🚀 go-pugleaf

(continued from part three...)

                                      ***

     Hamilton leaned on the counter of MegaHertz Rent-a-Car.  "Now," he
told the woman behind the desk.   "I'm a member of the Presidential Club.
I have 20,000 miles accumulated in the last six months.  I own ten percent
of your stock, for the love of Elvis.  Now where the Hell(tm) is my car?"
     The clerk rummaged through a thick stack of paper behind the counter.
She looked young, short red hair tightly curled against her skull.  A badge
clipped to her collar read "Hello, I'm: Lisa Ludlow.  Let me know how I can
help!"  Lisa Ludlow tapped frantically at a keyboard next to the piles of
paper.  She smiled weakly.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Hampton..."
     "Hamilton," snorted Hamilton.  "Alex Hamilton."
     Lisa Ludlow cringed at the snort.  Her eyebrows wrinkled.  She
straightened her back.  "I'm sorry, but our computers have failed, sir.
There's really nothing I can do to rent you a car."  She made her face look
calm.  "My boyfriend says it's because we've sold time on our system to the
FEC," she offered helpfully. "Once the election is over, we should know be
back to normal."
     Hamilton snorted.  "Once the election's over, I don't need the damn
car."  He stared suspiciously at the clerk's name tag.  "Ludlow.  That's a
Canadian name, isn't it?"

                                      ***

     A stylized map of the world.  Small, red beans filled each country on
the map.  A female voice spoke, enunciating the words carefully.  "They say
that beancounters rule the earth."  Red beans begin drifting from one
country to another.  "They tell us that it's OK to give away more beans
than we get back."  The flow of red beans began to accumulate near Asia.
Beans leave North America and Europe much faster than they leave Asia.
"One candidate knows that everyone must eat."  Patches of bare map appeared
in North America and Europe; beans pile up over Asia.  "It's not right.  We
all have to have our beans."  A lizard foot crumpled the map, spilled beans
across the table under the map.  "We need a candidate who will put his foot
down.  Godzilla."

                                      ***

     Fawkes let the last mouthful of coffee roll over his tongue.  He
swallowed, felt the warm fluid rush into his stomach.  He turned up the
collar of his coat.  Could start raining again any second, he thought.  He
already felt as though it was raining.  Real rain would be a relief, he
thought.  The back of his neck felt dry, dusty.  He crumpled the cup,
flicked it into the gutter.  He let the hollow chill of time rush through
him.  The device bumped against his thigh.

                                      ***

     "Congressman James Noddacrook... or should we say international
diamond smuggler Frederico Gustafa?  New documents have recently turned up
implicating our current senator in a startling variety of illicit business
ventures, including political vote-rigging in Argentina, clubbing baby
seals with spotted owls, and convincing filmmakers that movies featuring
orangutans are in any way even remotely amusing.  He's robbed twelve banks
in the last week, mooned Mother Theresa, and sold the Washington Monument
to Sweden.  His very touch corrupts.  Don't look into his eyes!  Beware!
     "Paid for by Vague Acquaintances of Michael Frobisher."

                                      ***

     Razor released Atropine's neck.  "You have five minutes to talk," said
Razor.  Razor plucked at the cuffs of his shirt.  "I suggest you keep the
pizza out of your mouth."
     Atropine touched the book on his desk.  "Operation Gunpowder," he
said.  "Classification, Utter Secret.  Established by direct authority of
MIB Director Alfred R. Less in 1955."  Atropine swallowed.  "Originally
Project Bluebeard."  Atropine lifted the book.  He turned it in his hands
as he spoke.  "Convened to investigate a pattern of political
assassinations and assassination attempts in the years 1950-1955, once a
year, on November 5.  Originally, these were believed to be the work of
Soviet attempts to destabilize governments friendly to the United States."
He set the book on the desk.  "The investigative phase continued for three
years, during which three more assassination attempts were carried out,
including one successful one -- against Assistant MIB Director Robert
Cannon, in 1958.
     "At that point, Project Bluebeard was upgraded to a top priority
project.  Wide concerns were raised about Soviet penetration at the highest
levels, since knowledge of the identities of any MIB personnel other than
the Director himself is considered an Utter Secret."  Atropine set the book
on his desk.  "Although assassinations or assassination attempts were
recorded annually in the years following 1958, few clues were found as to
the identity or motives of the persons involved.  In all cases, the
assassin appears to have been a lone male of indeterminate age.  Several
times, the assassin was observed to walk with a noticeable limp.  On two
occasions, in 1963 and 1979, the assassin was heard to complain of neck
pains immediately before the attack.  Other than these clues, nothing was
known about the assassin until 1992.
     "It had been assumed that the assassination attempts were of Soviet
origin, yet, as they had always been carried out against lower level
government officials or those operating under cover, a further conclusion
had been drawn that they represented the work of a single eccentric
official, most likely Vanilov Trepotisky, known more frequently by the
nickname Kruschev gave him, 'The Bloody Fruitcake'.
     "In 1992, Trepotisky died.  His files were obtained in a routine MIB
extraction.  They contained no reference to annual assassination attempts.
The Project was passed to me."
     Atropine swallowed nervously.  He snuck a peek at his watch.  Four
minutes had passed.  I'll never make it, he realized.  I'm dead.
     Razor brushed lint from his left sleeve.  "Your time is nearly up,"
said Razor.  "Since you seem to be cooperating with my evaluation, I'll
give you a two minute extension."

