Chapter 17 – The Defense Of Marriage Act

The Defense Of Marriage Act

“Hillary, we need to talk. Sit down.” Bill tried putting his hands on his hips, but that reminded him of Smokey the Bear, so he crossed his arms instead. “Look. You and I? We’ve had our differences over the years. And I know you resent me for a lot of things. You wanted a political career of your own, but America wasn’t ready for female politicians when we were young. You resented me for being able to do all the things you yourself wanted to do. And you resented me for listening to Paul Begala, and Leon Panetta, and all the others who suggested Al Gore as a running mate. You wanted to be my Vice President. You wanted to use this opportunity to springboard yourself into politics, and you were angry with me for agreeing with my advisors and going with Al.

“But Hillary, you need to understand something. I know it was you who tried to kill Al Gore. I know all about the cigar. I done had the FBI look into it, and the CIA too. We know Rush Limbaugh, Newt Gingrich, and Debbie Was… Was… we know you sent the three of them to Cuba to buy the cigar. We know who made it, what explosive was used, how much you spent on it, everything. We know everything, Hillary. Your plan was to kill off Al Gore, force me into making you Vice President, and with Gingrich in your pocket, convincing Capitol Hill to let that happen wouldn’t have been a challenge.

“But you’ve gone too far this time, Hillary. You went way, way, way too far. Political ambition is one thing, but murder? I’m afraid I can’t have that in my White House.

“Hillary, you and me, we’re getting divorced. I can’t be with someone who tries to kill my friends. And you’ll have lots of time to think about this, too, when you’re sitting in a jail cell for attempted murder. These Secret Service agents will escort you off the premises. Guards? Arrest my wife.”

Bill paused, thinking about what he’d just said. “Guards, arrest her!” No, that wasn’t it either. “Guards, take her away!” Bill looked at his face in the mirror. The confusion was as obvious as his exhaustion. It had been nine days since the cigar incident. Seven days since Bill and Monica last spoke. Four days since the intelligence community had finished piecing everything together. And three days, almost to the minute, since Bill last got more than thirty or forty minutes of sleep in a single sitting.

None of that speech was good. He’d need to try again. Bill’s wife had tried to kill his best friend. Or was Monica his best friend? No… she was something more than just that. They had something special, something… stop thinking about her, Bill. Focus on the task at hand.

“Hillary, sit down. We need to talk. I know about the cigar…”

“Do you now?” Bill shuddered with fear. A coldness snapped through his body, biting at his stomach and fluttering his heart. He turned his eyes, and there she was… Hillary Clinton, in the flesh. Hillary started slowly clapping her hands. “Maybe you’re not as totally fucking ignorant as I always thought you were, Bill. Bravo. No, really… I’m impressed.”

“Hillary, we…”

“Sit down, hillbilly.” Bill sat down on the chair in their bathroom. He opened his mouth, and started to press air over his tongue, but Hillary wasn’t done speaking. “Don’t bother explaining, Bill. I heard the whole thing from the other room. I heard you practicing your little speech. Divorce? Having me arrested? I never thought you had it in you, Bill. And investigating the cigar and linking me to Limbaugh, Gingrich, and Wasserman-Schultz? Color me impressed, Bill Clinton. I mean that sincerely. For the first time in your dull, childish life, you’ve actually managed to impress me. I never thought I’d see the day, Bill. I really didn’t.”

Hillary stepped closer to Bill. He thought about shouting for the Secret Service, but could they get to him on time? Could they get to him before she did? Could Hillary kill someone with her bare hands? The father of their child? Did Hillary even care about any of that? “Stay back…”

“Or what? You’ll shout for the Secret Service? The Secret Service I just ordered to leave the area and give us privacy? The Secret Service I just lied to, and told you and I were about to get intimate? Tell me Bill… when was the last time you got fucked? When was the last time you and I…”

“Hillary, seriously, stay back. Back away right now.”

Hillary charged forward, grabbing Bill by the throat. Her eyes oozed with sex and death. “I don’t know when you were fucked last, Bill Clinton, but I can tell you when it’s going to happen again. Right now. Trying to have me arrested? Divorcing me? Trying to end my political career? Oh, you’re fucked alright. Big time!” She squeezed his throat harder. “Come on, Bill. Push me away. Fight for your life.” She squeezed even more. Bill gasped, but couldn’t get any oxygen into his mouth. “Are you going to die in this ugly bathroom without even trying? Are you that much of a coward, Bill? Are you really going to let me just kill you without so much as a struggle?”

