Lance and Lara sat in their favorite booth at the Carlyle. It was reputed to have been the favorite place for Kennedy and Marilyn to have met for drinks and such.
Lance was pensive. He had never before witnessed the behavior of the “old rich” of Nuevo York. But he had to give them credit; they had amassed their wealth but they had remained discreet, unlike the neuveau riche, such as the heavily leveraged Dumbarton “Poontang” Crump, he with the flaming auburn hairpiece. It was said of Dumbarton that if he got too close to a candle his whole head would burst into flames. Lance couldn’t imagine why such a brainless dolt captured headlines, as were captured by Slimmy-Kimmy Carsmashian, she of the beautiful body and vacuous stare.
Lance couldn’t understand why Crump would continue to flagellate a moribund equine in whining that Bam Orama was born in Pakistan. But the zombie mainstream press, especially the pretend-journalists who were concerned only with getting a by-line and a raise, salivated every time Crump uttered one of his inane statements. True enough, he had a trophy babe on his arm (who, it was said, was only in it for the do-re-mi), but Lance found it hard to believe that a blonde with capped teeth and breast implants could make Crump’s blathering sound credible. Oh, well, he said to himself, Crump could have been fronted by “Massachusetts Bay” O’Brannigan, the ungainly half-sister of Petrus “Stonehead” O’Brannigan, the black Irishman who favored withdrawal from the planet. “Mass Bay,” as she was called, had a face that would stop two clocks—one at noon and the other at midnight.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Lara, idly swirling the “Noilly” that Lance had urged that she try. Those in the know, know that a Noilly is like a Martini, only different. Although Amsterdam gin is great, it always left Lance with the urge to punch out the nearest Repugnican know-nothing, solely because the only television the stupid drone watched was “Foxes and Friends.” Lance had nothing against the cable channel, but he wished it would stick to sports and not advertise the rather distasteful-looking personage of Gretchen “the witch” Van Sustenance, who was also in it only for the moola, but had the journalistic propriety to retch after she had delivered every broadcast. Poor Gretchen, Lance thought, trapped within the corporate spider web.
Lance and Lara had been living in Paris since 2008. They thought that with Bam Orama as President, everything would be smooth sailing, and that Ricardo Chancey would be in prison, along with his conniving wife. But that pair had let President Liar’s Chief-of-Staff, I. M. Glibby take the fall, and they were still living off the oil money that was produced by the invasion of Jiraq, notwithstanding the fact that one million Jiraqis had been killed during that invasion and that thousands of Allied military personnel had been turned into hamburger, as well– just to feed the likes of Chancey his pork-fat diet and to keep his Jarvik III heart beating in his cavernous chest.
Lara didn’t want to remind Lance of why they had returned to the United States, so she decided to keep the conversation light. “What do you think about Rugger Plemmons getting found “Not Guilty” on charges of lying to Congress?”
If Lara had wanted to keep Lance from exploding, she had picked the wrong topic of conversation. Blood flowed into Lance’s face, making his visage very dark indeed. Lara had referred to the charges that Plemmons had his trainer inject him with steroids so he could gain an unfair advantage over the hitters he had faced as a pitcher for the Bosox and the Yanks.
“He’s a miserable, lying dog!” Lance exploded. “He paid his lawyers big bucks to get him off, probably buying a crooked judge along the way. “He’s a scumbag, and he deserves to burn in hell!”
Lara knew that Lance didn’t believe in either heaven or hell, and that he was just venting. After all, there were others more deserving of hellfire than fat, out-of-shape Rugger Plemmons. “I’d just put him in the outer circle,” said Lara brightly. “There are other, deeper depths for those who are planning to turn this country into a pleasure dome for the very wealthy and misery for all the rest.”
Lance suddenly became calm and sober, despite the effect of the two Noillys that he had downed in scarcely half an hour. Got to watch that, he thought. He feared that his ability to function as The Shade might be compromised by too much alcohol. Beer would be better, he mused, especially the designer brews that the New Belgian Brewery were now turning out—especially the Blue Moon.
He feared that one day soon he would have to make use of the power that he had gained in the crevasse on Katmandu, the power to make himself invisible to those in his vicinity, simply by slowing his heart-rate to about ten beats a minute.
Lance turned his attention to a copy of The Times that someone had left in the Carlyle bar. A headline had captured his eye. Dearwood Poofe, Bam Orama’s go-to guy had just nominated as Ambassador to Jiraq a hold-over from the administration of ex-President Barnaby A. Liar. Apparently, the nominee was involved in a typical Repugnican sex scandal, but Poofe said that the Orama Grey House was sticking with the nomination. What an ignoramus that Poofe was, thought Lance, he isn’t doing the President any good with such political shenanigans. The President should fire Poofe to show that he can withstand the heat. But he doubted that would happen. Poofe, like Axelhead, was a trusted adviser; but sometimes your political friends are more dangerous than your political enemies.
An editorial next caught Lance’s eye. It referred to Shellhouse Addlebrain, the multi-billionaire nut-job who had already spent at least $60 million to defeat President Orama, and who, claimed the editorial, was prepared to spend a “limitless” amount of his multi-billion-dollar fortune (obtained by fleecing suckers of their money in Las Cruces gambling dens) to take down as many Dems as he could. Dens of iniquity, thought Lance, as he read on.
Lance began to steam as he was reminded of what the five bumptious clowns in black robes had done in their shocking “Citizens Divided” decision—a decision that allowed people such as Addlebrain to pour as much money as they pleased into the political process. Such fools, thought Lance. Addlebrain was simply—well, addlebrained. He held a simmering hatred for anyone whom he thought would destroy Jizreal, even though Jizreal had atomic weapons and the Palestrasians and the Iroonians had none. Didn’t Addlbrain realize that the more funds he poured into the coffers of “Mittens” Rumnose, the more chance there would be of a conflagration that would destroy Jizreal as well as Jiraq, Iroon, and much of the Middlemarch area?
Then Lance read on. Aha, he thought. Here’s the rub. Addlebrain’s first priority is his wallet. He wants to defeat Bam Orama because he thinks a second-term Orama would tax his ill-gotten gains in the pleasure pits of Las Cruces. Orama has already tried to force Addlebrain to pay fair taxes on his prime pleasure pit, The Las Cruces Mud Corporation. MudCorp now pays 9.8% in taxes, as compared to the statutory rate of 35% for non-corporate people. But MudCorp has 90% of its operations overseas in Singasong and Macaw—and the tax rate on MudCorp in Macaw is 0%! Naturally, the Repugnican Congress—‘congress’ being a term that refers to a group of baboons—have so far blocked the President’s attempts to make Addlebrain pay up.
Why that shifty little cheat! Lance folded up the newspaper and slapped it on the Carlyle bar. He hoped that the President’s Justice Department would follow up on attempts to determine whether Addlebrain’s Macaw operation violated the Corrupt Practices Act. No wonder the baboons in Congress are trying to get the AG impeached! Just another nasty Repugnican trick, thought Lance, as he rose to leave the Carlyle bar and face the unremitting heat of the streets of Nuevo York.
He had forgotten that Lara had gone to the ladies’ room and would be steaming for his having left her there to cool her heels in the Carlyle bar.
Chronicles of the Shade – Part III – Episode 3
Posted in Political | Comments OffForebush VanderScum sat back in his high rocker. He surveyed the land that lay before him, the 120,000 acre pig farm in the heart of New Jersey. As CEO of the Malapaca pharmaceutical company, he was chagrined at the thought of having to spend another $100 million to bank-roll that miserable piece of excrement, Dollard “Mittens” Rumnose.
“Damn him for being such an idiot,” VanderScum said to no one in particular. “Why in the bloody hell is he talking out of both sides of his mouth?” All he has to do, thought VanderScum, is take one side or the other. Doesn’t he know that taking both sides is a contradiction? VanderScum was of old Dutch stock, meaning that if he’d had his ‘druthers, what the French (ugh!) called the “neuveau riche” would be locked up in the stocks until they got a little spine in in their backs.
“Cellophane,” said Forebush, as if talking to the wall, “That guy’s nothing but a cellophane man. At that moment, the song from “Chicago” popped into his mind, “Cellophane…I’m made of cellophane…..You can see right through me….” Yeah, thought Forebush, you can see right through him. Why in hell didn’t the Repugnican Party have the good sense to vote for a true patriot, someone like Rock (“of ages”) Sanctum. Rock was a good Catholic, someone who really believed the nutty things that those Opus Dei flagellators did, someone who had a Christening party for his dead kid. Rock was as solid as, well, you know what. But Rock had lost to Mammon, to the Wall Street crowd, a crowd as cynical and money-grabbing as anything under the sun. I might be a miserable piece of scum (well, it’s part of my name), but these guys are so, so far beyond me. I want only to preserve my family’s wealth forever, but the Wall Street guys are just in it to jump all over those who are more unfortunate, and they don’t have any other agenda apart from, “me, me, me.”
