Big Denny Meets Saddam

| Published: Mar 17, 2004

The following material until recently was classified top-secret by the Department of Defense. It was finally released after I convinced the agency that nobody would believe it in the first place.

The business all started about a month ago when I was unexpectedly visited by two dangerous-looking guys in business suits. "You're a friend of Big Denny's, aren't you?" one of them demanded.

Good grief, what kind of jam has that idiot gotten into now? I wondered. "Well, I know him," I said evasively, trying to avoid any unnecessary involvement.

"Would you describe him as a persuasive individual?" they persisted. "One who could obtain information from someone reluctant to talk?"

"He once worked as a mob enforcer," I replied. "If he tried, I think he could get the Sphinx to talk."

The men grinned widely. They pulled out badges identifying themselves as CIA agents and explained their mission. The government hadn't been able to extract enough useful information from Saddam Hussein on such things as terrorist cells, the whereabouts of others on the most-wanted list, the location of his weapons of mass destruction, where he kept his stashes of gold, and what his online poker alias was. Big Denny, they had heard, was the person most likely to get Saddam to open up, and they wanted me to take them to meet him.

We drove up to the Barstow Card Casino that day. The CIA spooks filled Big Denny in, and he instantly displayed his comprehensive knowledge of world affairs. "Who's dis Saddam Hoossaney?" he asked. The spooks patiently explained who Saddam Hussein was, what he had done, and why it was so important to get information from him. "Can you do it?" they asked.

"Piece a cake," Big Denny assured them. "I'll just sit on da mug's head till he squeals."

"No, no," they exclaimed. "Saddam is officially a prisoner of war, and the Geneva Convention precludes the application of physical force in the course of such interrogations. You'll have to apply psychological measures."

Big Denny didn't much comprehend what they said, but promised not to hurt the former Iraqi dictator too much.

The next day, under the tightest secrecy and security, Denny was flown to Iraq . To heighten the pressure on him, Saddam had been moved back to his "spider hole." Big Denny would be stuffed in there, forcing Saddam to share the oppressively tight quarters with his gargantuan roommate. After arriving at the site, Big Denny lumbered down the ladder, landing with a thud that nearly caved in the hole. The dank hole, barely large enough to contain Denny's bulk, reeked of rotting food, had a water bucket for a toilet, and was overrun with bugs and rats.

"Nice place ya got here, Sadie," Big Denny said affably. "Kinda reminds me of da Barstow Card Casino."

The bearded, shaggy-haired prisoner cowered in a corner, staring at the creature that had dropped in from nowhere. "Who are you and what do you want?" he barked.

"Hey, don't get ya bowels in an uproar, gov'nor," Denny replied. "Dey figgered ya might be lonely here an' dey sent me ta keep ya company an' entertain ya."

"I require no entertainment from an American dog imperialist," Saddam retorted defiantly.

Big Denny drew back his massive fist. "Da Juneeva Contention says dat I can't break yer head, but it don't say nuttin' about dentin' it," he warned. "Now let's be nice an' maybe we can be friends an' ya can tell me where ya hid yer gold. Look, I brung ya some delicacies from my joint's Four Star buffet. Don't it smell good, Sadie?"

Saddam sniffed the mess and staggered backward. "You are trying to poison me!" he cried.

"Don't like it, huh? Well, no sense lettin' it go to waste," Big Denny shrugged. He gobbled down the food and let out a belch that reverberated like a cannon shot in the confined space. He looked around. "Hey, ya got a TV here? I got a bet down on da Lakers game."

"The only programs permitted on Iraqi television are tributes to the great leader," Saddam replied.

"Yeah, when you was boss, maybe. Hey, cheer up, Sadie, I brung a deck of cards wit' me. Wanna play?"

"Cards? You mean that accursed deck with my picture on the ace of spades?"

"Nah, just regular cards. How about some poker?"

"Poker? What would be the stakes?" Saddam asked suspiciously.

"Well, if ya win, ya tell me where yer gold an' weapons of mass instruction is stashed, an' if I win, I'll let ya stay free fer a week at da Barstow Card Casino's hotel – providin' dey don't hang ya first, dat is, har, har, har."

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Saddam shrugged. "What will we play?" he asked.

"A neat little game called Omaha high-low, Sadie. Ya gets four cards, an den dere's t'ree cards in da middle called da flop, and den two more, an den ya uses any two cards from yer hand along wit' t'ree from da board fer high, and any two cards fer low, only unless ya makes an eight or better. Unnerstand?"

Saddam was too dazed to reply, so Denny began dealing, using one of his standard marked decks from the Barstow Card Casino. The first hand, he had Saddam flop a set of kings, then dealt out two spades to beat him with a small flush. Next, he gave the Iraqi a 26-way draw that didn't materialize. Then, he dealt him three consecutive nut lows with backup cards, only to double-counterfeit him and ruin the lows. As play continued, Saddam became increasingly distraught, moaning, twitching, and mumbling incoherently to himself about the mother of all devil's games, and pulling out gobs of hair (and vermin) from his tangled thatch. Finally, Denny decided the time was right to administer the coup de grace. He gave Saddam no less than a wheel straight flush and engaged him in an unlimited raising war. At the end, Denny turned up another wheel and a larger straight flush to quarter his stunned opponent.

"Jeez, too bad we ain't in Barstow ," Big Denny said innocently. "Dat woulda been a jackpot hand."

He had gone too far. Saddam went completely berserk. "The Great Satan sent you!" he screamed. "May you die the death of a thousand saber cuts, you infidel gorilla!"

Alarmed by the commotion, an army colonel scrambled down the ladder. "What's going on here? What are you doing to our prisoner?" he yelled.

"Hey, I ain't doin' nuttin' to him, captain," Big Denny protested. "We was just playin' a little Omaha high-low."

The colonel panicked. " Omaha high-low? That punishment is expressly forbidden by the Geneva Convention. We have to get you out of here before Amnesty International hears about it."

Denny was yanked out of the hole, rushed to a plane, and flown home. Waiting for him at the airport were the two agents. "Sorry I messed up, boys," Denny said apologetically. "Guess I pushed da bum too hard."

"Not at all," they reassured him. "Now that you softened him up, we have him where we want him. We will now employ our ultimate weapon."

For the first time in his life, Big Denny turned pale. "Ya means . ?"

"Yes. We're sending Michael Jackson down that hole."