Silvio Berlusconi matted down the hair-like thing between his tentacles with his fat slimy fingers, removed himself from an Umbrian nineteen-year old, and slithered down in the lapping waters of the bath just run for him by a harem of Tuscan sexworkers. It was very late. The water gurgled gleefully in the Carrara-marbled lavatorium of the mansion he split three ways with the Ndrangheta mafia and Vladimir Putin. He ran the loofah down his fat oily thorax. It had been a long day, he reflected. He’d surfaced at mid-day after the previous night’s dancing and rooting. A disoriented roostering with one of his private secretaries. He’d have lilies sent. Then lunch running Finninvest on the phone, using his funny high-pitched voice so no one would realise it was him. It was difficult to keep the voice high on his hangover. Those bloody Nazis in the regulator had stopped him administering his multi-billion-Euro business empire when he became PM. Lunch had been paid for by some money-laundering lawyers who he had re-writing the statute of limitations to help him avoid the 6900 criminal cases he faced. After lunch it was a long nap, a chat with his holiness, and some rumpy pumpy with a mayor’s wife. One of his Masonic footmen had given her 2000 Euro on the way out and he’d blown a gasket: he thought it would be free – but it never seemed to be. Then he’d had a chin-lift, some surgery on his antennae (local anaesthetic only today) and a Thai massage. Bought some more TV stations. He’d launched some spurious libel actions and had some work done on his trail in the late afternoon. Then an hour pacifying that (ex-neo)-Fascist bore Gianconi Fini who was threatening to pull out of his coalition government unless he rebuilt Bologna. He hated Fascists, no good in bed. The warm water felt good against his cold mucous skin. Then a tea-time meeting and pick-up with Ghadaffi. Brown paper bags for one of his banks. After that he’d had a go on the colonel’s Ukrainian nurse. 10,000 dinar, not bad. Tanned homosexual cuckold. Ha Ha. Only kidding. In the evening he’d watched his AC Milan at a packed San Siro with some Nigerian royalty, then eventually gone home to drink Asti Spumante out of the slippers of a pornstar he’d met in the second half. Tomorrow he’d nominate her for State interior minister. At midnight he’d dealt with some parliamentary boxes – bloody economy still imploding, population down again. Yawn.Then two hours with a former popstar from Iskia who he’d found on the internet and her pet hamsters. He’d make sure she only got a thousand for that, replacement hamsters included. Sometimes he wondered why he always had to pay. Was it because he was 74-years old, corrupt and all fake? Or was it because he was a slimy gastropod? At least he wasn’t gay, he joked again to himself (his favourite joke). The wife had been calling all day about the maintenance and that incident where he’d forgotten all his children’s names after meeting a cherub from Genoa: how he hated her. From three until now it had been party, party, party until his encrusted loins hurt. The nineteen-year-old was leaving now, with his wallet and watch. As the dawn came on, outside he could hear rioters among the statuary complaining he’d rigged the afternoon’s no-confidence vote. Let them eat Tiramisu. Now where was the judge from the criminal case he was facing in the morning who he’d left in his boudoir and the judge’s naked seventeen year old daughter he’d been lubricating on bed number three? He de-oiled himself on a white cotton towel and left it suppurating on the marble. The night was young. Man-Slug.