Forget the IRS - Let's Talk About Campaign Finance

The Tea Party accusations against the IRS have created a political firestorm, and I suppose everybody should thank them for publicizing the corrupt way that political parties raise money.  That was not the Tea Party's intention, of course, but now the glare of publicity is also shedding light on the issue of tax-exempt status for "non-profit" Political Action Committees.  That special type of PAC can raise unlimited funds, and is not required to disclose the names of contributors or the amount of their contributions .  However, such a PAC falls under the category of "social welfare" and is not allowed to get involved in funding political campaigns of any particular candidate.  After the 2010 US Supreme Court decision to allow corporations to donate to political campaigns, the Internal Revenue Service was flooded with applications from PACs requesting tax-exempt status.  If the tax-exempt status gets used as a front to funnel money secretly to politicians, it is considered by the IRS to be money laundering.  The way election-law stands now, any crook or drug dealer or tax evader (or anyone else for that matter) can secretly give unlimited funds to these false-front PACs. That kills two birds with one stone for "socially conscious"  criminals: a way to launder ill-gotten millions of dollars anonymously and at the same time establish excellent political connections.

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Image is Everything

June 15, 1992 – The day of the California Primary

To the astonishment of everyone and to the disgust of many, Cliff Williamson was now leading the pack in California in the most recent Gallop Poll. Two nights before, Williamson and four other Democratic presidential candidates had squared-off in a nationally-televised debate presented in front of a live audience. Williamson had appeared rather stiff and uncomfortable as he responded to the moderator's questions with non-committal political platitudes. The highlight of the debate was near the end of it, when the moderator had allowed the candidates to question each other directly. Tennessee senator Burt Gort, in a blatant attempt to put Williamson on the spot, had jokingly challenged him to name as many of the US presidents as he could, in chronological order. Some in the audience audibly hissed at that audacious suggestion, but a smiling Williamson raised his hands to calm his sympathizers. He then proceeded to correctly identify, albeit haltingly, the first 21 presidents. Then he abruptly stopped his recital, and with tongue-in-cheek turned the tables on Senator Gort by requesting that he name the remaining 20. Gort, his face visibly flushed, laughed hollowly and replied, while playing for time to think: “Why I'd be happy to, Cliff. Well, um, what was the last one you mentioned - Garfield? Okay, the next one is, uh, Chester Arthur, then Grover Cleveland, then Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley and then, uh - “

Williamson interrupted him with, “Sorry, Burt, but you missed one already! Cleveland also served a second term as president between the Harrison and McKinley administrations.” This incited scattered applause and derisive hoots from spectators, with the moderator chastising them to quiet down. After that bravura display of memory prowess, Williamson's lame performance during the rest of the debate was instantly forgotten.

Angie was thrilled at Williamson's resurgence, of course, although his performance hadn't totally convinced me: I supposed that if his short-term memory was adversely affected, but not his long-term memory, then he may have been able to recall presidential names he had memorized as a schoolboy. That would be one explanation as to why he had, with seeming cleverness, tossed the question back to Gort, as the more recent presidents were the ones he would have had the most trouble recollecting. It would have been pathetic if had he named every president up to JFK, only to have his memory desert him at that point.

Be that as it may, two days later Williamson triumphed in the California and New Jersey primaries, meaning that his nomination at the Democratic National Convention in mid-July was virtually assured. As the election returns came in from California, Angie asked me, “Why do you look so depressed, Denny? Cliff's got it made!”

“Yeah, right now he does. But a lot can happen between tonight and the convention. And even if he does win the nomination, the president will mop the floor with him come November.”

“Ha! That's ridiculous. Most people can't stand Hedges – look at how fucked-up the economy is.”

“Unfortunately, politics is all about image, babe. You oughtta know that by now.”

Now that Williamson was (apparently) a shoe-in to win the Democratic nomination, I once again worried that the scandal of the alleged affair between Tina and Williamson was soon to be re-ignited, just like Webb had “foreseen”. That particular worry turned out to be unfounded, but what was actually going to be publicly revealed was far worse, as far as Williamson was concerned.

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Re-Tired

After leaving a goggle-eyed Webb and his colleagues behind in a bluish haze of burnt rubber, I wondered, Holy shit, did I really do that? Naw, it CAN'T be!

 

If Webb had the capability of disabling my car by remote control, then the National Security Council, which supposedly for my own protection was keeping me under constant watch, was definitely capable of doing the same thing to Webb's limo. But all four tires simultaneously? I asked myself doubtfully.

 

The barbaric part of me was thrilled by the possibility of having suddenly acquired the power to act at-a-distance, just by using my mind (intentionally or not). The more civilized part of me considered that a most unwelcome development, if it happened to be true. If that was the case, US intelligence agencies and/or the military would certainly want to exploit it. During my Remote Viewing training, I had been tested for telekinetic ability on two occasions, but like virtually everyone else tested, I failed miserably. Since then, however, my overall psychic capabilities had grown beyond anything I ever expected. My most recent triumph was when I correctly predicted the winner of hockey's Stanley Cup (much to the delight of the president).

 

It didn't take long for Gall to phone me after the incident with Webb. He told me, “I read an unusual field report about you just now. You were being tailed on the freeway by a black limousine whose plate numbers were never issued, and then your car suddenly had a flat.” After reading-back the report to me, he asked, “So, how in the world did you manage to blow-out their tires? You never gave us any indication that you had a talent for that sort of thing. It might not exactly be telekinesis, but it amounts to the same thing.”

 

“Whoa – wait a minute. I had just assumed NSC agents did that!”

 

“Nope, we had nothing to do with it. Those agents were merely spectators.”

 

“This is too damned weird.”

 

“Did you do it to them deliberately?”

 

“Hell, no – it just happened. I was really pissed-off at the time and I bashed my hand, and then – boom. Look, isn't there anything you can do to keep them away from me? DISC is still trying to get me to work for them again – persistent bastards that they are.”

 

“I've complained to higher-ups about these private security outfits, but it's like trying to get rid of weeds - or vermin.” I was well aware of DISC's cozy relationship with politicians and high-level CIA careerists. “Unless they bungle their way into an NSC operation, like they did during Project Brainstorm, I can't do a lot about them. Does DISC still have some kind of hold on you?”

 

“What do you mean?” But I knew very well what he meant.

 

A bit impatiently he answered, ”Come on, now. Something they could use against you – blackmail. They've pulled that crap on you before.”

 

I felt I could never tell him (or anyone else) - consequences be damned - that the stories about Tina and Williamson dancing in bed were true. Retreating to a second line of defense, I replied, “Nothing that would be effective against me. Just the same old lies about Tina and Williamson having an affair. It's pure harassment - Webb threatened to publicly link me to a sex scandal, just so I get hounded by tabloid reporters. DISC's recruiting methods leave a lot to be desired, huh.”

