Business Secrets from the Stars

by David Dvorkin

  Malcolm leaned forward slightly to get a better view of the man who had spoken. He stared at the man until Shirley’s voice whispered, “Okay. Identified. He’s dead. Get on with the crap production.”

  Talk about the evil eye, Malcolm thought.

  He continued. “War, as we heroes among the stars learned some thirty thousand of what you call ‘years’ ago, is not only a matter of attack, but also of defense. And defense requires knowing in advance your enemy’s plans. The Marlingas against whom your stellar hero ancestors fought were not only powerful, malicious creatures —” and favorites of all the guys at the station “— but also cunning and devious. When this fearful enemy knew of our defensive plans, they would immediately change their own attack strategy. Thus it is that your enemies have laid secret plans and made secret promises that their own running mate in your forthcoming election will be female —”

  A stir ran around the table.

  “— and black —”

  The stir increased.

  “— and homosexual —”

  The stir became a rumble of rising voices.

  “— and Jewish —”

  The party men were rising to their feet and begging Lukas to assure them that it wasn’t so.

  “— and a homeless street person flag-burning feminist fetus killer!”

  Screams and shouts and strong men fainting and pledges of support for the only possible running mate who could preserve control of the White House for the Grand Old Party. The cries of “Fancy! Fancy! Fancy!” became a roar in unison.

  This was the way these dinners almost always ended. Usual reaction, said Malcolm to himself.

  * * * * *

  To a degree, events happened just as in Fancy’s vision of... well, however many years earlier it was.

  At the Republican convention, Jibber was nominated for reelection by acclaim. He gibbered for a while from the podium. Everyone was assured that he had just delivered one of the most eloquent and stirring acceptance speeches in the history of any American political party. One line of it, the delegates were told, signified his selection of Fancy Away as his running mate.

  Fancy was then nominated by acclaim.

  The campaign was under way.

  But then things got a bit rough.

  To the amazement of party officials, Daddy Longlegs, Mr. Umbral, and reporters covering the campaign, the Jibber charm seemed to have worn off.

  Oh, he was still a cute little monkey. No one would dream of denying that. And he still did a fine job of playing cowboy and posing in his little boots and hat and squinting into the distance. And he gibbered away quite charmingly on the campaign trail.

  And yet, despite all of that, the polls showed Tom Moore, who had won the Democratic nomination fairly easily, first staying even with Jibber and then actually pulling ahead.

  Perhaps it was the awful state of the economy. Perhaps it was the occasional outbreaks of armed insurrection here and there and massive forest and brush fires and terrible floods and windstorms and general horrendous weather extremes. Perhaps it was the mounting losses in the large number of almost secret small wars American forces were engaged in all over the world. Perhaps it was the dramatic growth of foreign competitors, such as the European Union, which was rumored to be holding serious talks with both Russia and Canada about those two countries joining up. Perhaps it was the ill-defined feeling on the part of the American public that something had gone wrong, that the country had taken a wrong turn somewhere, that the era of American dominance in the world had already ended, and that it had ended a generation or two earlier than historical forces should have caused it to end.

  There were even protests! Against Jibber! How could this be? How could any true American raise his voice against this cute little monkey? And yet some did.

  There were few protestors at first — just a handful at each campaign appearance by Jibber. They held up signs with fairly mild messages, like GIVE US BACK OUR BUDGET SURPLUS. Boring, really. Easily ignored by the press. Especially since they were forced to remain within four foot by four foot First Amendment zones, and those were always situated blocks away from the place where Jibber would be putting on his little squinty-eyed tough cowboy act for the rubes.

  Ignoring the protestors turned out to be a mistake, though. Even though they were never shown on the evening news, they were emboldened by being allowed to protest at all. They recruited more of their scummy fellows. Their numbers grew. They ignored the First Amendment zones. Their signs began to bear more provocative messages, like UNELECTED FRAUD and JAIL TO THE THIEF and EAT GRUBS AND DIE. Every now and then, and despite the great care taken by cameramen and editors, viewers of nightly television news still caught occasional glimpses of the knaves and their treasonous signs.

  Pictures of the protests spread by e-mail and were posted on reprehensible Web pages. The crowds of protesters grew ever larger. Their signs became ever more daring.

  It was time for a lesson.

  Jibber was scheduled for a performance in Indianapolis, in front of the state capitol. A First Amendment zone was set up a block south, on Maryland Street. This was much closer to the event than previous First Amendment zones. That made it much more likely that the protestors would be seen on the evening news. That was the intent.

  This particular First Amendment zone was two feet by two feet. Five hundred protestors showed up and were directed and then forced into the four foot square space by 5,000 heavily armed and armored city police, National Guardsmen, and U.S. Marines.

  Now, as a consequence of youth and vegetarianism, the average left-wing protestor is rather slenderer than the average American. According to a number of reputable scientific studies, the four square feet allocated for free speech in Indianapolis on that balmy day could have accommodated a maximum of six such protestors if they all exhaled at the same time. That’s not allowing for their signs or their rude gestures. So that left 494 of them outside the First Amendment zone. That is to say, 494 of those wretched, un-American creatures were without any legal grounds for exercising that right of free speech that they childishly thought the Bill of Rights guaranteed to them wherever they were in the United States. Astonishingly, they insisted on exercising that right even though they were clearly not entitled to do so. Who could have imagined such effrontery?

