You didn’t think his last name was “Prince” for nothing, do you?/Image: courtesy of The Washington Examiner.
[Editor’s Note: This post is dedicated to “Aijaz”–Happy Birthday!]
Hey, my right-wing Chatty Cathys!
It’s me, Bubbles MacMillan, your uber-connected right-wing gossip with some seriously juicy tidbits for you., as always. I have GOT to tell you something–but shhhhhh! You can’t tell anyone else! Lean in close!
You’ve probably all heard by now of the meeting in Seychelles everyone in D.C is talking about. Yes, that one–the one that Erik Prince, founder of Blackwater, ex-Navy SEAL, brother of Betsy DeVos, and generally super-intense, real-life Kaiser Soze–except not Turkish and with short hair–attended and then lied to Congressional investigators about.
Why did Prince lie, you ask? Because he’s secretly the prince of Seychelles–and it must remain a secret, or the world is doomed! Read on for more details and the full story behind this shocking turn of events.
Related: Three trips you can take to prove your love of firearms.
Real-Life Paradise
“The Republic of Seychelles comprises 115 islands…in the western Indian Ocean,” according to the nation’s official website. Its natural beauty is so sublime that it seems like a heavenly paradise has fallen down to earth, its tropical splendor so exquisite that it feels wrong to look at it too long lest your mere-mortal gaze sully it, and it’s wild radiance so epic it could make the Garden of Eden seem ho-hum!
And apparently, it’s heir-apparent is Blackwater CEO, Erik Prince, who yours truly thinks is kind of cute–and it never hurts for a hunk to be royalty. Now, yall you loyal Spread Your Right Wings (SYRW) readers know that Robert Mueller–despite his antagonizing of many-a-right-wing-luminary these days–will always hold the key to my heart in his sexy suit pants, and Bubbles is not above coming to get those keys–I wouldn’t kick Erik Prince out of bed while I wait for Mueller to come to his senses, divorce Mrs. Muller, and make Bubbles an honest woman. Just sayin’. And if you’re reading this, Erik–call me–888-ALT-LOVE!
Anywho, so, as you know, the full roster of attendees at the Seychelles meeting is still not known. But, Prince was meeting with at least one fellow royal on the island–the crown prince of the United Arab Emirates, Mohammed bin Zayed bin Sultan Al-Nahyan. Now, why would Prince, who in 2009 claimed to be on a “crusade.” the goal of which is nothing short of “eliminating Muslims and the Islamic faith from the globe,” according to The Economist, be meeting with a Muslim Arab prince?
Well, funny you should ask, my lovely readers. They are best friends, and it’s not everyone who can understand the struggle–and the struggle is real, kids–of being a prince.
And: See how to give yourself a Dana Loesch makeover!
“They just got some Mai Tais–virgin for the devoutly Muslim UAE crown prince, of course–gazed out upon the dazzling turquoise of the Indian Ocean, and talked to each other about all the things that only another prince could understand–not even another king, see!” one of my White House sources told me.
After seeing Prince Al-Nahyan off from one of the helipads atop one of the edifices of the prince’s compound–and I can’t tell you which of the 115 Seychellesian islands it’s on, though I do know–Prince strode back into his royal palace and fell into a deep, clueless man-sleep.
Can You Tell Me How to Get To..?
You know what they say about how to get to Carnegie Hall, don’t you, you my co-right-wing gossips, don’t you? Practice, practice, practice! And Prince took the weekend on his royal kingdom island–where he can’t stay for too long at a time, lest his secret spill out like sand from a bottle–to practice being a spy-tastic bad-ass a la John McClane from the Die Hard franchise.
Some of the many ways he practiced his American-middle-class-approachable-version-of-James-Bond moves included: spinning his nunchucks about his face and breath-of-fire-breathing while he did so; doing a somersault, and as he came out of it, pulling a gun out of his pocket with his right hand, balancing it on his left forearm, and shooting at a coconut-tree target; and leaping up from a supine position by whipping his legs up in front of him, all while energetic, inspirational rock music that served as a perfect partner to this montage of images of a day of hard work on the beach played around him.
The music faded in concert with the setting sun.
Inside the palace, after cleaning up, Prince called the guy from the Dos Equis ads on a video phone to fill him in on his meeting with Al-Nahyan. They had a good talk.
Time to Go/Go-Time
Prince took out a couple hundred bucks from his jeans side pocket and gave it to the shy, African girl who, along with her middle-aged father, looks after the palace while Prince is off in distant lands being a colonial hottie. Bisma blurted out an awkward thank you and bowed nervously before scurrying off. Prince picked up his manly duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder and walked back out–in slo-mo–as his own helicopter landed on the same helipad to meet him.
He slid a pair of shades on and made himself comfortable for the short ride to the African mainland. Ten minutes into the noisy ride, thousands of feet above a shark-heavy section of the Indian Ocean, the pilot, Prince’s best friend, slumped toward him, a single stream of blood sliding down the side of his face, my source told me as I listened, rapt with attention.
“Terabyte! Terabyte!” he demanded of his steadfast sidekick and friend, slapping him several times in an attempt to revive him. He whipped his head to the side and looked out the window, realizing he’d have to fly them to safety and fast as the ‘copter threatened to descend into the unforgiving Indian Ocean now just a couple hundred feet below. It had been a while since his last helicopter-flying lesson, so he felt a moment of apprehension. Terabyte was still breathing, but if there were any hope for either of them, Prince would have to fly them to safety.
He pulled his best friend out of the seat and into his own, climbed in front of the controls, and slipped on a headset that would allow him to communicate with the air traffic tower in Mogadishu.
“Air traffic control, this is Erik Prince, do you copy? Over!” Prince barked into the headset. He got an “affirmative,” and relaxed slightly.
He flew the chopper onto the airstrip in Mogadishu, pulled Terabyte out and onto a stretcher that was waiting to take him to the nearest hospital, and wiped his nose with his forearm, panting but smiling, knowing his best friend would be OK.
That’s all we know, for now, darlings. Be certain we’ll update you with all the latest info as we get it, of course.
Until next time, SYRW readers, remember: you didn’t hear this from me!
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© 2018 Akbar Khan