 

“That sonofabitch – I'll fix his ass, now.”

 

“And that's how I lost my temper in the first place and somehow ruined his poor tires.” Deflecting the issue of blackmail, I said, “Ever since Williamson blew my cover when he revealed that classified report, Webb's been 99 percent sure I'm a remote viewer. He's so hot to put my talents to work for them, that he once offered me 200 grand a year.”

 

Gall sighed, “Yes, I remember you mentioning that once before. Is this your subtle way of asking for pay raise, Denny?”

 

“Hey, I don't care if he offers me a million.” As a half-joke, I added, “But yeah, I want a giant raise on my next government contract.” More seriously, I said, “This problem would go away if they knew that I'm working for the Chairman, though.”

 

“It's not possible to tell them about your link to the Chairman, obviously, but I wouldn't worry about those guys anymore. The next time you're approached by them - if they dare - they'll seriously wonder if it won't be their skulls exploding, rather than their Michelins.” 

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D BISHOP 

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Tired

Next day, the President of the United States called my encrypted phone and we chatted briefly. Our conversation wasn't exactly of Earth-shaking importance, since President Hedges merely wanted to ask me, “Got any hot tips on who's gonna win the Stanley Cup, son? The first game of the finals is tonight.”

 

“I'm partial to the Pittsburgh Penguins, Mister President, but then again, so is most everyone else. They're heavily favored to win it all, now.” After my “penguin” dream last month, all my willpower was required to resist the urge to place a large bet on Pittsburgh, itching to do it even while aware that such a bet, based on psychic foreknowledge, would surely bring Bad Karma down on me again. I was learning from experience that power really does corrupt, as it inexorably erodes all of the high-flown ideals that one may believe in. Nevertheless, I saw no harm in helping a “friend” make use of my unintentional foreknowledge. ”Mister President, it's a shame you didn't call me a lot sooner, so you could get better odds on them.”

 

“It slipped my mind since I've been kind of busy – heh-heh-heh. But it's not a problem, son. My bookie always gives me even-money on the favorites.”

* * *

Las Vegas hotels zipped by as I sped down Interstate 15 one afternoon. I noticed that a black Mercedes limo was tailing me, perhaps the same one I had seen behind me on The Strip that morning. Webb occasionally rode around in a huge Mercedes, and when the limo then slowly passed my car on the left, sure enough, Webb's leathery tanned face leered at me from the open rear window. After the big car pulled in front of mine in the moderately heavy traffic, the driver tapped his brakes a few times as I was forced to ride his bumper while waiting for traffic to clear around us. Seething with anger, I then veered over to the far left lane, gunned the Chevy's 427 cubic-inch engine and roared past him. The limo immediately backed off from me, just before my right rear tire began losing air rapidly, with the car fishtailing in response.

 

With the car limping along the shoulder, I smacked the wheel in frustration. I managed to exit the freeway and coax the car into the lot of a nearby gas station, where, to my righteous indignation, the limo was already waiting for me. When it then pulled along the driver's side of my car, I lowered the window and yelled, “What the fuck did you do to my tire?”

 

Webb smiled patronizingly and said, “What are you talking about, Smith? It was just a coincidence, that's all.”

 

Getting out of the car to change the flat, I replied, “Nothing's ever coincidental whenever you're involved. These tires are almost brand-fuckin'-new.”

 

“Tsk - what a shame. Anyway, I just thought we'd stop and see if you need any help.”

 

“The only thing I need from you is to stay the hell away from me.” I would have loved to get him off my back by bragging about my relationship with President Hedges, but doing so would be a serious breach of security.

 

As I searched for a jack in cluttered trunk of my car, Webb said, “I heard you got dumped by the Williamson campaign. Was it because they thought you weren't crooked enough? Ha! Didn't I once tell you that they eat people like you and Angie for breakfast?” When I didn't reply, he said, “Hey, that was a cute trick you pulled on me the other day – I'm rather impressed.” He was obviously referring to my remote view of the meeting between him and Marcus, but again, I could not acknowledge it without violating security. I just gave him a sullen look and remained silent. Then he said, “However, I don't advise that you try that again. You might stumble onto something you don't want to know about.”

 

While jacking up the rear of my car, I saw a small round spot on the flat where the virtually new tread had been melted through. Then I told him, “I stumble onto unpleasant facts all the time, Webb. And so will you if you don't leave me in peace.”

 

“Are you invoking your friendship with Williamson again? Now that's a real knee-slapper. That might have worked in the past, but he's irrelevant now – a joke. Say, how's Tina doing these days? I heard a recording of a conversation between you two at the airport when she flew in from Seattle. It made for fascinating listening.” Aside from talking about her mother, and Angie's crack cocaine usage, Tina had openly mentioned the affair between herself and Williamson. “Don't look so glum, Smith. It merely confirms what I already know about those two. Now I don't know who you really work for in government, but it must be something highly classified. Your bosses wouldn't like it if your face got plastered all over the news. And the media would probably label you The Candidate's Cuckhold – ha-har!”

 

I couldn't remember ever being so pissed-off in my life – even the shock of learning about Tina's relationship with Cliff hadn't made me this furious. In my distraction at what Webb had just said, the wrench in my hands slipped off a lug nut on the spare tire, causing my knuckles to crack painfully against the rim, which drew blood. Shaking my bad hand, I bawled, “Ow! Goddammit to hell! Why you fucker – stay the hell away from us!” At that moment, all four tires of the Mercedes limo blew out explosively, with my mood instantly changing from raging anger to stunned disbelief.

 

I frantically lowered the car and tossed the jack into the trunk. Jamming the shifter into first gear and flooring the accelerator, I had the satisfaction of seeing the confused and almost frightened look on Webb's face as I hastily departed.

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 37

Chapter 37

PAC of Lies

Two days later, I picked up Tina and my infant son, Lamar, from the airport. Her body emanated a scented mix of perfume, talcum powder and clean baby skin as we hugged at the arrival gate. After giving me a quick kiss, she handed Lamar over to me and said, “I leave town for a few weeks and meanwhile everything here goes to pot, huh.” I had told her a week ago that Grant had fired us from the campaign. She glanced around and said, ”Angie's not here with ya?”

 

“She was just waking up when I left. We had a little too much to drink last night – well, she did.”

 

“So what else is new? She been hittin' the crack pipe too, since I been gone?”

 

“Not as far as I can tell, and I've been watching her like a hawk. I suppose you know what happened to Cliff last Friday.”

