Point Counterpoint

by Fiona Wilde

  She was rewarded with an icy glare and looked down so he wouldn't see her victorious little smirk. Brad Chadwick had been born Hal Chatworth, legally changing his name at the age of 22

  when he discovered that the abusive alcoholic man he'd always assumed to be his father was not his father at all.

  His pain had been compounded when his mother confessed that she could put candidates for his paternity at no less than five men, three of which were in prison. It had been and admission he'd been force to make and explain in his first book, Values Under Fire, after a left wing Web site had unearthed his personal records and splashed them all over the Internet four years earlier. At the time, Chadwick had been enjoying success as a conservative talk show host in L.A. and had even been on the cover of Newsweek, which called him one of the "up-and-coming conservatives to watch."

  The revelation had cooled his career and made him the laughingstock of the left wing. The stress had reportedly led to a divorce from his wife, and while he had overcome the drama to find the fame he was predicted to achieve, it was common knowledge that the topic was still a sore point for him. Jill knew that it was probably beneath her to stoop to such tactics, but at the same time she wanted Chadwick to know if he was willing to stoop, so was she.

  "I think she has a point," said Eric Longtree.

  "What do you mean she has a point?" Chadwick snapped. "It's not a stage name. I changed my name before I even went in radio."

  The producer looked momentarily stunned. "I wasn't talking about your name," he said. "I was talking about her opinion on the lead-ins. You should alternate. For balance."

  Jill enjoyed the look of discomfort on her co-host's face. Bonus.

  "Yeah, sure," he said. "What do I care? Give her more face time." He paused and for a moment it seemed as if Chadwick might follow the comment with another insult, but he stopped, obviously reluctant to stir her up again. Jill felt a rush of satisfaction. He saw her as an able adversary. Double bonus.

  "So who's our first lucky guest?" asked Jill, changing the subject.

  Eric Longtree handed her a sheet. "The former Rep. Lester Hillman of Idaho. He started something a homeless shelter called The Fold that offers food, clothing and a bed to any disadvantaged person who accepts Christ.

  "So if you're a Buddhist or a Hindu or an atheist the only way you'll get shelter from this guy is to make a false confession of faith," said Jill. "How charitable."

  "It's his own private shelter," countered Chadwick. "It's no different than a restaurant. They can set their own rules, like no shirt, no shoes, no service. If you want to eat there, you dress appropriately."

  "That's the lamest comparison I've ever heard," said Jill with an indignant laugh. "People going to a restaurant have a of going to another establishment. A homeless person in a snowstorm doesn't have that luxury. 'No shirt, no shoes no service' is not the same as 'no Jesus, no service.'

  Chadwick started to counter, but Eric Longtree put up his hands.

  "Whoa, whoa, you two," he said. "I appreciate your passion but let's save it for the debate, shall we? My point was to let you know who the guest is going to be, not have you two jump the gun and give each other a preview of the points you are going to make."

  "Like I need them," said Chadwick. "She's a liberal, Eric. I'll be able to predict her arguments before she makes them."

  Jill said nothing, and enjoyed the way he looked at her in expectation of an answer. Instead she tucked the short bio on Hillman into her briefcase. "You're right, Eric," she said, ignoring her co-host as a parent might ignore an attention-seeking child. She vowed to dig up everything and anything she could on Hillman and his shelter on the former Congressman and is charity. Then she'd show Brad Chadwick just how unpredictable she could be.

  Part II

  Although Jill was provided with a personal assistant - to help with research, Shale said - she didn't yet trust ANN administration enough to let her help with research. The girl, named Tina, seemed nice enough but had just the sort of Fembot qualities that made it easy for her Jill to imagine her running straight to Chadwick with a preview of her arguments.

  It made her feel silly to be so suspicious, or to suspect a fellow female of working for the opposition. But hadn't the feminist studies taught her that the it was often women assisting men who undermined progress? It had, and that notion led her to the philosophy that when in doubt, there was one person she should trust. One woman. Herself.

