by Steve Israel
Eyes misted and heads nodded.
In the next two minutes and fifty-five seconds, Billy Bedford Forrest’s fund-raising pitch for Jack Steele’s campaign managed to include, among other phrases, liberal maggots, Constitution-shredding goons, jihadists, Jews, vegan scum, suck my Glock, fat feminist bitches, Lois Liebowitz, Barack Hussein Obama, anti-gun puppet masters, and tree-humper environmentalists. Not exactly a March of Dimes telethon appeal.
Then he said one more thing.
“I’m headin’ to Asabogue to personally campaign for Jack. Gonna bang on some doors and lick some envelopes. And maybe bang and lick some other things while I’m there. Anyway, I hope to see ya’ll in Asabogue. Bring your own guns.”
President Henry Piper slumped his head and muttered, “Dear God.”
In Chicago, Mayor Michael Rodriguez watched the proceedings on CSPAN, picked up the phone, and ordered his assistant to get him a flight to Asabogue, “wherever the fuck that is.”
America had received an open house invitation to Asabogue. It would be open season.
26
In Washington, egos and libidos are naturally swollen. Exposed to certain influences—for example, press clippings that include the phrase “presidential contender”—they inflame grotesquely. It was in this euphoric state that Congressman Roy Dirkey met Sunny McCarthy for dinner a few nights before the August congressional recess. His delusions of grandeur alternated between sitting in the Oval Office in two years and seeing Sunny naked that night.
Sunny McCarthy was an expert at managing congressional libidos. There was a thin line between persuasion and seduction. It was a tricky business, requiring constant calibration and sufficient encouragement to keep a congressman engaged but not engorged. But she felt Roy lowering her resistance with gentle cranks of homespun charm and glimmers of naïveté settling under her skin and making it tingle. So, on the issue of sleeping with him that night, she was, in congressional jargon, firmly undecided. Roy, on the other hand, was quite firm.
They met at Vincenzo in Georgetown. It was Sunny’s favorite restaurant, because it was miles from Capitol Hill and too expensive for most Members of Congress. Plus, Mario, the doting and obsequious maître d’, knew her name, her wine preferences, and, telepathically, when to present the check to end an unpleasant date. Candles at each table cast the room in a moody flicker. Black-tie waiters glided efficiently through the room and patrons held themselves to a civilized murmur. Roy arrived in his pre-presidential off-the-rack suit and presidential red-striped tie. Sensitive to her last appearance with him, Sunny McCarthy upgraded from disheveled to de la Renta: sleek gray pencil skirt and clingy white silk blouse.
After ordering, Sunny immediately sensed that Roy was distracted. First, he skipped thanking Jesus for the overpriced meal they were about to receive. Second, his dark eyes shifted constantly over her shoulders, as if seeking signs of recognition: the excited pointing of fingers and dropping of jaws over a real live presidential candidate. If anyone noticed, they didn’t seem to care. Here, presidential candidates were a dime a dozen. Or, this year, a dime a dozen and a half.
Mario poured a Bordeaux. There was a businesslike clink of crystal. Sunny sipped. Roy slurped. Then, with feigned casualness, he asked, “You hear the news?”
“I did! Exciting! I never thought I’d live to see Congress pass the reauthorization of the Export-Import Bank.”
Roy grinned, revealing that sliver of space between his teeth. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He clasped his hands, leaned forward, and said, “Lots of chatter about me running for president.”
“Oh, that.” Sunny smiled politely.
“So, what do you think?”
“Roy. I—”
“There’s a real groundswell out there.”
“The thing is—”
“Of course, if I do run, I won’t be able to sponsor AFFFA.” Sunny raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“If I’m running for president, that bill could be a problem. Got to appeal to the soccer-mom vote.”
“If by that you mean the Armed Soccer Moms of America, Cogsworth Charities funds them. Besides—”
“Got to cut to the center, Sunny. Win moderate voters in battleground states.”
“You may be getting ahead of yourself, there, Congressman.” He shrugged. “Introducing AFFFA made sense when I was thinking of running for governor. But the dynamic’s changed.” “The . . . dynamic?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
Mario slid dinner plates on the table, his eyes glued on Sunny, who stared incredulously at Roy. “You made a commitment, Congressman,” she said icily.