 

“Yeah, that's all I heard about all weekend on TV. And he's still runnin' for president? Ha!” she laughed with disdain.

 

“I thought for sure he would drop out of the election immediately, but now it's starting to look like he's staying in the race because of all the campaign debt he's been racking-up – millions of dollars.”

 

“This is why I hate politics, Herc – the only thing politicians care about is money. So Cliff's really got amnesia, eh? I wonder if he still remembers me.”

 

“How could he ever forget you?”

 

She made a rude noise and said, “Oh you always have to say the right thing all the time! I know what yer thinkin', though – that everyone concerned would be better-off if he has forgotten me. I swear, you can be so emotionally detached! Ain't you pissed-off and wantin' to beat the livin' shit outta me for goin' out with him?”

 

“I don't like it, but we were broken-up at the time, remember? And I'm not all that certain we're back together yet.” For one reason or another, such as having a newborn to care for, we hadn't had sex with each other in months. “By the way, thanks for not talking about Cliff over the phone.”

 

“Hey I'm not a dumb-ass, Herc.”

 

“Not usually. So, how's your mother doing these days? Does she still believe that I'm Satan incarnate?” Her mother had always considered me a bad influence and something of a no-account bum - my moderately successful financial status notwithstanding.

 

“Mama doesn't think yer so bad, now, now that you've given her her first grand baby.”

 

“I half-way expected that you wouldn't come back, since you got tons of money now and can live anywhere you want.”

 

“Vegas is closer to LA, when I start work again in a few months.” After a prolonged pause, she added, “And besides, you 'n' Angie are helpless and hopeless without me.” That was the closest she could come to saying she missed us.

 

“We missed you too, Amazon.”

* * *

Early-June 1992

Now that the Nevada Primary was history, Angie and I could begin working in earnest on the voter registration drive for the General Election in November. Angie proudly attached a new sign to the front door of our old committee office, now home to the “America Votes For Freedom” committee. I wasn't overly concerned about having another break-in, as nothing of value would remain there overnight. The office was now just a mail-drop, and a convenient place downtown for volunteers to pick-up blank voter registration forms and return the filled-out ones.

 

We were but a tiny cog in the largest national voter registration campaign in American history, an all-out effort organized and financed by wealthy Democratic supporters. As might be expected, the Republican Party had little interest in increasing the size of the voter rolls, since a large majority of unregistered citizens belonged in the low-to-middle income brackets and tended to vote Democrat.

 

As Grant had promised at our last meeting, contact information from organizations sympathetic to the cause of “full civic participation of the electorate” began arriving in the mail. All we had to do was send them pleas for money, and they would happily comply. Who would argue against the achievement of such a lofty goal as the registering of every low-income citizen the US? Isn't it the duty of every citizen to vote, no matter his or her lack of interest or ignorance of the issues? All irony aside, a committee like ours was also a good front for funneling money (indirectly) into Democratic political campaigns. However, in order to avoid any appearance of impropriety, the America Votes For Freedom committee would retain only enough donations to cover legitimate expenses. All excess funds received were to be donated to other PACs that supported liberal (Democratic) causes similar to ours. Eventually, all this PAC money, collected from sources nationwide, would be used to pay for “independently” produced television and radio attack-ads aimed at Republican candidates (Republicans utilized PAC money in the same fashion). If these attack-ads happened to be full of lies and misrepresentations, candidates could truthfully declare, “I didn't have anything to do with it.”

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP

West, Texas Blast Equal to Low-Yield Atom Bomb?

As far as I can ascertain, using simple geometry, the West Fertilizer plant explosion was approximately equal in explosive force to a 1.2 kiloton nuclear blast.  The nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki completely leveled those cities to an extent of a 1-mile radius.  The authorities in West, Texas have consistently reported that everything within a 4-block radius of the fertilizer plant was completely leveled. Four city blocks are about 1/4 of a mile.

Using the formula to calculate the area of a circle (pi multiplied by the square of the radius), about 3.14 square miles of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were completely destroyed.  In the West blast, about 1/5 of a square mile was flattened, which is about 6 percent of the area wiped-out by the nuclear bombs dropped on Japan.

If the explosive yield of the Hiroshima bomb was equal to 20 kilotons of TNT, then the fertilizer plant explosion would be 6 percent of that figure, 1.2 kilotons of TNT.  Even if that figure is too high, it does give an indication of a huge amount of explosive material being stored inside the plant, perhaps more than the 270 tons of ammonium nitrate and 24,000 gallons of anhydrous ammonia reported by the company to the EPA in 2012.

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Does a Politician Actually Need a Brain?

Alone in my office, I wrote a Remote View report, including details of the supposed conversation between Webb and Marcus, and the fact that Marcus had been instantly aware of my psychic presence. I had no idea what Webb meant by “All's well that ends well”, but I imagined it referred to the events at the Williamson fundraiser, although I made no mention of that in my report, as that was pure speculation on my part. Nevertheless, I started worrying that maybe Angie was right about a conspiracy after all, because if Marcus had been involved in the disaster at the Megamax, then that was a whole new ballgame. I had seen firsthand how easily he could manipulate people into doing his bidding without them even realizing it. And his ability to read minds enabled him to plan ahead, thus solving the conspirators' problem of needing to know Williamson's whereabouts at any given time so that an “accidental” electrocution could be carried out. But I assuaged my rapidly festering anxiety by telling myself that the conversation between Webb and Marcus probably had nothing to do with Williamson.

Gall returned to my office when I completed my report, and I said, “I don't suppose you can you tell me what this is all about.”

“No, and I'm even more in the dark than you are – at least you can use ESP. I'm just a messenger boy on this assignment.” He took my report without reading it and placed it inside a locking metal attache. “If your report contains any good intel, be prepared for another assignment – and soon.”

I couldn't restrain myself from asking, “Do you know I was there when Williamson got electrocuted?”

“Yes, of course. As you know, the NSC has had you under constant surveillance ever since your committee office was burglarized.” With facetious humor, he said, “From the very subtle questions you're asking me, you must want to know if this assignment has anything to do with Williamson. I don't know anything about that, and even if I did I wouldn't be allowed to tell you one way or the other. You should know the routine by now, Denny. How could our superiors be sure that you weren't just making it all up, if you were informed of the targets in advance?”

“Yeah I'm aware of that, but let's just forget about ESP for a hot second. Don't you want to know what I saw with my own eyes? I tried to get a hold of you that night.”

He casually brushed me off. “That's not important right now. I've already read a detailed report of that incident from the NSC agents who had you under observation.” He appeared not to want to discuss the matter, perhaps for reasons other than merely wanting to avoid planting ideas in my head. But I didn't press further on the subject of Williamson – I had no desire to tap dance into a political minefield. Now he glanced at his watch and said, “Well, I got to catch the next flight to Washington – if you have any problems, don't hesitate to call me. And stick around town, in case I need you.”

