Blood

And then he had proceeded to tear down all America's social safety nets, declaring that anything not earned through hard work was worth having. He'd increased law enforcement's presence on the streets to unheard of levels, telling the people that under a Carpenter administration people would feel free to walk the streets of their neighborhoods once again. He systematically tore apart the Constitution, and with a friendly Congress, not to mention a placid Supreme Court, he established Christianity as the Official State Religion. He opened his arms to all immigrants, yet had only this to tell each new arrival: "You are welcome here," he cried, "so long long as you embrace America. You will convert to Christianity, you and your children will speak English, and you will not band together in the enclaves of your old worlds and lives..."

And he had been as good as his word, too.

When the first secret mosques were found, worshippers and their families were rounded up and taken to air force bases and flown to Mecca, their assets and belongings distributed to churches within days, and neighbors looked on in shocked awe as bulldozers demolished each new mosque. Wealthy Jews stood aside and watched again in horror as their synagogues and temples were razed; non-mainstream Christian denominations fared no better, and they too watched in meek silence as their places of worship disappeared.

The original Mexican wall was fortified; it's height was increased to forty feet after one man successfully pole-vaulted the original structure, and soon minefields buttressed the approaches to the wall, making it impossible for future pole-vaulters to make the attempt. When machine gun emplacements were -- finally, at last! --added, the nasty hordes of rapists slowly stopped making the attempt. Dejected pole vaulters from as far away as Peru turned and walked south again.

Children of illegal immigrants born in the United States were rounded up with their parents and transported en masse to France, a fate most found worse than death. Operating a Taco Truck was turned into a first degree felony, while Taco Bell restaurants around the country were either bulldozed -- or hastily renamed Bubba's Bronco Burgers.

When signs of rebellion began to appear, primarily in urban, minority communities, Carpenter sent brigades of regular troops in to the cities to deal with them, and he sent them in with orders to sweep aside rioters with force, lethal force if necessary. When several thousand were killed in the Compton and South Central riots, not one single voice of opposition was heard anywhere in the land.

In fact, just the opposite occurred.

Raised fists were seen everywhere in torchlight, followed by roars of triumph in this new night, while shouts of "Carpenter! Carpenter! Straight talk -- not double talk!" were heard all across the land. Mass book burnings took place and, in an homage to Pleasantville (and perhaps to all things Tobey Maguire), tight pink sweaters were banned from high schools all around the country.

"Mr President?"

"Hmm, what's that?"

"We'll be landing in ten minutes, sir."

"Fine, fine..."

"Could I get you anything?"

"Maybe a mineral water, slice of lime. Better make it a big one, Carol."

"Yes, Mr President."

And then the most devastating thing in the world happened.

She'd gotten sick, and his world had started to come apart. Imogen, his very own Lady MacBeth, the woman who'd been by his side since college, struck down in just a few months...and the love of his life had simply -- and finally -- slipped from his grasp. She'd been his soulmate, his conscience, the woman who urged restraint when the impulse to lash-out was most overwhelming -- yet in a curious way her passing had come to him as an emancipation of sorts -- at least for a time. He no longer felt constrained when so-called allies crossed him, or when certain politicians interfered with his plans.

The first time that had happened, just a few weeks after her death, when Senator Pauling objected to his use of the military in Compton, well, the senator's airplane had been in a little accident, hadn't it? Kind of like when Tower and Heinz crossed Reagan over Iran-Contra, he sighed. And he'd even attended the Senator's funeral -- tacky, he supposed, but necessary. He'd glowered at the man's casket, then smiled as the man's scorched body was lowered into the earth -- and those assembled knew then not to ever cross this president -- and everyone knew too that Bob Haldeman had finally met his match.

Yet now, with reports of domestic terrorist cells growing in number by the day, he was sending squads into the ghettos, rooting all the vermin out of their underground nests, sending them to hastily prepared camps in northern Alaska -- and letting them freeze to death, or so the last vestiges of the evil press reported.

Because something else had happened with Imogen's passing. The press had seen him as some kind of monster before -- but now? No, now he was the stoic, faithful leader, carrying on under the most adverse conditions imaginable, but with the roaring admiration duly noted after the Compton riots, reporters were now, suddenly and completely on his side! The whole country was on his side, wasn't it? Ah, the sympathy vote!