                                      ***

     Hamilton glared at the device squatting under the bright lights of the
rent-a-car parking lot.  It was squat, blue, it shone with a metallic
gleam.  The handlebars looked strangely off-center to Hamilton, skewed in a
direction he couldn't quite put his finger on.  He blinked at the
contraption, unable to place it.  Something like a motorcycle, seen through
the bottom of a thick glass.
     It was a scooter, Hamilton realized.  A Vespa.
     "Damn it," he swore.  He considered going back into the airport.  It
had crossed his mind that there might be more effective means of convincing
Linda Ludlow to cooperate.  He snorted.  She wasn't worth it.  At the next
stockholder's meeting, though, they'd hear from Alexander Hamilton.
     He clambered onto the scooter, looked for the starter.

                                      ***

     "Now, out to Rad again, to see if anything new has happened.  Rad,
are you out there?"
     "Like, what?" Rad asked.
     "Are... you... there?" Nouveaux's irritated voice came from the
speaker on the camera.
     "Oh, like, yah," Rad replied, nodding vigorously.  "We, like, found
your, like, reporter dude."
     "Is he with you?"
     "Um... yah.  Sort, like, of, y'know?"
     "May I see him, please?"
     "Um... yah."
     Rad stepped off-camera, grabbed the reporter's arm, and brought him
to stand in front of the camera.  It was a full thirty seconds before
Nouveaux Skunk had anything to say.
     "Robert... is that you?"
     "Wibble," Robert Parsens, veteran field reporter for the Cretin
Broadcasting System for over twenty years, responded.  "Wibble."
     "Rad?"
     "Like, yah?"
     "What has he been smoking?"
     "Like, I have no idea, dude.  It could have been, like, anything,
y'know?  But if you're, like, asking if he's, like, high, then I guess,
like, yah, he is."
     "Wibble."
     "That's... great.  We'll check in with you later."
     "Like, okay, dude."
     "Much later."
     "Cool!"

                                      ***

     The limousine pulled into the alleyway behind Independence Hall.
George Washington stepped from the limousine.  He straightened his jacket,
tugged at the sleeves of the shirt beneath.  He held out his arms, turned
in a slow circle.
     Martha Washington stepped from the limousine.  She wore a tight
fitting black sweater, a short black skirt.  Silver earrings sparkled from
either side of her head.  "Yes, George," she said.  "You're one of a kind,
and your outfit proves it."
     George stopped twirling.  He glared at Martha.  "Woman," he said.  "I
have no time for this.  You should show a little more respect for the
father of your country and his judgment.  This clothing conveys the sense
that I am in touch with the times."  He looked over Martha from head to
toe.  "Although you look stunning, as always, you haven't captured the feel
of the election the way I have."
     Martha rolled her eyes.  "George, you're a true original."  She
smoothed her skirt.  "It's cold out here.  Let's go."
     George nodded.  He spread his arms.  "Come, Martha," he said.  "It's
time."
     To the left of the ramp Franklin had used was a metal door.
Washington pushed at a panel near the door.  A bell chimed, the door slid
open.
     George and Martha Washington stepped into the hidden elevator.  George
pressed a quick combination into the elevator's control panel.  The metal
door slid shut.
     As soon as the door closed, the limousine hummed.  The power windows
slid down.   A faint click.  Loud music pulsed through the air.  The
footman and the chauffeur winked at each other.  The limousine sped out of
the alley, took a left turn, headed toward the seedier part of town.