On the way home from the meeting, I wondered if the two official-looking men who had jumped onstage to help (?) Williamson that night weren't actually NSC agents, rather than Secret Service as I originally believed. Just the other day, the Chief of the Secret Service said publicly that Williamson had refused the agency's offer of protection.

* * *

Two days later: The Nevada Primary – May 26, 1992

Ever since the night of the near-fatal fundraiser, Williamson's campaign staff had worked desperately to keep up a good front, as if nothing was wrong. A huge barrage of radio and TV ads in Nevada and Southern California portrayed Williamson as a hero for having saved the life of, quoting the ad, “one of America's most beloved rock performers”, Stephie Knox, who then appeared in a hastily-produced campaign ad praising Williamson as “the best hope for America”. His Democratic opponents frantically tried to take advantage of Williamson's medical problem. Burt Gort, Williamson's main Democratic opponent, changed his campaign slogan for the Nevada primary at the last minute to “Gort For President – Ready to Lead NOW”.  I, along with many other registered voters, received mysterious robo-call phone messages claiming that Williamson's campaign staffers were keeping him hidden from the media so as not to reveal his complete ignorance of the world around him.

Williamson may have lost his memory, but evidently not his political ambition, as on the previous day he gave a taped campaign speech while propped up in a hospital bed, his hands wrapped in gauze and surrounded by his wife and twin eight-year old daughters. He was well-known for his ability to speak off-the-cuff, but in his latest speech he had sounded unusually stilted, as if parroting unfamiliar material from a speech he hadn't written himself. Every so often he glanced to a spot off-camera, like he was reading off cue cards. And had made more references to the past than to the future - obviously the speechwriter was emphasizing that nothing was amiss with Williamson's memory. With his wife, Hilda, gazing at at him angelically as a good political wife should, he spoke wistfully of his boyhood determination to be the President of the United States some day, a personal detail I had never heard him mention in previous speeches.

On the morning of primary election day, Angie woke me up and said, “Get up, Denny, it's almost 10. I wanna vote early before it gets too crowded down there.”

Rolling over in bed, I grumpily replied, “Oh what's the point? Cliff doesn't have a popsicle's chance in hell, and I can't stand the other candidates.”

“Don't pay attention to the b.s. on the news – ain't that what you always tell me? Cliff is much better now, Den. He looked and sounded great on TV yesterday.” When I didn't move from my comfy position under the covers, she spanked me and scolded, “Come on, it'll take about 10 minutes to vote”.

Shaking my head, I replied with a snort of laughter, “God, what a weird fucking farce this is getting to be. Okay, let's go vote, if you really want to.”

At a nearby elementary school, Angie and I punched our ballots. I sat and stared at my ballot for minutes before voting, finally punching the perforated hole next to Cliff Williamson's name. I just couldn't bear to cast my vote for another candidate, even with Williamson being in his muddled mental condition. I mentally shrugged it off: Who cares? Cliff's campaign is doomed anyway.

But after the polls closed, the improbable happened: Williamson finished first in the balloting – just barely, but nonetheless astounding. If he should go on to win the California Primary in mid-June, he theoretically had the nomination in the bag. If that happened, then a huge fight over delegates was bound to take place at the convention. Undoubtedly, President Hedges would be overjoyed to have Williamson as his opponent, against whom he could bludgeon over the head with the fact of his amnesia while conveniently side-stepping other important issues.

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The Show Must Go On

On the TV and radio news that evening: “...The fire began in a hotel kitchen, when a container of liquid chicken fat fell onto an open flame...According to the latest medical report, Presidential candidate Cliff Williamson continues to suffer from a severe case of amnesia. When he regained consciousness at Las Vegas' Sunset Hospital last night and saw his wife and two children, he is reported to have asked an attending doctor, 'Who are these people?'. Congressman Williamson will be transferred to Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington DC later today...Vocalist Stephie Knox, whose injuries were less severe thanks to heroic action on the part of Williamson, had a happy reunion with her five-year old son and fellow members of the rock band MacWood Fleet...James Killgore, head of the United States Secret Service, said today that Congressman Williamson had thus-far refused Secret Service protection, which is available to all major presidential candidates...”

 

Twenty-four hours later, I watched Grant Hawthorne being interviewed on the national news, on which he maintained: “...These rumors of the congressman's amnesia being total and permanent are just laughable [chuckles]. I've spoken to the congressman and his wife several times since the accident, and he certainly knows who we are.” Smiling broadly, as if to disguise his desperation, he then made an incredible announcement, “The Williamson for President campaign will continue without interruption.”

 

However, if Williamson's mental state was only half as impaired as the news media were reporting, then his dream (and my literal dream) of his winning the presidency in 1992 had just been shattered like a clay pigeon – no matter how positive of a spin that Grant Hawthorne put on the situation. All of the vast education, experience and political savvy that Williamson needed to perform the duties of President of the United States had been at least temporarily erased, and doctors could not yet predict how long his amnesia would linger. More than one political pundit agreed with Hawthorne in that his campaign should continue, joking that even with amnesia he was still the most intelligent of all the candidates. But realistically, with the Democratic National Convention being only six weeks away, Williamson didn't have a chance, and his delegates were certain to switch their support to another candidate. Even if he recovered quickly, his Democratic opponents could always cast doubt on his current ability to handle the World's Most Difficult Job. So perhaps my recent dream about “1996” was prescient after all, not that it did him (or me) any good right then.

Insisting that Williamson's accident was no accident, Angie told me, “They didn't kill him – they only killed his brain.”

 

I replied with mild sarcasm, “Who's this mysterious 'they'? Anyhow, it would be practically impossible to plan something like that. I suppose you've been listening to the nuts on the radio again.” A local conspiracy theorist on his talk-radio program was already speculating that Williamson's electrocution had been planned, and that CIA-funded psychiatrists were now finishing the job at Bethesda Naval Hospital by performing secret “terminal” electroshock treatment on him while he recuperated from his burns - to ensure total and permanent memory loss. Some people said the same thing about President Roland Regulus after he spent a night in at Bethesda shortly before leaving office in January 1989. During his subsequent court deposition pertaining to the trading of Stinger missiles in exchange for Americans held hostages in Iran, he had answered “I don't remember” to every relevant question.

 

Angie then opined, “The sex scandals they used against him haven't worked, so he had to be taken out some other way.”