  Actually, the Longlegs political advisers could have imagined it and had imagined it and were counting on it and were well prepared for it.

  The news cameras arrived. They were directed to nice vantage points.

  All of a sudden, helicopters roared in from all directions. They landed on the street and in every available open space and more heavily armed and armored troops emerged from them. Giant vehicles rumbled in along every street and disgorged still more well equipped, uniformed patriots. They were joined by barely restrained packs of slavering dogs and mounted policemen riding powerful and nervous horses whose eyes rolled around in their heads — a visible sign of the unpredictable, murderous stupidity characteristic of the species.

  The dangerously outnumbered police and National Guardsmen and Marines were being reinforced just in time! If they had not been, who knows what might have happened in that tense and dangerous situation? Their foe was ruthless, unprincipled, angry, and in all too many cases inadequately shaved and bathed.

  There was a moment of misleading calm.

  The two mighty armies faced each other across a six-foot no-man’s-land of concrete. The breeze stilled. Birdsong ceased. The world held its breath. The future of democracy hung in the balance.

  Then the forces of law and order smiled happily, raised their nail-studded clubs, and charged.

  The injuries were ferocious. Five policemen suffered rotator cuff tears from swinging their clubs too vigorously. An unknown number of police and military uniforms were so badly stained by blood and brains and various other disgusting stuff that they could not be cleaned and were buried with full honors. A half dozen clubs were actually broken, and one pitiful dog
lost a tooth! (But that’s okay: he was later given a medal in a touching ceremony attended by a spare Cabinet secretary.)

  The un-American enemy did not escape without injuries, you will be glad to know. As the protestors were hauled away so that they could rot deservingly in jail, television viewers who were still paying attention noticed that arms, legs, and not a few necks were bent at very strange angles and in a few cases seemed not to be properly attached.

  The lucky six protestors who had arrived first and squeezed into the tiny space where the First Amendment applied were untouched. After all, they had been following the rules. In fact, as the battle progressed, they managed to squeeze so much more closely together that it was possible that another demonstrator might have been able to fit in with them and also enjoy the blessed rights protected by our much admired and imitated Constitution. If any other demonstrator had still been in a position or condition to stand up.

  There were no more protests.

  * * * * *

  But Jibber’s poll numbers kept falling and Moore’s kept rising anyway.

  It was incomprehensible to the Longlegs gang. They simply couldn’t understand it.

  But of course the reason it was happening didn’t matter. What mattered was the danger that Jibber might actually lose the election.

  Something had to be done.

  First the Longlegs clan tried the obvious and easy approach, the one that had worked so well the first time. Whenever Moore spoke, hired hecklers yelled the usual insults at him: “Nerd boy!” “Smart kid!” “Liarliarliarliarliarliar!” “Bald man!”

  Some of those hired hecklers were reporters covering the campaign. During the first two debates between the two candidates, some of those hired hecklers were the panelists asking the candidates the questions.

  The National Musket Association did its best to help. They would show up at the edge of the crowd during Moore’s appearances and fire their muskets in an attempt to drown out his speeches. This was not very effective, though, because their muskets were of course single-shot muzzleloaders that required much fussing with balls and rags and black powder and ramrods and so on, and the Musketeers were all old, crotchety, arthritic, severely overweight and out of shape, inept would-be warriors. They did distract the crowds’ attention from Moore from time to time, but not in the way they intended.

  Just as they had four years earlier, the various news channel clone announcers did their best to help.

  When Bip and Bop were caught quite literally red-handed after machine-gunning a group of German tourists in front of the Lincoln Memorial and then picking the corpses’ pockets because they — Bip and Bop — were fresh out of beer money, the press uncovered a monstrous scandal involving Tom Moore’s wife.

  The news clones made sure that this scandal dominated the evening news. Mrs. Moore, they reported breathlessly and wide-eyed, had just been issued a parking ticket! She had parked in a no-parking zone! In Washington, D.C., itself, the nation’s beloved capital! Why, that was practically in the Oval Office! And her husband had the audacity to ask the voters to let him besmirch that same Oval Office with his presence? Oh, these were evil and declining days, indeed. The great republic was skirting the abyss, and only one cute little monkey could save it.

  Mrs. Moore protested that she didn’t drive and indeed didn’t even have a driver’s license.

  The press was even more scandalized. This shameless woman, who actually shared a bed with the disgusting Tom Moore, and who knew just what they did there, had not only parked her car illegally practically on the sanctified floor of the Oval Office itself, she had also been driving without a license! Nauseated, the news clones could scarcely force themselves to mention this depravity further, although they would somehow manage to do just that repeatedly for the remainder of the campaign.