“Just need some tactical flexibility is all.”
Sunny McCarthy swallowed the remainder of her wine without taking her eyes off Roy. Tactical flexibility? That’s my line. Oh. My. God. I almost fell for it. He’s no hick, he’s a huckster. Like all the rest. Willing to throw me under a bus fueled with his own burning ambition. Well, fasten your seat belt, buddy. I’m taking the wheel.
She leaned forward. “Want some advice?”
“Shoot.”
“That groundswell of support for your presidential campaign? You’re looking at her.”
Sunny noticed a slight furrowing of Roy’s brows. Something between worry and confusion. Good.
“Not only did I see the news about you running for president. I planted it.”
“I don’t get it,” Roy stammered.
“You were an anonymous freshman congressman who happened to be sponsoring AFFFA. One: I had to get the media to take you seriously. Two: I had to put some pressure on the president to support the bill. So I leaked a bullshit poll about you, which got a ton of press, which got all the other candidates juiced up about AFFFA, which pushed the president further into a box. That groundswell is a tactic, Congressman. Cheers.” She tipped her now-empty wineglass.
Roy’s determined jaw seemed to unhinge. “You used me?”
Sunny giggled. “C’mon, Congressman Dirkey, spare me the Pine Bluff bluff. You’ve been around the block. In fact, you had a Constitution strapped against your not so bleeding heart.”
Roy seemed frozen.
“So congratulations. You’ve made it to the major leagues. As one professional cynic to another: enjoy the presidential ride, because it’s a short-term rental. Just long enough to pass AFFFA and get it to Piper’s desk in September. Then back to plan A: Arkansas. I might even come to your inauguration in . . . what’s the capital of Arkansas?”
“Little Rock,” Roy mumbled.
“Sounds lovely.”
Sunny watched Roy’s cold eyes narrowing on her, and the slight twitching of his temples. She sensed Mario hovering protectively nearby. She wondered if she’d gone too far. Playing with fiery egos often created a backdraft. Roy could storm out, drop AFFFA. No, she thought, he’s too smart for that. And ambitious. He needs that bill. We need each other.
Finally, Roy said, “Did it work? The tactic?”
“You were at that dinner. Every presidential candidate was gushing about AFFFA. It could have been a Rose Garden bill signing. Piper has nowhere to go. Now he has to support it. That bill’s about to become law. And you’re about to become governor. If you don’t screw it up.”
Roy mulled this over for a few moments, slowly nodding his head. Then he said, “So . . . I guess we’re a good team.”
“In the most brutal game on earth. Politics. More wine?”
“Careful. Last time I saw you drink, it didn’t work out too well.”
Now Sunny froze. Touché, she thought.
“Been thinking a lot about that night,” Roy continued. “Coulda been a good team in that little guesthouse.”
“Timing is everything, Congressman. That night was just bad timing.”
“How about tonight? Or are you going to destroy my presidency and my fantasy at the same time?”
Out of nowhere Mario deposited a check in front of Sunny.
Sunny smiled. “Let’s get AFFFA passed
. Then we’ll have a team celebration.”
It was a commitment. With some flexibility.
27
In 1863 two armies—one Union, the other Confederate—stumbled on a largely unknown town in Pennsylvania where one thing led to another and that other thing led to something else and the whole thing became the Battle of Gettysburg. That’s pretty much how the Battle of Asabogue erupted: the convergence of opposing armies and an accidental bumping of shoulders, in this instance, over a Morning Glory muffin at Joan’s Main Street Bakery.
The armies that converged on Asabogue that August would change it forever. There was the pro-Steele army: a collection of gun defenders, militiamen, and biker gangs; hunters and recreational shooters; armed opponents of the IRS and Bureau of Land Management; and a handful of Obamacare combatants, like Japanese soldiers emerging from caves years after World War II. At the invitation of Billy Bedford Forrest, they deployed to a town they’d never heard of—this new beachhead against the left wing’s march on their Constitution, their homes, and their guns. They arrived heavily armed, waving above their heads their assault weapons, rifles, shotguns, and pistols, as well as their brass knuckles and military knives. They were dressed to kill, girded for battle in tactical boots and vests, concealed carry jackets and fatigue pants. They carried American flags, DON’T TREAD ON ME flags, and the flag of Bundyville, Nevada, whose board of supervisors had just passed a resolution to secede from the Union over a dispute involving grazing rights for cows. They arrived in pickup trucks, flatbeds, and 4x4s with gun racks. They called themselves the We the People Army.
