HouseQuake Hangover

The Secretary of the Treasury was positively beaming.  Harper could tell he could barely contain himself.  It was probably the only instance he had seen Jake Hilton smile since his contentious confirmation.  Harper didn't like it.  The smiling.  It's not that he had anything against Secretary Hilton professionally; he didn't really have anything against him at all.  Sure, he wasn't Harper's first choice to head up the Treasury Department.  He wasn't even his fourth.  Let's just say Harper had a little handholding in his ultimate selection.  Harper wished, just once, they would let him have his own way.  Anyhow, that smile was just too...too small and queer on a man of Secretary Hilton's physical stature.  Particularly paired with that little mustache he was sporting.  Had he always had one?  Harper had to periodically keep himself from scowling as Hilton spoke.

HILTON:  Listen, I know Anderson and Valetti were the popular choices.  Both decent men.  Fine men.  But you looked past all the BS politics and picked the most capable person.  I really have to commend you again, Mr. President.

Harper casually leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed the metaphorical air brake.  What made the head of the United States Treasury so giddy was the fact that his high school sweetheart was just nominated and confirmed as the new Chairman of the United States Federal Reserve Board.  Of course, the financial titans hadn't seen each other since high school graduation, but apparently, Jake Hilton thought this was finally his chance to try and rekindle that flame.

HARPER:  I know she'll do a bang the job up.

Harper winked.  Hilton nodded and licked his lips.

HILTON:  We'll all have to have lunch together when she's back from Basel.  Maybe you could give her a ring?

Hilton returned the wink.  Hilton raised an eyebrow.  Basel, eh?  Hilton quickly noticed his err and changed the subject.

HILTON:  So we're all square on the broad strokes of my suggestions?  I can go over it again if you want.

Harper would probably need them digested a little before he would get it.

HARPER:  Sure, sure.  Less rich people, less poor people.

Ok.  Maybe he did get it.

HILTON:  Very good, sir.
HILTON:  Heh.  You're not the only one with one of them fancy degrees.

Harper hated condescension.  More than anything.  Well, almost anything.

HILTON:  Of course, sir.  I didn't mean...
HARPER:  Don't get too big for your britches there, Jakie Jake.
HILTON:  Certainly not, Mr. President.
HARPER:  Let's not forget who's in charge here.

That sure wrinkled his mustache.

Right then, Secretary Hilton made this movement, this sort of jerk upwards, like he developed a hiccup at that very moment.  Maybe he sneezed.  But there was that smile.  Weird.

HILTON:  Not at all, sir.  You are the undisputed leader of this country.
HARPER:  And don't you forget it.

There was a time when a fellow may have called the President of the United States the leader of the free world.  The one to set the example.  The one to protect the little guy.  So much swagger.  It seemed as though this notion had evaporated, as other leaders didn't appreciate the United States traipsing through their back yards, raiding their fridges, and crashing on their couches in it's underwear...all in the name of fighting fear.

HAPER:  The economies been fine on my watch.  Long before you got here.
HILTON:  It's been phenomenal, sir.  The tax cuts are really helping people.  Stueben and Winters did a lot of good work over the past decade.  Greenstein too.

Perturbed that he wasn't receiving full credit for the superficial way things stood, Harper stood up himself and walked to the window to take in some reality.

HARPER:  Housing market's surging also.
HILTON:  Absolutely.  It's on fire.

There was that hiccup again.  Harper supposed it was becoming a tick.  Perhaps even a tell.

HARPER:  Did you know my Pops just sold his ranch for seven million?

Harper paused for a moment, expecting a hearty gasp since Hilton seemed to have trouble with his diaphragm.  Nothing.

HARPER:  Moved back up North.  He said they missed the seasons and the cold salt water.
HILTON:  That's a plum chunk of change.  I hear that cold salt water clears you right up.
HARPER:  Damn right.  I'm thinking of having Jeffy put a down payment on a nice vacation home up there for me and Olivia.  Been looking at it for a while now.  She's thrilled about the idea.  They're asking two million for it.  It's got three bathrooms though.  And a hot tub.
HILTON:  It sounds wonderful, sir.
HARPER:  Heh, yeah.  I think I'm going to do it.  If I sit on it, it could be on the open market for two and a half, three million.  Right?

