THE DEEPEST STATE
DEDICATION
This is dedicated to Paulette Rosemarie Lowe-Willis (1951-2015), my beloved mother who taught me how to read, write, laugh, joke, and appreciate life. Everything good I do, it is thanks to her. The other stuff is me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Thanks to everyone on Twitter who liked, shared, and encouraged the original version of this story. You’re all sick in the head and I love you for it.
The Deepest State by Oliver Willis
Published by Oliver Willis, Takoma Park, MD
www.OliverWillis.com
@owillis
© 2018 Oliver Willis
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Enter The Bidenverse
“These goddamn computers are bullshit,” Biden growled, trying to enter his password on the laptop, and failing for the third time.
He sat on the porch of his Delaware home next to Dr. Jill Biden, who had heard it all before.
“You need to be more gentle,” she reminded him, refusing to look up from her tablet as he raged out.
A vein appeared on Biden’s forehead, throbbing in time to his increased heart rate.
The retirement was not sitting well with him. He hated the quiet. The contemplation. No more Senate wheeling and dealing, no more Vice-Presidential jawboning and back-patting.
Sure, he loved the hell out of his beautiful wife. Loved it when the grandkids came over and he got to roll around in the dirt with them, but his bones ached for the glory days.
As the website asked him to remember his first car, Biden’s mind wandered back in time.
His hair was darker. Thicker at the temples.
He had less of a paunch, and while he never had a six-pack, the young buck that Jilly fell in love with was no slouch either.
It was 1987, the Senate was in recess, and Biden was knee deep in the jungle muck. Reagan was in the White House, the Boss was on the radio and Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. was doing right by America.
The night before he had parachuted into the Amazon, marking the landing zone with a beacon he’d return to in a few days.
Now he was outside the compound, watching and listening.
The men inside were rough. The worst of the worst. They weren’t residents, but instead a scruffy band of right-wing milita brothers who had formed a consortium to take their own piece of the drug trade.
Biden adjusted the tie on his shirt and flexed his bare muscles.
He liked to dress up even when the sweltering, damp, rainforest felt like it would overwhelm him. Years in the Senate – 14 years by this point – had made it a habit. The knot of the tie kept him grounded, centered, reminding him why he was wherever he happened to be at the moment.
A radio crackled inside the ramshackle wooden building on the outer perimeter. The voice was German. Biden recognized the accent. East Germany. He’d been there, under deep cover. He hoped someday soon the wall would fall.
The voice on the other end was relaying drop dates, planned shipments of raw materials for drugs. Those drugs would soon be on American streets.
Biden silently prayed to himself that sooner or later his crime bill would go from pipe dream to law.
He focused back on the present.
He wasn’t here for drugs. This mission was personal.
The guard fell as Biden shot two bullets into his spine. The silencer reduced the noise to a soft “thwip” as the body fell to the floor. Biden put his hand over the man’s mouth and stared at his wedding ring as he let nature take it’s course.
He was in.
Biden hid underneath a shadowy overhang as he stepped along the camp’s perimeter.
He ducked down as he walked past an open fire and the seven men huddled around it. They were all beefy, thick, racists out for a quick buck.
“Head in the game,” he thought to himself. He had to focus. Not here for the drugs. But he’d deal with them soon.
There, in the warehouse near the middle of the camp. Biden ran over, taking care to keep his feet low to the ground to avoid making any noise. He’d learned a lot at the Academy, where he had been taught all the techniques to kill a man, and to save a man’s life.
He pulled himself up to the window and peered in.
The room was dark, with one soft sliver of light that came from the crack in the door hinge.
It was enough.
In the dark, he saw the thick, black hair. The same hair that had testified before Congress in an attempt to stop the Vietnam War, the same hair he saw on the Senate floor, his comrade-in-arms who voted with him.
Kerry.
John Kerry was tied to the chair. His face was red from beatings. Biden knew Kerry hadn’t given up any information on the agency. He would rather die than do that.
But the gang would still try. And when they grew tired of his refusal to squeal, they would kill him.
Biden wouldn’t let it happen. He was going to save his friend, not as repayment for what happened in Greece, but because it was the right thing to do.
The door creaked slightly as Biden used his device to melt down the lock, reminding himself to buy a fruit basket for those scientist boys and gals who came up with his never-ending supply of gizmos. He didn’t have a damned clue how the devices worked, but he knew that most importantly – they did work.
He quickly put a hand on Kerry’s shoulder to stir him.
“John, John, God love ya, it’s Joe.”
Kerry groaned in response, his face swollen from the attacks he had faced.
“God damn, John. Those sons of bitches. Can you walk?”
Kerry slowly nodded his head as Biden loosened his restraints.
Kerry rose from the seat, and Biden slipped his arm underneath his comrade’s to steady him.
“I’m getting you the fuck out of here,” Biden whispered.
“Good show,” Kerry replied, flashing his toothy grin in his friend’s direction.