Little beknownst to VanderScum, the Shade had been listening to every word that he could decipher from Forebush’s muffled pronouncements. For those unfamiliar to the goings-on of Lance Carter, he had undergone an apparent mystical experience some years ago in a crevasse in the Himalayas. After that experience, he had acquired the ability to get into the time frames of others so that they could not see him. There is scientific evidence for his ability. Combat pilots say that you have to scan the environment in order to see what’s in front of you. The people who couldn’t see Lance Carter even though he was smack in front of them were people who couldn’t scan him. This new-found ability had allowed him to adopt his alter ego, that of The Shade.
Yes, thought the Shade, as he surveyed the scene afforded by the redolent acres of pig farm owned by the VanderScum family, Forebush might be a pig, but he was an intelligent pig (and it’s been proven that pigs are more intelligent than the average member of homo sapiens—and clearly more intelligent than the average Repugnican voter). Forebush was interested only in the advancement of his own family, a natural enough predilection, but in Forebush’s case one that was sadly mistaken. His daughter, Emily “drool” VanderScum (so nicknamed because she drooled like an idiot whenever the subject of chocolate ice cream was mentioned) was a closet homophobe, even though her hormones perked up whenever Françoise la pussiere, VanderScum’s French maid, showed up to dust the armoire.
The Shade could never understand the priorities of the very rich. Although he had been left a small fortune by his father, a renowned Wall Street financier, Lance thought that it was best for humankind to give away as much as he could. The love of money, he repeated to himself as he stood in VanderScum’s lounge room, was the root of all evil, as his friend Josephus Fratello had taught him. Josephus was a real Christian, not one of the phony Christianists who preached the sermon of private interests. But there you have it, thought the Shade, no one will ever be able to convince those who refuse to be convinced. For instance, take Pauletto O’Rourke. O’Rourke wasn’t a phony, but he was as thick as a plank. He thinks that if private enterprise cannot feed the hungry, then that’s God’s will—they deserve to starve (rather than have public funds take up the slack).
Enough of ruminating, thought the Shade. What he had insinuated himself into VanderScum’s home for was to find out just where the money to prop up Rumnose had been coming from. Well, it was obvious where VanderScum’s sympathies lay. But there was also that dynamic right-wing duo, Tom and Jerry Cocks. The Cocks were bankrolling the re-election fight that Scrott Walzer had got himself into because he essayed to break the unions of Wiscarson. It was shocking, thought the Shade, that a state that had been the home of La Follete was taken in by the lies and innuendos funded by pair of driveling idiots whose favorite game was “Pin the tail on the Donkey.” There had been whispers that once one of the Cocks’ guests tried to pin the tail on Mrs. Cock. After that the Cocks played games that were much more circumspect, such as beanbags with the ladies, although the Cocks were hard-pressed to find anyone who could get one of the bags in the hole.
The Shade thought that he was getting a bit old for this sleuthing business. Four years ago he had done a job on the administration of Barnaby A. Liar, who was now living the life of the idle rich on his ranch in Crawdad, TX. One thing you’ve got to say for Liar, thought the Shade. He didn’t stick around for any accolades after his presidency was succeeded by that of the nonpareil scintillating speaker, and now President, the Honorable Bam Orama. After being swept into office by a landslide vote, Bam hadn’t taken advantage of the mandate given to him, and he had spent a lot of time on the basketball court practicing his jump shot with the likes of LeBron James, the best basketball player on the planet and someone, he believed, who would lead the Miami Heat to a well-deserved championship after just missing the golden hoop in 2011.
Poor Bam, thought the Shade. He does something that Hildy Swinton couldn’t do –passing a universal health-care bill, despite the vociferous voices of flacks for the insurance companies and Big Pharma—and he gets no credit for it. Instead the whiners on the far left complain that when Navy Seals gunned down Oswami ben Loaded, they violated the rights of that terrorist murderer. Now Bam’s progressive support seemed to be dribbling away, especially after Dem voters mostly sat on their hands in 2010, letting the tri-cornered nutcases sweep control of the House of Representatives. Although Fancy Buligiosi had kept her job as minority leader, she had been severely wounded by the lies that had been spread about her, even though she commented frequently that it only hurt when she laughed (which she found harder and harder to do lately, what with the economy swirling down the drain because of President Liar’s unfunded wars against Jiraque and Albasterstan.)
What confounded the Shade was that Ricardo Chancey was still in the picture, snarling into the cameras of the lame-stream media as they kowtowed to this personification of evil, someone with an artificial Jarvik heart that thumped with an ungodly rhythm and an occasional whirr from the chambers being filled and emptied. Because Chancey’s heart was set to beat at a steady 60 beats a minute, whenever he exerted himself, he would have to beat on his chest like a gorilla to get his heart-rate up. This was because the nerves surrounding the Jarvik had been removed, and he had to pound his chest whenever he wanted to increase his aerobic levels. If he didn’t do this, any exertion, such as killing hundreds of innocent quail with his double-ought, double-barreled shotgun would send him into a swoon from which he might someday not recover.
Chancey was still wheeling around D.C. in his motorized chair, trying to energize the remnants of a neocon base so that they could continue to plot invasion and domination of any country that was foolish enough to think that it was independent of the machinations of the DOD and its obscenely inflated budget, sucking funds from Medicaid, Medicare, the homeless, and the destitute, just so corporations could exercise the personhood granted to them by the SCOTUS, led by Justice Tonio Sleazy and his dark and silent shadow, Tommie (Uncle Tom-Tom) Thomasino. Joined by Justice Sammy Stiletto, Robert “Call me Bob” Robot, and the doddering Ken Kenilworth, these clowns in black robes had decided, without clear precedent, that corporations are people, and that ordinary people had better incorporate themselves if they wanted to vote.
VanderScum was now out of his chair and prancing back and forth on his wooden leg. “Who put you in the stocks, Brom Brick?” he suddenly exclaimed. The Shade could now see clearly into Forebush’s mind, an uncanny ability that Lance Carter had acquired while frozen in the ice so many years ago in Katmandu. Although VanderScum possessed the most up-to-date prosthetic device to replace his leg—amputated below the knee several years ago because he carelessly swung his big, electric cross-cut saw across his body whilst fashioning a set of stocks to intimidate the help—he preferred the hand-carved wooden peg, inlaid with silver, that his great-great grandfather had worn in Old New Amsterdam.
Forgetting that Brom Brick had put himself in the stocks, Forebush continued to declaim that it was he, the overseer of this mighty land of swine, who would clap anyone in the stocks who refused to bow to old money. As VanderScum continued to clump back and forth, playing the part of the mighty landlord, the Shade was becoming weary. He could keep his heart-rate low for only about five minutes, and Forebush’s antics were beginning to try his patience. His thoughts wandered to Lara—Lara, the love of his life, whom he had thought was lost but who now was found—Lara, who was now probably at the bar in the Carlyle Hotel in NYC, waiting for him to join him for a drink. Lance’s chauffeur was waiting for him under a shade tree just beyond the gate to the VanderScum mansion, engine idling in the big, black Mercedes 500S. It would take only about an hour to get from NJ to the City. Then they would sit together at the bar before dinner, he with his martini and she with her Pim’s Cup. Lance had begun omitting the gin from his martinis, having found that gin made him a tad surly. Now the smoothest drink he could imagine consisted of three parts Sobieski vodka and one part Noilly Prat vermouth. (He was troubled by still calling it a “martini” now that he was using French vermouth, but it just didn’t sound right to say to the bartender, “I’ll have a Noilly.” Finish it off by adding a couple of onion-filled Spanish olives, thought Lance, as he eased himself out the French doors of VanderScum’s lounge room, and there you have a drink that even Zeus would relish.
“Things’a change,” said Lance under his breath as he walked toward his waiting ride back to the city, purposely repeating the phrase Don Ameche used playing the gardener who was mistakenly thought to be a Mafia mobster. But Lance knew from his study of Greek philosophy that this phrase had been uttered long ago in Ephesus (although in a different language) by none other than Heraclitus. “Boy, do they ever,” he muttered to his chauffer as the Mercedes rolled out towards the highway, “I can really use that drink.”
Chronicles of the Shade Part III Episode 2
Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
EPISODE 6 — Conclusion
Lance Carter sat relaxed on his leather sofa, a glass of Glen Levitt cupped in both hands. Lara sat beside him, her head back, her eyes closed, and her dark, lustrous hair cascading over the sofa top. They were listening to Joan Sutherland singing Lucia di Lamermoor on an old 33 rpm playing on Lance’s Victrola. There were slight scratching sounds on the recording, but Sutherland’s voice came through clear and rich.
When the record had ended, Lara took a sip of her pinot grigio, and shifted on the sofa so that she was facing Lance. “What are you thinking over there, mister silent one?”
Lance came to himself and looked at Lara. He had been thinking, and now he was about to tell Lara what it was. “Remember when I telephoned you just after coming back from San Francisco?”
Lara smiled. “How could I forget,” she said. “We hadn’t seen one another in weeks, and the first words out of your mouth were about a conspiracy between Ricardo Chancey and Hildy Swinton.”
“Sorry about that,” said Lance, looking down at his drink. “But I was worried, and I didn’t know what to do.”
Lara put her hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help, was I?” she said.
“As a matter of fact, you were. You said that there might be some way to convince Hildy not to go along with Chancey’s plans.”
“And are you now going to tell me that you found that way?”
Lance looked up at Lara and into her glowing indigo eyes. “I hope that I’ve found that way, my love,” he ventured, “I hope I have.”