                                      ***

     Hamilton nudged the scooter forward with a quick turn of the throttle.
The scooter leapt into motion.  The wind whistled past his ears.  His
stomach lurched, he squeezed the brakes.  The scooter slowed to a crawl.
Hamilton caught his breath.  An unreliable device, he thought.  The scooter
almost seemed to have a mind of its own.  He twisted the throttle again,
ever so slightly.  The speedometer crept smoothly up to 25.  Good, he
thought.  Any faster, the device would be unsafe.  Hamilton swallowed hard.
The scooter vibrated under him.  The stench of the two-stroke fumes gagged
him.  He hoped he that the traffic lights were synchronized for a 25 mph
speed.

                                      ***

     "Michael Frobisher... milquetoast or fop?  I mean, come on!  Just look
at the guy!  He couldn't beat up my grandmother!  And she's dead!  I bet he
can't hold his liquor, either.  Alan Alda's more manly than him!  Come on!
Wake up, Nebraska!  The guy's a complete wash-out!  He's the kind of guy
who runs for the Student Council because he thinks it's important or
something!  He prefers cats to dogs!  He thinks people should be nicer to
one another!  I get sick just looking at him!  Excuse me a minute....
     "Paid for by Real Men for James Noddacrook."

                                      ***

     Atropine swallowed.  He shifted in his chair.  On the television atop
the filing cabinet, political advertisements were playing.  "Previous
investigations focused on the theory that the assassins themselves were of
little interest, and had focused on finding a source for the assassination
attempts.  When the case was handed over to me, my team reviewed each file
against every other file, looking for common elements that could be used to
identify the source of the assassination attempts.  We found few
commonalities in the targets.  No political agenda seemed to be at stake.
What we did notice, though, was that the description of the assassins were
quite consistent, year after year, decade after decade.  No matter where
the attempts took place, no matter who the targets were, the description of
the assassin was consistent, allowing for differences in the memories of
eyewitnesses, at any rate."
     Razor examined his fingernails carefully.  "Continue."
     Atropine shifted against his chair.  "The working theory, at this
point, is that these attacks have been perpetrated by one man, acting
alone.  The period over which these attacks have occurred indicates that
this person possesses supernormal powers.  Because of this, the matter was
kept under MIB jurisdiction, and a response plan was developed.  An agent
experienced in capture and elimination of supernormals was placed on
reserve for Operation Gunpowder.  The provision was made that we could only
activate the Project if we had a high expectation of interception of the
supernormal."
     Razor nodded carefully.  "Now, speak carefully.  You have one minute."
     Atropine swallowed.  "The geographical tactics of the attacks are
consistent.  If you look at the map --" Atropine gestured at the map behind
him.  "-- you can see the pattern."  Atropine turned to the map.
Multicolored pins festooned the map.  "Well, you can't see the pattern, I
guess.  But there's a pattern there.  Tonight, the pattern leads to
Philadelphia."
     Razor sighed.  "Pattern."  He squinted at the map.  "Sure."  He rubbed
his nose.  "Pattern."  He looked at Atropine.  "You got a pattern."
     Atropine nodded.  "Right.  Tonight it's Philadelphia."
     Razor's hand moved quickly.  There was something shiny in his hand.
It was cold against Atropine's skin, there was barely any pain at all.

                                      ***

     "And now, because we have nothing else to do..." Nouveaux Skunk
started.
     "Why don't we have anything else to do?" Ignorantman asked.  "Does
that include breathing?  How about blinking?  How does Bob Dole blink so
fast?  Do I blink that fast?  If I hooked my eyelids up to a windmill,
could I generate an electric current?  AC or DC?  Do I need an adapter?"
     "Ahem," the Skunk cleared his throat, angrily.  "Because we have
nothing better to do, we're checking in with our roving reporter, Kent
Clark.  Kent, come in!"
     "Ah, yes!" came the exclamation, as Kent's face appeared on the screen
behind the co-anchors.  "I've finally made it to New Mexico, thanks to
Mighty Guy's timely assistance!  I am now about to conduct my first exit
poll!"
     "How thrilling for you," Nouveaux commented.  Kent set the camera down
on something and stood back.  Standing next to him was a Mexican man in
a business suit, who appeared somewhat frightened.  Kent had his hand on
the man's shoulder, a fact that was causing the man some pain.
     "Good evening, sir!" Kent exclaimed.  "May I have a few minutes of
your time to ask you several dozen nosy questions concerning who you voted
for just now?"
     "Que?" the man replied.  "No habla ingles, senor...."
     "I see!" Kent answered.  He then said, in a voice several hundred
decibels louder than before, "MAY I HAVE A FEW MINUTES OF YOUR TIME...."
     "Aiiiigh," the man gurgled, as the sound waves instantly lobotomized
him.
     "Is he a voter?" Ignorantman asked.  "Why doesn't he speak English?"
     "He probably used one of the Spanish-language ballots, I imagine,"
the Skunk said.
     "Why isn't he in front of a voting booth?"
     "Kent probably caught him outside the building he voted in."
     "Why is the flag of Mexico flying in front of the building, which has
a sign on it saying 'Mexico City Trade Center'?"
     Nouveaux stared at the screen for a few moments, then slapped his
forehead.
     "Kent," he said.  "You're in Mexico City."
     "Yes!"
     "Mexico City is in Mexico."
     "Yes!"
     "New Mexico is *not* in Mexico."
     "Ye--it isn't?"
     "No."
     "Um... right!  Then I'd best get there!"  Kent faked looking around.
"Oh, hey, I think I see Mighty Guy now!  Oh, Mighty Guy!  Could you come
over here a second?"
     Nouveaux pushed a button on the desk and the picture quickly went
away.