 

“I know you're upset about this, but just think for a minute.” Then I recounted what had happened at the fundraiser: “First there was the fire, then the sprinklers shorted-out a faulty electric circuit, and they got electrocuted. Now, if it was planned, then how could they, whoever they are, even be sure that Cliff would be standing at the right place at the right time? No, I can think of far less complicated ways of getting rid of somebody than that.”

 

She shrugged in bitter resignation. “Oh well, in his condition, he won't have to worry about any more of these so-called accidents – at least until the next election.” Expressing helpless frustration, she shouted, “God damn it, I can just picture the president, Gort, and all the rest laughing up their sleeves right now! Did you see them crying crocodile tears on the news this morning? It makes me wanna puke!”

 

That afternoon, John Gall contacted me, telling me only to meet him at my office at the Federal Building. I couldn't help believing that our meeting was in some way related to Williamson's presumed accident, although he gave me no indication of that over the phone, as he hung-up immediately after delivering the message. I was tense and nervous by the time I arrived at my office, where Gall told me, without any preliminaries: “The National Security Council has a little remote viewing job for you. I wasn't told what you're supposed to be looking for, but they tell me you might know the meaning of what's inside this envelope.” He slid a plain white envelope across the desk to me. “Go ahead and read the contents, but don't ask any questions – I'm not supposed to give you any verbal cues.”

 

“I'm really rusty at remote viewing right now, so don't expect much.” I opened it and read the enclosed sheet of paper, on which was printed merely a four-digit number - 1805. That randomly generated number represented the person, place or thing I was supposed to locate telepathically. Ideally, only one person knew who or what actual “target” the number represented, although never the number itself. As I have explained before, that elaborate double-blind procedure was intended to gauge accuracy, to verify that it wasn't merely guess work on the part of the Remote Viewer. No-one could explain how or why that mysterious technique worked as well as it did – considerably more successful than random chance would indicate.

 

“Write down any impressions you get - if any - and place them in this envelope. When you feel you're done, call me.” Gall now left me alone in my office so I could concentrate on my unrevealed task. I tried to blank my mind but I was so out of practice that it took 10 minutes before I could to clear my brain of intrusive thoughts and begin to chant my mantra: “Go, go, go...”. Finally, my skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton and my body seemingly rose up through the ceiling. A mental picture now began to come into focus: I was looking down on the Federal Building and moving in a southerly direction down the Strip. When the Conglomerate Hotel/Casino came into view, seconds later, I seemingly floated down onto the hotel's parking lot.

 

Within seconds, a drab green mid-80s Mercury Marquis pulled into a stall close to where I was standing, and out of the big car stepped Mr Webb. I followed him into the hotel, through the casino and into an elevator. Just then, however, a door slammed across the hall from my office and I was jolted out of my trance. It took another five minutes of meditation before I could locate Webb again. Now he was sitting in a hotel room with the Conglomerate's familiar purple and pink color scheme. I probably shouldn't have been astonished to see the other guy who was present there: He was the blonde-haired extra-terrestrial Marcus. Wondering exactly where I was, I looked at the room's phone – above the number keypad was a gummed label reading “Suite 1805”.

 

Webb was in the middle of telling Marcus, “...All's well that ends well, I suppose. It didn't quite go exactly as planned, but - “

 

Marcus interrupted him with: “Perhaps we should discuss this at another time.”

 

“Don't worry, this entire floor is swept for surveillance devices on a daily basis.”

 

“Yes, but I believe we have a long-distance visitor at this time - our curious friend Denny.” Marcus appeared to me to be looking straight into my eyes when he then said brightly, “Greetings, Denny!”

 

Now I felt rather like a peeping tom being caught with his pants down, and my trance instantly dissolved away.

. 

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP 

Reality Intrudes on Fiction

There's been an ongoing medical problem with a close family member, so it's been very difficult to keep up with this blog.  Therefore, the chapters for "Aphrodite Shuddered" are going to be shorter than usual, in order to give me more time to prepare new chapters for posting here.

All the problems this week got me thinking about people I've met online who have suddenly disappeared for one reason or another.  Did they die?  Did they go homeless?...Life and death go on.  Perhaps one day I'll get hit by a bus and this blog will just float around forever on the internet.  Hopefully this book will be done by then! At any rate, chapter 34 has been posted as of today, in the post below.

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Forget It!

10 seconds later:

Up on the stage, Stephie Knox and Cliff were singing Don't Start Thinkin' About the Past into a shared microphone as the band rocked. Nearly all of the 500-plus people in the room were standing and clapping, singing along and having a wonderful time – excepting Angie and myself.

Gesturing at the greasy-smelling smoke which was beginning to flow out from under the swinging doors of the kitchen, I yelled in Angie's ear, above the music and excited audience, “Come on, it's time to get the fuck outta here!”

She stared at the now billowing black smoke and yelled back, “Holy shit – something bad happens almost every time we go out!”

I gripped her hand as we calmly made our way to a nearby fire exit, its nearness being one of the only perks of sitting so far away from the stage. When we were close enough to an exit to enable us to escape without getting trampled underfoot, I repeatedly bawled-out, “FIRE!” and two seconds later, someone, most likely one of the kitchen staff, set off the fire alarm. Tentacles of of flaming oil were running from the kitchen into the banquet room. Bells began clanging rapidly and the room's sprinkler system engaged with full force, water raining down and instantly snuffing-out the audience's enthusiasm, if not the grease fire. Women shrieked in dismay as their hairdos and gowns got a soaking. Then a white cloud of pressurized chemical fire retardant blasted out from the kitchen, the force of the blast swinging the doors out. As frightened and confused guests and kitchen workers stumbled out of the banquet room, Angie and I looked back to the stage in rapt horror.

Stephie Knox's wet right hand was wrapped around the wet microphone when she got electrocuted. Evidently due to a technician's error of improperly grounding the PA system, the water hitting the stage had begun conducting electricity upon coming into contact with a short circuit in the PA's wiring. Stephie and Cliff were sharing a mic plugged into the same circuit as one that had cut-out so annoyingly at the start of the performance. And unfortunately, these microphones were not of the wireless variety then coming into vogue .

As feedback screeched deafeningly and the ceiling lights flickered, Cliff instinctively grabbed hold of Stephie and thus got zapped by at least 400 volts of electricity himself. He did manage to pull the mic out of her hands, and the unconscious Stephie collapsed to the stage. The apparent power surge caused circuit breakers to trip five seconds later, cutting power to the room, and which automatically engaged the emergency flood lights. Cliff was sprawled flat on his back. By the time the sprinkler system was finally turned off 30 agonizing seconds later, all fires appeared to have been extinguished. Their fire suppression system had worked very well – perhaps too well, in this instance.