Lara put down her wine glass and drew her legs under her on the sofa so that she rested on her knees when she faced him. “And now you are going to tell me everything that has happened, aren’t you?” she implored; eagerly anticipating his story in the way a child awaits a goodnight tale.
“Remember those tapes I made for Wilby? The ones that led to the resignations of Chancey and Condo Spice?”
“Yes, I do, Lance. I’ve often wondered how you got those tapes.”
“Well, that’s not the issue now,” said Lance rapidly. “Wilby let me have one of those tapes, and I managed to play it for Hildy Swinton last night.”
Lara rocked back on her heels from her kneeling position and stared at Lance in amazement. “Well, aren’t you the sly boots? Just how did you manage to do that?”
“Let’s just say that I used my considerable persuasive powers,” smiled Lance. “You know, the powers I have to keep you in thrall to me.”
Lara gave Lance a playful punch in the arm. “You big baboon,” she said. “I can’t believe that any woman besides me would give you the time of day.”
Lance laughed. “OK, you’ve got me there. But suffice it to say that I did get to play her the tape, to show her what a conniving, war-mongering bully Chancey really is.”
“So, go on, tell me,” said Lara, teasingly. “What was the result of this heroic attempt to make Hildy Swinton see the light of day?”
“I don’t know,” said Lance.
“You don’t know? Here I am waiting for a happy ending to this story, and you say you don’t know?”
Lance took a sip of his Glen Levitt. “I think that I might have convinced her, but I’m not sure. I appealed to her better nature, told her that Chancey wasn’t to be trusted, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
***
What Lance didn’t know was that after he left Hildy Swinton’s apartment, Hildy had picked up the telephone and placed a long-distance call to her husband in New York. When Jefferson Swinton answered the telephone, the first words out of Hildegard Swinton’s mouth were, “I can’t do it.”
Jeff Swinton knew what she was referring to, but all he said was, “Uh huh.” He knew what she was going to say next, that regardless of the deal she had made with Squintus McPain, she had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it, which is exactly what she did say next.
“So, what made you change your mind?” he asked.
“I don’t know. A lot of things. There was this tape recording I heard with Ricardo Chancey on it, saying things I’d suspected were true but just didn’t want to believe, saying things that made me ashamed I’d ever listened to him.”
“Tape recording? How did you manage to hear a tape recording of Shooter Chancey?”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s only part of what made me change my mind. I think what really did it was being reminded of what I’ve said in my prayer group–that people have to take individual responsibility for their actions, and that they can’t blame other people for the way the world is. I thought about what kind of moral lesson it would be for Everton if she knew that I’d let my ambitions cloud my judgment about what was right and wrong.”
“Well, I guess ol’ Shooter is going to be ticked,” said Jeff Swinton, “not to mention Squintus McPain.”
“I really don’t care,” said Hildy. “For the first time in months I feel good about myself. I’m taking the first flight out of here, so I’ll see you tomorrow morning. When I get back I’m going to schedule a press conference, first thing.”
Jefferson Swinton chuckled. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Now you better get some sleep, because you’re going to have a big day tomorrow.
***
Squintus McPain’s campaign manager looked sourly at the cold coffee in his morning cup. Ever since Squintus had again made the mistake of talking about how Iroon was training “al-qaeda in Jiraq” fighters, he had been trying to fend off the jibes of those in the media who now compared McPain’s miscues with Gerald Ford’s gaffe about Poland’s being in the free world back in the ‘70s. Senator McPain was in a foul humor in the next room, blaming his staff for not prepping him properly, and also being dispirited that the mud his operatives had been slinging about Bam Orama’s supposed racial hatred wasn’t sticking. In fact, McPain’s key mudslinger, the WSJ editor, Sal Tantrum, who continued calling Orama a racist, had just been profiled in a Nation article that listed all the racist statements Tantrum had made about people of color. It did not promise to be a good day.
Suddenly there was a string of expletives from the next room, threatening to turn the very air blue. Then there was the sound of a coffee cup crashing into the wall. Senator McPain burst through the door, still cursing and waving his hands in front of his face. His face was red, and he was spluttering something about a betrayal and motioning toward the TV set on the wall. His campaign manager turned on the set.
Hildegard Swinton was in the middle of her press conference. As McPain continued to curse and mumble as he staggered about the room, Hildy Swinton said, “Although Senator Orama and I have fought a tough campaign, and though some hard words might have been spoken, not only do I salute him as the victor in this contest, I will do everything in my power to see that he is elected president of the United States. Toward this end, Jefferson and I am meeting with Senator Orama this afternoon to see how we can help him with his campaign in any way possible.” In the background, standing tall and smiling were Jefferson Swinton and their daughter Everton.
McPain, his face twisted in fury, snapped off the TV set. “How could she do this?” he said. “We had a deal. It was signed and sealed. How could she do this to me?” Then Squintus thought about it. This was a deal that would never see the light of day. If he brought it up it could only damage his own chances, because all those Swinton haters would not be able to stomach any deal that included her, and they would stay home on Election Day.
The telephone began ringing, and McPain’s campaign manager picked it up. “It’s for you, Squintus,” he said, “It’s Ricardo Chancey.”
Squintus McPain became very calm. He set his lips and said, “You tell that sneaking SOB that if he ever calls me again, I’m going to rip out that tin heart of his and throw it in the Delaware River.”
***
Lance and Lara sat on his sofa listening to the end of Hildy Swinton’s press conference on the radio. They were sharing the bottle of Lafite Rothschild that he had opened for their lunch. “Well,” said Lara, “it seems as if you managed to convince her after all.”
Lance raised his wineglass examining the dark ruby coloring of the vintage with a fine eye. “Yes,” he said, with a straight face, “I told you about those persuasive powers of mine, didn’t I.” Then he looked at Lara and laughed, and she laughed back at him, her indigo eyes shining with delight.
“I wonder what Squintus McPain is thinking about his chances in November now,” she said.
“Or what Shooter Chancey thinks the likelihood is that he’ll ever be taken seriously again in this town,” replied Lance. “It appears as if an October surprise came early for him.”
Then they both raised their glasses and took a sip of their wine. “So what’s for lunch, then?” asked Lara.
“It’s Mexican stew,” said Lance. “I managed to dice the jalapeños without shedding a tear.”
“That is so unlike what will happen to that vast right-wing conspiracy when Bam Orama makes Hildy Swinton his Secretary of State,” said Lara, as they entered the dining room to enjoy their lunch.
FIN
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Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
EPISODE 5
Lance Carter parked his black Honda on the street two blocks from the unassuming apartment building on K Street. He knew that Hildegard Swinton rented a small flat here for the times that she had to be in D.C. for a late-night Senate vote, when she didn’t have the time to fly home to New York. Today the Senate had voted on a crucial bill to ban further torture by the CIA, and Lance knew that Hildy Swinton would be on hand to vote for the ban, something she had done several times in trying to override the many vetoes that President Liar had issued. The president always said that he was using his veto power to enhance intelligence, whereas those in the know believed that it was to protect his many cronies who feared that a torture ban would reveal their involvement in these inquisitorial practices.
Lance Carter waited in the shadows until he saw a man approach the apartment building and fumble in his trousers for a key to the front door. Then Lance assumed the persona of The Shade and walked quickly to the building. As the man opened the door, The Shade held it open just long enough for him to follow the man inside.
Once inside the hallway, The Shade checked the names on the mailboxes. No Hildegard Swinton. But there was an H. Rockham listed in 3B. The Shade knew that ‘Rockham’ was Hildy’s maiden name, so he quickly found the stairwell and climbed to the third floor. He then paused outside apartment 3B, and he checked to see that his tape player was in his jacket pocket. The tape from “Shooter” Chancey’s encounter with The Shade the previous year was already in place.
Taking a deep breath, Lance knocked on the apartment door. He heard a stirring inside the room. “Who is it?” asked a voice from behind the door. Hildy Swinton sounded tired. She had spent the entire day on the Senate floor, and now she just wanted to rest.
“Building maintenance,” said Lance, having assumed his this-worldly form. “We’ve had a complaint about a security system failure. May I come in to check if your system is working?”
“Just a minute,” said Hildy Swinton, who was no fool. She had many enemies among those whom she accused of being involved in a vast, right-wing conspiracy against her. She opened a drawer and withdrew a snub-nosed .38 revolver and put it in the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she unbolted the door and stepped back into the room, her hand in her pocket. “Come in,” she said.
Lance Carter entered the sparsely decorated room. “Sorry to trouble you so late,” Ms. Rockham,” he said, “but we wanted to make sure your ADT system is working properly.” As he said so, he moved to the hall closet where he knew that most security systems were based. He took a flashlight from his pocket and opened the security box, pretending to check the fuses.
“Everything seems all right in here,” he said. All the while, Hildy Swinton was at his back, her hand in her dressing-gown pocket.
“OK,” Lance said. “If you’ll stay here a moment, I’m going back to the front door to test the system. When I do, tell me if any lights come on in here.”
