Fake News
Page 5
“I’ll be the son of a potato farmer.” Zack cracked his gum and longed for a cigarette.
The President moved his hands forward in a reaching-out gesture. “Dear friends, let me get to the point of tonight’s little chat. I have reflected on the current international crisis, and a basic realization has been shown to me.”
“One has been shown to me, too.” Zack burped on his spicy rice and shrimp dinner. The TV camera zoomed out to a medium shot of Armstrong.
“As you all know, I have been praying dusk to dawn and I can tell you this. Right and wrong moral issues are God’s law. But right and wrong political issues, here on our earth, must be decided by men favored of God. In short, it’s plain as the nose on your face. We are a favored nation. To protect that favoritism we are free and accountable to no one but ourselves.”
Zack blew a little bubble then sucked it in. “I think there’s more in that glass than water.”
The President placed his outstretched palms on his desk: “Let our action be judged only by our superior inheritance.”
“What in hell does that mean, or did I miss something, or did he switch gears?”
Zack noticed Armstrong’s left eye begin to twitch as he continued, “Let me digress for a moment (chuckles). My Presidential opponent, Senator Beno, in addition to offering up pap in order to get elected—things like guaranteed annual incomes, free medical care for every Tom, Dick and Harry on a freight siding, even if they don’t work, (agitated) and where will the money come from to pay for Sister Beno’s little shopping spree? I’ll tell you where—billions in tax hikes on our loyal corporations. Thank you very much. Those are the people who keep this country running, who create the jobs. And the nail she puts in our coffin—get this—she proposes eliminating the Marine Corps and the Coast Guard. Imagine. What will be left to protect this great nation?”
Zack put his hands behind his head. “That bugger is making this stuff up.”
Scowling, the President shook his head. “And what I was getting to earlier, the latest gem we hear from the distinguished Senator from Vermont. In the face of a threat to the very foundation of our society, she says, ‘Let’s talk to terrorists, negotiate with them, they’re just human beingssee if there is a common ground.’ (Bangs desk) That’s like telling the fox you’ll let him eat all the eggs if he’ll just leave your chickens alone.” He scowled into the camera. “Fuzzy thinking, my friends, fuzzy thinking.”
Zack confirmed his belief. “Benny is a lying son of an unwed mother.”
Armstrong’s scowl turned to a smile. “Let me say it is not Sister Beno personally I am opposed to. It is the insanity of that left wing socialist position that sours all thinking. We must protect our basic structure of economics from these confused thinkers who would return to some kind of communal mode of social engineering—redistribution of the wealth, as they call it. The planet has become too small to pander away the resources on failed, worn-out social experiments like that Beno bunch is proposing. And, God forbid, negotiate with terrorists.”
Zack flipped a page and made some quick notes: social position sours all thinking/communal mode of social engineering/god forbid.
Calmed, Armstrong continued. “As to the international threat that I mentioned earlier, this is a serious situation that must be dealt with immediately. This rogue-nation lawlessness has converged to force a time when it is ripe to, in the words of my dear departed mother, ‘clean house.’”
Zack folded his arms. “While you’re at it, how about the White House.”
The TV camera zoomed out to a wider shot of Armstrong.
Armstrong: “So, I come to you tonight with a stern warning to America’s foes both within and without. We will act decisively to preserve a way of life that is America, democracy and capitalism. Our divine destiny shall prevail.”
Zack scribbled those last words at the bottom of the page: divine destiny shall prevail.
Armstrong waggled his finger into the camera. “Make no mistake—dark forces threaten our very American way of life. The interest of private American capital, which fuels that way of life, is at stake.”
Zack pulled an earlobe. “We’re in trouble.”
Armstrong paused for water. “Let me say as honestly as I can, there may never be repeated a moment in history when, under God, a chosen people can eradicate the evils of the earth and unite one and all under an American umbrella of global democracy.”
“He switched gears again.” Zack shook his head and scratched a hasty note, American umbrella of global democracy
Armstrong: “We shall never allow anyone to threaten the foundation of America with phony giveaway programs. And we shall never allow ourselves to be held hostage by the bully beast dark forces of the world.”
Zack noted the President is not only a liar he is a narcissistic fruit cake
Armstrong: “So, our objective is clear. We will, in the coming months, for the sake of the American economic way of life, for the sake of democracy for all humanity, impose a visionary conclusive solution to international outlaw chicanery and tomfoolery with our market places. And make no mistake; our calling is no less important than the preservation of two centuries of progress in the evolution of the economics of humankind.”
Zack made another note, visionary conclusive solution then printed in large letters JOE CASE’S RECORDING??? BENNY CERTIFIABLE!
The President began to wrap it up. “My partners in freedom, this is my pledge to you tonight, on this solemn anniversary of the birth of this great nation: The first thing I vow to you is to make the streets of America safe again for freedom-loving Americans. The second thing is to end the insane darkness that is ripping the world apart.”
Vigorously chewing his Juicy Fruit, Zack bit his tongue.
