🚀 go-pugleaf

(continued from part two...)

                                      ***

     Guy Fawkes smelled the air.  The lingering scent of burning leaves
filled his lungs, caressed the dark places behind his forehead.  He
sneezed, dragged his sleeve across his face.  Neon lights near the end of
the street smeared against the darkness as he walked.  He blinked hard,
wiped away the liquid flowing from his eyes.  He slid his hand into his
pocket, turned the bomb end over end.  He wanted to push the button.  He
closed his eyes.  He felt his target.  Close now, he thought.  He inhaled
again, held the air in his lungs until dark purple spots slid across his
eyes.  He let the device roll back off his hand again.  He opened his eyes.
The neon signs shrank, sharpened until he could read the letters.
     "Hot Joe," he read.  "Colombian."  He needed it.  He felt in his right
pocket for change.

                                      ***

     "Can we trust Michael Frobisher?  The voters of Nebraska have a right
to know.  Can we trust the man who once, in 1987, made a mildly colorful
remark about his peanut butter and jelly sandwich being slightly stale?
The man who is well known about the state for being well known about the
state?  The man who, several years ago, had the audacity to suggest that
Ronald Reagan was elected the 40th president of the United States?  The man
who, in a cynical election-year move, started parting his hair on the left
side, instead of the middle?  The man who accepted cookies from the Girl
Scouts of America in exchange for money?  The man who, according to Fred
'Mr.' Rogers himself, is 'just too damn nice for his own good'?  The man
who, as a teenager, failed to deliver a pizza within 30 minutes just
because of some piddling traffic laws?  Can we trust this man to survive
more than a minute in Congress?
     "Paid for by the Sleazy Bastards for James Noddacrook."

                                      ***

     The stewardess plopped down in the seat next to Hamilton's.  "We're
almost to Philadelphia, Alex."  She patted Hamilton's arm, left the hand on
his sleeve.  Her teeth flashed.  "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"  She
smiled again, tilted her head slightly.
     Hamilton forced the snort to stay down in his chest.  "Thanks to you,"
he rumbled.  "Have you voted, yet?"
     The stewardess tossed her head.  "I don't vote tonight, Alex."  She
was serious for a moment.  "I'm Canadian.  From Edmonton."  She smiled
again.  "No problem, eh?"  Her smile was wide, the corners of her mouth
tense.
     This time, he let the snort go.  "Canadian."  He moved her hand from
his arm.  "Traitorous, you mean.  No gumption.  No starch."
     "Alex?"  Her smile was gone.  Her hands twisted each other.  "I need
to get back to work now."
     He shook his head, forced a smile.  "Sorry, Cam.  I told you I was a
historian.  I still wish Canada would have stood up for independence
sooner."  He shrugged.  "It's one of my historical interests.  I tend to
take them a bit seriously."  Hamilton patted her arm.  "I'd still like to
take you to the party tonight, if you'll let me."
     Her smile was thin.  He stroked her arm lightly.  Her eyes moved
across Hamilton's face.  "Alex..."
     "Don't answer now," he said.  "Think about it."
     She nodded, stood.  She reached toward his face, her hand turned,
moved parallel to his cheek.  She took her hand away before it touched his
skin.  "I will think about it, Alex."  Her smile was fuller this time.
"Wait for me, I'll walk you off the plane, at least."
     Hamilton, captured her right hand in both of his.  He brought the back
of her hand to face.  He brushed her skin with his lips.  "Of course.  I
always do what the lady asks."

                                      ***

     Agent Gulf Tonkin flipped open his cellular phone.  He dialed.  The
Vespa passed him again, the fourth time.  He flipped the phone shut.  "What
an idiot," he said to himself.  The Vespa sped out in front of him, passed
a blue sign: "Rest Stop -- One Mile."
     "Here we go again," said Tonkin.  "Eighty-five percent."
     The Vespa's turn signal came on.
     "Nailed it," said Tonkin.  He rolled his eyes.  "Scooterists."
     The scooter took the exit.  Tonkin shook his head, flipped the phone
open again.  He dialed quickly.  "Tonkin reporting.  Arrive Philadelphia,"
he checked the dashboard clock.  "11:45 PM.  Will await instructions this
number."  He snapped the phone shut, tossed it onto the passenger seat.  He
rubbed his eyes.  Need some coffee, he thought.  Mountain-grown.