Harper turned to Hilton just as he flashed that smile again.

HILTON:  The way that market has been going...no doubt, Mr. President.

Harper turned back to the window.  His own haggard reflection stared back at him.  All the grays.  Harper reached up to touch what had formerly been a lush head of auburn hair.  He was always a fighter, but the fight had been winning more recently.  He could certainly use some rest and relaxation.  Not just those changes of scenery where the whole White House apparatus had to be uprooted and transplanted into one of the Babington family's estates.  He needed some real rest.

HARPER:  Then I'll do it.

Harper could see Hilton's smile get larger in the window reflection.  Jesus, Hilton was becoming an excitable guy.  Funny, Tripp was never one to be sweet on the uppity type.

HILTON:  Did you have a plan, in case, maybe it wasn't?

The rapid change from sunshine and sugarplums to doom and gloom caused Harper to whip his head around.

HARPER:  What do you mean?  Everything's great, isn't it?
HILTON:  Certainly, sir.
HARPER:  There's a lot of steam in this engine.  A lot of gas in the tank.  Not a chance things go south on my watch.
HILTON:  I think we'll be fine.  I just meant...it's always good to be prepared.

Harper turned back to the window.  An economy in the crapper would be the perfect capstone to his time at the wheel.

HARPER:  That's rather grim.
HILTON:  Apologies, sir.  I just think it's worth having something in the back pocket.
HARPER:  Well then, Jakie, get on a plan.  Just in case.
HILTON:  Yes, sir.  I'll have something for your office as soon as possible.

The President decided he didn't need to jinx it.

HARPER:  No rush there.

That noise.  Again.  Officially a tick.  Harper turned back to ask Hilton if he was aware of it, when he was preempted by a knock at the door.  Without response, the door cracked open, and Tripp Sweetwater poked his head in.

TRIPP:  Oh, Jake, it's you in here.

Secretary Hilton stood up with a nod, almost a bow, and began to gather his things.

HILTON:  Hello, Mr. Vice President.
TRIPP:  Am I interrupting anything?

Harper only assumed he was talking to him.

HARPER:  No, we were done here.  Right, Jakie?

Hilton gave a shallower nod and made his way to the exit.

HILTON:  Good day, Mr. President.

Just as he passed Tripp by, he extended him a light jab on the shoulder and snickered.  He also leaned into Tripp's ear and whispered what Harper made out to be "I'll see you on the plane".  Tripp just smiled and ushered his new cabinet colleague out of the Oval office, shutting the door behind him.

Tripp paused with his back turned to the President for a moment, presumably to gather his thoughts.

HARPER:  So, Bas-

Tripp interjected.

TRIPP:  Harper.  What the hell?

Harper slummed into his throne.

TRIPP:  Speaker Taggert says you haven't been answering, or returning his calls.  His office has been trying to get ahold of you for hours.

Harper spun around and looked out the window.  How he wished he could be free again.

TRIPP:  Harper!  Now more than ever, we all need to cooperate and get things done.  We had a whole plan, Harper.  Do you remember that?  Do you remember the plan we had before all of it got hijacked.

Tripp paused for a second to reflect on his poor choice of words.  Harper didn't seem offended.

TRIPP:  We've still got a couple weeks to push some things through.  Some things just can't be ignored.  There are people counting on us.

The sound of a pressurize can cracking just about caused Tripp a conniption.

TRIPP:  Christ Shitting Almighty.  You're joking.  It's not yet 10:00 AM and this is the Oval office.  Show a little respect.  Show a little dignity for yourself.

From beyond the chair, Harper extended his arm to display his refreshing beverage of choice.  A sparkling water.  Cranberry hinted.

Tripp hung his head and made his way to The President's desk.  Like a recently disciplined puppy, Tripp cozied up to the chair and sat on the desk.  Harper spun around, trying to hide his smugness.

TRIPP:  Look, buddy.  We've still got control.
HARPER:  It's over.
TRIPP:  That's not true.
HARPER:  It is.  We've got no shot at getting anything meaningful through now.
TRIPP:  Things are going to be a grind starting next year, and you're going to have to veto the hell out a lot of popular stuff, sure.  But we have to act now to show you're not just here to be the heavy.