  But how about those Bip and Bop gals, huh? What a pair of cutups! And so appealing, too, in their charming, free-spirited youthful way. The Toothsome Twins, one male newsreader called them. “I realize that you’re a gal, too, Joanie,” he said to his partner, “but you gotta admit they’re a very attractive pair of young ladies.”

  “I guess so, Jerry. Now, let’s continue with this terrible breaking story about the Moore woman’s traffic crimes.”

  “Uninhibited barely legal twins,” Jerry said. “Whoa.” He licked his lips. He seemed oblivious to Joanie’s constant warning looks and kicks under the desk. “They are of legal age now, aren’t they? Bip and Bop?”

  “I believe so.” Joanie gave up on him and turned toward the camera. “Let’s bring our viewers up to date. Earlier this evening, the alleged wife of the alleged Democratic candidate for President was observed illegally parking her car practically on top of the desk of the real, actual, honest-to-God President of the United States, the divinely ordained Jibber Longlegs himself. We’re glad to report that the beloved cute little monkey is safe and unhurt. As for the so-called Mrs. Moore, however —”

  “Did you see that one shot of Bip?” Jerry asked her. “When she tripped over that dead German guy and her skirt came up to her waist? Man, oh, man...”

  “We’ll be back right after these messages,” Joanie said.

  “Hey there! This is Ten Ton Tenhut, former famous jock. I just took on the job of Former Famous Jock Fake Spokesman here at ColossoVerse Corporation. I’m speaking to you from my new office up here on the 55th Floor of our headquarters building in downtown Piketon. The view is great. Hey, look at this!”

  He pointed, and the camera swiveled to show a wall covered with the mounted heads of lions and leopards and cheetahs and Cape buffalo and other huge, fearsome beasts.

  “I bagged these myself! Got ’em over there in Africa. I was on a hunting safari with former President Daddy Longlegs and our amazing current President, Jibber Longlegs himself. Man, you shoulda seen the way Jibber took care of those lions and stuff. Made me even prouder to be an American than I already was.”

  There was a certain degree of exaggeration in this account. The slaughter had not taken place in Africa but at Great White Hunter Safari, a game farm in Florida owned by a major donor to the Jebber Longlegs gubernatorial campaign fund.

  The farm bought aging lions, tigers, bears, and so on from zoos and traveling circuses. Some of the big cats came from private owners who had bought them as cute cubs. After a few months, owning such pets no longer seemed like such a good idea, and not just because of the rising butcher bill.

  At Great White Hunter Safari, the tired, confused, hungry, mostly old animals were drugged to provide an extra margin of safety and chained to posts sunk deep into the ground to provide yet a further margin of safety. Then they were peppered with bullets from a safe distance and from the far side of a deep ditch by manly men who paid a high fee for the privilege. Eventually, despite the poor accuracy of the mighty hunters, the four-legged beasts died, after which their heads were removed and prettied up (colored putty worked well for the many bullet holes) for proud display by two-legged beasts.

  Of course Jibber had not been present. No force on Earth would have gotten him that close to those big cats, not even old, drugged, chained-up ones.

  Daddy had been there, though, firing away, and whooping and hollering like a television Texan. He was putting some things to rest.

  “Anyway,” Ten Ton said, “the reason I’m here on your screen right now is just to tell you that we really like you, we think all you guys are great, and we’re here for you, everywhere, all the time. We’ll have more to tell you in the future about the role you’ll be playing in the new ColossoVerse, but for right now, that’s all I wanted to say. ’Bye now!”

  The newsroom appeared again, with Joanie sitting alone at the desk looking very perky. “Welcome back, everyone! We’ll have a five-second recap of international news, followed by the twenty minutes of sports updates that we do every half hour, and then please stay tuned for an hour-long special I’ll be hosting titled, ‘The Moores: Merely Evil and Depraved, or Actual Pawns of Satan?’”


  The glossy magazine inserts in Sunday newspapers across America ran stories about Jibber’s astonishing heroism during the Viet Nam War, telling readers how he had flown his jet fighter on solitary support missions, braving fearsome ground fire to help embattled American troops, and how, on two occasions, when that help was not sufficient, he had returned to his base and then led a thrilling charge on horseback, deep into Vietcong-held territory, six-guns blazing, to rescue our gallant lads. Meanwhile, said the magazines, Tom Moore had been hiding stateside, emerging only to spit upon returning American soldiers.

  None of this helped.

  Moore was pulling further ahead in the polls. Just possibly, the Longlegs-Umbral-inspired propaganda had gone just a tad too far and had thus lost credibility. Scenting victory at last, the Democratic leadership chipped in all their pennies and quarters and purchased an almost complete set of vertebrae.

  The situation was perilous. Sterner measures were needed.

  * * * * *

  Came the third and final presidential debate.

  Moore looked calm, confident, even a bit cocky.

  Jibber looked nervous. For once, he almost seemed to understand what the human beings he lived with had been talking about.

  Secret Service agents were scattered about the auditorium and four of them stood protectively on the stage, one on each side of Jibber, one on each side of Moore. They stared around sternly at the crowd, at the candidates, even at each other. From time to time, they exchanged quick hand signals. It was very impressive.