American Fascist

by Malcom James

  ***

  A knock came at Eli’s door. It was Ken Miller. Eli was surprised he wasn’t traveling with the president to the Ohio rally.

  “He wanted to make sure this went off without a hitch,” Ken answered as he stood in Eli’s apartment doorway. “May I?” he asked as he let himself into the room without waiting for the answer.

  Ken surveyed the apartment with his cold eyes. Eli knew he was an ex-cop, and had also seen the videos of Ken physically removing — and in two cases beating on — protesters at Franks’ rallies; he was not to be messed with, which is exactly why Franks kept him around, even with all the protection he now had as president. Ken was his personal muscle.

  Eli broke the tension by offering him a beer, but Ken declined. He was all business. They gathered up the boxes and began carrying them to Ken’s black Cadillac sedan parked downstairs. It only took two trips, then Eli locked up his place and they were off.

  Mack Martins had been right — the guards knew Ken’s car better than anyone’s, and they waived him through after scanning Eli’s badge. Ken was constantly coming and going on tasks for the president, not the least of which were the late-night McDonald’s or KFC runs, and the guards knew not to bother him, or they would be quickly re-assigned to a national monument parking lot.

  The decorators and drape hangers and carpet-layers had created a huge mess in the Oval and the surrounding hallways, and there was no Secret Service to be found once they entered the West Wing. Ken gave Eli a new badge with an orange and black color-coded bar that indicated he now had access all the way into the Oval Office area. That surprised him but it made sense, as he would be personally maintaining the system.

  Martins met them in his office down the hall from the Oval and then walked them to the president’s study, and Eli got to work setting up the servers in a lockable credenza to the side of the president’s gold-trimmed Lay-Z-Boy lounge chair.

  Like everything else he was surrounded by, the president’s lounge was full of history. It was decorated with classic black and white photos of FDR, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan and George H.W. Bush relaxing, reading the paper, and even smoking and watching the news in the lounge over the decades. And now he was in the same room, setting up a taping system for the Oval Office. He had to block all that out, or the sense that he was somehow messing with history would overtake him. He reminded himself he was there for a reason.

  The setup was relatively quick, and the servers didn’t need network access, so he didn’t need to worry about them appearing on the White House network and raising a red flag with the IT guys; it was intentionally designed as a closed system, accessible only from the terminal in the president’s lounge. The only hiccup came when he discovered there was no hole in the back of the credenza to run the power cables through. Ken disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with a power drill and a six-inch hole saw attachment, and drilled out a hole in less than a minute.

  Once the two servers, one main and one backup, were set up and running, just a power cord and a keyboard and mouse cable and a monitor cable came through the hole to the desk. Once the credenza was locked, the system was inaccessible unless via the terminal or by breaking the double locks on the burled walnut slider.

  Eli, Martins and Ken took a break around lunch, each heading off on their own, and agreed to meet back at 6 p.m. when the re-decoration was due to be finished and the Secret Service sweep completed.

  By 7 p.m. that night, the Oval looked brand new and spotless and the sweep had been performed. The three of them installed the hidden wireless microphones in key spots around the room, and then it was time to test. They called Reemus and Walter to assist.

  Eli sat in the lounge at the terminal with the recording software running, monitoring the audio in his headphones, while Martins sat behind the Resolute Desk, playing Franks, and even went so far as to put his feet up on it. Ken Miller sat across from him, as any visitor might, while Reemus and Walter sat on the couches in the seating area over the huge gold-trimmed Presidential Seal emblazoned on the rug, snacking on Franks’ favorite Cheeze-Its from a bowl on the coffee table.

  “Somebody get me the Attorney General!” yelled Martins from the president’s desk — the signal nearly blew Eli’s ears off in the next room, and he lowered the levels.

  Ken Miller piped up in a fake Southern accent, doing his best impression of former Louisiana Senator Shelby Butler, Franks’ nominee for A.G. who had just been confirmed — “sir, I told you, there is no way to stop these niggers from protestin’, unless we designate them as Domestic Identity Terrorists! Then we can shoot and ask questions later!” he yelled back, and laughter filled the room.