Harper appeared to entertain the idea.

TRIPP:  The tax reparation bill is a big ticket item.  We need to get that through.  All that money that's tucked away in some other country's pockets.  It's God honest treason.

Harper made the soda opening sound with his mouth and shook his head in disbelief.

Tripp had him on the hook.

TRIPP:  We need that money working here, in the good ol' U.S. of A.  Then there's the tax cuts for the people.  We can't just rubber stamp a tax cut for corporations without giving average Jane a little something sweet.

Harper raised and eyebrow and looked up at Tripp.  Tripp couldn't hold it in.

TRIPP:  Ha!  Ok, Average Jane Ferrari.  But these are the people that keep this engine running.  Trickle trickle.

Harper grinned.  He fancied Trickle as a funny word.

TRIPP:  There's broad support for shoring up the boarder.  We can do something there.  Keep that strong man image up.

Harper snorted at the implication.  Recent polled had told him the public saw him as a bumbling buffoon when it came to law and order.

HARPER:  Even after I got that bastard Udir.  They still didn't give a damn.

Tripp was growing impatient.

TRIPP:  As you'll recall, I advised against the decision to hand him over to the Iraqis.  It was the Wild West out there after Udir fell.  We could have had his head in our noose for the rest of his tinpot life.

Harper rolled out his neck with an accompanying groan.

TRIPP:  Either way, the people wanted Al-Azad more.  What, with his constant internet videos boasting and bragging.  Disgraceful.  He's the real villain in our saga.

Tripp put his hand on Harper's shoulder.

TRIPP:  Let's make a pact.  Right here.  Right now.  Let's vow to catch that son of a bitch and waterboard the hell out of him until he tells us where his entire fucking family is.  To pull out all his finger and toe nails.  To cut his-

Harper put his hand on Tripp's.

HARPER:  Deal.

Tripp smiled and cleared his throat.

TRIPP:  Maybe we can try again at the Sex Offender bill.

Harper raised his fingers to his eyes to offer them a massage.

HARPER:  That should have been a no brainer.  Why should I be pushing all these things.  They're common sense.  That was pure horse shit.

Ever since Hurricane Bartholomew ripped through Florida, President Babington wasn't especially seen as a protector.  What a disaster that was.

TRIPP:  Maybe this changes the "Absentee President" narrative that they've got running.  It show's you still care about the small stuff.

Harper relented.

HARPER:  Perhaps.  Maybe.

Tripp precluded victory.

TRIPP:  That's my guy.  Now, the first thing we have to do, is squash whatever this beef it is you and Taggert have between yourselves.

Harper flared up.

HARPER:  Don't you think for a second I'm extending the olive branch to that shit.
TRIPP:  Look, I don't see what the big-

Harper's left eye twitched in what resembled rage.

HARPER:  He completely blew up my Social Security package!
TRIPP:  Don't get started there.  Extenuating circumstances.  He had no choice.

Harper banged his palm on the desk in frustration.

HARPER:  We had a deal in principle.  Then he turns around and makes me look like a jackass.  Like I'm standing here holding my dick in the wind, like I'm completely out of the loop.

Tripp looked at his watch.  He only had a few more minutes to spare.  He had much more important places to be.

TRIPP:  If I can whip up the votes for these measures, and make it look like you're the hero in the process, we wouldn't have a problem correct?

Digestible sentences enticed Harper.

HARPER:  Well now, those are the ideas I'm paying you for.
TRIPP:  Good man.

The duo simultaneously shifted their attention outside the window, each deciding victory in the exchange.  The elephant in the room soon weighed too heavy on President Babington.

HARPER:  You know he blames me.  Taggert.  Grist too.  I doubt they can get over it.

Tripp hesitated a moment.

TRIPP:  I think we all deserve a little bit of blame of the meltdown.  Some, more than others.
HARPER:  It was a bloodbath, alright; A God damn earthquake.  I didn't see any urgency coming out of the Hill.  I've got my own house to worry about.  I need to make sure they're getting reelected?  They wanted me on a plane every damn day of the week.  I'm the President!  I'm supposed to govern, not stump for gumps.

Tripp nodded his head.

TRIPP:  There was a lot of bad luck on our side, too.

