“What?” Malcolm said, bewildered. “Not to Jimmy Earl?”
Shirley smiled. “Politics. Bedfellows. Strange.”
Malcolm shivered. “Oh.” He sighed in defeat. “So, um, what does Lukas have to do next?”
Shirley laughed happily and jumped on him and flung her arms and legs around him and kissed him until he was near suffocation.
“Great!” she said. “That’s my spineless guy! I just love it when you’re all weak and malleable! Really turns me on. Come on, let’s go upstairs for a couple of hours, and then I’ll tell you what happens next with Lukas.”
That’s me, Malcolm thought. Mal. Short for Malleable.
But he went eagerly enough when Shirley, holding his hand tightly, headed for the bedroom.
* * * * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A boxer must learn to roll with the punches. Johnny Aggressive certainly had.
As Felicia had moved upward, power-bed-wise, Johnny had correspondingly moved from hosting a slightly sleazy television talk show with sparse viewership to being one of the more powerful ranting rightwing loonies on the air. Now he was on both television and radio, the latter a medium he would once have spurned but whose political and remunerative power he had had explained to him by Felicia in words of no more than two syllables. She had also explained why he needed to change his political colors from vaguely populist and sympathetic to the working classes to right wing, angry, and unquestioningly supportive of the plutocracy. To a man who in his youth had fought under a variety of pugilistic pseudonyms, this was easy to understand. Roll with the punches.
So why did Tom Moore choose the Johnny Aggressive Television Hour — “A hard punch in the mouth from the Fist of Truth!” — to make his announcement?
Perhaps it amused him to play Daniel in the lions’ den. Perhaps he wanted to make a point of his physical and intellectual courage when compared to the pitiful little critter in the White House. If it was the latter, he had miscalculated, reckoning without the image painted for the public by the media.
In any case, on a Thursday evening, there he was, Tom Moore, The Brain Cell Kid, daring to go fifteen rounds with the cauliflower-eared Fist of Truth himself.
Ding! First round.
Johnny comes out of his corner quickly. Chin tucked, hands up, dodging and weaving, throwing quick testing punches. Brain Cell looks like an easy mark, a glass jaw, but you never know, some people say he’s tougher than he looks.
“So you have something to tell the American people, Mr. Former Vice President?” Light hit to the shoulder.
Doesn’t shake The Kid. “That’s right, Johnny. I know there’s been a lot of speculation, and I’m here tonight to put it to rest.”
“Speculation?”
“Speculation. Hesitation. Reservation. And from your end of the political spectrum, more than a little misinformation and prevarication.”
Uh-oh! That one slipped past Johnny’s guard. It’s early in the first round, and already The Fist is rocked.
“I’m running for President again,” Moore says almost offhandedly.
Johnny dances back, raises his guard, shakes his head, circles the ring, gets his concentration back.
“Come on, Mr. Former Vice President and Already One-Time Loserman! Everyone knows that my side — I mean, the current administration — is made up of men of the highest integrity, whereas you were part of an administration that set records for sleaze and corruption and just general overall un-Americanness!”
There’s applause from the audience.
Actually, there is no audience. The applause is canned.
Brain Cell Kid frowns, loses his rhythm for a moment. The canned applause caught him by surprise.
But it’s only for a moment. Then he’s back in control again, up on the balls of his feet, shoulders up, hands up, eyes on the prize.
“You’re not stupid, Johnny. You’re better than the people you work for. I respect your intelligence, so I’m asking you to respect mine and that of the listeners.”
Oh, that got right through! Johnny can scarcely breathe! “Unggh!” he says.
“Johnny, there was a special counsel appointed with all sorts of investigative powers. He probed and pursued and spent tens upon tens of millions of taxpayer dollars investigating the President I served with, a man I’m proud to call my friend. That special counsel couldn’t find any corruption at all. Isn’t that true? You’re a guy who knows the score, Johnny.”
Johnny looks around desperately.
Ding! Time for a commercial!
Saved by the bell.