The place was a surreal scene of pandemonium, with everyone terribly upset over the two electric shock victims. Two large men, possibly Secret Service agents, were beginning to perform CPR on both victims. Captain Harry Devlin, standing in front of the stage, was screaming at everyone, “Clear the room! Get out!” partly in reference to the danger of electric shock should power be restored to the drenched facility prematurely. Hotel security guards now forced all of us loitering near the exits to leave at once.

Less than five minutes had passed since all hell broke loose. Standing between two white marble pillars in the eerily quiet hotel arcade, Angie convulsed against me as people with wilted hair and clothing wandered past us, dazed expression on their faces. I held Angie in my arms as she wept, “They tried to kill him again!” By “again”, she meant in addition to the incident of the steel TV light nearly braining Cliff and his wife during an interview. “They mur-murdered him, Den!”

“No, no, sweetie, that's not true. It was just an accident, like the last time. He'll be okay, I'm sure he will. Look over there, Angie - the paramedics are here already.”

* * *

I expected John Gall to call me soon after the bizarre chain of events at the fundraiser, but he remained strangely silent, under the circumstances. I tried to reach him but his phone went unanswered. Angie and I spent the rest of the worrisome night trying to get the latest information about the outcome of the disastrous fundraiser. At first, the upbeat medical reports about the condition of Cliff Williamson and Stephie Knox was an enormous relief to hear. Both were expected to recover fully after their electrical burns healed and after routine physical therapy. By three in the morning, Angie and I were relaxed enough to fall sleep, and we even felt in the mood for sex.

But the next day brought mind bending news: Cliff Williamson was reported to be suffering from total amnesia - a common side effect of high-voltage electrocution. As a front-page newspaper headline that day succinctly put it:

WILLIAMSON DOESN'T RECOGNIZE OWN FAMILY

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP

Aphrodite Shuddered - Chapter 33

Chapter 33

MacWood Fleet

30 minutes later:

When we left Grant's hotel suite at the Megamax, I was still non-committal about accepting his proposal, telling him that Angie and I needed to discuss it further. Immediately after leaving, Angie told me, “We really got fucked!”

 

“Remember what I said a long time ago, that something like this might happen?” I placed a consoling arm around her shoulder as we walked to the elevator. “Don't get discouraged, babe. There's gonna be a lot more elections in the future, and an endless supply of needy - or should I say greedy – politicians.”

 

She laughed through misty tears and said, “Can you imagine moving to Phoenix and working under that creep Mark? Now I'm almost sure that he paid a bunch of dope addicts to rip-off our computers. Things sure seemed to work-out great for him, huh.”

 

“You were sure about Mary Jo, too.” I would have agreed with her about Mark Stover if not for the high probability of the Las Vegas police being mixed-up in it. He simply didn't possess the power or influence to get the police involved in the matter. “But let's forget all that - put it behind us. Maybe Grant did us a big favor, I don't know.”

 

She gloomily said, “You weren't very enthusiastic about his idea that we start a new committee.” Then her mood suddenly brightened. “I think it's a great idea – we already have experience registering voters. It'll be easy!”

 

“What he was talking about is perfectly legal and all, and maybe that's the problem. The whole process looks too much like - “ then I quieted my voice nearly to a whisper: “ - like money laundering.”

 

“Den, it's the only way that Cliff can possibly compete with the president in raising money. The way the system is set-up now, he doesn't have any choice.” That sounded as if she were parroting something that Grant or Mary Jo had told her.

 

“It still makes me slightly nauseous. We'll discuss starting a new committee after Grant pays us back.”

 

Next morning, a private courier came to our house and delivered a large manila envelope containing two certified checks. A $54,000 check from the Williamson National Campaign war chest refunded our outstanding committee debts. The other check, unexpectedly, covered my back wages of $40,000, as I had worked without drawing a salary for the past 10 months. I hadn't insisted on getting reimbursed for the 40 grand, but Grant had somehow remembered. How thoughtful, I said to myself with sincere gratitude. Then two smaller envelopes fell out of the larger one. Each contained an embossed invitation to attend Cliff's $2,000-a-plate fundraiser at the Megamax. A handwritten sticky note on one invitation read: I'll bill you for these later. Ha-ha! Grant.

 

I was caught off-guard by how quickly I got my money back, and as dollar signs pranced around in my mind, Angie enthused, “Hell yeah, we're back in business! And I already got a catchy name picked-out for the new committee.” As if reading off a theater marquis, she raised her hands, framing empty space, and announced, “America Votes For Freedom! So, whaddya think, Den?”

 

“Well, I - “

 

“First thing, we'll place ads in the local newspapers for paid volunteers. Oh, yeah, and in the college papers, too.”

 

“Just hold-up a minute - “

 

Deep in thought, she lay an index finger against her cheek. “Let's see, I can take care of all that tomorrow, while you're at the Federal Building filing the paperwork.”

 

“I don't know, Angie - “

 

She waved the air and scoffed, “Oh don't be such a worry-wart, Den! This is something we can really do, and nobody can fuck us over like last time.”

 

Hours later, as Angie worked her inimitable wiles on me, I became more and more amenable to the idea of our starting a get-out-the-vote PAC. She may have lacked Tina's athleticism in bed, but her unbounded Sicilian passion was awe inspiring at times. And with Tina and the baby currently visiting her mother in Seattle, Angie was even more energetic and vocal during sex than usual. Succumbing to her amorous blandishments like always, I resigned myself philosophically: At least it'll keep her off the streets at night. That night, I had a dream almost identical to one from almost two years ago: Cliff Williamson and his wife Hilda celebrating his being elected to the presidency. Angie and I were in attendance at this inaugural ball in Washington DC. Hundreds of colored balloons were falling from the ceiling, the air full of confetti. Then the two dreams began to diverge from each other: I happened to look down at our table and noticed the souvenir program, on which was printed: 1996 Presidential Inauguration. When I read the date, 1996, an alarm bell went off in my head and I woke up instantly, remembering little except that date. I doubted the veracity of the dream after I considered the fact that I had been booted off the Williamson campaign only 12 hours ago - “1996” could have been mere wishful thinking on the part of my subconscious.

 

Early in the morning, Gall called me and said, “Congratulations - it's been two consecutive days without your name making it into the papers. And apparently the break-in is old news now. Nice to see that it's quieted down a little.”

 

“It's quieted down a lot, in fact – Angie and I got fired from the Williamson campaign yesterday because of the burglary. Well, that, and the fact that we only raised half the money they expected us to raise. The entire Nevada fund raising operation is supposedly moving to the regional committee in Phoenix – a 'consolidation', as it was put to us.”

 

“You don't sound too broken-up about getting the ax.”