Harper raised another eyebrow.

HARPER:  Chet Boweling was "bad luck"?

Tripp cleared his throat.

TRIPP:  Well, maybe not Chet Boweling.
HARPER:  You think it was just a spot of "bad luck" that he willingly corresponded the most heinously explicit things I've ever read to that boy from Arkansas?  You remember what he said, right?  The photos he sent.  He wanted to-
TRIPP:  I read the testimony, thank you.  Irredeemable.
HARPER:  And they think I'm the ass hole that lost it for them?  The House is full of these...these pedophiles and degenerates.

A bit of hyperbole, but an apt assessment.

HARPER:  They killed the party.  Not me.
TRIPP:  You may be right about that, but I was talking about LeMay.

A bit of sadness overcame Harper.

HARPER:  Oh.  LeMay.  What a screw job that was.
TRIPP:  Indeed that was.  Unfortunately, it was probably the straw that broke the camels back.
HARPER:  Clearly a set up.


Harper couldn't help but imagine himself in Todd LeMay's situation.  A whole privileged life ahead of him, taken away because he took a couple bucks from the wrong tribe.  Life behind bars.  Harper reassured himself he had the fortitude to take his own life before he was put in a cage.

HARPER:  A pardon is still out of the question?

Tripp mulled it over.

TRIPP:  Maybe in a couple years.  At the very end.

Harper nodded.

HARPER:  Have you heard anything from him, or I suppose Tammy?
TRIPP:  Not a thing.  Maybe I'll give her a call now that mid-terms are over.
HARPER:  Give her my warmest regards.

Tripp smiled warmly.

TRIPP:  Of course.

Harper shuddered as his mind reverted back to Boweling.

HARPER:  Now Boweling...Boweling should be the one behind bars.  Justice really botched that.  Sick prick.  What would possess a man to want to do something like that?
TRIPP:  You mean, prey on young children?

Harper puzzlingly backtracked.

HARPER:  Well.  Certainly not the boys.  That's sick.  It's disturbing.
TRIPP:  Appalling.
HARPER:  Now, the girls.  That's where we have a problem.  We try to keep them safe from all those creeps out there, but God bless 'em, we all know how sometimes the girls grow up a little too fast for their overalls these days.  Some of them come through here on those tours and I just have to convince myself that those girls are not over eighteen.  It sure looks like they can walk the walk to me.

Harper winked.

TRIPP:  You've got to be careful talking like that.
HARPER:  I know, Tripp.  I'm just talking between us.
TRIPP:  You sure are lucky we banned audio recording in the Oval Office.

Harper refocused the point.

HARPER:  You're telling me, when Richards brings his daughter through here, and she's wearing those tight black legging things and those furry boots, you aren't copping a peak?

Tripp raised him own eyebrow and reminded Harper of the implications.

TRIPP:  She's sixteen, Harper.

He wasn't surprised.

HARPER:  And you are flat out denying that you want to be the first to get into that?

Tripp didn't give it a second thought.

TRIPP:  In a heartbeat.

Harper stood up, slapped Tripp on the back and chuckled.

TRIPP:  Keep that between us.  Olivia would murder you.
HARPER:  Sure, sure.  She'd probably choose slow acting poison, or some other drawn out process to really put me in agony.

Tripp winced.

TRIPP:  On that slightly off-color note, I really have to go.  Promise me you'll call Taggert.  Smooth it all over.  Be the bigger man.

Harper groaned.

TRIPP:  We can really get some good done here as long as we don't throw in the towel.  We have to be fighters.  But it's going to take teamwork.  Let's be team players.  For country.

An appeal to Harper's patriotism was always a smart play.  Harper nodded, signaling he was game.

TRIPP:  Call him.  Tonight.  Don't ask about his daughter.

Tripp smirked as he worked towards the door.  Harper's shaken confidence stopped him.

HARPER:  You think I can rehab my image?
TRIPP:  I truly do.  There's plenty of time.
HARPER:  Two years will be gone quick.  Faster than the first six.

Tripp couldn't tell if Harper was joking.  He sure as hell hoped he was.