The other army carried oak tag and Sharpies and was armed with indignation and noses elevated at the sophistry of their opponents. They looked like a field trip from an adult education class on social activism. They were “silkscreen liberals,” displaying their allegiance to world peace, animal rights, and alternative dispute resolution on designer T-shirts. They arrived in minivans equipped with Wi-Fi, child seats, and bike racks. Ironically, they were also called the We the People Army. However, in a couple dozen conference calls preceding their arrival, the word army was debated as overly aggressive and off message. So they became the We the People Coalition of Peace for All Americans Working Hard to Get Ahead if That’s What They Want, We Don’t Judge. They never had a chance.
There was a third army—the army of media that rumbled through Asabogue in caravans of TV network satellite trucks. They deployed makeup artists, engineers, producers, and production assistants. They pitched tents on Veterans Park and broadcast live reports with Village Hall as a backdrop. The more they reported from Asabogue, the more Americans rushed to Asabogue. They rose from the sidelines to the front line in America’s culture war. They engaged in the great battle of the time: the campaign between Jack Steele and Lois Liebowitz, which, as Chris Matthews said on camera, “isn’t a local election, it is defining who we are as a nation.” And when you’re defining who we are as a nation, you can expect emotions to flare. Elbows to fly. Even over a Morning Glory muffin.
Guarding the door of Village Hall, hands on hips and feet spread wide, Chief Ryan realized that his police force of four men and three driveble cars might not be able to keep the peace in this tinderbox. So he called the Suffolk County Police Department for reinforcements and soon another fleet of vehicles rumbled in, blue and red lights swirling.
All of this to the mocking squawks of seagulls on the beach.
The Riverhead Holiday Inn Express had filled up quickly. So the armies began quartering in the village’s tiny homes and summer cottages. Vera Butane was first to rent her modest Cape Cod to a CNN news crew for ten grand a month (plus a security deposit, which Vera would have waived if it were from a different network, say, the Food Channel). Then the Wickhams rented their place for fifteen grand. When Claudia and Theodore Brady sold out for twenty thousand, a new war erupted—over real estate. Money flowed in and natives temporarily moved out. And with a new population came new demands. The old wooden floor at the Wick & Whim groaned under the shuffling feet of strangers aimlessly shopping for supplies and knickknacks. Veterans Park was now moonscaped—trampled under the crush of boots, portable stages, tent posts, and klieg lights. Long lines snaked out of Joan’s, which was selling out of its Morning Glory muffins like, well, hot cakes.
The invasion had claimed another feature of Asabogue: its middle ground. You were either with Jack or with Lois; pro-freedom or pro-safety. Loyalties were plastered on bumpers and pinned to lapels. Lawn signs sprouted everywhere. Campaign money from across America flooded the village, like waves breaking on the beach. Asabogue found itself awash with Jack Steele pens and Lois Liebowitz potholders. Televisions glowed day and night with gray grainy images of Jack and Lois. Against the din of protestors and the press, you could hear the constant shrill ringing of phones in every home in the village—phone bank canvassers asking voters who they were for and who they were against, reminding them to vote, exhorting and cajoling. The phones rang ceaselessly, drowning out the old Presbyterian church bell when it clanged on the hour. Streets teemed with volunteers knocking on doors and handing out literature, eyeing each other angrily across demilitarized zones established on each block. Volunteers pleaded their cases in alien accents from the Midwest and Deep South and places faraway from Asabogue.
*
Mayor Michael Rodriguez arrived in mid-August with three burly Chicago Police officers, two pretty staffers, and a gaggle of reporters covering his nascent presidential campaign. He was there to endorse his fellow mayor for reelection. And since he was in the neighborhood anyway, he figured he’d sample some Hamptons restaurants, get in some beach time, and rub elbows in order to shake loose some campaign contributions.
