Excuses are like assholes. Everybody's got one. But when it comes to powerful men lying about sex, their excuses are giant, bloody prolapses that they drag around like bulbous vestigial tails. And when such powerful men want their name cleared they pay men like Vic Musket. A private detective with ethics as questionable as his choice of street whores.
Senator Jim Gallant of the garden state of New Jersey was facing serious allegations of illicit sex with some high-end escort, the kind of scandal that has been overcome by countless politicians and would seem to pose no threat beyond the cost of a skillful PR representative and an embarrassing news interview or two. But there had to be more to it, considering the serious look on the face of the staffer sitting across the table from him.
"Before we begin, detective Musket, I want your assurance that anything we discuss with you will not leave this room. We are willing to pay you quite handsomely for your discretion..." the well-dressed man looked shocked when Vic interrupted him.
"I won't tell about your dirty secrets if you don't tell about the mess I am about to make in that executive bathroom, mister." Vic Musket stood up and began marching toward the slightly ajar door at the back of the conference room.
"But detective, I will have to show you to another restroom, that toilet is out of order." the man said with a slightly panicked look on his face.
"No problem. I can use the sink." was the unwelcome response, Vic not even slowing his stride.
The man darted in front of him before he could touch the doorknob. "Excuse me, sir, but I will have to insist! I cannot allow you to defecate in the Senator's bathroom sink!"
"Do I look like the kind of animal that would shit in a sink?" Vic asked, leaning in to make a point. "It's 10:30 in the morning, and I haven't thrown up all the whiskey from last night. I haven't eaten in two days, so I assure you there won't be any plumbing problems. Now step aside!"
The sweet stench of booze was all the evidence the man needed to apologize and step aside. And after a few minutes of loud retching with the door wide open, Vic returned to the table. "Like I was saying, we can pay you handsomely for any information that might clear the Senator's good name in this matter. $20,000 if the evidence is good enough to make the problem go away."
The figure had Vic's full attention. "Give me the details" he said, "and get the money ready. I don't take checks."
The well-dressed man ran through a powerpoint presentation that explained everything. The Senator was accused of patronizing an escort service, and the glorified prostitute didn't have the good sense to keep with the age-old tradition of amnesia concerning her clientele. She was threatening to come forward with a story of receiving three full hours of cunnilingus from Gallant's famous silver tongue just three days ago, and wanted a sizable portion of the Senator's upcoming campaign fund or else she was talking. The voters wouldn't find this so unpalatable, pun intended, except for one fact. The escort was a hermaphrodite. The thought of a political candidate going down on a whore was one thing, but they wouldn't be able to shake the image of him wearing a flaccid penis on his face like groucho glasses in time to vote for him. Not even in Jersey.
"Do you have a picture of the whore?" The man called for a secretary to bring in a laptop, and upon delivery brought up an old mugshot of the culprit. A grin widened across Vic's face. "Can I meet with the Senator? Is he here?" Vic asked.
The man was perplexed and it showed on his face. "Detective, the Senator is a very busy man, and I am not..." but he was cut off for the second time by a voice from the doorway.
"I am here, Musket. Whatever I can do to clear my name, just ask." The tall, gray haired Senator seemed sincere. And cleanly shaven.
"Well I have only one question for you. Do you shave with a blade or an electric razor?" Vic asked.
The two men in suits shared a confused glance. "A blade, every morning. It's the only way to maintain a clean appearance now, with the high definition cameras, and such." Said the Senator.
Vic stood up. "Then I know you are innocent. Pay me and I will be on my way."
"Not so fast, detective. We need irrefutable proof to keep this woman from speaking up. You aren't getting a dime until our lawyers are satisfied there is no further political threat here." The well dressed man remained unconvinced.
"It's quite simple," Vic began "the good Senator is clean shaven, not a blemish on his face, the picture of trustworthy modern American politics. He shaves with a razor daily, a clean shave that leaves his facial pores open and exposed, yet he bears no sores on his lips. Get that 'woman' tested, sir. 'She' has a bad case of herpes, and any man freshly shaven with a blade would look like we went down on a wasp's nest after pleasuring her."
"But I don't understand," the Senator muttered, "how can you tell she has herpes from the picture on the laptop?"
"Simple." Vic replied, taking a flask out of his inside pocket. "Because I gave them to her six weeks ago." By the time the lawyers had contacted the woman and explained the new developments, she recanted her story and Vic's briefcase full of cash was prepared. Plenty of money afford any number of exotic escorts, even one born with the kind of tackle that gave men like him plenty of options.