  So while Jill did her own research she sent Tina to dig up tax and property records on Hillman. She kept at it most of the day, interviewing acquaintances and contacts who led her to tips about Hillman's gambling habit. Further digging revealed that The Fold was the target of a probe for fiscal mismanagement.

  "I got those tax records," Tina said later, breezing back into the office. "And I brought you coffee. Double cream and Splenda, just as you like it."

  Jill took the cup and smiled. "Thanks," she said. "You must be a mind-reader. I never told you how I liked my coffee."

  "Oh..." Tina looked flustered. "I guess somebody else did."

  Jill tapped her pencil on the desk thoughtfully.

  "When you see them again tell them I appreciate how they took such careful notice of my likes and dislikes. And thanks for the tax records. I'm pretty sure the irregularities I suspect are going to make for an argument that will blow Brad Chadwick right out of the water."

  Part III

  "Welcome to Loggerheads. I'm Brad Chadwick and this is my co-host, Jill Parmele. Good evening Jill!"

  Jill looked into the camera and smiled her most winning smile. "Good evening, to you Brad and good evening America."

  "Tonight's topic is women, specifically liberal women. Just who do they think they are?" Brad Chadwick delivered the line with a laugh returned by a live audience.

  Jill looked down at her notes. What was going on? They weren't supposed to be discussing feminism. They were supposed to be discussing Hillman. And where did the audience come from? No one had never mentioned a studio audience. She looked out into darkness beyond the camera but could see nothing beyond the glow of recording equipment.

  "Jill? Jill? I asked you a question!" Chadwick's voice was angry, demanding.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you," she replied. "You aren't --she held up the paper. You aren't following the script. Why aren't you following the script?"

  Chadwick groaned. "Isn't that just like a liberal chick? She acts tough and decisive on the outside but inside she still needs someone to tell her what to do!"

  The unseen audience erupted in whoops and yells of agreement.

  "Now you just wait a minute." Jill felt her face grow hot with anger. "I do not need someone to tell me what to do. We worked on show prep together - both of us - and now you think you can just change everything without telling me?"

  Chadwick leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head, a sarcastic grin on his face. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "And if you don't like it, why don't you tell me and the audience what a little thing like you is going to do about it."

  "Instead why don't I tell you what I'm not going to do. I'm not going to engage in a debate with you until you are prepared to talk about the topic we discussed!" She shook the paper at him. "It's Hillman, remember?"

  Chadwick sat forward in his chair. "Come on, now, Jill. Do you think these people care about watching us debate Hillman or anything else? What did I tell you they wanted?"

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  "Don't tell me you've forgotten it already! Remember, our first meeting? I told you that our audience just considered our arguing foreplay in preparation for the big final act. Remember, where I spank you?"

  It was all Jill could do to keep from flushing again. Instead, she forced herself to keep her voice level and composed. "And just how are we supposed to treat the audience to this metaphorical spanking you think you'll be able to deliver without first having the debate?"

  Chadwick stood and walked over t
o her chair. Before Jill could react, her six-foot-four-inch co-host had pulled her chair away from the table and was hauling her by her arm back over to his seat. Sitting down, he turned the chair towards the audience and looked up at Jill with a grin.

  "Who said it was metaphorical, baby?"

  "What --!" The word was the only one Jill was able to deliver before she found herself face down over Brad Chadwick's strong lap.

  "Let go of me! I demand you let go of me!" she screamed.

  "What do you think, America? Should I let her go?" The question was delivered in a jocular tone.

  "No!" came the resounding reply.

  Jill her herself squeal as Brad Chadwick's strong hand impacted with a loud smack across the seat of her form-fitting skirt. The pain suffused her bottom with a hot, burning heat.

  "I demand you let me up!" she cried, kicking hard. "You have no right!"

  "I have every right," he countered. "In fact, I'd say I have a downright responsibility to set an example for every man out there who's had to put up with some mouthy little know-it-all feminist." He looked out at the audience. "Guys, this one's for you!"