She squeezed harder and harder. Bill felt faint. His eyes watered and blurred. His heart was pounding. He raised his hands up and grabbed at her wrists, but he couldn’t find the strength to fight back. He should’ve resisted earlier. He should’ve realized Hillary was a killer, and that this wasn’t just a physically violent act of intimidation. She wanted to kill him. She wanted him to die, right there, right then, in the White House residence’s bathroom. She was grunting, squeezing, grunting some more. He should’ve fought back. He should’ve fought back. He should’ve…


Hillary’s hand suddenly loosened, and Bill gasped so quickly and so hard that his chest ached from the sudden presence of this strange foreign gas called air. He heaved heavily, his eyes closed, his body too frail to muster enough energy to crack an eyelid and see what had just happened. He was safe. That’s all that mattered. He kept breathing. He heard a commotion in the room, things being moved or dragged or pushed about, but he kept breathing. He kept trying to repair his body with air. And soon, his heavy breathing devolved into a heavy panting, and he could finally open his eyes.

“What…” his voice was coarse and scratchy. It hurt to talk. “What just…”

“Relax, Bill.” The man had a familiar voice, but Bill couldn’t exactly place it. “Just relax.”

Bill turned to look at the person speaking. “You?”

“Yes… me.”

“You’re… you’re here?” Bill gulped some spit down in the hopes of fixing his voice, but it didn’t work. “I didn’t… expect to see you here… of all people.”


Bill tried to sit forward, watching Rush Limbaugh as he continued to wrap duct tape around his wife’s ankles, her hands having already been bound. “You… you saved me? You hate me…”

“Try not to speak, Bill. Get yourself a glass of water. Everything is gonna be okay.”

Bill did as he was commanded, leaning forward and trying to rise to his feet. His legs felt shaky, but he managed to lift himself up and slowly navigate to the sink, where he filled a glass with water. After a few gentle sips, he turned back toward Limbaugh. “Is she dead? Did you… did you just kill my wife?”

“Dead? Hardly. She’s unconscious. I whacked her over the back of the head with that binder over there.” Bill followed Rush’s gesture, seeing the binder lying on the floor. It was the Defense of Marriage Act. Bill laughed, immediately regretting that emotional response as his chest ached. The legislation itself was only two pages long, but there were nearly a thousand pages in that binder, all of them articles written in the media about that legislation. Hillary was the sole architect of that law, and kept the binder in the residence so she could stroke her own ego with it, reminding herself of her accomplishment in belittling the gay community. Hillary’s attempt to murder Bill had just been thwarted by a right-wing radio personality, who physically hit her over the head with right-wing legislation she almost single-handedly created, and that legislation was called The Defense of Marriage Act. Bill laughed again, his chest aching slightly less this time.

“What now, Rush?”

“We get the hell out of here, that’s what.”

“I can have the Secret Service come and…”

“There’s no time, Bill! We need to get out of here before her muscle shows up.”

“Her muscle? Hillary has muscle?”

“Yeah, her thugs. Her enforcers. Albright and Ginsburg.”

“Ginsburg? Ruth Bader…”

“Yes! Now let’s get moving, we don’t have a lot of time!”

Bill followed Rush out of the residence. The Secret Service was nowhere to be seen, just as Hillary had claimed. But Rush didn’t pause to think about that. He darted toward the elevator, and Bill followed. A minute or so later, they were surrounded by unsuspecting Secret Service agents, finally safe. That’s when Rush pulled Bill aside to speak with him privately, outside of earshot of the agents, but close enough that they could see, and more importantly protect, the both of them.

“Hillary wasn’t trying to kill you. She was going after Al Gore.”

“Yeah, I figured that much out already.”

“She was calling a meeting. We were all supposed to show up in the Residence. Nobody thought you’d be up there. That’s how Hillary found you, and that’s how I found you, too.”

“A meeting? What kind of meeting?”

“A meeting to plot the assassination of Al Gore. Hillary’s fifth attempt.”

Fifth?! Hillary has tried this five times?

“Yeah. The exploding cigar was one. Before that, we planted a snake in Al Gore’s office, but it escaped.”

“Are you serious? That snake was…”

“Before that, it was poisoned food, but the poison only made him gassy. Before that, she hired a hitman to take him out, but that guy took her money and vanished. And the first time was back on the campaign trail, when she planned to drop an anvil out of a window. But the rope snapped, killing someone who was trying to steady it. I’m not sure what his name was. He was Mexican…”

“Jose Cuervo?”