 

“After we were fired, Angie was ready to scratch some eyes out, but for me it's kind of a relief.”

 

“Yeah, and a relief for me, too,” Gall laughingly said. “Are you completely out of politics, then?

 

“Not quite. Angie and I are starting a totally independent and non-partisan committee for voter registration. Hey, if the Chairman has any favorite PACs, we'd be happy to help them as much as possible.”

 

“Oh Jesus Christ - you're kidding, right?” Then Gall sighed and said, “All right. I'll pass along your message when I – and the Chairman – can find the time. In the meantime, just stay out of trouble. Please?”

* * *

Cliff Williamson received a big boost from free national publicity that week, upon getting a celebrity endorsement from famous members of a hugely successful rock band from the 1970s, MacWood Fleet. It generated excitement in the local media as well, when it was announced that most of the band's original lineup was going to perform at the Williamson fundraiser at the Megamax that coming weekend. Angie and I were going to be there too, since we were already “giving” $4,000 to his campaign whether we attended or not.

 

After filing legal paperwork with the Nevada Election Commission, I called Grant from a pay phone and informed him about our new America Votes For Freedom Committee. Then I added, “Angie's the one who dreamed-up the cute name.”

 

In response to all that, Grant replied, “That's fantastic, Denny. Now make sure to be at the fundraiser – I'll introduce you to some people there who can help you – just some small donations to get your committee off the ground.”

* * *

The Megamax was the first in a new wave of corporation-owned Las Vegas hotel/casinos, built in 1971 and financed by Megamax Pictures, then the largest movie studio in Hollywood. At the time it opened for business, it was promoted as having the largest casino and the most rooms of any hotel in the world. In 1980, the hotel experienced a terrible fire which killed over 80 people and shocked the nation. But within a year it was rebuilt bigger and better than ever, and included a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.

 

On the evening of the fundraiser, Angie and I donned formal attire and drove to the Megamax. On the way there, the radio news announced, “...Presidential candidate Cliff Williamson is in town tonight to speak to supporters at a 2,000-dollar-a-plate...” In front of the monolithic 30-story glass-walled hotel stood one of the world's tallest bronze sculptures – a 40-foot high African elephant rearing on hind legs and with trunk held high. The movie studio adopted the elephant as its corporate logo and trademark in 1926, after an envious CEO of a competing studio derisively dubbed Megamax Pictures “a bloated pachyderm”, referring to an unfortunate string of big-budget box office flops.

 

The hotel lobby and its shopping arcades were over-arched by a golden-hued, transparent glass atrium as high and wide as Grand Central Station, or of the dome of the Pantheon in Rome. In the center of the lobby sat a huge circular marble fountain, its water jets glowing from multicolored beams of light. In the center of the fountain, water tinted with golden light was gushing from the trunk of a half-scale, chromed-plated version of the enormous rampant Megamax elephant. Under our feet, the immaculate scarlet carpeting was dotted with a endlessly repeating pattern of their golden elephant logo, the vibrant clashing colors making me see spots dance before my eyes. In fact, the shameless ostentation of the entire hotel complex gave me the urge to throw-up whenever I visited, which was rarely. Angie voiced her admiration: “Wow – this place is totally awesome!” I was happy she was displaying her usual child-like exuberance once again and having fun – it helped take her mind off the desire to torch her lungs with crack cocaine.

 

We exited the lobby and headed toward hotel's convention halls, where the fundraiser/dinner was set to begin inside one of the huge banquet rooms. We got there early, and contributors were just beginning to arrive. Inside the banquet room, a local country-rock band was playing (but not too loudly) on a large stage. Ribbons and banners imprinted with Cliff Williamson's smiling face were draping off of virtually every stationary object. As we entered, Angie, hands on hips, took one look around and said, “We did most of the prep work on this little wing-ding.”

 

“Grant will surely remember that, even if nobody else does, so don't get bummed out. Look, there's Jane!” A widely smiling Jane was greeting VIPs at the door and looking sensational, showing much tanned flesh on her swooping backside and cleavage. After schmoozing with the Clark County Sheriff and his wife, she spotted us and then sashayed over for a chat. 

She kissed us, joking, “I'm not used to seeing you two wearing this many clothes, so I almost didn't recognize you. Hey, I heard the bad news the other day. I know what it feels like to get shit-canned – he-he.”

 

I said, “We're almost happy about it, to be honest.”

 

Angie grumbled under her breath, “We're just thrilled.”

 

I asked Jane, “Are you still working the Carson City/Reno area? Grant told us he was shutting down that office, too.”

 

“It's officially shut down, but I'm still there doing the same job, getting the moolah. Grant doesn't like what's been happening in Nevada, such as the break-in here. He said we're going to close ranks and keep a lower profile until the convention's over.”

 

Angie cattily remarked, “Low profile - you mean like the cocktail fund raiser at the Conglomerate? The one that nobody bothered to tell me about?”

 

“I'm so sorry about that, honey – a really bad mix-up. Oh! The county commissioner and a state senator just arrived – I'll see you kids later. I'm supposed to be working!”

 

As Jane scampered back to the entrance, Angie said, “Well, she sure beat a hasty retreat.” Soon we we found our assigned table, which happened to be situated between the kitchen and public rest rooms. Observing the evidence of our rather low status at the fundraiser, Angie said, “I should have brought opera glasses so we can see the stage.”

 

I told her, “Looks like they booked a lot more people since last week. We planned for 250 guests but check out all the tables – enough seating for 500, or more. I bet they take in a million at least, double what we expected.”

 

“They just got lucky because MacWood Fleet is gonna do a show here.”

 

“Probably.” However, I didn't believe that the last-minute flood of contributors, mostly in their 50s or older, were big fans of 1970s-era Arena Rock. Listening to the various regional accents of many of the guests milling about, I assumed most were out-of-state Democratic supporters (and/or their shill-representatives) donating big chunks of the unreported cash incomes they had recently accumulated, rather than give it the IRS. And it's not difficult to persuade politicians and lobbyists to spend a weekend in Las Vegas at a hotel like the luxuriously vulgar Megamax.

Angie then said, “Don't look now, but Mark is coming our way.”

 

“Now don't go-off on him, at least not yet. I have no idea why, but I think he wants to help us for a change.” Mark Stover's confident body language conveyed his growing sense of power in a so-far successful presidential campaign. I felt certain he could beat me senseless if he were so inclined. He sauntered over and amiably asked to sit with us, while Angie plastered on her toothiest smile to cover her distaste for him. I replied, “Sure, have a seat, Mark. I haven't seen you in ages - congratulations on getting the Phoenix job.”