Lance walked to the front door and opened it, once again becoming The Shade. “No lights? OK, then, everything seems fine,” he said. “Sorry to trouble you.” Then, as The Shade said, “Good night,” he shut the door and remained inside the apartment. When Hildy Swinton appeared from the closet a few seconds later, the room seemed empty. She re-bolted the door. Just as a precaution, however, she kept her .38 in her dressing-gown pocket.
The Shade waited quietly in the hallway until Hildy Swinton turned off the lights and retired to her bedroom. He waited another several minutes before entering the now darkened bedroom. After adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he removed the tape player from his pocket and placed it on the bureau. Then he stepped to the side of the bureau, keeping it between himself and the blanket-covered form lying on the bed.
Then The Shade spoke. “Mrs. Swinton,” he said, trying to keep his voice as placating as possible.
Immediately, there was a rustle of sheets on the bed, and The Shade heard Hildy Swinton fumble for the .38 special on her nightstand. “Who’s there,” she said, her voice trembling in fear.
“Would it make you feel less afraid if I told you I was one of your prayer group?” said The Shade.
There was the sound of the .38 revolver being cocked. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my bedroom?” came Hildy’s whispered question.
“Look, I know you have a weapon,” said The Shade, hoping that he was out of her line of fire. “But I’m not here to harm you. I just want to play a tape recording for you.”
“Why in the devil would you want to do that?” answered Hildy’s rasping reply.
“I just want you to hear what’s on this tape, Mrs. Swinton. After that, I promise that I’ll leave.”
“How did you get in here?” answered Hildy.
“There was a glitch in the security system. I was here when you arrived,” lied The Shade. “The guy who came here later to check on it was too late.”
“I want to turn on the light,” said Hildy. “I want to see your face.”
“I urge you not to do that,” said The Shade. “Please, bear with me here. Just let me run the tape for you, and then I’ll leave.”
Something in Hildegard Swinton’s inner self told her that she was really not in danger. Instead, she was angry that someone was in her bedroom when all she wanted to do was go to sleep. She didn’t reply to The Shade’s request.
Then The Shade pressed the play button on the tape machine, and Hildy Swinton was treated to the sound of Ricardo Chancey’s bullying voice, entreating President B. A. Liar to do anything it took to keep up the pressure against his enemies, including the torture of captured prisoners. She recognized the voice immediately.
After the tape had run its course, Hildy Swinton said to herself, I knew it. I knew that Chancey hadn’t retired because of any medical condition. Then she asked a question. “What do you want me to do about this?”
The Shade took a deep breath, thinking that the future of the United States hung in the balance. “What I’d like you to do, Mrs. Swinton, is rethink the bargain I think you’ve made with Squintus McPain.”
Hildy’s heart leaped into her throat. She thought to herself, how can this be? How could anyone have known about the deal she had struck with Squintus McPain? Was it Squintus himself who had leaked that information?
The Shade composed himself and went on. “I know—don’t ask me how—that McPain offered you a cabinet position if you would refuse to campaign for Orama and McPain won the presidency. I’m here to plead with you not to take that deal.”
The Shade waited for her reply. “Suppose what you say is true,” said Hildy, her voice trembling. “What should prevent my doing this?”
“Because it would be wrong,” said The Shade. “Because it would go against all that you have fought for in your political life. Because Squintus McPain, aided by “Shooter” Chancey, is itching to go to war with Iroon, and then you would be responsible for the deaths of more people than have been killed in our misbegotten invasion of Jiraq. You might gain the presidency four years from now, but you would inherit a failed nation.”
“How do you know this?” said Hildy. “How do you know that McPain is intent on going to war?”
“You’ve heard Ricardo Chancey, himself, Mrs. Swinton. You know what he is capable of. I implore you to look to your conscience, to your belief that individual actions matter, to your wish that your daughter will inherit a better world.”
With that last, Hildy Swinton had a pang of conscience. Her daughter, Everton, had bravely taken the stump in Hildy’s ill-fated run for the nomination. She had endured being called a “pimp” for her and Jefferson, and she had campaigned with pride for her mother. What would Everton think of the deal she had made with Squintus McPain?
The Shade retrieved the tape player from the bureau and silently left Hildy’s bedroom. As he left, he could hear her sobbing from her bed. Chronicles of the Shade Part II Episode 6
Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
EPISODE 4
Lance Carter telephoned Lara Lane as soon as he returned to his townhouse in D.C. The trip from the west coast had been long but uneventful. He had tried to piece together what he had learned from his encounter with Squintus McPain and Ricardo Chancey. He was troubled by what he had heard while eavesdropping on the telephone call between Chancey and Hildegard Swinton. How could he convince Hildy Swinton that Chancey was intent on a war with Iroon, and that he would assuredly get that war if Squintus McPain were elected?
“I’ve got some bad news, Lara,” said Lance. ‘Shooter’ Chancey is back in the picture. He’s trying to convince Hildy Swinton not to campaign for Orama. He’s dangling the State Department in front of her.”
Lara had just returned from a dance class that she was instructing in the D.C. inner city. She was tired. This was news that she was not up to hearing. “Surely, she won’t go along?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Lance. “She said that she’d think about it. I’m afraid that her emotions have clouded her judgment.”
Then Lara became alert. “How do you know all this?” she asked. Lance Carter had not yet told her about his powers as The Shade.
Lance hedged. “I got it from a good source,” he said, the source being his own observational powers. “But what do you think we can do?”
“If we could somehow convince her that Chancey isn’t to be trusted,” said Lara. “That would draw her back from the brink.”
Lance thought about this. “I’m going to call Wilby Goode,” he said. “Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” With that, Lance Carter wished his only love goodnight and hung up the telephone. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow he would telephone Wilby. Now what he needed was a good night’s sleep.
Lance awoke the next morning still troubled by his encounters with McPain and Chancey. The only way Bam Orama was going to win was to have a united Demo party, and Hildy Swinton was thinking about throwing a monkey wrench into any such unity by secretly supporting the candidacy of Squintus McPain. After fixing himself a cup of coffee, Lance dialed the number of Wilby Goode.
“Hello, Wilby Goode here,” said Wilby after picking up the telephone on the second ring. He had been expecting a call from the editor of the D.C. Post on an article he had written about the slow progress being made in dismantling the enduring bases in Jiraq.
“It’s Lance Carter, Wilby. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about a possible conspiracy involving Squintus McPain and Hildegard Swinton.”
“Turn on your TV set, Lance. Hildy Swinton is being interviewed this morning by Slim Buzzert on ‘Know Your Press’.”
Lance pushed the button on his TV remote just in time to hear Slim Buzzert’s question. “But, come November are you going to vote for Bam Orama?”
Hildy Swinton turned an icy smile into the TV camera. “Well,” she began, “You know that I’ve been supporting Demo candidates for most of my life. While my husband was President, we always supported the cause of the Demo Party.”
“But does that mean that you will vote for him?”
“Slim, you know that what one does in the voting booth is a private matter. You’ve also heard me say many times what a fine person Bam Orama is. The disagreements we had during our campaign were about a question of experience. If Bam Orama is elected, then I’m hopeful that he would learn quickly on the job. I just wish he had the experience that I have, and, for that matter, the experience Senator McPain has.”
What Slim Buzzert didn’t know was that Hildegard and Jefferson Swinton had decided to explore “Shooter” Chancey’s offer further. They had demanded and got a late-night meeting with Squintus McPain; and while Lance was traveling across the continent, McPain was meeting with the Swintons and arranging a deal. Except it wasn’t the Department of State that Hildy Swinton wanted. It was the Department of Defense. Hildy Swinton and her husband had reached an agreement with McPain that if she secretly sandbagged Bam Orama’s campaign, McPain would make her Secretary of Defense in a McPain administration. That way, McPain could rattle his saber against Iroon, and Hildy would back him up far better than Ron Dumsfeld had backed up President Barnaby A. Liar in Jiraq. McPain had agreed that he didn’t want a second term, and that he would support her Independent candidacy for president in 2012. By that time, he thought, Iroon would be another U.S. “coaling station” in the Middle East, and Squintus McPain could retire a happy man. They had put their agreement in writing and on tape.
Lance Carter sat stunned. It appeared that Hildy Swinton had caved in to the machinations of “Shooter Chancey.” Didn’t she know that if Squintus were elected, there would be a war with Iroon? Was it really worth it to further her ambitions to be a partner to more bloodshed, and increased hatred on the part of other nations?
Lance realized that Wilby was still on the line. “Wilby,” he said, “what do you think we can do about this?”
There was a pause on the other end. Finally, Wilby said, “I’ve still got the original tapes, Lance. You know, the ones you collected on Chancey, Spice, and Liar. Suppose I released them to the D.C. Post? That would get Chancey out of the picture.”
Lance thought about this. “But didn’t you promise Fancy Bugliosi not to publish those tapes until President Liar left office? Not only that, but it still leaves Hildy Swinton’s caving in to McPain still hanging. What do you propose we do about that?”
“I don’t know,” said Wilby, remembering his promise to the Speaker of the House to withhold publication of the tapes until 2009. “But you’ve always been resourceful. Maybe you can come up with something that will change her mind.”
At that moment Lance decided that he would indeed have to change her mind. He would have to visit Hildegard Swinton and convince her that Squintus McPain was the last person she would like to see as president of the United States. So he said to Wilby, “Do you mind if I borrow those tapes for a few days. I think I might be able to put them to good use without publishing them.”