Aaaah, the sacrifices one endures for a noble cause.
His retinue walked on crowded Main Street, Rodriguez assuming the gait of a politician desperate to be recognized: neck craned, eyes sweeping, face set in a self-important clench. But the crowd was so thick and self-absorbed they didn’t realize that the author of the Chicago Compact was walking right under their noses, and at five feet four inches, quite literally.
They reached Village Hall.
“This it?” the mayor asked, his foot tapping against a chipped brick walkway. No high school marching band, no bunting, no key to the city?
The door swung open and Lois Liebowitz emerged, arms outstretched, Sam Gergala and Chief Ryan lagging behind her. She greeted him for the prearranged photo op and they assumed their positions behind a rickety podium cluttered with microphones. His Honor endorsed Her Honor with some heartfelt talking points. They gripped and grinned, then executed a fumbling thumbs-up for the cameras. After a final handshake, Rodriguez turned to leave. But Lois wasn’t finished. She pulled him back and began asking questions about the Chicago Compact—as if the politician who conceived of and announced it had any idea of its specifics. Rodriguez resumed his foot thumping, only now heavier and more rapid. An aide interceded, urgently reminding him of “that important meeting in Chicago,” which required him to leave Asabogue forthwith. Reluctantly, or so it appeared, he left Village Hall with a final wave of his arms and returned home, but not before wrangling a coveted table at the famous Nick & Toni’s in East Hampton, followed by being honored at a five thousand per person fund-raiser at the summer rental of a Chicago hedge fund executive.
*
The day after the “Meeting of the Mayors” (as the Asabogue Bugle called it), Ralph sat in his basement, reflecting on the transformation of his hometown. He was calling it the “Asabogue Armageddon”: the gathering of armies in a cosmic battle that would consume his village in flood and fire.
Ralph was never happier.
For weeks he’d wore a satisfied smile across those voluminous cheeks. He felt vindicated. In fact, he felt like renting a plane and skywriting I TOLD YOU SO!!!!! over the village. Not that he was thrilled about the Islamex invasion, or all those Jews and jihadists pushing their way around town. But for a guy who’d been univer
sally mocked for his paranoia, validation was some consolation to the end of times.
Ralph had been monitoring events from his windowless basement, which he renamed “the Bunker.” Maps of Long Island were taped to walls and splayed across Mrs. Kellogg’s laundry appliances. Mrs. Kellogg had foraged provisions from every convenience store between Asabogue and Montauk. Steel shelves were crammed with a survivalist’s buffet: junk food, crackers, canned fruit, and beer. There were aluminum packets of freeze-dried meals and meals ready-to-eat. A locked cabinet—only Ralph had the key—contained a tattered box of pre-owned Yugoslavian gas masks, a tangle of two-way radios, and, hidden at the back, one biochemical personal protection suit, extra large, which was reserved for Ralph. On a rickety coffee table sat an English-Arabic translation guide (just in case) and mood lighting from Sterno emergency candles.
There was also enough firepower to defend the village. Guns of every shape, caliber, and gauge. Handguns, shotguns, rifles. Sawed off and modified. Automatic and semiautomatic. Uzis, AR-15s, M16s, AK-47s. Colts, Magnums, Glocks. Grenades and grenade launchers. And hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, including armor-piercing bullets. All delivered in the past few months by an increasingly nervous UPS driver, who figured that when Ralph Kellogg went deer hunting, he really meant business.
The latest rumor involved various federal agencies deploying to Asabogue to “monitor events.” This was a clear act of aggression by Washington, or the United Nations, which Ralph believed was actually running things. Soon shiny-badged bureaucrats would be snooping around town. He imagined the FBI, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, even the CIA poking their noses where they didn’t belong, like Village Hall, where they might learn of certain favors that Ralph bestowed on his friends. Or the local bank, where Ralph collected generous kickbacks for such favors. (Gunrunning wasn’t a cheap proposition, after all.) They’d issue search warrants, question neighbors, knock on doors, kick in the doors, then set the place ablaze. Like they did in Ruby Ridge. And Waco.
