Head of State
Laurie Parres
Copyright © 2012 Laurie Parres
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Head of State
So here's what will happen in 2020, as presaged by Wikipedia: The entire country of New Zealand will be smoke-free. India will put a man on the moon. Cars will drive themselves and Volvos will be crash-proof, so…it gets better, Lindsay Lohan. Some people will be thinking with artificial brain cells, breathing with artificial lungs and processing their alcohol with artificial kidneys. Seriously, Lindsay, hang in there. Medical science expects to have identified the causes of all diseases. Cool shit is on the way. In fact, fast-forward to:
2020. Glimpsing it from the tea room at The Washington Golf and Country Club, the first thing you'll notice is that rich old socialites still have 1990 toilet plunger boobs. The near future looks like now, but slightly off in a way that's hard to pinpoint -- like driving in Canada. The waiters aren't zipping around on Segway shoes and the Presidential campaign poster over the fireplace isn't a large-format, ultra-thin, frameless LCD. It's a vinyl banner promoting The Bull Moose Party Presidential ticket:
2020 is the first Bull Moose election in over a hundred years. Teddy Roosevelt got the party started in the summer of 1912 when he walked out on the Republican National Convention and announced a more socially-progressive platform with himself as a third Presidential candidate. The Bull Moose name came just two weeks before the election. Teddy was on his way to a campaign appearance, got shot in the chest, and went on to give his full 90-minute speech. He assured everyone, "It takes more than that to kill a bull moose." TR was badass.
Jack Freeken is not badass. He's not even badass-adjacent. But he was one of the people to revive Bull Moose at a time when America was hungry for a third party, so he's their Presidential nominee. Their VP nominee, Parker Medicine Hat has blonde hair and blue eyes and goes through sunscreen by the gallon. Parker will tell you he's exactly who he's always hoped to be, since being cured of his gayness. Their campaign manager, Ben Levitt, at 32, isn't yet what he hopes to be and therefore doesn't fully respect himself. But, then, Ben doesn't respect his candidates, either. And he so wants to.
Ben scans the first row: it's a bunch of beefy women with big hands. "Good, I've got my heavy clappers up front. Where are my screamers?" He spots them; these women look nuts. "Perfect." He surveys the other guests, who are almost exclusively rich, white ladies. "It's too much to ask of this crowd, but an angry feminist would make my day." He notices the middle-aged couple in front of them and says to the husband, "Sir, you're blocking the camera. Do you mind standing over there?" The man goes and his wife starts to follow, but Ben holds up a hand. "Ma'am, you're good. In fact, you've got the best view."
Parker is impressed. "I like you, Ben. You really care about the cause."
And Ben is just tired enough to need this, even from a cocky wacko like Parker. Ben says,"My parents campaigned for Goldwater."
Parker looks unabashedly blank.
"Father of the Modern Conservative Movement? I grew up hearing how religion has no place in public policy, that we can be strong without being aggressive, that it's pointless to argue whether a law is needed if it's not Constitutionally permissible. That's what the Republican Party was. That's what our party can be."
Parker's pupils are like spinning beach balls, he's trying that hard to process. He gives up and responds with the one thing he knows for sure, "Faith can move mountains. It cured my gayness."
The Presidential candidate's wife, Cricket Freeken, rushes over. She's got the intelligence and drive of Condoleeza Rice with the big-haired beauty of Miss Texas. Which is good because Ambassador Jolie-Pitt hasn't made things easier for smart girls with wide hips. Ben stands ready for Cricket with an iced tea, a seamless part of their routine. She takes a discreet gargle, gives the glass back and reapplies her lipstick. "Sorry. It's harder 'de-stressing' the Senator when he's actually stressed." She blots her lips together, then steps to the podium and smiles at the crowd. "Good afternoon! It's great to be here, especially with November just around the corner!" She's off and running, the perfect political spouse.