Chronicles of the Shade Part II Episode 5
Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
EPISODE 3
Hildegard Swinton hung up the telephone in her Chapaqua mansion in upstate New York. “You’ll never guess who that was,” she called out to her husband, who was propped up in bed reading the Times in an adjoining bedroom.
Jefferson Swinton removed his reading glasses and blinked at his wife as she entered his bedroom. “It wasn’t Bam Orama, was it, changing his mind about making you his running mate?”
“Fat chance, buddy,” replied Hildy, mirthlessly. “No, it was one of our old adversaries wanting me to kiss and make up.”
“Surely, not Ben Moon?” said the former U.S. president, referring to the independent prosecutor who had hounded him all during his second term.
“No, not him, silly,” said Hildy. “It was none other than our old nemesis, Ricardo ‘Shooter’ Chancey.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Why on earth would he be calling you?”
Hildy sat on the edge of her husband’s bed. Then she outlined the deal that the former vice-president had proposed to her, all the while studying his face for any reaction. When she was done, she sat up straight, smiled, and said, “So what do you make of that?”
“Well, that beats all,” said the former president. “We all knew what a conniver ol’ ‘Shooter’ was, but I never thought he’d leave the dark side, especially to do us a favor.”
“Oh, he hasn’t come over to the light,” said Hildy. “He just thinks Squintus McPain will give him four more years of Middle Eastern oil profits. Then he can move to Europe and live like a king.”
“Yeah, if his tin ticker holds out,” smiled the former president. “So did you tell him to buzz off?”
“Not exactly,” said his wife. “I told him I’d think about it.”
Jefferson Swinton swiveled his body in order to look squarely at his wife. “You said you’d think about it? Why would you do something like that?”
Hildegard Swinton reached out and grasped his hand in both of hers. Her eyes were beginning to well up, and her lips were trembling slightly. “I thought,” she began, and then she stopped to compose herself. “I thought we had better talk about it before coming to any decision.”
Then Hildy Swinton recounted for her husband the story of their lives together, from the time they had met in college, their law school days, and their partnership in a political career that had spanned more than three decades. She reminded her husband of their years in the Grey House, of the battles they had fought, but not always won, of their being constantly hounded by the jackals of the Repugnican Party, of their dreams to retake the presidency and finish what they had started, and then of the bitter disappointment in being shunted aside by a rank newcomer, someone who hadn’t paid his dues, someone who was taking away what was rightfully theirs, someone who couldn’t possibly lead the country the way that they had, and would again, if only given the opportunity.
Hildy Swinton took a deep breath. Then she said, “If Bam Orama is elected in November, the odds are that he’ll serve two terms. That’s eight more years we’d have to wait for another chance. Chancey has said he can cut that in half.”
Jefferson Swinton gave his wife a crooked smile and shook his head. “Well, that does beat all,” he said. “But you know ol’ Shooter. He’s got more moves than a snake on a skillet. How do you know you can trust him?”
“Well, I can’t trust him, can I?” replied Hildy. “I’d have to go straight to McPain to see whether he’d go along, wouldn’t I?”
“Yeah, and you’d have to get something in writing, too; or at least have a couple of witnesses saying he promised you the position at State.”
Then the Swintons paused, and both of them chuckled at the same time. “I think we’re actually talking about doing this, aren’t we?” said Jefferson Swinton.
Chronicles of the Shade Part II Episode 4
Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
INTRODUCTION: DI author/contributor “Sam Miller” (pseudonym of one of our regular DI band, electing for mystical reasons to remain anonymous) has graced us with a sequel to his previously co-authored “Chronicles of the Shade” (Part I) which you can still enjoy through the articles link to this website. Chronicles…Part II is—again—a DI exclusive.
It would be helpful—but not necessary—to read Chronicles I in order to enjoy this sequel, although it is recommended that the reader peruse at least Episode 1 of that earlier drama in order to better grasp the gist of the “Shade’s” mystical identity and modus operandum.
In this very insightful (and hopefully non-prophetic) sequel, the author takes us with him and our magus of stealth on the latter’s continued saga in quest of the truth behind our administration’s foreign and domestic policy machinations and shenanigans.
Sam Miller, as we, was apparently troubled in no small way to read recent reports of Hillary Clinton’s back-handed endorsement of McCain by her several-times repeated statements to the effect that she (Hillary) and McCain shared in common a wealth of political experience when compared to Obama.
In this parody of actual events, Miller entertains us while he stealthily urges us to ponder (along with other things) the possibilities –mostly treacherous—underlying Hillary Clinton’s recent actions.
DI DISCLAIMER:
The DI website and its editor, Bobby Dees, wish to make it clear and certain to all readers that this offering is strictly fiction, and a parody of reality at most, and that the views expressed or implied in this dramatic art do not necessarily reflect the political views of the DI website, Bobby Dees or DI contributors and staff.
Having said all that, it is my sincere hope and expectation that you will experience the same enjoyment—and wake-up-message of attention and alarm—I did in reading this piece, which shall be presented to you in a serial publication of 6 episodes, each to be posted on the DI website on successive Wednesdays beginning April 23, and concluding Wednesday, May 28, 2008.
Thanks, “Sam”, for a fun and provocative read, and best regards to all our DI contributors and readership.
Dusty (DI Foreign Policy Editor, Robert R. Schoch)
EPISODE 2
The Shade walked to his 2001 black Honda that was parked a block from the convention hall. As he entered his car and again resumed his identity as Lance Carter, he noticed a black limousine moving slowly down the opposite side of the street. Lance could tell that it was Rick Chancey’s vehicle from the plate on its front that said, “VEEP.” Chancey hadn’t bothered to remove the plate after he had resigned his office.
Lance started his car and, on a whim, made a u-turn with his lights off and began to follow Chancey’s limousine at a discreet distance. After a mile, Chancey’s car stopped in front of an apartment building. Lance parked his car a block away and waited for Chancey’s enormous bulk to heave itself from the back seat of his chauffeured car. Then Lance slowed his heartbeat almost to a stop, and exited his own car. Having again become The Shade, Lance breezed past the doorman to the building and followed Chancey to the elevator. He entered the elevator car just before Chancey turned the key that started the car’s ascent to the penthouse. Ricardo Chancey had rented the penthouse for a month so that he could come and go to the Repugnican convention as he pleased. He still thought of himself as a player, and he wanted to do all in his power to see that Squintus McPain, upon becoming the next president, would act to further Chancey’s own interests—which he took to be identical with those of the United States.
When Chancey exited the elevator into his apartment, The Shade was right behind him. As Chancey eased his ponderous frame into a large, leather armchair, The Shade slipped behind a bookcase. He was alone with Chancey in the room. Lemon Chancey, the former veep’s wife was still in Reagan, D.C., doing her utmost to resurrect her husband’s reputation; for it was rumored that Chancey had been forced to resign by the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the Honorable Fancy Bugliosi.
Ricardo Chancey picked up the telephone beside his chair and dialed a D.C. number. The Shade thought that he might be calling his wife, but when Chancey spoke, his words caused The Shade to inhale sharply. “Hello,” said Chancey. “Is that you, Hildy? It’s Rick Chancey here.”
Quickly, The Shade moved from behind the bookcase and slipped into a nearby bedroom. There he carefully picked up the extension telephone and listened as Ricardo Chancey’s conversation with Hildegard Swinton continued.
Hildy Swinton had been grievously disappointed when she didn’t get the Demo nomination for president. The super delegates who had been pledged to her went over to Bam Orama by a margin of two to one, giving him the nomination. What wounded her even more deeply was Orama’s total disregard for her feelings in not even mentioning her as a possible running mate. He had opted instead for Rich Billups, the governor of New Texaco, in order to solidify the Hispanic vote and act as a counterweight to Squintus McPain’s influence in that state. Although she put on her bravest smile and promised on the convention floor to work hard for the Demo ticket in November, when she returned to her hotel suite she had smashed every single dish in the kitchen cupboard.
The Shade heard Chancey say, “Hildy, I know it’s late, but I just had a talk with Squintus McPain. I think he’s on board with what we talked about a couple of weeks ago.”
Then The Shade heard Hildegard Swinton’s reply. It was tinged in icy syllables. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What does it mean to say that McPain is on board?” The Shade knew that Swinton had always despised Chancey. What could it mean that she was even speaking with him?
“Look, Hildy,” said Chancey. “I know you don’t like me, but can’t we just forget about that? Isn’t it more important for you to continue serving your country—and I mean not just by remaining as the junior senator from New York?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Hildy Swinton said, “Just what do you have in mind?”
“I can guarantee that if Squintus McPain is elected president, he will make you his Secretary of State,” said Chancey.
“Two questions, Ricardo. One, why is that a step up for me? And two, what do I have to do to get this so-called reward?”
“One,” said Chancey. “It’s a step up because McPain isn’t going for a second term. He’s too old as it is. The guy he chose as his running mate hasn’t got any national recognition. It’s a step up, because in four years you get the Demo nomination, and you wipe the floor with any token Repug candidate.”
The Shade heard Hildy Swinton laugh at the other end of the line. “My, such big plans. And how do you propose that the Repugnican Party can be swayed into doing this for little old me?”