                                      ***

     Tonkin pulled to a stop in front of Independence Hall.  The building
looked vacant.  Spotlights spilled up the sides, across the carefully
clipped lawn.  The windows were dark, felt empty to Tonkin.  He stopped the
car, turned the key.  The engine sputtered, fell silent.  He flicked the
headlights off.  He dialed quickly.  "Tonkin here.  Have arrived
Philadelphia.  Awaiting instructions."  He closed the phone.  He flexed his
wrists.  Tonkin hooked his hands together and pulled gently.  He preferred
isometrics for his warmups, when there was enough time.

                                      ***

     Razor wiped his knife on the back of Atropine's shirt.  He folded it
closed, put it back in his coat pocket.  The phone rang.  He shrugged,
answered it.
     "Atropine's office," said Razor.  "Professor Atropine is out."
     A computerized voice spoke from the phone "Message Service.  Please
enter Utter Secret security code to receive message."
     Razor glared at the phone.  He stabbed at the phone with his index
finger.  "Thank you, sir," said the computerized voice.  "Just a moment."
There was a beep.  Another voice spoke.  "Tonkin here," it growled.  "Have
arrived Philadelphia.  Awaiting instructions."
     Razor set the phone back in the cradle.  He dialed quickly.  The MIB's
automated voicemail system answered.  He pressed star to stop the sickening
voice.  He entered a five digit code.  "Razor reporting.  Atropine believed
compromised.  Have eliminated.  Operative has reached target zone.  Shall I
abort?"
     He listened to the phone.  "Sir," said Razor.  "Sir, Atropine's story
was ridiculous."  He listened to the phone.  "Understood, sir."  He set the
phone back in the cradle.
     Razor pushed Atropine's body off the desk.  It fell off the chair, lay
sprawled on the floor.  He stepped around the desk, sat in the chair.  He
sighed heavily.  He picked up the phone, dialed quickly.  "Message
received.  Operation Gunpowder is approved for completion.  You are
instructed to move to the final stage.  Repeat, Project approved for
completion, move to the final stage."
     Razor set the phone back in the cradle.  He looked at his watch.
12:32.  He needed to be wait at least an hour for the operation to be
complete.  He glanced at the pizza box on top of the bookcase.  It was
probably cold, he thought.  He shrugged.  He hoped Atropine had decent
taste in pizza.

                                      ***

     "Congressman James Noddacrook... incarnation of evil in this
dimension.  Spawn of Satan.  Handpuppet of Beelzebub.  Girl Friday to
Agathoth, the Demon in Darkness.  Think about it, won't you?
     "Paid for by Guys who Hang Out with Michael Frobisher."

                                      ***

     Fawkes strode rapidly down the sidewalk.  The coffee ran through his
veins.  He smiled to himself.  Soon it would be over.  He would disappear
back into the darkness behind his eyes for another year.  The thought
prickled up his spine.  Protestants, he thought.  It's all their fault.  He
began to recite the list of wrongs done to him by the Protestants.
     Mountain grown coffee, he said to himself.  He couldn't think of
anything else, offhand.  He was sure there were more, and they would come
to him.  Mountain grown coffee, he said to himself.  Fawkes tried to summon
the blind rage that he had felt in earlier years.  It moved sluggishly
inside him, surfaced briefly, then sank back into the depths.
     Fawkes felt cold.  Goosebumps crept up his arms.  The emptiness inside
him roared with the sound of a thousand coffeegrinders choking against
inferior beans.

                                      ***

     Ben Franklin sauntered into the low room.  He hooked his thumbs in the
pockets of his jeans.
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