  He began to rein blow after blow across her bottom then. Jill twisted and writhed, using all her strength in the vain attempt to dislodge herself from her co-host's iron grip.

  "Help me!" she screamed, and realized with horror that there were tears running down her face.

  "I demand somebody stop this brute! Mr. Shale! Where are you!"

  "Over here, toots." The spanking mercifully paused and Jill raised her head to see Bill Shale standing off to the side, a cigar in his hand. His fat face was split with a grin.

  "Thank, God!" she cried. "I insist you make this man stop at once! I did not sign up for this and you know it!"

  "Don't be naive, little girl," Shale replied. "Any liberal woman with half a brain would know that coming on an ANN program is just asking for punishment." He smirked. "Of course, that's what liberal women have, right folks? Half a brain?"

  Everyone was laughing now - Shale at his own joke, the producers, the stage hands, the audience, and Chadwick. The only one who wasn't laughing was Jill. She was crying in earnest now as Chadwick resumed the spanking, alternating buttocks with blows that seemed to increase in intensity.

  "Skin, skin, skin!" The audience began to chant.

  "Aw come on, now." Chadwick asked, this time without pausing the spanking. "What did poor little Jill Parmele do to deserve a bare-bottom spanking?"

  "She's a liberal!" the audience shrieked in unison.

  "Reason enough!" Chadwick agreed and felt the hem of her skirt being raised.

  "No! Oh God, please don't do this! Oh please, please, not on live TV. You can't! You just can't!"

  Brad Chadwick's large hand was roaming across the surface of her bottom now, alternately rubbing and squeezing the punished cheeks.

  "What do you say, folks?" He hooked his finger in the waistband of her underwear. "Are you ready for these panties to come down?

  Cries of "Hell, yeah!" were heard through the affirming cheers of the unseen spectators.

  "No!" wailed Jill. "Please don't! Please stop."

  Brad Chadwick leaned over. "Stop begging. It won't do you any good, baby. Besides, we both know this is just what you've always wanted!"

  Now he was talking to the cameraman. "Bring that camera over here, for a close-up," he said. Jill heard the camera rolling, its metallic frame clanking across the stage as Chadwick proceeded with the indignity of pulling her panties down.

  With a sob of despair she buried her face in Chadwick's pant leg, closing her eyes against the impending continuation of her punishment as the camera got closer and closer and closer.

  She gasped and suddenly everything was bright. From somewhere far away the metallic clanging continued. Sitting up in her bed, Jill looked towards her window. Outside, the garbage truck was rolling down the street. In front of each house the metal arms on the back clanked as they hoisted and dumped bins of refuse into the back.

  A dream. It had been a dream. She threw herself back on her pillows, to find that she was still breathing hard and tears dampened her face. Usually after a traumatic nightmare, waking up brought relief - a chance to separate subconscious wanderings from reality. But not now. The dream had been so real, and his Brad Chadwick's words still clung to her. "We both know this is just what you've always wanted."

  Jill flung the covers off and rushed to the bathroom, where she started the shower. Quickly she shed her pajamas and underwear, noting with horror that the crotch of her panties was damp with evidence of her desire.

  Climbing into the shower stall, she turned her face up to the spray, allowing it to wash away the tears. But more quickly followed.

  "Why me?" she thought. "Why do I have to be like this? Haven't I been good? Haven't I worked to change this? Haven't I worked to stop these desires from surfacing?"

  She had, and yet while she slept her psyche betrayed her and acted out her darkest psycho-sexual needs. Jill pounded the side of the shower wall and sobbed, for she knew that dreams were just the manifestations of things desired but not attained in real life.

  She picked up the bath sponge and rubbed it over her body, especially between her legs, as if she could scrub the remnants of the dream away.

  After her shower, Jill tried to put the dream out of her mind over breakfast. She toasted a bagel and spread it with a blend of chevre and basil, eating slowly between sips of hot tea. As she ate, she went over her notes on Hillman in preparation for the first episode of Loggerheads.