The pair shuffled across the floor, Kerry wincing with each step as the pain shot through his long legs.
Biden wanted to get out of here, quick, but Kerry was in no condition to hustle.
They were outside and moving toward the camp entrance when Biden suddenly pulled Kerry to him, pushing him up against the wall.
He leaned in to his ear.
“Stay,” he commanded.
Kerry slumped against the wall, feeling a combination of tension about the moment but also happy to give his body a rest.
Biden reached to his holster and pulled out his handgun. The pearl handle had “Malarkey” etched into it, a souvenir of the Vancouver operation.
He had planted an old twig near the open flame site and had been listening out for its particular sound as a thick East German boot stepped on it. Years ago, Biden had learned the art of Wood Listening from a Native American tribesman who had learned the same technique through family lore and oral tradition.
It would probably save his life on this day.
“Mein gott!” He heard the men yell as they discovered the open door, and he could hear them running in his direction.
Biden raised Malarkey.
One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Four shots.
The men fell, each bullet landing squarely in the center of their skulls.
Biden had come in second in the agency’s marksmanship competition for the last seven years. He was a
good number two.
Three more left.
Biden grabbed Kerry, leaning his friend against him while trying to take as much of the load off his weary legs as possible.
“Let’s bug out, John.”
“Capital idea, friend.”
Bullets whizzed past their ears as the thugs fired after them. The shots were wild and errant, as the men were unnerved by the accuracy of Biden’s precision shots.
Still they ran after the Senatorial pair, hoping to kill them before they escaped into the dense woods.
The three thugs ran into the clearing and stopped.
Kerry and Biden were gone.
There was no sign of them running off into the distance, and as they swept the area left and right with their guns, they couldn’t see anything.
“What the hell?” Asked one, in Russian-accented English.
“Fuck,” responded another, with a German accent.
What sounded like jungle background noise quickly rose above the still forest.
A loud, whistling noise.
The arrow crushed against the Russian’s chest, and went right through him. John Kerry stood next to the tree he had been standing to just moments ago, thankful for his wiry frame and the camouflage lessons he had studiously taken notes through.
The two remaining thugs began to yell but had little time to complete their reverie of terror.
Below them, the jungle mud stirred, and Biden reached out with his calloused hands to grab them by their thighs. He pulled them down, relying on shock and his muscle strength to get them off balance.
As they fell to the ground, he rose from the shallow crevice he had scooped out before entering the camp, thankful that despite his injuries, Kerry’s bow skills remained as efficient as ever.
He squeezed two more shots with Malarkey, ending the threat.
“You’re a damned animal,” Kerry yelled, holding his injured sides as he laughed.
Biden pulled on his aviators and laughed. You don’t let friends down, he thought.
“This damned machine is a letdown,” he told Jill, even after he had followed her advice and patiently entered his password.
Jill just shook her head. She knew storm clouds were building on the horizon, and despite his complaints, Biden would be called on to go into the field again. She just wanted him to enjoy his downtime, the quiet moments of reflection that were too short and too few in his long life of service.
Finally, the game loaded.
“Biden’s going on a Candy Crush!” he announced to anyone within earshot.
THE END
The Deepest State
by Oliver Willis
WASHINGTON, DC – STEVE BANNON RESIDENCE
“I’m sorry Steve. But the big boss said it’s either him or you. And we can’t drop him.”
“So now I’m—”
“A total cuck”
“Total?”
“Total. Cuck to the core.”
A single tear slid down Steve Bannon’s face, streaking the pockmarks on his chin, resting between his two layers of shirts,
WASHINGTON, DC – THE WHITE HOUSE
“Did you do it?”
“Yes, Mr. President”
“Did he cry?”
“Like a choking dog, sir”
“Good. Good. Now, where am I again?”
“The White House, sir.”
“Can I have pie?”
“All the pie in the world you want sir.
Donald thought to himself: “I like pie a whole lot, I sure do.”
WASHINGTON, DC – THE OBAMA RESIDENCE
“Sir, we just got word.”
“Bannon?”
“Yeah. He got cucked.”
“Another agent exposed, boss.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got more. Let me be clear: I always have more.”
“Hail hydra, sir.”
“Hail hydra, indeed.”
Obama looked at his board and slid a pawn off the surface.
“Always more.”
WASHINGTON, DC – THE NAVAL OBSERVATORY
Pence stared at his desk, imagining himself anywhere else but here. There was a knot in his stomach. A sense that at any moment the powder keg could explode. The phone rang. He picked it up.
“You’re clear, for now.”
“Understood.”
His hand shook as he hung up the phone.
“How did I get here?” Pence asked himself.
For God’s sake, this was supposed to be a few months on the trail. Some laughs. Now he was deep cover. Nodding along with this idiot. And Obama had him completely compromised. But Mother couldn’t know his secret. Never.