TRIPP:  Even after we get kicked out of here, you have a lifetime to change how people remember you.  Look at Fenton Ross and Barney Page.  They went from rock bottom to Elder Statesmen.  Ross just got those Americans freed from North Korea.  Page is doing that Malaria thing with Iota.  People eat that shit up.  You just have to fade away for a decade, maybe an administration, and then do something wonderful.

That notion seemed to console Harper.

TRIPP:  But it all starts here.  Now.  Tonight.

Harper nodded.  Tripp returned the nod and resumed his exit.

HARPER:  Tripp?

Tripp turned around to face The President, braced for the question.

TRIPP:  Yes, Harper?

Harper Hesitated.  Tripp looked at his watch again.

HARPER:  Are you going to-
TRIPP: NO!  I am not going to Basel this weekend.  I rarely get out there anymore.  It's not the same team.  It's just not the same.

Tripp turned and made his way towards the exit when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.  He turned over said shoulder to see an earnest looking Harper.

HARPER:  Tripp.  Look me in the eye and tell me you're not going to Basel this weekend.

Tripp faced his President and childhood friend, reached out to adjust Harper's disheveled tie, and looked him strait in the eye.

TRIPP:  Harper, I promise I would not keep it from you if I were going.  Without you there, I'm not good to them.  Trust me.  I am not going.

A look of relief washed over Harper's face.  That made sense.  Tripp was relieved he could end that conversation.

TRIPP:  And by the way...that whole Schnapps in the soda can bit isn't fooling anyone.  Everyone can smell you.

Harper just stared, swaying under the influence.  Tripp found it more than pathetic.

TRIPP:  Look, all that's happened is behind us now.  We did the best we could for this country.  It might not be anytime soon, but they will look back and love you for keeping them safe.

Tripp folder his hands in apparent prayer.

TRIPP:  Please. Harper.  Please, for the love of God.  Keep it together these last two years.  We're in the home stretch, and I need you more than ever.  It's our time now.

Just Sit Back And Relapse Again

Pebbles could tell that her boyfriend, Trall Gomez was really starting to become irked at her ignorance.

PEBBLES:  I'm not sure I see it.

She was trying to.  Really, she was.

TRALL:  Look there...that bit of red.

Pebbles strained her neck forward and squinted her eyes to appear that she was really, really analyzing the hue.

TRALL:  Relax.  It's not a Magic Eye.

Pebbles dropped the facade.

TRALL:  Right there.  That itty bitty bit of red surrounded by that immense sea of blue symbolizes the rage of American society, being pent up by an ever increasing pharmaceutical industry that is slowly sedating our people out of existence.

Trall stopped for a moment to let that knowledge bomb sink in.  Pebbles spoke up.

PEBBLES: ...Go on...

Go on he did.

TRALL:  If you look closely, you'll see a thin black circle shadow-y thing, completely engulfing the red.
PEBBLES:  Oh yeah.  I think I see it.
TRALL:  That's the decay that happens.  When everyone just wants to medicate everyone for anything.  We keep all the bad shit bottled up for so long...there's a cost there.

Pebbles was his best patron.  She pulled out her distant sounding, ponder-y voice.

PEBBLES:  It eats away.  From the inside out.

Trall smiled, leaned in, and kissed Pebbles on the forehead.

TRALL:  Exactly.  That's why I fucking love you.

Pebbles smiled warmly.

PEBBLES:  Aw, I love you too, darling.  Now, tell me, what the hell is that?

Pebbles pointed to the exhibit to the right.

PEBBLES:  It looks like a big, fat...
TRALL:  That's Mr. Amnesias setup from New York.  5th and Broadway I think is where they set it up.
PEBBLES:  That was in public?  That's absurd.
TRALL:  Def.  Not in the best taste.  Especially after 9/11.
PEBBLES:  Oh yes...I think I remember the brew ha ha surrounding that.
TRALL:  It does say something about our yet-to-be-extinct modesty, doesn't it?
PEBBLES:  I bet the parents on that block loved that.
TRALL:  Yeah...I'm pretty sure I read that there was a petition going around to bring Mr. Amnesia up on obscenity charges.

Trall was correct.  That petition was met with a counter petition by the artsy fartsy community to keep it up...literally speaking.  In the end, the almighty dollar won out, and the whole production was moved to the very Street Art exhibition in Washington, DC that Pebbles and Trall were attending.