And Imogen?

Well, she was with him again too, and all the time now, telling him what was coming next. Talking to him, advising which people were loyal to him, and pointing out those who might be plotting behind his back. She'd come to him in the night at first, whispering in his ear, then as suddenly she'd been with him all the time again, by his side counseling him as though nothing had changed. She had defeated death to remain by his side! What couldn't they accomplish together, working side by side like this?

And she saw other things, too. She saw the future. She'd tell him about things that were going to happen later that day, or even a few days ahead -- and she'd been correct, every time! At first he'd been nervous about her reappearance, unsure of her presence -- let alone her motives -- but he had embraced her return soon enough and she became his most trusted and indispensable counsel. Again.

Yet last night she had disappeared. Without a word, gone, leaving no trace of her ever having been by his side. But then, who could say what her reasons were?

Yet had she ever, really, been there? And as questions like these mounted in the hours after her second passing he'd begun to doubt himself, to doubt his own sanity. And then there was...

Carol the flight attendant returned with his water and he looked up at her. "How are you doing, Carol? How's Elizabeth?"

Carol had been on Air Force One for seventeen years, was almost an institution in and of herself by now, and for some reason everyone doted on her.

And in time he'd been no exception.

Though, oddly enough, she'd been the one to offer him the most comfort after Imogen passed. Very comforting, indeed. He thought of her silky thighs and dancing, moon-swept kisses more times than he cared to admit even now, but it had been the girl's open acceptance of his grief that had sealed the bargain. She'd even spent a month in the White House, until guilt overcame his physical needs and he cut her off from his pure, vital essence.

Yet she harbored no ill will after she was dismissed; indeed, she was still the same guileless, sensible Carol she'd always been. Open -- to whatever, whenever -- until her seven year old girl was diagnosed with leukemia. He'd mobilized every medical resource at his disposal to help the girl, too...and he'd remained by their side during the worst of it.

"Fine, Mr President. Thanks for asking," she said as she put his glass down on the armrest. "Here you go, sir."

"Carol? I'd like to talk to you later, on the way back to Andrews, if I could."

"Yes, Mr President. I'd like that."

He turned back to the window and looked out over the rolling hills of northern Mississippi gliding by in the evening below, yet wondered if Imogen would be out there, too, waiting for him -- in this night. Still, he looked at Carol's reflection in the plastic as she walked away, and he knew what he had to do. Do what Imogen had told him to do. He'd be nice about it, though, and see to it her death came as quickly and painlessly as possible.

+++++

Cleetus Owen sat with three friends in the facility's sub-level maintenance room; they'd just set up 1500 extra folding chairs on the main floor, and it was their assigned job to clean up after the President's speech tonight, but he doubted he'd even be alive by that point. They'd moved heavy weapons into secret storage compartments weeks ago, even before the President's speech had been publicly announced, and they had four men on this level ready to move once the 'Go!' order was given, while another eight would be scattered in the audience to create confusion just before the main assault began.

Another Secret Service agent came by and poked his head in the door, shook his head then left.

Ali looked at the agent as the man turned and walked away, took care to memorize his features and clothing. He wanted to kill that mother fuckin' cracker right away. Yessir, that mother fucker was first on his list...

Ooh, his Hate felt SO good and pure tonight...the blade so hot and sharp.

+++++

He'd been drinking for hours, beer for the most part, but bourbon for the last half hour or so, while he finished field-stripping his Kimber, then as he carefully put the weapon back together again. He'd rubbed Hoppe's No 9 over every part, even a little behind his ears, then used a Dremel to buff each piece to an ultra high sheen, and now the old 45 looked brand new again. He admired the form just as much now as he had the day he bought her -- so many years ago. Brutally efficient, yet gorgeous even so, he turned the pistol over in his hand -- admiring his work, admiring the way light played off the polished stainless steel frame, the black slide, even the frank, sexually expressive shape of the short, three and a half inch barrel. He took one of the pistol's magazines and caressed it lovingly, drying it off carefully, then took a fresh box of Winchester SilverTips and quietly, purposefully slipped each cartridge through the spring-loaded gate. He took a second magazine and wiped it down as carefully, as admiringly, then loaded that one, too, and then slipped the spare rounds in his pocket -- "Just in case," he told himself, grinning at the prospect of so much...fun!

