History records the demise of Senator Joseph McCarthy's political career, and eventually, his death, as having been caused by the bottle. History, as usual, only handed out a laundered official version for public consumption. History likes to keep the really juicy stuff to itself...
Molina, when he met McCarthy, went to great lengths to convince the red-baiter that they had a lot in common. One night, over cheap rotgut whiskey and cheaper East Indian cigarettes, dispatched with well-practiced dexterity in an anonymous waterfront tavern redolent of the fish market next door, the famously-paranoid Joe began to trust in Molina. It was a monumental mistake, from which he'd never recover. One of many, true, but probably the biggie.
McCarthy, alone too long behind the prison bars of his own loathesome psyche, hankering for a little amiable companionship, began to seek out Molina's company at every opportunity, They would hang out in the worst of night clubs and waterfront bars, and McCarthy would always drink far too much. His public incoherence progressed in spavined, reeling lockstep with his privately-advancing alcoholism.
On the other side of the table, invariably matching McCarthy shot for shot, sat Molina, totally lucid. And grinning charmingly, if a little oleagenously.
Every night's binge ended the same way. Joe would stagger lurchingly to his feet, helped by young Molina. The two men -- one old, visibly rotting, and with a beer parlour suntan, the other robust and dark-complexioned -- would reel out of the seedy tavern, always to a cheap hotel.
There, Molina would sodomize McCarthy until the night had fled. Later, Joe would regain befuddled consciousness, wondering why he woke every morning in another strange, run down hotel room, head pounding, alone, with blood, shit and copious quantities of Levantine semen glueing his sagging buttocks to the sheets.
Morning always found Molina, bright-eyed and alert, on a busy street corner, sniffing the patterns of rush hour traffic before he caught the bus to Langley. As the drinking bouts continued, McCarthy's mind and body began to degenerate even more rapidly.
Molina hastened this by bribing willing barmaids in a string of sleazy all-night establishments to spike Joe's drinks with drycleaning fluid. By that time, McCarthy's senses were so shot or scrambled, he never even noticed the carbon tetrachloride at all.
Then Molina modified the inevitable no-tell-hotel debauch that capped each night. For his own member, which he had used at first to revenge himself upon his hated companion in uniquely intimate fashion, Molina substituted a strap-on dildo that he had fashioned himself. It comprised a length of lead pipe in which Molina had drilled holes in business end, and filled with liquid mercury. Near the base, he'd installed a large perfume-bottle squeezebulb, with which to jet the poisonous metal into the senator's rectum at the height of McCarthy's flagellating ecstasies. Always in the dark, always drunk beyond belief, Joe never knew the difference.
It wasn't long before his innards degenerated far beyond their already-considerable decrepitude. One day they just sagged that little bit further, and let him down completely. For Joe McCarthy, the last stretch of the road to Hell turned out to be a disappointingly short ride.
When he heard the news, Molina celebrated by soaking his penis in a bottle of DeKuiper's gin to sanitize it. While he did this, he grimly, rhythmically knocked back three more quarts, straight, no ice. Then he went to an art-house movie theatre that was playing reruns of old World War Two newsreels, and spent the entire night watching the Reichstag burn.
It was widely suspected in select, and elect, circles that Molina had played a direct part in the aptly-nicknamed Tail Gunner Joe's unlamented early departure from the planet. But for some reason, no one could prove anything, much less do anything about it.
Strangely, too, many of the other people involved in prosecuting the Rosenberg's court case had begun to display signs of similarly inexplicable disease: early senility, alcoholism, advanced syphilis; other, far stranger, exotica. Indirect evidence hinted that each may have crossed paths with Molina in some fashion.
But no matter how hard the authorities tried to pin something on him and stop him, they came up empty. The best they could do was dismiss Molina from his post as the new regional supervisor of the CIA, for Washington D.C. and assign the FBI's and CIA's best tailing experts to a high-priority, 24-hour-a-day reconnaissence team, to watch his every move.
Molina felt satisfied with this development. He immediately disappeared.
Hey, Joe...