The metaphorical pugilists are replaced by a very wide man who is bursting out of his expensive suit at the chest and the waist. He has a happy, friendly grin on his round and vapid face. He reads his lines carefully and painfully from the teleprompter, pausing often.
“Hi! Wallace ‘Ten Ton’ Tenhut here. You know, back when I was a middlequarterthudpacker for the Piketon Ponies, even though I was getting pounded throughout the football season by all those opposing middlesemithudpackers, I never had to worry about medical care for my broken ribs and broken nose and crushed pelvis and crumbled vertebrae, not to mention the softer parts, because the Ponies had really good medical insurance. Even if the doctors hadn’t been able to pull me through, I knew that my family would be taken care of. That’s because the Ponies also had good life insurance policies for us. And who do you think sold us the policies for health and life insurance? That’s right! The company I’m proud to be President of and also spokesman for: American Flag Partial Life and Health Insurance Company. We can do the same thing for your family that the Ponies did for me! For only pennies a minute, you can have the confidence and security that come from knowing you’ve provided properly for your family. The President himself backs us on this.”
He chuckled. “No, not me! I mean the real President, the big President, the President of the United States! Jibber Longlegs!” He sighed. “What a guy he is. So call the number on your screen now. Or visit our Web site, which is also on your screen. And tell them Ten Ton sent you!”
Wallace Tenhut grins again, briefly allowing a glimpse of long gray-brown teeth that end in points.
Fadeout to a waving American flag.
Extremely rapid voiceover: “Offer void where investigated. Fine print available upon request via postcard to the address flashing at the bottom of the screen. Credit check and physical check-up may be required. Certain medical conditions and causes of death not covered. Sponsored organ-donor program available. American Flag Partial Life and Health Insurance Company is a wholly owned subsidiary of ColossoVerse Corporation.”
Ding! Round Two.
The Kid comes out swinging, driving The Fist back against the ropes. The man is giving the paid loudmouth a boxing lesson.
“Let’s pick up where we left off when your bosses sprang that out-of-schedule commercial, shall we?” says Moore. It’s a left, straight from the shoulder! “Every single member of the current administration has been convicted of at least a dozen major crimes. They’re a gang of filthy, wriggling demons from the lowest pits of Hell!”
Left, right! Left, right! Johnny huddles against the ropes, trying to cover up as much of himself as he can, hoping only to stay on his feet until the end of the round, which seems to be an eternity away.
“That’s why the Longlegs gang stole the election for that scumball, sleazeball, pile of shit Jibber! So they could pardon those bastards, and they wouldn’t all end up breaking rocks, as they deserve!”
“I thought you were polite and mild mannered,” Johnny manages to gasp.
The Kid looks surprised and steps back. “You’re right. I am. I mean, I used to be. Something has come over me.”
Johnny pushes away from the ropes and staggers around the ring. He swings wildly, with more hope than science. “We stole it from you once. We’ll do the same thing again.”
That was a lucky one. The Kid wasn’t paying attention. He had let himself become inne
r-directed again, caught up in pondering moral imponderables. That wild punch opened the old cut above his left eye and his face is bloody! Now he has to retreat, grinding his glove into his face to try to restore his vision.
This time, The Kid is the one whom the bell saves.
A waving American flag fills the screen. “America the Beautiful” plays softly. A stylized Revolutionary War Minuteman, thrusting out a chin that’s almost enough by itself to frighten off the dastardly British, fades into view and merges with the flag. A deep, powerful, awfully manly voice with an angry undertone begins to talk about the evils of government oppression.
“First they came for the landowners,” it says, “but I was not a landowner, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the SUV owners, but I was not an SUV owner, so I did not speak out. When they come for the gun owners, will there be anyone left to speak for me? Yes! There will be the National Musket Association! A fraternity of free men, plus a handful of token women, dedicated to protecting your right to keep and bear and fire off musket balls anywhere and everywhere you damned well want to!”
The letters NMA now fade in and join the waving flag, the firm-jawed Minuteman, and the patriotic music.
The manly voice bellows, “Join the National Musket Association! Become one of us — the few, the proud, the brave, the Musketeers!” More quietly, almost conversationally, the speaker continues, “Remember: Muskets don’t kill people. Fuzzy-minded liberal government policies kill people.”