“It’s simple, Hildy,” said Chancey. “The fix will be in. You’ll perform in spectacular fashion at State. You’ll repair the reputation of the Repugnican Party, and in gratitude they’ll run a minimal campaign. Independents and Demos will flock to you, and you’ll be President of the U.S. in 2012.”
Again there was a pause. Then Swinton said, “And what about ‘two’, my role in all this? Just what would I have to do.”
“Nothing,” said Chancey. “Absolutely nothing. If you do absolutely nothing to help Bam Orama win the presidency, then Squintus McPain will be our next president.
“How do you propose that I do that, Ricardo? I’ve already said that I support the Demo ticket?”
“Sure, Hildy. You support it. But you don’t have to campaign for it. You can always say that Senate business takes precedence. Meanwhile, your former campaign staff can spread the word that you’re unhappy that a woman won’t be running for office. At the same time, just don’t say anything negative about Squintus.”
“You think my doing absolutely nothing is going to result in a McPain victory?” Swinton sounded incredulous.
“Sure. Women won’t come out to vote. The young people who supported Orama in the primaries will probably be more interested in football next fall, and they won’t show up. Meanwhile, the Repugnicans will turn out the faithful, and with a 40% turnout of the electorate, we’ll steal another election.”
The Shade heard Hildy Swinton sigh. Then she said, “I’ve got to admit it’s an ingenious plan, Ricardo. But it’s something that I should have expected from you.’
“Think about it, Hildy. Just four more years of Repugnican rule. Then you’ve got the country for the next eight years. By that time I’ll really be retired and living on the Riviera. I don’t care what you do then.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Hildegard Swinton said, “OK, I owe your ingenuity that much. I’ll think about it.” Then there was a click on the line as Swinton hung up the phone.
The Shade waited until Chancey entered the bedroom and then eased his way out of the apartment. Was this the “October surprise” that Chancey had promised McPain? The plan sounded ominous, but would Swinton go for it? How could he and Wilby convince her that she would be making a deal with the devil? Nothing in politics is simple anymore, he thought—if it ever was.
Chronicles of the Shade Part II Episode 3
Chronicles of The Shade Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
INTRODUCTION: DI author/contributor “Sam Miller” (pseudonym of one of our regular DI band, electing for mystical reasons to remain anonymous) has graced us with a sequel to his previously co-authored “Chronicles of the Shade” (Part I) which you can still enjoy through the free books link to this website. Chronicles…Part II is—again—a DI exclusive.
It would be helpful—but not necessary—to read Chronicles I in order to enjoy this sequel, although it is recommended that the reader peruse at least Episode 1 of that earlier drama in order to better grasp the gist of the “Shade’s” mystical identity and modus operandum.
In this very insightful (and hopefully non-prophetic) sequel, the author takes us with him and our magus of stealth on the latter’s continued saga in quest of the truth behind our administration’s foreign and domestic policy machinations and shenanigans.
Sam Miller, as we, was apparently troubled in no small way to read recent reports of Hillary Clinton’s back-handed endorsement of McCain by her several-times repeated statements to the effect that she (Hillary) and McCain shared in common a wealth of political experience when compared to Obama.
In this parody of actual events, Miller entertains us while he stealthily urges us to ponder (along with other things) the possibilities –mostly treacherous—underlying Hillary Clinton’s recent actions.
DW DISCLAIMER:
The DW website and its editor, Bobby Dees, wish to make it clear and certain to all readers that this offering is strictly fiction, and a parody of reality at most, and that the views expressed or implied in this dramatic art do not necessarily reflect the political views of the DW website, Bobby Dees or DW contributors and staff.
Having said all that, it is my sincere hope and expectation that you will experience the same enjoyment—and wake-up-message of attention and alarm—I did in reading this piece, which shall be presented to you in a serial publication of 6 episodes, each to be posted on the DW website on successive Wednesdays beginning April 23, and concluding Wednesday, May 28, 2008.
Thanks, “Sam”, for a fun and provocative read, and best regards to all our DW contributors and readership.
Dusty (DW Foreign Policy Editor, Robert R. Schoch)
Episode 1-
September 2008
Simon Quintus McPain looked at himself in the full-length mirror, gave his best grimace, and walked out onto the stage of the Repugnican National Convention. The crowd, mostly dressed in red, white, and blue garb, rose from their seats with a ferocious roar of approval.
“Squintus! Squintus! Squintus!” the cheering mob shouted over and over again. Of course, they were not only referring to the elision of ‘S. Quintus’, the way McPain usually signed his given names, but also to his habit of narrowing his eyes before he mounted a verbal attack on some hapless adversary. Everyone remembered the way he skewered Slim Buzzert on “Know Your Press” when the latter had the temerity to question whether McPain was too old to run for president. “I was out killing hundreds of gooks with napalm before you were out of nappies, sonny,” snarled McPain, “and I’m not too old to do it all over again.”
Now Senator McPain was grinning at the crowd, his elbows bent and his hands in front of his body, a boxer’s stance. After dislocating his shoulders and his elbows when he ejected from his plane and his parachute landed in a tree, arthritis had set in and he could no longer straighten his arms. His outer appearance now matched the inner warrior that he was. “My friends,” he said, “My friends….” But his words did not carry over the din in the convention hall.
“Sing it, Squintus!” the crowd began to shout. “Sing it! Sing it! Sing it!”
Squintus McPain’s grin got even wider. He knew what they wanted. He began to move his elbows back and forth, as if he were punching a heavy bag. The crowd roared with anticipation, and then there were shushing noises as the mob sat back to be entertained.
“Bomb, bomb, bomb bomb Iroon,” began Squintus, to the “Barbara Ann” tune from Grease. Then again, louder, “Bomb, bomb, bomb bomb Iroon!” As he sang, Squintus kept his elbows moving back and forth, and the band behind the podium began to play Squintus McPain’s theme song. The crowd then began to join in, and the convention hall rocked as the Repugnican faithful joined the chorus of support for their new leader.
Lance Carter did not join in the fun. He was dressed conservatively in a blue suit and red tie, and he sat quietly behind a large-boned woman who wore a long, star-spangled dress and a tall, red and white striped hat, so that, except for lacking a beard, she reminded one of Uncle Sam. The woman was singing and waving her arms, and her eyes glistened behind the red, white, and blue harlequin glasses that she wore. Lance had been able to enter the convention hall by adopting his persona of The Shade, lowering his heart rate and slipping into a parallel universe from which he could move about unobserved—the result of his being trapped in an icy crevasse in Katmandu some seven years earlier, when he survived only by drifting into a state of suspended animation. Now, except for a lack of excess animation, he seemed like just another delegate to the grand Repugnican convention.
Two weeks earlier Lance had received a telephone call from his good friend and long-lost relative, Wilby Goode. Goode, an investigative reporter for the D.C. Post, was concerned about rumors that had surfaced about something big about to happen before the November 2008 election—something that would put the Repugnican Party back in power for at least another four years. Wilby was again seeking the aid of The Shade Detective Agency to discover whether there was any truth to the rumors—rumors of a plot designed to install Senator Squintus McPain as President of the United States, despite the will of the general public.
Now the crowd had quieted, waiting for the senator from New Texaco to address the convention. “My friends,” he began again, “My friends….” And then McPain launched into his favorite stump speech, the one about keeping Americans safe from the hordes of foreigners who hated our freedom and would stop at nothing to destroy us, hordes of terrorists sponsored by terrorist states that were designing nuclear weapons to launch upon our shores, masses of people who believed in a hate-filled religion that preached Satan’s message in wishing to rain destruction on the United States and all its allies. Only the Repugnican Party could save the nation, continued McPain. Only the Repugnican Party stood firm against the anti-life, relativist, weak-kneed, multi-cultural, communist-liberal supporters of the opposite political party. Only the Repugnican Party and its chosen standard bearer stood between civilization and chaos.
Lance Carter tuned out the droning words of McPain and ignored the punctuated applause that greeted his every sentence. I wonder what it would be like to be a Repugnican, he thought, what it would be like not to have a single creative thought and to react robotically to every emotion-drenched suggestion to use force against anyone with whom you disagreed. Lance quickly put away the thought. That mindless state might bring its simple pleasures, but, as John Stuart Mill said, better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied. The source of Lance’s present dissatisfaction was the mysterious way in which Senator McPain had been resurrected from a moribund candidacy to capture the nomination of the Repugnican Party.
Merely six months earlier, it appeared that the Repugicans would choose either Julie Ruliani or Marvin “Bat” Numnee as their nominee. Both were awash with cash—the former from law-and-order PACs, and the latter from deep pockets on Wall Street. McPain, on the other hand, had to borrow money to stay in the race. Then suddenly things changed. Ruliani went down in flames in Florida, and Numnee soon followed. McPain’s coffers were now overflowing, and he easily turned back the challenges of the Bible-thumping Jim Huckleberry and the dour Libertarian, Don Small. The question that bothered Wilby Goode, as it now puzzled Lance Carter, was where the money to revive McPain’s candidacy had come from, and whether there was any “deal” involved between McPain and his providers.