Armstrong went on. “Take heart, fellow Americans. The coming months may bring some unpleasantness but I urge you to stay strong. There may never be another moment in modern history when one nation can move in a global way to fulfill the dream of the centuries—freedom for all. And I, with divine direction, am ready to forge ahead under America’s military superiority. A thousand years of peace and prosperity has come to the edge of fruition, God’s own Pax Americana.”
Zack pinched his wrist. “Nope, he said it.”
Armstrong clasped his hands. “Oh, friends, take note—this time is much more momentous than Hannibal’s decision to cross the Alps. Beyond Columbus’s discovery of a new land. Eclipses Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This is more akin to those days immediately before God created everything.”
Zack looked up. “God, with all due respect, I wash my hands of this guy. He’s all yours.” He popped his gum.
Armstrong opened a Bible. “In closing, let me read to you the words of Psalm Forty-six, verses eight and nine: ‘Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolations he hath made in the earth. He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burnest the chariot in the fire.’”
“We’re in deep doo-dah-day.” Zack cracked his gum.
Armstrong smiled as the camera zoomed out further. “And now, I leave you, knowing that I am humbly God’s servant here on earth. May God bless you all, and may God bless America with a millennium of universal tranquility. Thank you, and goodnight.”
Zack clicked the TV off, burped and spit his gum into the wastebasket. He turned and looked out his window. The sky had turned a majestic purple. He reflected. “Bullshit, Benny, just plain bullshit.”
Chapter Eight
Eight weeks later
5:30 p.m. EST
Thursday, August 28, 2024
Bare feet propped on his desk, the Labor Day edition of The Boca ninety percent ready for tomorrow night’s six o’clock printer’s deadline, Zack felt his taste buds commence their late afternoon activity– beginning with the tempting, now only a memory and unavailable palate delight: Joe Case’s famous arroz con camarones.
“Living will never be the same,” he
whispered.
Disturbing him more than the loss of the shrimp-and-rice delight was Case’s unexpected departure from the Miami scene. Strangely, without a word, nobody knew why, he and Kim had disappeared. The Bimini Road sold, a pronouncement from the new Chinese owners, Jay and Mindy Xzing, “Case moved to Bimini Island, that’s all we know” is a book with the last chapter missing, Zack thought.
The Bimini Road gone, the old cement block building the same but now home to The Tea Company, the new restaurant featured Tsingtao beer and Shanghai cuisine. The inside ambience remained the same except that the booths were now painted bright cardinal red. No Bohemia beer a problem, the Tsingtao okay, but the three foot gold embossed red poster board menus, pick one from column A, two from column B, brought a frequent lament from Zack, “I can understand religion being complicated, but this is ridiculous.”
He pushed back in his swivel chair, sat up, and, having falling off the nicotine wagon, peered at, rising out of four days of clutter on top of his desk, a pack of regular Camel cigarettes and a pack of MORE. He contemplated a Camel then shifted his eyes to the pack of MORE.
Just had a MORE, he thought.
He took a Camel, lit it and reasoned to himself. These things will probably kill you but chewing sugary gum will rot your teeth. Either way I loathe bozo bureaucrats telling me what I can and can’t do.
He slipped back into his chair and anticipated his planned Labor Day weekend aboard Veracity. Charting the course, he figured he would run out to Sands Key, anchor near there the first night then head east, get in the Gulf Stream, just drift forwhatever. Then again, perhaps he’d take a run to Bimini, maybe find Case—fifty miles, piece of cake—on that little patch of mangrove and sand finding a character like Joe Case ought not to be that difficult, he thought.
He leaned farther back, put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and imagined being on the water. In a moment, having turned the engines off, he was bobbing on Veracity’s aft deck, the shoreline gone; blue sky and water surrounded him.
Smelling the salty sea, he listened to the ocean swells slapping the hull.
Then it was there again. It was always there, the constant nagging, and he thought, Who are you and why are you hiding?
“How many steaks can you eat a week?”
He opened his eyes. He swore he had heard Joe Case’s voice.
He spoke to Jocko. “You know, Jocko, sometime the nagging punches below the belt.”
He turned to the office window behind his desk and looked south to the distant sprawl of greater Miami. Wondering about Joe Case, came to mind, Case’s “profit has no home,” which brought to mind, Senator Nancy Beno. She led snake-handler Armstrong in early polls, but Ben was slicker than the snakes he handled, he thought.
Zack turned in his chair and propped his bare feet on the windowsill.
Pondering a series of support-Beno editorials, he heard someone enter his office. Immediately, he recognized the fresh Ivory Soap smell of Mary O’Brien. Savoring the moment, he anticipated her familiar wistful voice.
It came. “Boca, you just got another call from the President’s media guru.”
He turned and watched Mary slide onto the leather sofa. She wore faded Levis, lavender V-neck polo shirt and tan tennis shoes. No socks, no jewelry, no makeup. A black-banded silver Timex slid loosely on her wrist.
“I did?” Zack said.
“Yes, you did.”
“How did I get a call if you took it?”
“Telepathy.”