And with a ding! we’re back for Round Three!
The Fist of Truth looks confident now, after the favorable way the second round finished.
But the Brain Cell Kid looks confident, too. Looks like he’s recovered completely. He’s calm, relaxed, strong, and the split over his left eye has closed already and is scarcely visible.
The Fist takes the offensive. “A popular President, the whole world frightened of us, and an American populace that has completely forgotten its own history. Why are you even bothering, you loser? Why don’t you just lie down and get counted out before you even begin? Avoid the humiliation.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Johnny.” It’s a flurry of blows. “The economy is in a shambles, and the people know it.”
The Fist dances backward.
“The world doesn’t fear us,” The Kid says, “it hates us. It knows we’ve become dangerous and irrational.”
The Fist is having trouble with his footwork. “That doesn’t matter! We’re strong now, thanks to Jibber. No one can touch us. We dominate! We rule!”
The Kid shakes his head slowly and deliberately. The Fist is mesmerized by the movement and drops his guard. “No, we’re weak. We talk big, and we bluster and swagger now, but we’re overextended. We have no friends. We don’t even have allies. The administration doesn’t know what it’s doing, domestically or in foreign affairs.”
The Fist can no longer raise his hands. His arms hang down by his sides. He’s defenseless. Gamely, he tries to fight on. “Jibber is... Jibber is...”
“He’s a smelly little chimpanzee controlled by a gang of scum-sucking sleazebags.”
Poor Johnny! He’s down on one knee. Both knees. Hands and knees. Swaying from side to side. Trying not to fall over. He manages to gasp, “Stronger than you.”
“Not this time. I’m going to be ruthless, this time.”
Johnny, the former Fist, moans and topples onto his side. The referee begins the count. He should have begun it well before this point, but the network is doing everything it can to make Johnny look like the winner, or at least not like the loser.
The Brain Cell Kid retreats to his corner and stands watching calmly. The referee gives as slow a count as he thinks he can get away with, but it isn’t slow enough. It’s only forty seconds into the third round, but it’s all over.
Before the referee can say “Ten!” and hold up The Kid’s hand, declaring him the winner, the scene gives way to yet another commercial.
“You know, fellows, some people are saying that if you want to show what a sensitive, caring kind of guy you are, you should drive one of those little pansy cars. You know, the kind that come about up to your belt and have no power or pickup and that you can’t take off the road on your huntin’ and cowboyin’ expeditions. The kind that use some kind of fancy-schmancy girly hybrid fuel stuff, whatever that is, who knows, only brainiac losers understand that stuff. The kind of vehicle that, well, you know, doesn’t have any big, heavy rivets. You know the kind of massive, hard rivets I’m talking about. With corners. You can hurt stuff with ’em. You can hit ’em with a big, heavy iron mallet like you carry around in the back of your truck, and they make a big clanging sound.”
Image of a big, heavy iron mallet hitting a big, heavy, massive, hard rivet with corners set into the side of a huge, cowboyin’, huntin’ kinda truck. Clang! A really mighty clang!
“Yeah. Like that. So buy yourself one of the new GM Ford Crushems. It’s an SUV. It’s a really big, tough pickup. Go anywhere. Do all your big tough work with it. Yeah, man.”
Image of a huge vehicle, front half an SUV, rear half a really big pickup. Fifteen feet high. Three axles. Immense tires. Lotsa metal. Lots and lotsa massive rivets.
“And you know what? Those little pansy cars? They get in your way, you just crush ’em. In your Crushem. Yeah.
“Comes in a ladies’ style, too. Get one of those for the little woman. You’ll feel safer knowing she’s driving that. Not some stupid station wagon made in Japan or somewhere.
“It’s your patriotic duty.”
Image of a waving American flag. It’s remarkably similar to the flag images used during the commercials for the National Musket Assocation and the American Flag Partial Life and Health Insurance Company.
A slightly quieter, less aggressive voice says in a friendly manner, “One year’s free membership in the National Musket Association given away with each purchase of a GM Ford Crushem. Offer good through October.”