Ben goes to put Cricket's glass on a nearby tray, but hits the edge, dumping iced tea on the wife who'd offered to move. He rushes to help her. "I'm so sorry. I think I only got your sweater." He brushes at it, making it worse. "That's… yeah, that's not the answer. Take it off, we'll get you something dry." He beckons to a news crew guy in a Levi's jacket. "Could we borrow your coat?"
Cricket has the rest of the rapt. "People ask, 'Cricket, aren't you discouraged? Your husband is behind, the Obamas have had a 12-year lock on the White House and Michelle is poised for re-election. The economy is booming, the new energy grid is self-supporting, our health care system is the envy of the world and taxes are down.' To them I say, "Do you really want Big Government?!"
The women clap prettily and enthusiastically.
"Republicans accuse us of splitting the white, conservative vote. And they say George P. Bush will have 'the little brown ones' turning up by the truckful. So what makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning? My husband, Jack Freeken!"
More clapping. On this wave, Presidential candidate Jack Freeken enters the room.
Ben clocks Jack's entrance, finishes tidying up the woman and steps back to survey the results. He tells her, "That jacket makes you look ten pounds thinner. Which is a start." He grimaces conspiratorially. The woman's face falls.
Ben ducks back over to Parker, who's been watching. Parker says, "Woops!"
Ben doesn't bother pointing out that he just engineered them their angry feminist, but there she is on camera, now standing without her husband, wearing a men's denim jacket and a scowl.
Cricket announces, "The future President of the United States, Jack Freeken!"
Jack takes the stage. His lips graze Cricket's cheek in a perfunctory kiss as he moves past her to the podium.
"Thanks very much." He looks down at the women, "sees" them for the first time and does a double take. "Hang on -- I was told you ladies were old enough to vote!"
Ben scans the rows of Botoxed faces. A woman with forehead lines sticks out. Especially when she raises her gun. Suddenly everything slows to a surreal blur. In slow-motion, Ben dives for Freeken, but a shot rings out. Freeken is hit and drops instantly. Ben flies past him and crashes to the ground, his world imploding.
Ten minutes later, a stunned Ben is in the back of a limo, staring at TV coverage of the horrific event he just experienced. It plays on the glass panel that separates him from the driver.
75-year-old Diane Sawyer reports, as gorgeous as ever. "There's no update on the Senator's condition, but a witness at the country club just Tweeted, 'everyone's trying to leave, the valet is retarded.'" Diane's t-shirt has changing sponsors, from Huggies to Tampax to Depends. 1/2 of the screen is her, the rest is celebrity news, sports and ads. The Dow is at 28,470. Sawyer continues, "The ambulance speeding the Senator to the hospital has Firestone tires, which offer superior performance, fewer punctures and longer life."
Ben pulls out his iPhone and says clearly, for voice recognition, "Call Richard Miller." The phone dials and Diane's image is squeezed aside as Richard Miller appears on screen.
Richard Miller is the elder statesman who turned the mass defection of Republicans into a viable third party. He was motivated by opportunity, not principle. He's less of a Richard and more of a Dick. He sits in the paneled study of his McLean, Virginia home, watching Diane Sawyer on a massive LCD. She's suddenly squeezed to the left as Ben's image appears onscreen. Richard sits up, "Ben, how
are you?"
"Cut the bullshit, Richard, I know you're behind this. It's got your fingerprints all over it."
Richard shifts slightly, "Did the FBI say that?"
"Everyone knows Democrats don't like guns. The gun nuts, the KKK, they come to our party."
Richard holds up his hand, hang on, "Kennedy, Lincoln, they're our most beloved Presidents. After the attempt on Reagan, his approval was 73%."
"Because he lived to be President."
"See? People love a good 'come from behind' story."
"You just shot your own candidate!"
"That little dog who walked from Pensacola to Bayonne got a thousand write-in votes."
The Houston Medical Center is one place where the near future looks even cooler than expected. When you stand in the dead center -- coincidentally, this
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