  “What about all the kikes and dykes on the left? Can we shoot them too?” Martins replied as if he were Franks.

  “Sir, I would advise that we round ‘em all up with the towel heads and the retards and faggots and put ‘em somewhere we can keep an eye on ‘em, like some kinda welfare work camp,” came a deep voice from the seating area, and Eli shuddered when he realized it was Walter’s voice.

  “Why the fuck do we let these people even vote, Shelby?” asked Martins as if he were Franks.

  “We’re working on that sir, every day, believe you me,” Ken Miller answered in his Southern drawl, and they all laughed.

  The banter went back and forth like that, and the sound quality was beyond crystal clear from every part of the room. Eli was stunned. He’d never heard any of them speak that way. But he was in the inner circle now. Was this how it really was? Or was it all a horribly tasteless joke?

  His body was cold, a feeling of physical illness overcoming him as they continued on, until he couldn’t take it any more and pulled off his headphones and walked into the Oval, a pale look on his face, and he simply said “We’re good, guys. We’re totally good.”

  They all stood up and there was a round of backslapping and congratulations.

  “When POTUS gets back tomorrow, you’ll need to set him up with the log-in,” Martins told Eli.

  Eli nodded, and Ken Miller approached him and put out his hand as if he was expecting something. Eli looked at him, puzzled.

  “The keys,” Ken said.

  “Of course,” Eli replied and reached into his pocket and handed Ken the keys to the credenza.

  “When you need to check it, you come to me,” Ken said. Martins offered to take them all for a drink, and they all agreed, except Eli, who claimed he had a date with a “Russian hooker at the Franks Hotel.”

  They all laughed, and Eli was relieved that he had apparently thrown them off his trail. He didn’t have a date. His plan was to go home and drink himself to sleep.

  ***

  While Eli was putting himself down for the night, Mack Martins and Ken Miller ate at the bar of a nearby D.C. steak house. Walter and Reemus joined for one drink, then took off for prior commitments.

  “You trust this kid?” Ken Miller asked Martins.

  “He handled some of the most sensitive data on the campaign, and the president likes him. You know better than I do how much he trusts his gut,” Martins answered.

  “I was at his place. Typical young tech guy. But I can’t get a read on him, and that bothers me. We need to make sure he stays loyal.”

  “Agreed,” was all Martins said as he sipped his cabernet.

  “I’ll put someone on him for a bit,” Ken said, cutting into his filet.

  ***

  Early the following morning, with no orders or logical next steps, and with a slight hangover but no bad dreams, Eli decided to do something for himself and get in a proper run. After a cup of coffee and a quick check of his phone and official email inbox, which was empty, he headed out for several miles across the city.

  It was sunny and cool, and nearly perfect. Instead of his usual run along the National Mall, toward the White House, and then back to his neighborhood, he decided to run east toward the U.S. Capitol, then south along the Anacostia
River.

  The city was busy, and all signs of the inauguration and the accompanying parades and riots and marches had been swept away. It was back to business. Congress was in session, and the new Administration was getting its footing. If you didn’t read the paper and just read the signs on the street, everything was as it always was: cops were giving parking tickets; young couples were walking babies and dogs and grabbing breakfast in hipster coffee shops; trucks were double-parked in the street delivering everything from fresh croissants and newspapers to Amazon groceries.

  As he jogged toward the Navy Yard neighborhood, Eli noticed how many newly-converted lofts had opened, even since joining the campaign in the summer. The housing market in D.C. was booming, along with the stock market, and some of the wealthiest suburbs in the nation surrounded the city. But just like every other major U.S. metropolis, if you ran along the outskirts of the quickly-gentrifying urban warehouse districts that sat just outside the centers of power and finance, you could find a large homeless population. As he ran along the river, he came across an encampment under a bridge that had hundreds of tents, where people had set up a semi-permanent city-within-a-city. Smoke was rising from small fires.