While the commercial was playing, the referee was escorted from the studio, out through a rear entrance, and into a disgusting alley, where he was flung down a manhole into the sewers and the mouths of the waiting albino crocodiles.
The Fist of Truth just barely escaped the same fate.
* * * * *
It turned out that what Lukas was expected to do was become actively involved in Earthly politics.
Malcolm had never bothered inventing political opinions for Lukas — except in a marginal sense during his tense interview with Fancy — because Lukas’s purpose was the making of money. Not that Malcolm was really required to invent political opinions for Lukas now. The opinions were fed to him. He was required only to generate purple Merskeenian prose for Lukas to express those opinions in.
This caused one last momentary squiggle from Malcolm’s conscience.
Malcolm had many faults, as Marlene had so often pointed out to him. But he also had a few virtues, and among them was his great sympathy for the socioeconomic underclasses. Not that he had often put that sympathy into practice, either with his money or his vote. However, he had long ago vowed that he would never vote for a Republican candidate in any election, no matter how pretty the speeches that candidate made — or, for that matter, in changing times, how pretty the candidate. Now he was being forced to help a particularly despicable gang of Republicans keep control of the government. Without his help, it was just conceivable that they might lose that control.
“Well?” his conscience asked pugnaciously. “Now what, huh?” it persisted, gaining strength and confidence. “Huh, Malcolm? Huh? Huh?”
Shirley explained real life to him. “If you help them get reelected, they won’t have to resort to force and bloodshed to stay in power. So by helping them, you’d actually be helping to preserve the Constitution. If you refuse to help them, you’d be helping to destroy the Constitution. Not to mention yourself.”
In the face of logic like that, Malcolm’s conscience gave up the fight in a huff and went away.
So it was that Malcolm found himself speaking at expensive dinners, addressing groups of Republican Party insiders, many of whom were horrified at the idea of having Fancy as their party’s vice-presidential candidate in the upcoming election. But it wasn’t Malcolm doing the speechmaking, supposedly; it was Lukas of Aldebaran speaking through Malcom Erskine.
He stood at the head of a long table covered with expensive food and drink and lined on both sides with men with large bellies, dressed in expensive suits, and wearing worried expressions, and said, “O children of the stars, O saviors of your nation, O tall-proud walkers, O mercenary mulcters of the macho morning in America —” puzzled frowns at that one, and Malcolm told himself to exercise some restraint “— know thou now of thy leader’s thoughts and mine. Send not to ask for whom the bell tolled: it tolled for Junior.”
There was an uneasy stirring at this. Junior had had his fans, and they were still upset at his death and unconvinced about its cause.
“And also for the moon guy.”
The grumblings were replaced by nodding of heads. No one had been surprised at the setting of the moon. Few regretted it.
“So now what?” someone called out. “Does Lukas have any advice about who we should choose for the veep candidate?”
“About whom you should choose?” Malcolm said, drawing out the m. “Yes, trail riders. Yes, self-sufficient, self-made followers of the star-born cowboy way. Lukas has some thoughts.”
“Stop stalling,” Shirley’s miniaturized voice whispered in his ear.
“Fancy that. That is what Lukas thinks.”
Through the veils of cigar smoke, Malcolm saw confusion on many of the faces already addled by alcohol.
“Fancy Away,” Malcolm said. “Wise mother figure, life companion of the Great... of the great one himself. She has offered herself as Jibber’s running mate, and Jibber has smiled upon her, and Jibber is a cute little monkey.”
“But, hey, say, no way.” The speaker was an angry young man halfway down the table on Malcolm’s left. “We owe something to Junior. He did a good job for us back...” He trailed off in confusion. He frowned, trying to remember something. “Well, however many years ago that was. I’m not gonna go along with just forgetting him. He had a wife, too. She’s already expressed some interest in the veep slot. If we’re gonna go with a female candidate, then we oughta be talking about Mrs. Partridge. She’s a lot younger than Fancy, anyway. Fancy’s looking pretty bad these days.” There were a few tentative nods of agreement from others.
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