Boris Yeltsin and Bob Kerrey's Excellent Adventure

Boris Yeltsin was an alky and a womanizer, and Lincoln's bar scene wasn't satisfying his urges anymore. So he and Bob "Hail of Bullets" Kerrey hopped into Yeltsin's Range Rover (Buckingham Blue) and rolled to Omaha. Kerrey loved to drink as much as he loved to beat a lady with his prosthetic leg as she beat him off.

"I once bought a sizeable piece of Poland for this Polish broad," Yeltsin said. "This gesture pleased her. You know what happened next. Stanky on my hangdown. Then she grew clingy. And as it turns out, the bitch wasn't Polish. Just stupid. God, how I hate Warsaw. You can't spell Warsaw without ass.

Kerrey swigged from a bottle of Mount Gay Rum (Extra Old) and smiled grimly, falsely. He never said much. He was a quiet dipsomaniac—the type who'd get out of a swimming pool, stumble around, mix a cocktail, and offhandedly say, "Jesus. It's kinda wet out here."

They passed exit 420 on I-80.

"Let's go to the barn," Kerrey said, staring out the window at the oversize red barn with the "XXX" sign.

Yeltsin looked over. "What barn?"

Kerrey tapped urgently on the window. "The porn barn."

Yeltsin shook his head "no" and turned down the radio. "Do you know what I miss about Mother Russia? No, not the vodka. It's the poverty. The corruption. The desolate landscape. Tomato soup for breakfast. The empty faces. Misery is all around, and the only pick-me-ups are prostitutes, warts and all. Sickly hookers. Those whores—and they are whores—spread cheer and orgasms like it's nobody's business." He was doing ninety, tailgating, jerkily swerving from lane to lane as if he were Alexander Litvinenko trying to evade ex-KGB agents on his tail. "But the hookers in Russia aren't like Spitzer's in-and-out machine. A thousand dollars an hour? No. No. No way in Stalingrad. The average Russian hooker charges three loaves of bread and a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter per hour and even that is pushing it. Any more than this, and she deserves whatever physical abuse you dish out." He exhaled loudly and thumbed the steering wheel. "Boris Yeltsin is sorry. I've crossed a line. Some of my best, closest friends are sooty prosses afflicted with mattress-back syndrome. I love 'em all, sometimes all at once, a carousel of breasts!"

They sped toward Omaha, listening to Kerrey's "Bob's One Good Leg Greatest Hits Vol. Two" CD—including "Pussy Control (Club Mix)," "Super Freak," "Pretty Fly (for a White Guy)," and "Ruff Ryders' Anthem." They eventually drove through Omaha, pulled into a strip mall, noticed the full parking lot, and parked in the neon glow of The Draft House. They heard the cacophony of voices and rap ("Gin and Juice") and shared a look, a "this could be a legendary night" look, the look of two preschoolers about to eat cinnamon graham crackers.

"If I don't get a BJ from some chick in the bathroom, or if some chick doesn't use my cock as a hand towel," Yeltsin said, killing the engine and checking his hoary hair in the mirror, "I'm gonna be pissed."

Kerrey nodded and unbuttoned his Banana Republic shirt, a pale yellow like his teeth. "I hope this is the type of bar where a guy can sweet-talk a fine-looking lady, take her home, light a Yankee candle or two, pour the stiffest drinks imaginable, play some Bryan Adams to get her feeling comfortable, you know, like "Heaven," and ultimately Superman the ho. Fingers crossed."

They exited the Range Rover, strutted toward the bar, and stood before a cocky, balding, sturdy doorman. Yeltsin whispered to Kerrey, "Get a load of this lummox. I bet he's never squeezed a football or a tit."

The doorman said the cover was a dollar.

Yeltsin waved his iPhone in the doorman's face. "I will not pay a cover! I outta break this iPhone over your skull! I'm Boris Yeltsin! You're spittle. You're the result of a mistake made by two dead drunk strangers at a Genesis concert, you buffoon. This isn't the Viper Room. It's the Drought House."

The doorman glared. "That's Draft House."

"Eat me. Get out of the way. I ran the Kremlin! I ran the world, at least in my mind. I did pelvic gymnastics with Nadia Comăneci." Yeltsin pushed the doorman aside and entered the bar.

Kerrey gave the doorman two dollars and apologized. "Don't mind Yeltsin. He just needs to get shit-faced. Sobriety is his worst nightmare."

The Draft House was a boozy version of the river Styx and a land of nodding acquaintances. The lighting was inadequate, the DJ and the sound system overpowering. This was the place to abuse alcohol cheerfully.

Boris Yeltsin and Bob Kerrey sashayed about, double-fisting at all times. They exchanged forced pleasantries. They mugged for photos. They gyrated on tables. Kerrey drank shots from his prosthesis.

The night wore on. At one point, Kerrey asked Yeltsin if he wanted to go to The Max, as it was "straight night." Yeltsin spat out his Moscow Mule, slammed the glass on the bar, and said, "No. Boris Yeltsin will not, as you say, gay it up. Why don't you just take a hammer and a sickle to my manhood, you bastard? I only Boris Yeltsin it up."

Kerrey drank as if he were on spring break in Panama City. He talked at length about 'Nam. "Yeah, I committed atrocities. So what? Those atrocities make this Corona taste like honey mixed with Columbian white mixed with God's tears mixed with Sour Patch Kids."

Yeltsin tried a new batch of pick-up lines: "You want glasnost? Open your mouth. I'll insert my dick." "Have you seen Boogie Nights?" "The only thing you need to know is that I have a healthy tongue." "I've never had a penis enlargement." "Where I come from, a one-night stand is beautiful, like peanut butter on celery." All failed woefully.

Last call came. Yeltsin raced into the men's room and urinated on every roll of toilet paper. Kerrey moonwalked up and down the dance floor while mumbling about hating his liver. The bar closed. Yeltsin and Kerrey poured onto the sidewalk. Deciding against attending and briskly leaving some after-hours meat market, they instead went to Burger King and scarfed down a bagful of Rodeo Cheeseburgers, littering and repeatedly calling Al Gore "Robot Turd."

The night ended when Bob Kerrey persuaded Boris Yeltsin not to drunk-text "Hey, doll. Nipping out? Up for a ménage à trois?" to Madeleine Albright.