  It seemed especially unfair that she'd had the dream on the very morning of the day the show was supposed to air. The thought of seeing Brad Chadwick after having such an intimate - albeit - subconscious interlude made it unnerving. She wondered if the dream was an omen. She didn't trust Chadwick, Shale, the producers or anyone else at ANN. Ironically, one of her liberal friends had even made a comment eerily similar to the one Shale had made in her dream. What had he said? Jill searched her mind until she remembered.

  She'd been at a conference on global warming when Ed Bates, an environmentalist friend, had caught up with her and asked her if she'd like to get together after the last workshop of the day. It had been years since they'd seen each other, and over dinner they'd caught up on what had been going on in their respective lives. Ed shared with her about his recent engagement and his trip to Belize. She told him about a potential co-hosting opportunity on an upcoming political debate show.

  "That's great!" he's exclaimed. "What network?"

  "ANN," she'd said, trying to keep the hesitation out of her voice.

  "You've got to be kidding, Jill." Ed had said, putting his fork down and reaching for his glass of imported beer. He took a huge swig and sat back staring at her in silence. "ANN is the most unapologetically conservative mouthpiece in television history. They don't even try to hide their bias. Why on earth would you go there?"

  Jill had shrugged. "To make a difference," she said. "What is it they say, keep your friends close but your enemies closer."

  Ed drained the rest of his glass and put it on the table. "Keeping an enemy close is one thing. Joining the enemy camp is another."

  Jill frowned. "I'm not joining them," she said defensively. "I haven't even got the job yet, Ed. But if I do it won't change my philosophy or loyalties. It'll just give me a way to work from within to change the minds of the very people who refuse to embrace anything but conservative group think."

  Ed shook his head. "I can see your point," he said. "But take some advice from an old friend. Watch your back. Don't trust anyone there. They've built a reputation on the idea that liberals are evil people who deserve to be punished. Don't assume that just because you work there they'll treat you any differently."

  Now, on the cusp of her first appearance as co-host of Loggerheads, the words rang loud in her ears, words triggered by a dream. It helped Jill to think of the dream as not a messenger of desire, but a harbinger of warning. So
she focused on the warning.

  "Be careful," she said aloud. "Be careful, Jill."

  Chapter Three

  Part I

  "Are you nervous?" Tina asked.

  Jill glanced up at her assistant. It was less than fifteen minutes before she as due to be on set and she hoped to spend the time going over her notes. Without interruption.

  "No," she said. "I'm not nervous. Not at all. I've done this before. Remember?"

  "Yeah, but this is a much bigger audience than you had before. And your last show failed. All those people are going to be watching you, waiting for you to screw up. And then of course, debating someone as popular as Brad..."

  Jill snapped her file shut. "Gee, Tina. Thanks for the discouragement."

  Tina stopped, her face all wide-eyed innocence. "Oh, no, I'm not trying to discourage you. Honest. I was just telling you how I'd feel if I were you."

  Jill stood and walked to the door. She stopped in front of Tina. "Of course you were," she said and turned to walk down the hall.

  Perhaps Tina wasn't a mole. Perhaps she was just one of those people with the gift for perpetual annoyance. Regardless, Jill made a mental note to inform Shale that he was replacing the girl with an assistant of her own choosing. Jill smiled. She'd even have Tina deliver the envelope containing the letter herself.

  Studio H of the American News Network was a massive place full of state of the art equipment and several sets. Besides Loggerheads, ANN's early show Wake up, America was filmed there. So were the Noon News Hour and Bench Watch, the network's court program the alternated between excoriating left-leaning judicial decisions and following celebrity trials.

  She was pleased that the Loggerheads set, which was designed before she was selected as co-host, was more elegant and tasteful than the others. There was no giant American flag banner as a backdrop, no giant screen flashing three-dimensional graphics. It was just an elevated round table on a dais with three chairs - two for the co-hosts and one for the guest. The backdrop was a dark blue, with the show's title and a screen only used for video link-ups or lead-in reports. The set was nothing like the one in her dream and it comforted Jill to look around the studio and see only those working on the production. No audience.