“What does this writing say here?” asked Mahmoud, holding up a copy of the Village Voice.

“It says ‘The Man Hole’, Excellency” muttered Reza the Interpreter. “I think it is a type of café or gentlemen’s club”.

“The Man Hole’ – no women, eh? Sounds like a very Islamic kind of joint” said Mahmoud. “Why is there a picture of a fist?”

“Perhaps they hold boxing matches?” suggested Reza.

“And what does this mean, this ‘water sports’?”

“They must have an indoor pool, Excellency. It also says they offer ‘golden showers’.

“So hygienic – and how poetically expressed, too. This ‘Man Hole’ seems like an ideal place for us to relax and unwind after accepting the rapturous adulation of our friends at the UN. We shall attend. Summon the limousine at once!”

“Yes, Master” grovelled Reza.

***
“It is so dark in here” shouted Mahmoud “and the music is so loud!”

“Truly, Master!” Reza yelled back

“Still, these all seem like very manly fellows, eh? So healthy looking. Behold their well-muscled torsos, powerful thighs and firm buttocks, gyrating and twisting to the music, their skin gleaming with perspiration, their organs of generation pressing urgently against the shining leather which restrains the rampant male power within”.

“Um, yes…quite” murmured Reza uncomfortably. “Rampant”.

“I like those little leather caps too” said Mahmoud. “How different are these strapping fellows to the effete and decadent Americans we usually encounter!”

“Um, yes…most different indeed”.

“I can’t stand those lousy faggots – hang them from the nearest crane I say! These wholesome lads remind me of our people – see how many have moustaches and trim little beards?”

“Uh, of course, Excellency…wholesome”.

“Look, I need to use the facilities. Here is some Yankee imperialist unbeliever money: why don’t you get us a couple of fruit juices?”

“Yes, Excellency”.

Mahmoud elbowed his way to the toilet, which was, if anything, even darker and more crowded than the dance floor.

“Excusing pliz” he said, practicing his language skills. “Excusing pliz…”

“Hey there, little guy” growled a figure in the gloom. “How about some of this action?” he suggested, proffering a dripping jar of Crisco.

“No, thanking you” said Mahmoud. “I have already eaten”.

“That’s a good one! You’re alright, guy. My name’s Buck – what’s yours?”

“I am His Excellency Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of the Islamic Republic of Iran”.

“From out of town, huh? That’s okay; you stick with old Buck –he’ll make sure you have a good time.” said Buck, draping a powerful arm around the thin shoulders of the ratlike Persian.

“Hokay, Buck – I am looking for a goot time!” said Mahmoud brightly.

“Me too, little fella” said Buck. “Me too. Nice suit, by the way”.

“Is cotton poly blend. Extra shiny…”

***
Later, a lot later, Reza felt a faint plucking at his sleeve.

“Excellency – where have you been? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know, Reza” muttered Mahmoud…”I don’t really know”.

“Why are you walking so bowlegged, Master? Those leather shorts – what happened to your suit? Why are you wearing that little cap?”

“So many questions. You go back to the hotel, Reza…I think I will stick around here for a little longer…to learn more about the, um, habits of the Americans”.

“Are you sure, Excellency?”

“Yes, er, no…I don’t know, Reza: I just don’t know about anything anymore…”