Mother knew. She had always known. But she had to play the long game, watching all the boys scurry around like they were the masters of the universe. Mother simply bided her time.
She hated his white hair, though.
WASHINGTON, DC – THE OBAMA RESIDENCE
Michelle Obama rolled her eyes, watching Barack move his chess pieces around. “I love you, but you don’t even know.” She pulled out her cell phone.
“Situation continues - MO”
“Understood. Everybody gets a car. Everybody. -O”
DELAWARE – THE BIDEN RESIDENCE
“This is bullshit, Jilly. A pile of bullshit,” Biden yelled, punching the cold slab of beef that hung from the ceiling in the freezer.
Jill had seen him like this before. Lean. Hungry. Eager. He didn’t like being caged like this.
“You have to wait.”
“God damn it Jilly.”
UTAH – ROMNEY RESIDENCE
“You’ve got to be joking,” Mitt said, admiring his chin in the mirror. It was a great chin.
“No,” his son replied.
Mitt wasn’t sure which son. But he loved him anyway.
“Bannon, out. Just like the rest.”
“Sweet Jehoshaphat, my boy.”
WASHINGTON, DC – US CAPITOL
McConnell stood in the dark corner of Ryan’s office, running his thin, bony fingers up and down his arms.
“Aren’t you cold? Come into the light,” Ryan offered.
“I like it here,” he replied, “Where I thrive. Dark forces align against us.”
“The Dems.”
“Indeed, my boy.”
CHAPPAQUA, NY – CLINTON RESIDENCE
Bill Clinton walked into the living room, a glass of wine in his left hand, a tablet in the right. He looked over his glasses at Hillary, furiously typing on her keyboard.
“Tweeting?”
“Yes.”
“The game is afoot then.”
“As always. As always.”
WASHINGTON, DC – KUSHNER/TRUMP RESIDENCE
“You have something on your face, Jared.” Ivanka reached over with a napkin, rubbing the rough surface against his soft face until it was red.
“I hate how sloppy an eater you are.”
“Sorry sweetheart.”
“Eat like Daddy does, God damn it.”
WASHINGTON, DC – NAVAL OBSERVATORY
“Mother. I have to confess. I had impure thoughts yesterday at 3:15 and at about 6 right before I left the office.”
Pence stood in silence, waiting for what always came after the daily report.
Her small hand created a loud crack as it slapped against his jowls.
“Yes, Mother.”
WASHINGTON, DC – OBAMA RESIDENCE
Barack held Michelle’s hand, his fingers intertwined with hers.
“Do you ever miss it?”
“Some days. Not many,” she replied.
She felt guilty. She never lied to him like this. But this was bigger than her, him, and everything before.
Oprah had made her swear a blood oath.
RUSSIA – THE KREMLIN
“Play it again,” Vladimir said.
Yuri sighed to himself. Why couldn’t Putin operate the damned DVD player himself. You can run Russia but can’t master Sony?
He pressed play.
The room filled again with the sound of Trump’s voice. Yuri hated this recording.
Vladimir loved it.
CALIFORNIA – THE OPRAH ESTATE
Oprah held the jade skull in the palm of her hand, idly shifting it left and right as she often did while lounging in her “thought cabana.”
This had to be precise. It couldn’t be haphazard or an afterthought.
“Lightning quick execution, the Harpo way,” she thought.
WASHINGTON, DC – THE WHITE HOUSE
“What if I just left?”
“You can’t just leave Mr. President, millions are relying on you”
“But they’re fucking idiots in trucker hats. Ivanka said so.”
“They love you, sir.”
Trump felt trapped, caged, terrified.
Melania allowed a small grin to emerge. She loved his pain.
SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE
“This way.”
The German pointed toward the narrow stone path between the bushes.
John Kerry pulled at the ends of his coat. The wind blew, intensely.
He hadn’t been this excited in years, not since the protest days. It was astonishing what was being done.
DELAWARE – BIDEN RESIDENCE
Biden tried to contain his rage. He steadied his hand as he snipped at the edges of the bonsai tree. Jill had purchased it, hoping he would use it to channel his excess energy.
So far, it had been hit or miss.
He missed it. The crowds. Barack. The fight.
“It hurts.”
WASHINGTON, DC – MNUCHIN RESIDENCE
Steve Mnuchin rubbed the stack of hundred-dollar bills across the neck of his wife, Louise Linton. She giggled and fondled her brand-new Prada clutch.
“Do you think poors are ever this happy?”
“No, my love. Some of them, perhaps when they dream. But then they wake up.”
WASHINGTON, DC – US CAPITOL
McConnell rose.
He moved across the floor of his Senate office, his bones making a slight hiss with each step. The bowl was full. His staffers were good boys and girls, always doing as told.
He put it to his lips, and the liquid burned its way down his throat.
“Good.”
SOMEWHERE
Bannon wept.
WASHINGTON, DC – US CAPITOL
The Deepest State Page 1