                                      ***

     "Well, early returns have started coming in," Unorthodox Girl
announced, and, to be perfectly honest, Nader's doing heaps better than
anyone expected.  We know he's already won Northern Maine, parts of
Vermont, and the eighteen sane people in Northern New Hampshire.  Further,
he's running a close second in New York State.  Exit polls indicate a fear
of Stormtrooper reprisals and a weird, almost mystic compulsion to vote for
the Greens, with people voting against the green party complaining of an
oppressive sense of dread, a choking feeling, and mild stomach
palpitations.  Also, there have been reports of the local Perot chapter of
Bayonne being leveled by men in white armor with energy weapons, but we're
assuming the Reform Party chapter leadership have simply been *mesmerized*
by shiny objects and CD-ROMs.  Back to the studio."

                                      ***

     Franklin gunned the scooter, whipped into the parking spot in front of
the restrooms.  He jumped off the scooter, scrambled to the pay phone.  He
picked up the phone, dialed a quick four-digit number.
     The line hummed, clicked twice.  A quiet voice answered.  "Thomas
here."
     "Thomas!" bellowed Ben.  "Finally!  We're almost there.  Where have
you been?"
     "Downstairs," grumbled Thomas.  "Getting things ready."  An
exasperated sigh rattled the phone's tiny speaker.  "Don't forget, you're
on watch next term."
     "Of course," said Ben congenially.  "Wouldn't miss it for the world.
Though you know I can't resist a wager.  Double or nothing again?"
     "Not this time," snapped Thomas.  The phone clicked.
     Ben smiled at the phone.  "Cards," he said to himself.  "Blackjack.
He'll go for blackjack."  He patted the deck in his breast pocket.  Nothing
like marking the cards to help maintain a run of luck.

                                      ***

     There was a knock on the door precisely twenty-nine minutes and
fifteen seconds after Atropine ordered the pizza.  He sighed, squeezed the
stopwatch, dropped it back onto his desk.  "On my way," he called.  He slid
out the center drawer of the desk.  The drawer was stuffed with wadded
bills.  He picked one from near the edge, carefully worked it loose.  He
shut the drawer, stood, went to the door.
     Through the peephole, he saw a tall man wearing a dark suit, dark
glasses, holding a steaming pizza box.  He swallowed.  The MIB works fast,
he reminded himself.  He opened the door.  He extended his hand, with the
bill.  "Thanks for the pizza.  Is it still warm?"
     The man took the bill from Atropine's hand.  "See for yourself, bud."
He handed the pizza box to Atropine.  The man smoothed the bill in his
hand, carefully studied the serial numbers on the bill's left half.  "I
don't have change for anything this big."
     Atropine nodded.  "I have change inside.  Come in for a minute, young
man."
     The man stepped carefully past him.  Atropine closed the door.  "I'm
Guru," said Atropine.
     The man nodded.  "I know."  He reached into his coat, withdrew an
identification card, flashed it at Atropine.  Atropine had just enough time
to make out the MIB seal before the man put the card back in his coat.
"You can call me Razor," he said.  Razor sat in one of the chairs near
Atropine's desk.  He waved at Atropine's chair.  "Please, sit."
     Atropine set the pizza on top of one of the bookshelves.  He moved
around the desk, settled into the chair.  He felt better sitting in his own
chair.  "Well," he said.
     Razor leaned forward, put his hands on the desk.  "You've activated
Operation Gunpowder."
     Atropine nodded.  The smell of the pizza wafted through the air.  His
mouth moistened.
     Razor's sunglasses leaned toward Atropine's face.  "On what evidence?"
The room suddenly seemed very small, Razor's hands on the desk seemed
several sizes too big.
     Atropine swallowed.  He made a low gargling noise.
     Razor's voice was harsh.  "Well?"
     Atropine cleared his throat.  "It's rather involved."  He nodded at
the pizza.  "Would you like a slice?"
     Razor's left hand clamped itself on Atropine's shoulder.  "You can
have a slice," said Razor.  "Sooner than you think."