He smiled as he looked around his belongings one more time, at the meaninglessness of this life's trinkets and mementos arrayed around the living room. They stared back like an insinuation now, and then he smiled at the emptiness of it all, as if he alone was in on the joke that had unfolded in this room over the years.

Time for the punch-line, he reckoned. Time to get this road on the show.

He took another pull from his bourbon, then chambered a round -- wondering why he hadn't done this years ago. He thought of that poor kid -- and how much he'd desired her in the moments before he killed her -- then he thought of the flatulent bitch rumbling around in the next room and scowled.

"Oh, Doris?" he called out sweetly. "Could you come here? Pretty-please?"

+++++

"Mr President? If you could ride in the second Suburban this evening, sir?" Denny Eliot, his chief of detail commanded. Carpenter knew they rotated which car he rode in -- sometimes he even sat in one of the marked escort vehicles -- but Oxford was considered a 'friendly' venue, one without an overwhelming variety of 'unknowns' lurking out there, so this would be a direct, easy ride to the Ole Miss campus. The local cops had been told to keep their distance on the ride in, too, 'just in case.'

He turned, saw Carol at the top of the stairs -- waving -- and it crossed his mind just then that he loved her. That he'd grown to care for her, and little Elizabeth, too. Imogen had been barren, and they'd never had a child, and for some reason when Carol's girl fell ill it hit him much harder than he'd expected. Now he stood looking up at Carol, wondering what Imogen would make of these new feelings -- when he felt her whispering in his ear again.

He was almost relieved she was back -- until she spoke...

"The darkness you've sown has grown too powerful," she sighed. "I'm watching...but other forces are in control of your destiny now. You must be very careful tonight, and in the nights ahead, because something black is coming for you..."

And then she was gone -- again.

"Other forces? Black?" The President of the United States said to the evening sky.

"Sir?" and he heard the concern in Eliot's voice.

"Denny? I want you to be extra careful out there tonight. I have a bad feeling about this one..."

"Mr President? Perhaps we should get you back onboard, return to The House." Eliot had taken note of Carpenter's recent, sudden 'hunches' -- and how 'right' he'd been about things like this since the First Lady'd passed -- so when the President talked like this, he listened.

Still, Carpenter was just standing there, looking up at the 757s entry door -- and Eliot thought it looked like the old man was coming to a decision of some sort -- and he looked up, saw that Templeton woman waving and sighed.

'So, he IS in love with her...' Eliot thought as he looked up at the woman in the doorway. It had been hard enough keeping their affair under cover before, but what would happen if Carpenter decided it was time to 'go public' with his feelings?

"Denny?" Carpenter said, his voice now full of manifest authority. "I'd like Ms Templeton to ride in with us tonight."

"Yes, Mr President."

Carpenter got in the Suburban and buckled up, watched as Carol came down the stairs with his detail, smiling at the swiftness of his decision.

And as he watched, he heard Imogen laughing into the night -- and icy fingered dread ran down his spine when he thought about what was about to happen.

+++++

"Do you think the pain's affecting your ability to throw?" Doc Holliday asked Dalton.

"It was this afternoon, Doc."

"Well, that's this new fragment -- right here," the physician said, pointing at the image on his screen. "Not too big, but it's new and I suppose that has to be the cause. I could go in and take it out, but you'll probably lose a week, maybe two. You want to do that now?"

"Any other options, Doc?"

"Sure. I can shoot some corticosteroids and anti-inflammatories into the joint, and you should get a couple months relief, unless the fragment is bigger than it looks here. Probably enough relief to get you to the bowl games."

"Sign me up!"

"Roll up your sleeve."

"What? Now?"

"Yup, unless you're saving the pain for some other special occasion..."

"You mean...that's it? No surgery?"

"I didn't say that, John. What this ought to do, assuming no other issues crop up, is get you to January. We can revisit the surgical options then."

"Okay. Any side-effects to the injection?"