TRALL:   It is strangely hypnotizing though.

Trall tilted his head to the side and caressed his chin with his fingers, eyes fixated on the exhibit, as Pebbles turned in his direction and cocked an eyebrow.  Slowly, she could feel her neck reverting back to its original orientation...maybe her eyes were driving, who knows?  Moral of the story - Pebbles was unwittingly or not, soaking up another eyeful of a large, dark, extremely lifelike wood carving.

Pebbles could feel her palms start to tingle and her heart beat quicken.  An intense surge of blood hit her square in the face.  She could feel the thinest layer of perspiration forming on her upper lip.  As much as she wanted to divert her attention, she just could not turn away.  Shockingly, Neither could Trall.  They probably looked like some freaks.  Pebbles didn't care.  They were freaks.

At that very moment, another other urge struck Pebbles' fancy.  That urge usually provided a convenient counterweight to that primal, former urge, and boy did she ever need it.  Ever since she had started seeing Trall regularly, Pebbles had been frustrated.  Yes, ultra frustrated...physically.  One would think that Pebbles would have become sexually frustrated much earlier than the four months since she started seeing him; One would think, perhaps around the time she found out she had contracted HIV.  This was not the case for Ms. Hawkins.  After her diagnosis, she had never felt as liberated as she did when she knew she had nothing else to fear; She was on a weekend pass from death row.  In her mind, she was living on borrowed time.  It was as if she had been mortally wounded right there in the doctors office and every waking moment since has just been one shovel of mud deeper to her grave; Everything was ultimately an effort in futility.  For better or for worse, Pebbles initially embraced her imminent doom with the vigor of a meticulously sheltered college freshman.  Mother and father were no longer around and Pebbles did play.  She played a lot.  A lot, a lot.  Her nights from shortly after the news up to about nine months ago had been spent in tequila and bodily fluid soaked linens.  It wasn't always a pretty sight, or smell, but Pebbles had no problems getting a different gentleman caller to endure it any night she was able to drag herself out of bed from the previous evenings escapades.  The little humor she had left in life was the thought of how many boys were willing to tip toe through a mine field of bowls of curdled milk and sugar cereal remnants just in order to get laid.  One might also ask how Pebbles was able to get so much action, what, with being mortally wounded and all.  Surely, all these suiters were not so hard up as to overlook the very real chance they could contract a disease that there was no known cure for at the time.  The answer is simple.  She had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

That devil-may-care lifestyle Pebbles had adopted was not rent free.  She had a landlord in the devil driving her decisions and causing her to blatantly disregard the sanctity of human life.  She was a walking time bomb in lipstick, ready to explode on the lap of the next sucker stupid enough to not pack protection.  The number of young, and old, men that Pebbles had infected over the years is extremely tough to estimate.  Maybe a third of New York, a half of New Jersey?  That may be hyperbole, but moral of the story...it was a lot.  She didn't care.  Her life was over.  Why should she care about anothers?  Misery absolutely does love company.

Pebbles would not find the answer to that question until she fell into her anonymous support group during the autumn of 2002.  After a night of particularly grotesque debauchery, Pebbles had decided enough was enough and sought professional help in sorting out her sexual deviance.  She wound up running to her local church in tears, looking for a physical being to grant her forgiveness.  Unfortunately, forgiveness was not something that could be granted by flesh, but was something that would come when she was ready to repent.  In the mean time, the good Priest did refer her to the much needed support group.  He assured her that the group was effective, and very discrete.  Some of his good friends had even sought help there.  A long story short - the positive company helped Pebbles get her grasp on her humanity, and realize the truth in what her doctor had told her two years prior;  HIV was not a death sentence.  She wouldn't be able to just shove off her pain and misery to anyone unlucky enough to fall into her web.  She had a whole life ahead of her, and the thought of all the damage she could have potentially caused would eat her alive without this intervention.  She also met Trall there, which was a blessing.  Sweet, sweet Trall.  He was her savior.

Pebbles reached into her purse to make sure she had it with her.  She then focused her attention on a still entranced weirdo companion.

PEBBLES:  I'm going to find a quiet place and take a puff.  You want in?

Trall barely broke his gaze.