                                      ***

     "We're back," Nouveaux Skunk said.  "For a look at the latest
returns, let's go to Flores Lame.  Flores?"
     The shot switched to Flores Lame, who was seated behind a desk in
front of a bluescreen.  Behind her, election graphics came and went.
     "In California, ballot measure 48, legalizing still more scapegoating
of immigrants and minorities, is passing by an overwhelming majority, while
in Kentucky, ballot measure 10 is going down to defeat.  Ballot measure 10
would have made it illegal to do the macarena in public.
     "In the presidential race, as Unorthodox Lass reported earlier,
Ralph Nader continues his surprise strong showing, though the election is
still too early to call.  Almost 98% of voters leaving the booths voiced
the opinion that they wished Spoonman had run that year, as they wanted a
candidate whose nobility and honesty they could trust.  They were then
dragged away by Stormtroopers to be subjected to being tormented by a
floating ball with a big pointy thing sticking out of it.
     "In the Senate race in Nebraska, incumbent James Noddacrook is
running neck-and-neck with challenger Michael Frobisher...."
     Flores stopped, as she noticed something on the screen in front of
her.  The bluescreen image, instead of being graphics of elections returns,
had been replaced by a shot of Manman peering into a camera lens and
frowning thoughtfully.
     "Hey, get him off the screen," Flores insisted.  "How long has he been
there, anyway?"  Manman continued to persist in being there.  In fact, he
seemed to be making a speech of some kind.  Flores shook her head.  "More
news later.  Now back to Nouveaux Skunk and Ignorantman."
     "Thank you, Flores," Nouveaux Skunk said.  "Now, I'm sure many of you
out there remember the controversy earlier this year in which Ross Perot
and the other non-Democratic and non-Republican presidential candidates
were excluded from this years debates.  Many people criticized the debate
system as being biased in favor of the two major political parties of the
United States.
     "Cretin Broadcasting only just today learned that a third Presidential
debate *was* held, very recently, and that it *did* involve Ross Perot and
the other third party Presidential candidates.  After it was taped, just
last week, the decision was made to hush it up, owing to the surprising
revelations made during the event by all involved.  Our network has gotten
a hold of the recording, however, and we're pleased to be able to show it
to you now.  A word of caution: what you are about to see is not for the
faint of heart or stomach."

                                      ***

     "Seventy-five cents for the coffee, ten for the cup," mumbled the
woman behind the counter.  She was short, tufts of dark hair crept from
under the pink hairnet.  Tonkin dropped a bill into her hand.  She pushed
at the cash register with her index finger, scooped coins out of the tray.
"Refills are twenty, we're watching, be honest or be thrown out, sugar and
nondairy cream substitute to your right."  She dropped the money on the
counter.  "Have a nice evening thank you for your business visit us again."
The woman turned away, gazed glassy-eyed at the small television screen
behind her.  On the screen, the picture of two news anchors disappeared, to
be replaced by a debate stage, with a caption below indicating that it was
of a debate that took place a week ago.  Tonkin blinked at the television.
It didn't matter, he told himself.  One of the first things he'd learned at
the MIB was that the presidency didn't matter.  The MIB had ways to control
the President.  Congress was trickier.  Anyone who could control Congress
was someone to be reckoned with.
     He turned away, lifted the cup to his lips.  He blew across the cup.
The coffee smelled like hot rubber, tasted like oil.  He savored it, rolled
the liquid across his tongue.  Mountain grown, he thought.  The richest
kind.

                                      ***

     "Hello and welcome.  This is Jim Lehrer, the moderator for the third
and final Presidential debate."  The camera pulled back slightly from the
closeup on Lehrer to show another man.  "This is my co-host for the
evening, Wally Carville."
     "Hi," Wally said.
     "On stage are our two main contenders, the Democratic incumbent,
Bill Clinton--"
     Clinton waved to the gathered audience, looking relaxed and confident.
     "--and his Republican challenger, Bob Dole."
     Dole smiled and nodded, shifting his stance slightly.
     "Tonight's debate rules are simple: each candidate must endeavor to
throw the other candidate physically off the stage.  Every two minutes, the
bell will sound and another Presidential or Vice Presidential candidate
will run onto the stage and attempt to throw those still on the stage off.
There are thirty contendees, but no officials, save to determine who is
officially off the stage.  And now...
     "Are you ready to deeeeeeeebaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate?"
     Lehrer and Carville quickly left the stage as the bell sounded,
ducking under the ropes that encircled the platform and going down the
steps.  They took their seats at the announcers booth and watched the
action.
     Clinton slipped off his suit coat, tie and shirt, as did Dole.  As the
caption 'we warned you' flashed across the screen, they attacked one
another.
     "Clinton opens with an attempt to clothesline Dole and... he misses!"
Carville exclaimed.  "He's bouncing off the ropes and knocks Dole down!"
     "Dole hasn't been doing well these first two debates, so expect him to
try some desperation moves tonight!" Lehrer said.  "And... he's got
Clinton's leg.  The President is pulled to the ground!  Dole's trying to
roll him off the stage but Clinton's fighting him and... oooh, a double
reverse wedgie!  Clinton's picking him up now, hoisting him over his
shoulders... oh, a piledriver!  But he's supposed to throw him *out* of the
ring!"
     "He's showboating, Jim!" Carville replied.  "This could cost him later
in the debate!"
     "Now he's picking Dole up again... but wait!  Dole is waving something
in front of Clinton's face!  It could be... it is!  McDonald's french
fries!  The President is losing his concentration!  He's dropped Dole!"
     "We could be seeing a major upset here, Jim..."
     BING!
     "There's the bell!" Lehrer announced.  "The next contender's coming
in... and it's Ross Perot!"  Perot came running down the aisle in the
middle of the audience and leapt over the ropes, landing on Clinton and
knocking Dole over.
     "Perot changes the whole dynamic by just being there!" Carville
yelled.  "This is going to be a feisty, knock down match!  I can't believe
what I'm seeing!  I can't believe I'm getting excited about seeing Ross
Perot in spandex!  I-- want to rephrase that last exclamation!"
     "No time!  Clinton's getting back up and... he's grabbing Perot by
his ears!  Dole's hammering on his weak left leg!  It looks like they're
teaming up to throw Perot out of the debate again... literally!  And... oh
no!  Dole just drop-kicked Clinton into the ropes, and he and Perot are
trying to lift him up to push him over!"
     "That can't be easy!  Just look at that gut!"
     "I'm trying not to!  Clinton elbows Perot and sends him sprawling,
but Dole runs back, bounces against the ropes and knocks Clinton down
again!  Clinton's close to the edge and Dole's trying to roll him out
and... wait!  The President's pulling out a package of cigarettes that has
a roll of hundred dollar bills taped to it!  Dole's getting distracted!"
     "They're pulling out all the stops, Jim...."
     BING!
     "And here comes the next candidate... it's Ralph Nader, in flowing
black robes!  Oh, my!"

