The Dons in Hell

Apologies to GB Shaw & Dr Donne

Scene: A conference room in Hell. You know it’s Hell, because though the blinds are drawn, and the room is pleasantly air-conditioned, the lurid flicker of sulphurous flame can still be sensed under the bleak, chalky fluorescents. (There is no shortage of electricity in Hell).

Enter SATAN, JOE LIEBERMAN, and BARNEY FRANK.

Satan looks, as usual, ruddy, well-nourished, and rather pleased with himself. The other two, a bit cadaverous. Perhaps it’s the fluorescents.

SA: Here you are, gentlemen. The Mammon Room. Not our best, I’m afraid, but Kissinger and Thatcher have a weekly seminar in the Belial Suite.

JL: Thanks, Your Majesty. You’ve always done well by us.

SA: My pleasure, gentlemen. You’ve done a great deal for Us, too. [Exit]

BF: [grouchy] I hate these hybrid meetings. Why can’t the others be here in person?

JL: [gentle, avuncular] Everybody wants that, Barney. Soon enough.

The upstage wall flickers, blinks with a wallpaper pic showing the Lake of Donors and its attendant demons, for a second or two, and then becomes a floor-to-ceiling Zoom screen, tiled with NANCY PELOSI, HILLARY CLINTON, and CHUCK SCHUMER. PELOSI appears a bit drowsy, perhaps drugged.

JL: Welcome all. I believe we have a quorum. President Biden couldn’t make it – detained at the Acheron ferry. Bureaucracy, what can I say. Anyway, this meeting of the Democratic Party Deep Center committee is hereby called to order. I believe we can dispense with further formalities – Robert’s Rules don’t apply here, as you know.

ALL: [dry chuckles]

JL: [continuing]: Chuck, I believe you have a report on the DSA task force?

BF: [sputtering, indignant; interrupts] How the fuck could you let them put little prick, that anti-Semite, whats-his-name, you know, the towel-head --

CS: [suavely, though you wouldn’t think him capable of it] I suppose you mean al-Sayed? In Michigan?

BF: Yeah. Him. That little vontz. Why I’d like to….

JL: [sternly] Barney. I have warned you about this before. Don’t insult us with that BS. Anti-Semites, for God’s sake! That’s for the poor fools up above.

HC: [interjecting, with a little smirk] And not working too well with them these days, either. I did predict this, you recall.

NP: [awakens momentarily] Yes, Hillary, you’ve always told us. And told us, and told us.

CS: [soothingly] Perhaps I can put your fears to rest, Barney. We have a concordat.

BF: Cordat, schmordat. What the fuck does that mean?

CS: It means a deal. No, don’t interrupt. We don’t like them. Obviously. They’re too young, and likable, and let’s face it, they’re much better at what they do than we ever were. Ringing doorbells – does anybody still have doorbells?

HC: [impatiently] It’s a figure of speech, Chuck.

CS: Thanks, Hillary, I can always count on you to explain it all. Nothing like a Bryn Mawr education.

HC: You prick. It’s Wellesley, as you well know. Fucking Bryn Mawr dykes, speaking Greek or whatever.

CS: [magisterial] Whatever. As you say. If I may continue?

JL waves a chairmanly hand.

CS: [continuing] They’re not good with the donors, though. We’ll always have that. So as I say, we have a concor -- a deal. We fight it out during the primaries, and honestly, I wish we could just be rid of ’em. But we’re not popular, or young, or sexy, or relatable, and they are. And we have the Israel albatross, and they haven’t. So sometimes they’ll get their guy in. Like Mahmood, or whatever his name is, here in New York.

NP: [awakens again] Mamdani. He’s very cute. Like a young Omar Sharif. Hollywood’s not what it used to be.

ALL exchange glances. Pinter pause.

CS: Ahem. But if they win a primary, then we support their guy. And of course, there are certain … understandings. Perhaps I don’t have to go into detail.

BF: You sure as fuck do, Chuck. Go into detail.

CS: Two words. Jessica Tisch. Get it?

BF needs to be played by someone who can wordlessly do The Light Dawns.

CS: It’s always a two-way street. And as our host likes to say, He who sups with the Devil needs a long spoon.

ALL lift their hands in a mock-toast, and suddenly find a Waterford glass each of blood-red old Tokay in hand.

ALL: Our host!