40) Saturday, 15th 6:30 pm – “Do We Hurt Anybody?”
Three separate fires could be seen from Vern Cooth’s
office atop the FCC operations building as he chowed-down on the crow Yunis was
serving up, pretending that he savored it.
“I told you,”
Vern dissembled, “Lockett’s a leftover from that goddam Gobelman…”
“Well,” the
Chairman said, “aren’t you able to control your people…”
Vern decided to punt.
“That’s why I brought Kristi on board, but clearing the deck so early
on… that’s risky. Especially Lockett,
affirmative action, you know…”
“That’s an excuse
as don’t fly,” said Yunis. “Michael
Powell… our former Chairman Powell… he knew how to play ball…”
“Commissioners
and managers aren’t civil service,” Cooth hung in
there. “You and I, we got no protection…
unless, you know, if Homeland Security could find cause. A smoking gun…”
“You mean a smoking terrorist?
We’re still looking through those pictures and filtering through about
ten billion telephone conversations. OK
Vern, this thing’s bipartisan now,” he smiled, nodding at the President who’d
finally succeeded in getting the voluble ex-Senator off the line. “We can work
with the new administration when they… uh, with any administration, come what
may… and they can work with us. Hoping,
of course, that the other party’s moderates and looneytunes
keep fighting each other for the next four years and we keep shoving crazier
and crazier Supes onto the new Senate Chairman’s plate until they start crying
out for a deal. We just have to get over this hump…”
“Hump?” the First
Spouse raised an eyebrow as Yunis, too, hung up.
“Figure of
speech. The little people use it… hump
day, Wednesday, more than halfway through the week… it’s not anything
sexual, if that’s what you’re worried about…”
And as the First
Daughter rolled her eyes, the President muttered, “Well, that was something…”
“Was it?” said
the Goose.
“You know I’ve despised Ray Werbele
for years, going all the way back to when he was in the Senate and his pal, the
Governor was giving me grief about a golf course. But, in this instance, I believe the old
Neanderthal has a point,” the Vice-President added, “…told me about this game
“Think I remember
that game…” Fred Faubourg chuckled.
“Coach was so
humiliated that he ordered his defense to chop block their All-American running
back; that All-American never got drafted, ‘cause they busted his leg. So Ray tells me we can make our point, or
make enemies.” Turning to Beavis, the
second-in-command of the free world ordered:
“Set the man up for five minutes with the networks at nine… no, make it
ten, tonight.”
“Do we hurt anybody?” replied the media-savvy President…
“Some cop show
reruns, SUV something,” Butt-Head scoffed.
“SVU, idiot,” the
Presidential Spouse corrected him, her Wyoming accent more pronounced than
usual as she glared at Yunis, Faubourg and Gomez. “Hey, I watch a lot of television, now… SVU
Memphis…”
“Right, and CSI
something,” Butt-Head dithered on, “…Albuquerque? Colorado Springs? Oh, and that all night NFL superbowl preview…”
Before the
President’s better-half could stop Butt-Head from reeling off more programs
that wound their way into the Lincoln Bedroom, the President raised a hand.
“Fine. I’m pushing the transition back to Monday at
“Not technically,
but…”
His placid
objection was overrun by Faubourg’s rage.
“Goddam it, you’re showing weakness.
We had a deal… well, the government had a deal and that’s legally
binding…”
“Fred, it’s a win-win
situation, the President explained. “We
can cut some sort of deal with the NFL lawyers on that concussion thing; I’ve
got riots out there, people getting killed… I gotta
throw the uh… you know, those people
a bone. You’ve already got your
publicity and money, today was the
big sales day, you said…”
“That don’t matter.”
Faubourg arose, as if to storm out or throw something… something
preferably old, and valuable. “Those
jerks hear they can still watch the game, the ones waitin’
until the last moment, they won’t show tomorrow. Our community is gonna
remember this, next time your people come ‘round with their tin cup…”
“I hear you,”
said the President, in a tone which clearly implied resolution, given that he
had no real need for the retailers’ money, or anybody’s. To the two Eminences, POTUS added: “Make this happen…”
¾ ¾ ¾
Uncle Raoul parked his Lincoln a dozen blocks from Grape Street,
walking hurriedly through menacing shadows of twilight, a battered hat hiding
his face from the enraged converter customers he imagined to be closing in on
him from all sides. He’d shaved his
beard off, but to no effect… down the block from Feargal’s…
an angry drunk called out…
“Hey yo, Raoul… gotta talk to you…”
Who was the fuck…
Ivan? Ike? He quickened his step while, down on the
corner, another man answered…
“That th’ motherfucker Raoul, took my money?
And Ike… or Ivan…
cried out, again…
“Hey… Raoul…”
He crossed the
street at a trot, ghosting down an alley into the next block… his pursuers were
in no condition to give chase, but seeing lights going on and hearing his name
being called, he backtracked, making a wide circle of the block. Of course they’d know where he was going,
but… would they remember? The curb was full of analog and unmodulated
digital televisions, more than a few charred ordinary Hi-Defs
and miles of snakelike cables, along with the rest of the garbage for Monday’s
pickup that wouldn’t happen for another week due to the ongoing D.C. budgetary
crisis that had eighty-sixed substitute pickups for Presidents’ Day… he looked
over a few that seemed to have been put out recently enough not to be damaged
by rain, hoisted the likeliest of these, and loped off, turning a corner at
Grape Street.
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
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