Red Leeroy : The Struggle for Power

I met Fidel Castro once. It was 1981 and I was down in Miami, Florida with my good friend Stansfield Turner. We were on 6 day acid, alcohol and prostitute binge, it was the only way we could enjoy each others company in the early days. His ramblings were intersperced by frequent mumblings of sigint, imint and humint, which I originally thought were his three daughters but turned out to be something far more sinister altogether. 

On the 4th night, after some particularly strong LSD, Stansfield delared his need for some shellfish. We jumped on my motorcycle and headed down to one of the many seafront retaurants, [where the local elder jewry spent their retirement years]. We ordered some mussels, clams, oysters and a couple of beers. After a debate about whether or not coconuts actually grew in Miami, and if he was indeed the difficult middle child, we climbed on the motorcycle and headed back the motel.

Stansfield soon became ill, and as he writhed and moaned and vomited up a few clams, I sat on the floor of the bathroom smoking and making my best effort to enjoy my tequila. After a while he lay down and wiped his face with a towel, he had what he later called “an ephiphany or a moment of clam related clarity”. He said he was troubled by Castro and his ever increasing sphere of influence. “Castro holidays in the Miami area damn it, dont you know that” he said with a somewhat accusitory tone, implying that I had somehow had suggested it to Fidel sometime earlier in my long non existant political career. “he isn’t a communist, he’s an actor” ranted Stansfield again. “he comes up here to meet his agent, we should go and meet with him”. I didnt say anything. I made a mental note to myself never to mix acid and shellfish.

Some time later when he had risen from the cold tiles we headed out once again. Turner was convinced that Castro hung out in a fashionable gay bar down in Boca Raton belonging to a man named Robert Cecil Furr. We arrived and took a booth in a darkened corner and ordered some mojitos. The room was lit with small red lamps and decorated with leather chairs.  We scanned the clientele until Stansfield let out a muffled yelp. “there, there he is, see him see him”. I peered over and saw a bearded man with a cigar surrounded by four or five women. He was talking with a fat sweaty gent in a ill fitting suit. We sat for another twenty minutes staring over at them and by that point I had enough. I picked up my half drunk mojito and sidled over to the table. “my friend Stansfield said I should introduce myself” I said with a confident air.  The two men stopped and stared at me for a few seconds. “my name is Fidel Castro” came the reply with the outstretched hand. I sat down and Stansfield nervously shuffled over and nodded in recognition. Castro put out an arm and invited him to sit.

We exchanged some pleasentries and then I edged over the table, looked left and right. The two also leant forward in anticipation.

I lit a cigar and blew the thick smoke into the air.

“So Fidel, lets order some shellfish and you can tell me your thoughts on Communism?”