"Yup. The shoulder will feel full, kind of inflamed for a couple of days, but Tylenol ought to handle that, should all be over by Saturday, at any rate, and you should be good to go by game-time."

And during all this, Mindy sat quietly in the room -- looking at the MRI on the screen, then back at John -- trying not to show too much concern, or pay too much attention. She'd been so overwhelmingly attracted to him, and for so long, and now she was sure he knew. Yet he hadn't seemed to express much emotion in the car with her on the ride over. He seemed so innocent, almost chaste, yet 'virginal' was the word, she'd told herself more than once, that ought not to come to mind...because one look at John Dalton simply dispelled that idea. He looked like Apollo, perhaps a rock star, or whatever passed for a God these days, and when he'd talked about the ideal soulmate a while ago she'd grown so weak in the knees she almost fallen to the turf.

Now she watched as Holliday prepped the injection site with Betadine, then as he slipped the huge syringe into the joint. At first she thought John was handling it well enough, but when he looked at the 'needle' she saw the blood run from his face; she smiled as John took a few quick, deep breaths and swayed like a tall pine in a mountain breeze, then Holliday pulled the mile-long syringe from Dalton's arm and wiped the area down with huge alcohol swabs. "That's it. Did pretty good -- for a jock, anyway."

"Huh? Why's that?"

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall," the physician said, grinning. "I gave one to that giant linebacker, what's his name...Simons?"

"Simmons, sir?"

"Yup, that's him -- he passed flat out, I mean like a sack of potatoes dropped on the floor, then his bowels cut loose. Helluva mess."

"No shit?" John said, puffing up, but both Mindy and Holliday were looking at his color now.

"Why don't you lean back for a minute or two, John, and let that stuff settle in the joint. You can get up in a few minutes, when I come back." And after the physician left the room Mindy came over to the exam table and stood there, looking directly into his eyes.

"Okay," she said, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll go out with you." Now she was sure he was going to pass out...so she bent over and kissed him once, gently, on the lips.

When she pulled back he looked into her eyes, his mind racing now, a fevered pulse hammering away in his temples. "I do, you know," he said at last, running his fingers over her face. "You're who I want by my side, always. I hope you can see that."

She kissed him not at all gently now, and they were still at it when Doc Holliday returned.

+++++

She was standing in the dining room -- in those goddamn pink, furry slippers that made him want to puke every time he smelled them -- glaring at him, but with a tape recorder in hand. Recording, she told him, everything he said.

Which was a lot, as it turned out.

He'd already told her about all the women he'd screwed over the past four years -- not a lot, he thought, but enough to get her attention -- and he'd just told her about the kid, the tranny he'd killed, the kid that had been on the news a couple of weeks ago -- and that petulant, pouting smirk of hers had suddenly turned cold and empty after that.

She'd started paying close attention to his words, then her eyes went to the Hoppe's No 9 bottle, then the box of 45ACP on the table by his chair.

"Dick, why are you telling me all this?" she'd asked then, her voice sweet and contrite.

"Oh, I just wanted to clear the air between us. Just so we know where things stand."

"Oh?"

"So, tell me, why'd you want to record this?"

"I been thinkin' about talkin' to a lawyer, ya know?"

"About what? Adopting another kid? Seems to me, last time I heard that didn't work out too well."

She looked away.

"In fact, last time I heard, Doris, when you got a kid around the house, you got to actually, you know, take care of it. Can't just sit around watching the soaps and eating ice cream all day, ya know? Can't just wait around for Protective Services to come round and take it away."

"I know, Dickie, but I couldn't help it."

"That's an understatement, Doris. You looked in the mirror recently? What are you up to, now? Four? Four-fifty?"

"Fuck you, asshole!"

He pulled out the Kimber and stood from his chair, left the pistol hanging limply, impotently by his side. "What'd you say, sweetheart?"

"Oh, Dickie, I'm sorry...you make me say things I can't control...and I don't know what I'm sayin' no more..."

"Well, the truth comes out at last, Doris. You ARE a moron. I knew it, but just never could admit it to myself."

"Don't call me that, Dickie."

"What? Moron? Isn't that better than fat and lazy? At least if you're a fuckin' moron you've got a good excuse..."