  People pushed shopping carts loaded with their meager belongings, or dragged boxes, or simply slept on benches along the river. He came to one corner near the underpass that was piled with couches and mattresses and other pieces of discarded furniture, like a barrier set up in a war-torn city in some post-apocalyptic Hollywood film. In the distance across the river, gleaming new buildings of brick and glass were going up, surrounded by cranes; another business park full of defense contractors and lobbyists and consultants.

  He was about to cross an empty street when he noticed a large, mangy dog on the next corner, staring back at him. It was a good time to turn right and head back north. The dog watched him as he jogged away, as if it had warded off some interloper it instinctively knew didn’t belong.

  As he turned toward home, he couldn’t help but recall the discussion he overheard in the Oval the day before; the blatant racism, sexism, and homophobia. If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny, not in a bar in the middle of nowhere, and certainly not in the Oval Office. There was an intense anger building in him, not only at the president and his team, but also at himself for being a part of it. He didn’t know where to put the anger, or how to direct it; but he had the sense as he ran through the city that something, anything, had to be done.

  ***

  Eli was in his cubicle that morning just before 9 a.m. The news had just broke: National Security Advisor Lt. Gen. Jim Dearborn had tendered his resignation, and President Franks had accepted. It was a friendly form of firing, and a huge development that was sending shockwaves through the country. His resignation letter stated his reason for resigning as being that he had “inadvertently briefed the vice president with incomplete information.”

  Eli was reading all this when his cell rang. He answered.

  “Can you come down to my office?” asked Martins.

  “On my way,” Eli answered, and the call was ended by the time the last word left his mouth.

  ***

  Eli rushed over to the West Wing, and once he re-cleared security his new badge allowed him, unescorted, all the way to Mack Martins’ office, just down the hall from the Oval. Martins then walked him down the hall, and Eli stood outside the door to the Oval, while Martins went in.

  There was a small crowd in the Oval Office, and the president was behind his desk, in a tie but no jacket, talking on the phone, his back to the room as he looked out a window, while several groups stood nearby, including Reemus and Stevens talking under their breath, and on the opposite side was Alexa Franks, the president’s daughter, and her husband Bradley Carter, both now senior advisors to the president.

  Eli couldn’t help but stare through the doorway at Alexa; she was quite the striking figure at nearly six feet in her stilettos, with a long mane of platinum blond hair. Her husband was even taller and thinner and more pale, if that was possible. They were a perfect match for each other. Behind Alexa and Bradley, he spotted Natalie, scanning something on her phone and whispering to Michelle Banks, the deputy press secretary. The tension in the room was palpable, and Eli assumed it was due to the firing of Dearborn and the ensuing media storm.

  The president swung around in his chair, and yelled into his phone “well I don’t give a damn, Bill, if your people print another piece of lying shit like that I will personally see that the FCC pulls every one of your licenses and you’ll be ruined. Ruined!” he screamed, then slammed down the phone.

  The outburst caught everyone by surprise, and all talking ceased. Franks smiled a giant, Cheshire cat grin.

  “They only understand strength, nothing else,” he said. “Where the hell is Ken? I could eat a horse.”

  Just then Ken Miller appeared with an armful of McDonald’s bags. “Right here, Mr. President,” Ken nearly shouted, and he brought the bags to the Resolute Desk and sat them down. Everyone watched, frozen in place.

  “Well it’s about time, I was worried they would be cold,” Franks replied. He dug into one of the bags and pulled out a breakfast sandwich as Mack Martins swung around the desk and whispered in his ear. Franks looked up.

  “He’s here? Where is he?” he asked and scanned the room, and then he found Eli, standing in the shadow of the doorway.

  “Eli, get over here!” he boomed. The entire room watched as Eli calmly walked over. He wasn’t sure if he should salute, or what. He stood a few feet away from the desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Eli said firmly.

