have my dignity. I would at least have her.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioning kicked in, the cold air reminding me of that night. I sat there, shivering and staring at her photo.