Midnight, Chicago, O'Hare International Airport, August 1968

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Tap?

Tap!

Tappity-tap!

Senator "Who shall remain nameless for the sake of security" slid his foot beneath the stall next to his while sitting on the crapper.

An engineer boot darted out of the gloom from the bottom of an O'Hare Airport men's room and gently caressed his highly polished wingtip before darting back into the shadows like a startled fish.

The Senator chuckled, a young one, rough. Conventions were a great time to go out and get something wild, on the Party tab, with the meathead voters and the wife and kiddies back home none the wiser.

Tap tap. Taptaptap?

Tap.

He began to sweat; there was a tantalizing whiff of motor oil, and unwashed flesh coming from the next stall beneath the fug of urine and cigarette smoke that provided an exciting background to this potential illicit tryst.

And… perfume?

Oh, well, now, one of those… the Senator didn't like pansies, so he pulled his foot back but… Tap? The engineer boot slid coyly under his side of the stall.

What's a little perfume compared to a good time?

His wingtip gently pinned the boot, his fingers slid under the edge of the divider, briefly touching another man's cold fingertips.

Cold?

Something at the back of the Senator's brain screamed, "Something's not right!"

However something lurking beneath the Senator's hairy middle-aged paunch stood up and snarled, "Shaddup!" even as those cold fingers gently squeezed his.

The senator dropped one final, painful hemorrhoid bomb into the bowl with a grunt, wiped hastily and yanked his plaid trousers up over his best friend; less than one hour off the plane and he'd already hooked a live one!

The engineer boot was pointed watchfully at his wingtip as he absent-mindedly flushed before unlatching the stall door.

The stall door beside his was invitingly half-open, the scent of a freshly lit cigarette beckoning him in, "Young man, I can make this worth…"

The senator was yanked into the stall.

The door banged shut.

There was a brief scuffle, a giggle, and a moan.

The senator's legs stiffened as he fell backwards out of the stall, glasses askew, eyes staring blankly upwards at the smoke-yellowed ceiling, blood staining his collar.

Spike stepped over the body, lighting up.

Tittering, Drusilla paused behind him, mouth red, and pulled a campaign button from the Senator's coat, "Ooooh, this one has a donkey on it!"

She added it to the clattering collection of buttons already adorning the front of her orange and pink mini-dress, "The Queen simply adores donkeys."

Arm in arm, the two of them strolled out of the airport men's room and onto the main concourse, jets taking off and landing all around them in an oblivious dance – Republican or Democrat, or some third party wanker – bloody hell, but Election years in America were fun!