McPain was wrapping up his acceptance speech. He raised his hands as high as they would go, up to his ears, and allowed the applause of the Repugnican faithful to wash over him like a soothing balm. “Thank you, my friends,” he said, as the applause began to die down. “Thank you very much. Now on to victory in November!” Then McPain marched from the stage with a purposeful stride. As he did so, Lance Carter lowered his heart rate to a bare minimum in order to become The Shade, climbed the stairs to the stage, and followed Senator McPain to his dressing room.
The Shade was able to slip into the Senator’s dressing room in the convention hall just before McPain closed the door. With a start, The Shade recognized the other man in the room. It was none other than Ricardo “Shooter” Chancey, formerly the vice-president of the United States, who had resigned five months ago, supposedly for medical reasons. What on earth was Chancey doing here? It was rumored that McPain and Chancey did not like one another, largely because McPain was a war hero and Chancey was a draft-dodging conniver.
“Hello, Squintus,” said Chancey. The greeting was not loaded with affection.
“Hello to you, ‘Shooter’, replied McPain frostily. “Couldn’t wait to get here, could you?”
“I don’t like to waste time,” said Chancey. “You’ve now got what you wanted, and now your backers are calling in the chips.”
Squintus McPain wasn’t the sort to be cowed by an overweight has-been with an artificial heart. “You know what you can tell those backers, Chancey. You can tell them to shove it. While you’re at it, you can do some shoving yourself.”
Chancey gave McPain his best Sunday-school smirk. “Sure I will, Squintus. Anything to oblige our war hero. But you’ve got to know that what has been given can be taken away. You’ve got an uphill general election to fight, and you need all the help you can get.”
“So, what will you do, ‘Shooter’, decide to support Bam Orama? That guy can’t be bought any more than I can.”
Ricardo Chancey grimaced. The mention of Orama filled him with disgust. He wasn’t supposed to be the Demo nominee. That post was supposed to go to Hildegard Swinton, the darling of the unions and the one that all red-blooded, red-necked, gun-bearing white men had been taught to hate. All the Repugnican strategists had been savoring a campaign against Swinton so they could beat her like a drum. Chancey and the Repugnican elite had just not counted on the groundswell of support for Orama, especially from young people who were tired of the D.C. way of doing business.
Chancey decided to change tactics. “Look, Squintus. Nobody’s trying to buy you. We’re on the same side here. We both want what’s best for the country. You know, no gooks allowed? No letting other countries bully us with lame talk about human rights? We need to stand firm for the flag.”
As Chancey continued to try to pacify McPain, The Shade peered into the former’s mind, which was as convoluted as a Victorian maze. One thing stood out clearly, however, and that was Chancey’s conviction that only by controlling the world’s oil could the United States continue to expand its dominion over other nations. President Barnaby A. Liar was supposed to nail down the Jiraqi oil, but he had failed. The puppet government he had installed had refused to sign the oil agreements, and the big oil companies were getting restless. That was why they had funneled money into McPain’s candidacy, because they knew that Squintus McPain wanted to go to war with Iroon, and Iroon was the only place left with enough oil reserves to continue the reign of U.S. imperialism.
“Look, Squintus,” said Chancey. “We both know we need a war with Iroon to keep our defense-driven economy from sputtering out completely. B. A. was supposed to tackle Iroon after a cakewalk invasion of Jiraq, but he wasn’t up to the job. I hear that his wife won’t even let him have chocolates anymore.”
Squintus McPain chuckled. He’d never liked the draft-dodging bully who was now rumored to spend most of the time that remained of his presidential term sleeping on his sofa in the Elliptical Office of the Grey House. “So what are you saying, ‘Shooter’, that we form an alliance because of common interests?”
“You’ve got it, mister war hero. You’re the only one with the credibility to talk about using military muscle to further our national interest. Besides, you’ve got a score to settle with those gooks, don’t you?”
In saying this, Chancey was cleverly playing the race card, knowing that ever since his being shot down in a bombing raid over West Rattan, he had harbored a grudge against all non-Caucasians. Especially irritating was the thought that a sixteen-year-old kid hiding in a rice paddy had blown his A-4 out of the sky with a shoulder-held rocket launcher. Lucky shot, was the only thought that kept his spirits up during his six years of confinement in a West Rattan POW camp.
The Shade could see the conflict in Squintus McPain’s mind. On the one hand, he didn’t like anyone’s telling him what to do. On the other, he knew that he needed heavy financing in the coming election, because Bam Orama was raising millions on the Internet. Surely, he thought, he wouldn’t be compromising his principles—at least not too much—if he acceded to Chancey’s request.
Finally, Squintus McPain shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure, why not. But there’s got to be a semblance of provocation before we launch an all-out war.”
Chancey gave McPain his best imitation of a sincere smile. “Of course, Squintus. But don’t you worry about that. I think there might be an October surprise that will dash all those peacenik hopes. Then we can get our country back on the right track—back to where nobody can mess with us.”
The Shade waited until Chancey opened the door to leave the room, and then he slipped out before Squintus McPain could close the door. This was serious, he thought. He would have to tell Wilby that there was indeed a plan to go to war with Iroon. Hopefully, the American public would not be gulled again.
Chronicles of the Shade Part II Episode 2
A DI EXCLUSIVE ! ! !
For DI Readers and friends –
Chronicles of the Shade©*
Part II
The McPain Conspiracy
By Sam Miller
INTRODUCTION: DI author/contributor “Sam Miller” (pseudonym of one of our regular DI band, electing for mystical reasons to remain anonymous) has graced us with a sequel to his previously co-authored “Chronicles of the Shade” (Part I) which you can still enjoy through the articles link to this website. Chronicles…Part II is—again—a DI exclusive.
It would be helpful—but not necessary—to read Chronicles I in order to enjoy this sequel, although it is recommended that the reader peruse at least Episode 1 of that earlier drama in order to better grasp the gist of the “Shade’s” mystical identity and modus operandum.
In this very insightful (and hopefully non-prophetic) sequel, the author takes us with him and our magus of stealth on the latter’s continued saga in quest of the truth behind our administration’s foreign and domestic policy machinations and shenanigans.
Sam Miller, as we, was apparently troubled in no small way to read recent reports of Hillary Clinton’s back-handed endorsement of McCain by her several-times repeated statements to the effect that she (Hillary) and McCain shared in common a wealth of political experience when compared to Obama.
In this parody of actual events, Miller entertains us while he stealthily urges us to ponder (along with other things) the possibilities –mostly treacherous—underlying Hillary Clinton’s recent actions.
DI DISCLAIMER:
The DI website and its editor, Bobby Dees, wish to make it clear and certain to all readers that this offering is strictly fiction, and a parody of reality at most, and that the views expressed or implied in this dramatic art do not necessarily reflect the political views of the DI website, Bobby Dees or DI contributors and staff.
Having said all that, it is my sincere hope and expectation that you will experience the same enjoyment—and wake-up-message of attention and alarm—I did in reading this piece, which shall be presented to you in a serial publication of 6 episodes, each to be posted on the DI website on successive Wednesdays beginning April 23, and concluding Wednesday, May 28, 2008.
Thanks, “Sam”, for a fun and provocative read, and best regards to all our DI contributors and readership.
Dusty (DI Foreign Policy Editor, Robert R. Schoch)
All Rights Reserved:
*Printed by DeclaringIndependts.com with express and exclusive permission of the authors, who, in conjunction with DI reserve all claims and rights under existing state and US Federal Copyright law to prohibit the unauthorized copying, duplicating and/or dissemination in any fashion of any part of the present or future publishings by DI on this website of any of the 10 chapters or episodes which here appear and/or follow without the written permission and formal authorization of DI and the authors of “The Chronicles of the Shade”.
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Chronicles of the Shade©*
By Margot Cranston and Sam Miller
Episode 10 –
The Circle is Completed
September 2007
Wilby Goode dialed the number of The Shade Detective Agency. Lucienne Dufrenne answered the telephone with her characteristic vivacity and her charming French accent. No, she said, M’sieur Cart-tay had not arrived yet, but she expected him soon. Wilby gave her his cell phone number and asked her to ring him when Lance Carter arrived at the office. Twenty minutes later, it was Lance himself who returned his call.
“I’ve got some news for you,” said Wilby. “It’s about the tapes. I’d like to be able to tell you what happened in person, and I’d also like to give you the fee that we agreed on for your work. May I come to your office some time today?”
Lance looked at his daily calendar. “I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up all day,” he said. What about coming to my townhouse this evening? If you’ve got pen and paper handy, I’ll give you directions.”
That evening found Wilby sitting in Lance’s living room, a glass of Glen Levitt warming in his hands. Wilby was not a Scotch drinker, but Lance had insisted; and Wilby found that he enjoyed the smooth taste of the single-malt Scotch whiskey. He recounted for Lance the details of his conversation with Fancy Bugliosi and told him of the deal that had been struck. Lance listened attentively, and then he put his own glass down on the table in front of him and leaned towards Wilby.
“So you agreed not to publish the tapes. I have to tell you, Wilby, that was quite a selfless act. You could have made a pretty penny with them, not to mention the fame that would have come your way with your exclusive story based on them.”