                                      ***

     "Fifty cents, all you can drink," bubbled the clerk.  She was short,
long dark hair swept behind her back with a wisp of pink taffeta.  "If
you'd like cream, please let me know.  We keep it in the refrigerator
behind the counter, here."
     Fawkes nodded.  He dropped two coins into the woman's hand.  "Thanks,"
he muttered.  She put the money in the till, closed it.  She looked over
her shoulder.
     "Haven't you been in here before?"
     Fawkes shook his head.  "No," he muttered.  He put the cup to his
lips, sipped the coffee.  The rich, mellow taste slid smoothly down his
throat.  The coffee warmed him, contentment flowed in slow waves down his
limbs.  He smiled.  "Might come back, though," he said.
     The corners of the woman's mouth quirked.  "Remember, the refills are
free."  She turned away.  She put a clear plastic glove on her hand and
began counting chocolate-dipped biscotti into a glass jar.  Next to it,
the television set was showing a wrestling match of some kind.
     Fawkes sipped the coffee.  He watched her for a moment, the intense
furrow of her brow as she stacked the biscotti inside the jar, her
movements as she carefully eased the crescents into a three-dimensional
lattice, each biscotti supporting two others, the chocolate halves
interlocking delicately without actually touching.   She looked familiar.
It always looked the same, each year the same faces, the same actions, the
same results.  His neck twinged.  Not this year, he thought.  This year he
would be free.  He would find his way back to the shop, buy the woman's
biscotti, take her to the theater.  He took another sip of coffee.  He saw
his reflection in the lid of the jar, knew that the woman was watching him
as she worked.
     He covered his face as though he was coughing, turned, left the shop.

                                      ***

     Ben Franklin whipped the Vespa into an alleyway behind Independence
Hall.  He honked the horn three times.  A portion of the brick facing slid
to the right.  "We made it," said Franklin.
     "Unless you hit the wall on the way in."
     Franklin twisted the accelerator.  The scooter leapt forward.  He
wobbled the handlebars, the scooter leaned to the right.  Just as it seemed
certain to graze the side of the passageway, Franklin wrenched the
handlebars, straightened the bike.
     The ramp descended in a steep spiral.  Franklin leaned carefully,
steering the scooter down the corkscrew.  After half-a-dozen turns, the
ramp leveled, the passage opened out into a squat, concrete room.  At one
end of the room, hitching racks sat next to mouldering bales of hay.
Bright yellow parking spaces were marked out at the other end of the room.
Franklin parked the scooter, there.
     "You'd think someone would fix this place up," said the woman.  "I
mean, really, no one's used those hitching racks for 40 years, now."  She
slung her leg over the scooter.  Hard to understand why Thomas keeps them
around."
     Ben dismounted.  He patted the Vespa's seat.  "Well," he said.  "I
think Thomas leaves things in hopes that someone will get sick of them
enough to take the job off his hands."  Ben chuckled.  "Still, it's not our
fault if he's a compulsive gambler.  Not to mention a lousy one."
     The woman fluffed her hair.  "Ben, you should give him some time off.
It's been almost a hundred years."
     Ben grumbled.  "Still haven't forgiven him for that Dewey thing.  If
he'd just do the job right once, I'd be more inclined to let him have a
break."
     They moved through a low door at the end of the room, into the
passageway beyond.

                                      ***

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