  “Everyone here know Eli? Chief data scientist? I call him ‘The Kid’ now. You’re The Kid, Eli,” he said from behind the desk.

  “You want an Egg McMuffin?” he continued.

  “No thank you sir, I had breakfast earlier.”

  President Franks stood up and grabbed one of the unopened bags.

  “Come on, we have to take care of some tech stuff,” the president said, and he swung around his desk and grabbed Eli by the arm, and guided him out toward his lounge, Eli in one hand and the McDonald’s bag in the other. The entire room, including Natalie Roth from the far door, watched the two of them leave. Franks guided him into his lounge and closed the door.

  “Have a seat,” the president said, as he pointed to a chair next to the terminal that Eli had set up. Eli sat. Franks sat the McDonald’s bag down and reached in and pulled out another sandwich.

  “Sausage McMuffin with Egg,” he said as he read the wrapper. He then showed it to Eli. “You know you want it,” he added. Eli decided it would be good if he did. He took the sandwich.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said. Franks sat down in the chair in front of the terminal as he unwrapped another breakfast sandwich and chomped into it, talking with his mouth full. “Show me what we got here,” he said.

  Over the next few minutes, they ate their sandwiches while Eli walked him through the log in and had Franks create a password while Eli looked away. He then showed him how to operate the recording software. Eli had always heard Franks was a technophobe, and thought that was the case when he set up his phone, and so he was surprised at how adept he was, at least on a basic level.

  Franks understood how to find the dates of the audio files that were already being recorded non-stop, and how to re-sort the stack by date, and play a file. Franks pulled up the recording of the last few minutes and played it for a test. It was him, yelling into the phone at “Bill” and then yelling for Ken. He loved hearing the sound of his own voice.

  “Brilliant, Kid, you’re a genius!” he barked, as he finished off his sausage McMuffin and opened the bag to find another. “We should set some cameras up in the Lincoln Bedroom, then we could really have some fun, right?” he said, laughing as he chewed. Eli wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “I’d love to get the pretty boy Prime Minster of Canada in there banging his wife. Then w
e’d have some leverage on NAFTA, am I right?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Have you ever checked out the Queen of Spain, what’s her name? Wow, what a looker. For an older woman, you understand, but a looker. Like Grace Kelly, a true star,” he said.

  Eli could only nod as he finished his muffin.

  “Hey, how about our social media gal Natalie? Have you seen those legs? Christ. She’s a spinner. Have you gotten on that yet?” he asked, and he turned to Eli and suddenly looked dead serious. He was no longer joking, and really wanted to know, like they were guys in a high school locker room competing over a cheerleader they both had a shot at.

  “No, not yet, sir,” Eli replied.

  “I can set you up, don’t worry. You’re single, right? Not that it matters,” he added.

  “Yes sir, I am.”

  “Good, have some fun while you’re young. Once you get hitched they’ll try and lock your cock down, not that it ever stopped me, but hey, have some fun, right?” Franks stood up and patted him on the arm and grabbed the McDonald’s bag. Eli started to pick up the wrappers.

  “Leave ‘em, the help will clean it up,” Franks said, and he turned and walked out. Eli followed him back toward the Oval, and as he entered the Oval, five people including Alexa rushed up to the president, and he was gone from Eli’s orbit.

  Mack Martins’ hand was on Eli’s shoulder, and he whispered in his ear.

  “All good?”

  “All good,” Eli confirmed, and Martins guided him out.

  10

  Tate

  Eli needed air. He went for his favorite walk around the White House complex, taking in the sunshine that had intensified since his morning run by the river. He couldn’t stop thinking about the sheer unbelievable fact that he had just eaten McDonald’s with the president, while they sat around a secret taping system and talked about banging world leaders and office staff.

  Despite how much he now abhorred him, he had to admit, Franks had a bizarre, almost gravitational pull. It began with his physical presence, which was intimidating. Between his height and girth and hair, and the power suit, and orange skin, and impossibly white teeth, he could fill a space and you could not ignore him.