 

“Y'all ah very welcome, but Ah almost envy y'all with yo' new committee – it's nice to be independent - y'all don't have so many election laws to deal with. Hey folks, Grant wanted me to get together with yew two and discuss sendin' some donors your way. We have many supporters who ah pushin' for a big nationwide voter registration drive in this election – that's really the only sure way to beat Hedges this fall.” Angie had visibly perked-up after Mark mentioned getting us money for our committee. “Can y'all still be reached at yo' old office?”

 

“Yeah, until the lease runs out in a few months,” I replied.

 

“In that case, check yo' mail in a few days fo' info about financial supporters y'all maht be interested in knowin'.”

 

Angie said with as much politeness she could muster: “That's nice – it'll really help us get started. Have you heard about Mary Jo lately? The last I knew, she was working for Gort.”

 

Mark laughed ruefully. “Good 'ol MJ, bless her pea pickin' heart. No, honey, I haven't heard anything new. Mary Jo would still be with us, but she got a li'l too close to the flame, if ya'll git mah drift.” He was obviously making a veiled reference to the well-founded rumor that Mary Jo and Cliff had had a sexual affair, which was common knowledge amongst Southwest Region campaign workers.

 

“Yeah, she does remind me a little of a moth,” Angie replied. “More likely something that's moth-eaten.”

 

A chuckling Mark then stood up and said, “Come on, y'all, let's take a walk around the place befo' dinnah, so Ah can introduce y'all to some of those supporters Ah was just talkin' about.” Then we made the rounds of the rapidly-filling banquet hall and met other committee chairpersons and lobbyists from around the country. Soon my breast pocket was stuffed with their business cards. It was a bit startling to see Captain Harry Devlin, who was at a table with Nevada construction mogul Cowboy Clyde Harness have a discussion. They didn't notice me and I refrained from stopping to say hello. Las Vegas and Clark County had Republican-run administrations at that time, but perhaps Devlin was sensing a long-overdue shift in political winds.

 

Onstage, local Democratic politicians and businessmen made mercifully short speeches while we ate our better-than-average quality roasted “rubber chicken” dinners with all the trimmings. Then Grant Hawthorne then announced that the dinner had raised $1,125,000, evoking loud hurrahs and applause. The assembled guests roared their approval when Grant added, “Now comes the fun part of the evening – MacWood Fleet is ready to take the stage, and after enjoying their performance we'll have the pleasure of a visit from the next President of the United States, Cliff Williamson!”

 

Short seconds later, from behind the drawn curtains, came the opening chords of one of MacWood Fleet's more recent hits, Don't Start (Thinkin' About the Past), which Cliff had publicly mentioned as being one of his favorite songs. The purple velvet curtains now parted and the guests gave them a raucous greeting. But just then, one of the vocalists' microphones cut-out and a few seconds later the band stopped playing. Buck Lindsay, lead guitarist and frontman for the band, got on another mic and worked the crowd for a moment, “Hey how's everybody doing tonight! We got a little technical glitch is all. Are you all hyped for the election yet? It's so exciting to be here tonight...” Meanwhile, Megamax sound technicians could be observed running around backstage trying to fix whatever had caused the problem. After a very short delay, the band launched into the song again.

 

MacWood Fleet formed in 1972 as a straightforward blues-based rock group, but beginning in the mid-70s, their music evolved into a more commercial sound with the addition of female vocalists Stephie Knox and Christine Wood, both of whom had married and divorced current and/or former band members at one time or other. They then performed a medley of million-sellers from the late-70s: You Make Loving Insane, Fang, Nose Dust Woman and Mudslide. For the last two named songs, the kittenish Stephie Knox took center stage to warble the lead vocals. Ten minutes later, the band began to play the opening bars of the song Don't Start once more. At that point, Grant Hawthorne returned to the stage to address the audience, most of whom had not paid rapt attention to the show, preferring to hobnob with potential contributors and money funnel-ers. Angie and I were content to guzzle cocktails at our table and listen to the music. Angie had always been infatuated with sexy Stephie Knox and loved her songs of hard-luck romance.

 

As the band vamped in the background, Grant got on a microphone: “MacWood Fleet has a friend of theirs who wants to jam with the band tonight.” Grant paused dramatically and pointed toward backstage. “Ladies and Gentleman, the next President of the United States!...”

 

All the guests cheered boisterously when a grinning Cliff Williamson, strumming chords on a Les Paul-model electric guitar, then emerged from backstage and approached the center-stage microphone stand. He joined Stephie Knox in singing: “...It'll be better than before - yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone...” Now the audience, Angie included, erupted into a lusty cheer and began to clap in time to the music. But to my bewilderment, I suddenly felt like shit, with throbbing temples, nervous stomach and seized with the urge to take Angie's hand and flee from the banquet room. Considering the outcome of similar incidents in the past, I thoroughly trusted that feeling by then. “Angie, we got to get outta here!”

 

“Den have you gone fuckin' crazy or what?” replied a bewildered Angie.

 

“And Cliff's gotta get off the stage now!” Then I bellowed at the stage, as if heckling him, “GET OFF! GET HIM OFF THE STAGE!” But being so far away from the stage, I went unheard beyond the guests at neighboring tables, some of whom then stared at us and either grumbled for me to shut up or griped that a Republican operative had crashed the fundraiser.

 

Angie nudged me with an elbow and said, “Den, knock it off - you're embarrassing me! What's wrong, honey? Oh, you're drunk, right? You're not used to drinking so much.”

 

“I've only had three drinks since we got here – this is exactly the same weird feeling I got that time we were at Lance's house.”

 

“So? Are you psychic or something? Is there gonna be a mudslide here, too, Den? Ha-ha, when they played Mudslide a few minutes ago, that must've brought back bad memories,” she joshed. That sounded silly to me at first, but on second thought, perhaps that song had alarmed my unconscious mind after all.

 

I forced myself to relax but my mood was soon ruined by an extremely intoxicated, balding obese man, who turned around in his chair and slurred menacingly at me: “Yew muthafucka I oughta knock yew out fo' what yew jist say-ed! Who yew workin' fo'? Goat?” He was referring to Gort, of course.

 

The fat man was about 6-foot-4, therefore I adopted a mollifying tone: “Aw, that was just a joke. In fact, Cliff is a personal friend of mine and - “ At that moment, our attention was drawn to the clamor of heavy metal objects crashing to the floor in the kitchen, which was only 20 feet away from our table. Then from beyond the kitchen's swinging doors came a fearful babbling of Spanish voices from the kitchen staff. One panicky, repeatedly shouted word stood out distinctly: “Fuego! Fuego! Fuego!”

COPYRIGHT 2013 BY K.D. BISHOP