“Oh…let me guess what Dr. Lande had to say”
“Same complaint as always.” Mary stretched her tanned arms over her head and pushed her slender legs out. The stretch was a tall one considering her willowy body was just short of six feet. She touched the front of Zackary’s desk with the tips of her tennis shoes and fluffed her shaggy dishwater hair.
Zack shook his head and smiled.
“What?” She flashed.
“All comfy?”
“Yes.” She flashed again and stretched farther.
“That’s good.”
She rubbed the bridge of her slightly wide nose. “How’s Boca’s day going?”
A half-smoked Camel hanging from the side of his mouth, studying the fervor in her blue eyes, deciding to ignore the Boca remark, he said, “So, what did you tell Dr. Lande?”
Engrossed in Zack’s welcoming air, she said, “Who?”
He leaned over his desk. “I thought you said Lande called.”
“You smoke too much.”
“Oh, and did you say that?”
“What?”
“You smoke too much.”
She rolled her eyes. “The White House must be reading your editorials.”
“At least we have two readers.”
“Who’s the other one?” Mary raised an eyebrow.
“You.”
“And you, that’s three.”
“So what did Lande say?”
“Says you’re bordering on actual malice.”
“Is that all?”
“Quoted some New York Times versus Sullivan case. Court held that a public person, celebrity, politician—Armstrong—who alleges a libel statement by a newspaper—you—and can prove that the statement was made with ‘actual malice’—knowledge that it was false or done with reckless disregard of whether it was false or not—can sue for damagesand you, The Boca, is publishing libelous stuff and they’re not above suing you.”
He shook his head. “She really said stuff?”
“You know, Boca, sometimes…”
“You know I don’t like that.”
“What?”
“Being called Boca.”
“Fits.”
“On what grounds?”
“Your mouth?”
“I meant Lande, libelous stuff.”
“Because you keep writing that our dear POTUS is paranoid with delusions of grandeur, a megalomaniac narcissistic snake handler, marked by infantile feelings of omnipotence, manic-depressive, disturbed, senile, a Mad Hatter,” she tilted her head, “something like that.”
“Well, let him prove he’s not.”
“Zack, come on, you have to admit you are a little excessive. Like Lande said, you’d think the old fart, you, was a licensed shrink.”
“She called me that?”
“Yes.”
“Huh, imagine. Anything else?”
“She said you’re dead wrong on that editorial citing a reliable source that Armstrong is assembling some paramilitary global unit.”
“Ten billion U.S. smackers went somewhere.”
“Zack, it’s a dangerous world. Benny is counteracting terrorism.”
“Why do you defend that snake handler?”
“No need to get edgy.”
“I’m not edgy.”
“Sound edgy.”
“Would you buy a used car from him?” Zack crushed his cigarette out.
“He’s a politician.”
“He’s a zealot for one.”
“Who’s that?”
“Himself.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“C minus.”
“Thank you.” Mary stood, stepped to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, tasted, scrunched her face, said, “Ugh, this is unusually rotten.”
Zack ignored her and mimicked Armstrong: “My fellow Americans, the time is much more momentous than Hannibal’s decision to cross the Alps. Beyond Columbus’s discovery of a new land. Eclipses Einstein’s Theory of Relativity”
Wide eyed, he looked at her.
“Why are you getting so worked up?”
“You do understand that we—you, I, humanity—all of us, are in the hands of an accidentally placed idiot who thinks Jesus Christ sleeps in the Lincoln Bedroom.”
“Boca, Boca, Boca, how you tend to exaggerate.” Mary sat on the arm of the sofa and nursed her coffee.
“I do not exaggerate.”
“Well, anyway, Armstrong must be putting t
he heat on Lande to shut you up.”
“He’ll have to change a few words in the U.S. Constitution.”
“Lande might show him how.”
“Or God.” Zack lit a MORE.
“Maybe he does talk to God.” She looked at him. “Some people say they do.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you?”
“Difference is, I know I’m crazy, and besides, the big guy isn’t talking back.”
“How objective we are.” Mary walked to the office window and looked out. “Boca, when can we have dinner?”
Her question, like a surprise jab, hit him between the eyes. Fifteen seconds passed.
She moved to the sofa and sat, “Take your time. When?”
“Mary, we’ve been through that umpteen times.”
“Just dinner, for cripes sake.” She tasted her coffee. “Ugh, I will never understand how you can drink this tar.”
“I like to think asphalt.” He exhaled.
She shook her head. “So, when can we have dinner?”
“I feel like I’m being pressured.”
“You feel right.”
“Mary, this could be construed as sexual harassment.”
“What do you mean ‘construed?’ It is.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“You don’t know?”
“Let’s see, four years”
“Four years and three months—I followed you here after Florida State, remember?”
“Journalism student, right, tennis scholarship, Sarasota High, State high school singles’ champ, no siblings, father was a football coach”
“Oh, stuff it and quit changing the subject.”
Zack picked up a Sports Illustrated invoice from his desk. “By the way, this came for you, third notice.”
She took it, glanced at the total and threw it back on his desk. “That’s yours, remember? That and free parking, half my incentive package.”
“What was the other half?”
“A ride on your boat.” She tilted her head. “Remember?”
“No.”
“Liar.”