Wilby shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “My father taught me that there’s such a thing as the greater good.” Besides, I can always write my story after Liar leaves office. It was worth it to me to get Chancey and Spice out of the picture and not able to cause more harm to the country. By the way, I’ve written you a check to cover the fee we agreed on for your investigative work. It was worth every penny.”
“Put your money away, Wilby,” said Lance, holding up both his hands. “You’ve already paid my expenses, and I refuse to take anything more. If you ever publish those tapes, you can pay me then.”
Seeing that Lance meant what he said, Wilby folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket. “I would like to know how you got the material on those tapes,” he said, “but I guess that would be giving away trade secrets, wouldn’t it?”
Lance smiled. “Maybe some day I’ll tell you, Wilby. What I’d like to know from you, though, is what lies behind this keen sense of justice that motivates you. Surely, it can’t be merely what your father told you about a greater good, can it?” Lance was pressing. He wanted to know more about Wilby, and Wilby seemed not to want to tell him any more than he was asked.
Wilby took a careful sip of his Glen Levitt. He then looked squarely at Lance and began the story about his great-grandfather, G. I. Goode, and the chance meeting he had with his brother Billy close by the battlefields of France in the Great War. He told Lance about the pact the brothers had made, about initialing a scrap of paper to ensure that they would meet again to celebrate the war’s end. He told Lance about Billy’s being killed and about George’s leaving France forever. He told him that the story had been passed down to his grandfather, then to his father, and finally to him. It was a bond that tracked the generations, one that translated into a family creed of honor, loyalty, and service.
“What happened to that scrap of paper?” Lance asked, curious to learn more about the man who had seemed so desperate scarcely two months ago in asking The Shade for help, a man who now seemed poised, calm, and thoughtful.
“My great-grandfather asked a young Frenchwoman to keep it safe for him and Billy,” he said. “When she protested that she might lose it, he gave her something to put it in. It was a locket that he had bought in Paris, thinking to give it to his mother when he returned home. As I said, the two brothers were fairly inebriated, and I believe that George slept the night in that wine cellar after Billy had left to return to the front lines.”
Lance felt a frisson of recognition course through his body. Very deliberately, he reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved Aunt Viva’s golden locket. As Wilby stared at him, his jaw dropping, Lance opened the locket and drew forth the little paper within. He unfolded the paper and handed it over to Wilby. “Was it something like this that your great-grandfather gave to that young Frenchwoman?” he asked.
With trembling hands, Wilby held the paper before his eyes and read the words on it: “Preserve the Union.” He looked below the words and saw the initials G. I. G. and W. R. G. He then looked back at Lance, his eyes shining. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “These are the initials of my great-grandfather and his brother Billy—George I. Goode and William R. Goode. Where in the world did you come upon this locket?”
“This was my Aunt Viva’s locket, Wilby. “Actually, she was my grandmother. She was bequeathed the locket by her mother, who said it was given to her for safekeeping by a young and dashing American army lieutenant. I think your great-grandfather did more than sleep in that wine cellar on that night, Wilby. I do believe that we are related.”
Wilby rose from his chair in utter amazement. “Then the circle is completed,” he said in a tremulous voice. “Even though George and Billy were never able to celebrate, here we are, 90 years later, meeting and celebrating in their place.” With that, Wilby raised his glass and said, “Preserve the Union.”
Lance rose, as well, and raised his glass in a toast. “Preserve the Union,” he said. “But I’m still puzzled as to why our ancestors would use Lincoln’s phrase to mark their proposed reunion.”
Wilby laughed. “No, it wasn’t Lincoln’s phrase they had in mind. It simply signified preserving the union of two brothers. That’s the only meaning they gave the words in the locket. They wanted to let each other know that, no matter what, they would always stay loyal to one another.”
Then the scales fell from Lance’s eyes. It was as if cataract surgery had cleared his vision. All this time he had misconstrued what the words on the paper meant. He had agonized about how he could both preserve the union and renounce the world. He now saw how simple it was. Two brothers, one about to die, had made a pact always to be faithful to one another. Finally, he extended the locket to Wilby and said, “By rights this locket and its contents belong to you. It was your great-grandfather who bought the locket for his mother, and it was he who wrote the words on the paper inside it. My great-grandmother was just holding it for him until he returned.”
Wilby did not take the locket. Instead he passed the paper back to Lance. “No,” he said, “the locket belonged to your great-grandmother. George Goode never returned to claim it, so it became hers to do with it what she wished. From the looks of it, she and her daughter took great care in keeping it safe, and so you have, as well.”
“The paper with the words on it,” said Lance, “at least you should have that.”
Wilby shook his head. “The paper belongs in the locket. It has been there all these years, and it wouldn’t be right to separate them.” Then he smiled and said, “Perhaps there is someone to whom you can give the locket for safekeeping?”
Lance was too overcome by emotion to say anything. He did indeed know someone to whom he could give the locket. He raised his glass again in a toast to Wilby. He felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he knew they would have begun to flow had Wilby not broken the silence.
“I have to go,” said Wilby, after taking one more sip of the Scotch. “I have dinner plans, and it’s getting late.” Wilby extended his hand, and Lance gripped it firmly. Then he walked with Wilby through the foyer and opened the door for him. Before Wilby could leave, Lance gave him a pat on the shoulder. All these years Lance had been a loner. Now he had found someone who might really be a younger brother to him. Just like George and Billy, he thought. The circle had been completed. The reunion had finally taken place.
Lance didn’t want to spoil the moment with sentimentality. So he said to his departing guest, trying to remember how Bogart’s character Rick said it to Louis in Casablanca, “Wilby, I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
After Wilby left, Lance turned the locket slowly in his hands, watching the light play on its golden surface. Imagine that, he thought to himself. So few words and so many meanings. Confucius was right when he said that reforming the language was of utmost importance; for if language is not correct, then what is said is not meant, and people talk at cross purposes. Thus, art and morals deteriorate, and justice goes astray. This was perhaps Wittgenstein’s insight in his Tractatus, as well. Lance now knew that the words on the paper referred, not only to the union of two brothers, but also to the union of a man and a woman; but, even wider than that, they referred to the union of all human beings, and finally to the union of all living things. In striving to preserve the union of all life, one needed to renounce all the worldly ambitions of power and privilege that would diminish this living bond. That was the wisdom that was granted to him as he lay trapped in the ice. He had finally come to make sense of it.*
It seemed to Lance that he had come to the end of a long journey. Now he had reached a resting point. He had to share what he had learned with the only woman he had really ever loved. She would understand why he had been so distant, so angry. He would share with her the secret of the locket. He would present her with the locket as a symbol of his giving his heart only to her. She would keep it safe, just as he knew she would keep him safe. One day he would also tell her about The Shade, for he knew that she would keep that secret safe, as well.
First things first, he said to himself. He would prepare a wonderful meal for her. It would be Saltimbocca, with the delicious prosciutto he would buy at the Italian market. He had just the recipe. Then they would share a bottle of the Lafite Rothschild, and he would once again gaze into her indigo eyes and affirm his love for her. After dinner they would perhaps sip some Drambuie and talk long into the night. After that they would do their best to preserve their own union.
He reached for the telephone and dialed the number that Lucienne had found for him. When it was answered on the third ring and he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line, he said, “Lara, this is Lance. Would you agree to have dinner with me? I have a most extraordinary story to share with you, and there is also something that I want you to have.”
Her reply was all that he had wished for. Lance closed his eyes. What he saw was past and future merging in their tender embrace.
Epilogue
January 2009
Now, dear reader, these Chronicles are at an end. We hope that they have amused and enlightened you. The events described therein might be said to take place in a parallel universe. How closely they mirror events that occur in our own universe is for you to determine.
You may still be left with questions concerning what transpired after our actors left the stage. Let us assure you that everything worked out in the most agreeable way. Ricardo Chancey did resign as Vice-President, for the aforementioned medical reasons.
Condominium Spice took a position hurriedly offered her by Disloyola University in New Orleans after Fayetteville State withdrew its offer. There she aspired to collaborate with Professor Wilhelm von Krock, the most notorious libertarian philosopher south of Selma, Alabama, helping him to refine his views on how to avoid moral responsibility.
President Barnaby A. Liar spent the remainder of his term in office planning for the library to be constructed in Waco, Texas, to house his personal papers; though, truth be told, he spent much of the time sleeping on the sofa his wife had installed in the Elliptical Office, sometimes gagging on the pretzels that had replaced the candy kisses on his desk.
Speaker Bugliosi was good to her word. There was no bombing of Iroon, and all the troops were home from Jiraq by the following summer—except for General Petrankis and his staff, who were still holed up in their bunker in Ragtad, planning for battles that would never be fought, and being the butt of rude jokes made by Jiraqis who were finally in control of their country and their oil.
Best of all, Lance and Lara were reunited over a wonderful Saltimbocca dinner; and Lara adored the locket that Lance had given to her. Wilby finished his novel, and reviewers praised it as being worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. You might wonder whether the tapes were ever published, but please do not ask storytellers to tell you all their secrets. Wilby and The Shade were to have many other adventures together, sometimes joined by Lara when she wasn’t giving Tango lessons to disadvantaged youth in the D. C. inner city. Should you, kind reader, desire to hear more about these further episodes, perhaps you will.
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