Pat McQuaid in the UCI bunker. The end is near.
Here at Twisted Spoke we can’t help but picture soon-to-be-ex UCI president Pat McQuaid like Adolf Hitler in his bunker.
It’s the final days, all hope gone, enemies at the gates and McQuaid wanders the now deserted UCI headquarters in Aigle, Switzerland railing against his tormenters.
Holding a whiskey decanter and walking unsteadily down the hallways, McQuaid shouts his hatred of the Russians and American aligned against him and voting for Cookson.
Like a crazy homeless person, he curses the Irish and Swiss federation, WADA, Travis Tygart, Floyd Landis, Greg Lemond, Paul Kimmage, Lance Armstrong, The French Senate, that fucking judge Sam Sparks in Texas and Jonathan Vaughters.
He sputters with rage — conspiracy theories, madman betrayals, wild rescue schemes, plots to regain the throne.
He pauses, leans against the wall for stability, and spits out a name: Jamie Fuller, “that fat fucking SKINS bastard.” McQuaid vomits on the dark red carpet, a slurry of take-out Thai food and whiskey.
Reaching his office, McQuaid looks at the pile of legal documents heaped on his desk and sweeps them to the floor. His lawyers are traitors, spineless swine, he will have them shot in the morning, lined up outside the chateau, killed like dogs and left to rot in the garden.
He looks at a map of the world and a tear falls down his cheek. All lost: Europe, North America, Russia, Australia, Canada. His private jet is fueled and ready, escape still possible, a life of cocktail parties awaits in Thailand. He can open a pub in Bangkok and plot his return to power.
Cookson, with his sad, tired hound-dog eyes and pompous attitude — what right does he have to take my place! Verbruggen would know what to do — where is Hein? Is he already in hiding in Argentina or Chile? They still respect a good dictator down there –not like the sniveling Irish and Swiss.
He rummages in the office closet, his fury mounting as he searches in vain for … yes, there it is. McQuaid pulls out the gas can and smiles. They will get nothing, win nothing, scorched earth just like the Russians in the war.
He empties the gas can all over his office, soaking everything as his glee mounts. Matches, where are the matches? “My kingdom for a … ” McQuaid finds the ceremonial cigarette lighter, a gift from the Chinese after the Tour of Beijing, and flicks the flame to life.
“Yes, Mr. Cookson. Who’s doing the cooking now?”