“Yeah. Well, no. Jose Cuello. Your former gardener back in Arkansas. He was working with her the entire time.”

“So that’s where he went.”

“Yeah… straight to Hell with the rest of her dead coconspirators.”

“But wait… why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I’m done taking orders. Do you know what it’s like to represent conservative America one minute, and then take marching orders from Hillary Clinton the next? Do you know what that does to a guy emotionally? Psychologically? Look… I’m done being her whipping boy. I’m done with this secret agent double-life shit. It’s not who I am. I’m a man, Bill. I have feelings. I have a soul. Killing liberals is one thing, but killing Newt…”

“Wait… what?! Newt Gingrich?

“Have you ever known another human being to have the name ‘Newt’ before? Yeah, Newt Gingrich. Hillary’s latest plan is to have him iced, and then blame it on Al Gore. She was about to frame him for murder.”

“Why Newt? I thought he was working with you guys? He went to Cuba with you and that Debbie girl.”

“Yeah, but this has been Hillary’s ‘Plan B’ for a while now. She sent me into the ghetto to buy drugs from the blacks…”

“Dude, ‘the blacks,’ seriously?”

“Whatever, you know what I mean. Anyway, the plan was that if this cigar thing didn’t work out, I’d buy drugs and use them on Newt Gingrich. Meanwhile, Debbie would steal one of Gore’s hunting rifles, and Albright would use it to kill Newt.”

“Why not use it on Al?”

“Because come on, suicide? Nobody would believe that. But Al Gore killing the Republican House Speaker? A guy who doesn’t believe in global warming? That’s plausible. Anyway, we need a plan…”

“Wait, I still need to know something. Why did you work with her in the first place? I still can’t figure that part out. You guys don’t agree on anything.”

“Hillary made us promises. When she became president, I’d get exclusive stories. Newt would get legislation passed. Debbie would get a political career. Jose Cuello would get Jose Cuervo.”


“Your gardener was a huge lush. Anyway, yeah, everyone got something out of it. Everyone but Al Gore, that is. Or you. By 1998, Hillary would rule the world, and we’d all prosper because of it.”

“Wait… 1998? But my second term doesn’t end until January of 2001.” Bill suddenly understood, and Rush nodded, recognizing that Bill figured it all out. “What do we do now?”

“Now we brace ourselves. We distance ourselves from anyone we care about. Anyone Hillary could use against us. And we come up with a plot of our own. We need to stop your wife, Bill. We need to stop Hillary Clinton.”

“What if we fail?”

“Then God help us. God help us all.”

Three hours later…


“Monica? Is that you?”

“Linda, I need… I need to tell you something…”

“Are you crying, Monica?” Linda Tripp moved the phone to her better ear, and set the frying pan down on the burner. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

“Linda… I’ve been having… I’ve been having an affair.”

“You’ve what?”

“I’ve been… involved… with a married man.”

“What? Who? How long has this been going on?”

“For a really long time.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?”

“Because I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I’m ‘that’ kind of girl.”

“Monica, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“No… he broke up with me. He said he wants to try and fix his marriage.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell you that. I promised.”

“You promised you’d keep a cheating husband’s secrets? It’s okay, Monica. You can tell me. You need to tell me. You need to get this off your chest.”

“I can’t, Linda. I can’t say who it is.”

“Okay… well what if I guess his name? Will you tell me then? Was it Doug Band?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Was it Leon Panetta? I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Uncle Leon? Gross! He’d never… no… it wasn’t them. Please don’t try to…”

“Paul Begala? Was it Paul? Or James Carville?”

“James Carville? You think I’d sleep with Fire Marshall Bill before he got his burns?” They both laughed. Monica needed that.

“Who is it then? Monica, you can tell me. You can trust me. I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“Do… do you swear?”

“I swear on my life, Monica. I promise. You need someone you can talk to about this. Someone you can trust. We’re friends, right? You can tell me anything, Monica. Please trust me. Please tell me all about it.”

“It’s…” Monica froze. Could she really trust Linda? Trust her, she told herself. She’s right, you need someone to talk to about all this. You need to get this off your chest.


“It’s Bill Clinton.”

“Wait… what?!”

“It’s Bill Clinton. The President of the United States of America. That’s who I’ve been having an affair with.” Monica suddenly felt five thousand pounds lighter. The room seemed to brighten as she said it. “I’ve been having a secret love affair with Bill Clinton. And an hour ago, he called me and broke my heart. President Bill Clinton just broke my heart.”

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