TRALL:  No.  You know that makes me get the itis.  I'm trying to see a couple more pieces before we end up spending sixty bucks at Jumbo Slice and falling asleep on the metro.  You go ahead.  Just be careful.

Pebbles put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed down his back with a smile as she walked away to find the gallery's best kept secret.  She couldn't help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have every last bit of Trall's encouragement and support.

After approximately thirteen minutes of wandering around the various floors of the mammoth National Art Gallery, Pebbles ultimately found the secluded spot she was looking for.  Only three flights up from the main exhibit, she found an unoccupied balcony through a very modest set of French doors.  It was perfect.

Pebbles carefully fished around in her purse for the orange cylinder containing her self prescribed medication.  She lit the open end and put the cylinder of paper to her lips.  Deep inhale.  Hold it.  She exhaled with a sound that could only be described as "quenched".  The chilly spring air had mixed with the feeling of sedation ever so nicely.  She didn't have much time to enjoy the relaxed feeling that was sweeping over her body, as an unfamiliar voice in the distance froze her attention.  She held her breath and listened intently.  The unfamiliar voice was coming closer.

Before Pebbles could form her next thought, she instinctively dropped the dope off of the side of the building and swiftly moved behind a decretive pillar to avoid detection.  She hoped this unfamiliar voice was just passing by and wouldn't be making a stop out on the balcony for any length of time.  Or notice that the previously closed modest French doors were now wide open.  No dice.  The voice was now on the balcony with her.  One voice to be exact.  One voice talking to itself.  It sounded like whomever it was, was hunkering down for the long haul.

STRANGER:  I certainly did relay that information to Secretary Locke, sir.  With the utmost urgency.  She knows we won't accept King.  She knows we won't stand for that kind of play.

Locke.  Locke.  Where did Pebbles know that name from?

STRANGER:  They think King would set the right image.  That he's more palatable to the international community.  I just don't understand where Babington is coming from.  He's already steam rolled the UN, and now he's trying to appease them?  Yes sir, I'll find out his angle.

Babington she knew.  At least she thought he was referring to Harper Babington, President of the United States of America.  His crib was right down the road.

STRANGER:  Correct, ...that the States is in this for the humanitarian reasons and rebuilding for the Iraqis or democracy, if you will, is primary directive.  He's not just an image, sir.  King would be a disaster for us.  There wouldn't be any sweetheart deals there.  Unreliable banking system.  Let's hope it's just be going around for the publicity.  Locke didn't seem confident he was final.  The Generals still have to weigh in.

It very well could have been the marijuana's effect on her brain, or the fact that Pebbles wasn't as up to date on her world affairs as she would like, or even the fact she could only hear one end of this conversation, either way, she was lost.

STRANGER:  No, I don't think he's...'malleable' as you say.  Did you see him and Thom Paul on that conspiracy theory show or whatever that was, talking about the team?  They both want to abolish the whole thing with a passion.  He thinks he's a patriot.  No, I don't think we can get him on the payroll; some people just can't be bought.  It's a damn shame.

Pebbles loved conspiracy shows like that.  Area 909, the Second Shooter, Lizard People.  She had to restrain herself from giving away her covert position just in order to find out what time and channel.

STRANGER:  I spoke with Cecil to get his take.  No, no...he's still chipping away at Reykjavik.  He says he's teeing them up real nice for me.  His take is we float Phillip Dreamer.  Dreamer is already familiar with the team, and he came up huge with cranking out all those policy papers and getting Ross in our column for deregulation.  No real baggage with him.  He's been low key for a while now and I understand he's itching to get out of retirement.  With Dreamer, we know what the first order of business would be over there.  He loves blood in the water.

By this time, Pebbles had completely lost interest in the conversation.  She just wanted to get back inside.  She should have just tossed the joint and feigned as if she was lost.  At this point, she was just an extremely awkward eavesdropper of the driest gossip.

STRANGER:  We should run it through Tripp.  Have him get Harper to rubber stamp it.  Tripp's more passionate about the sell when he can make Harper think it's his idea.  He knows Dreamer from the old days too.  The thing is, we may have to get a couple of boys in the House to see what they can do about getting the younger Babington on to some committees.  That'll take a few dollars.  The kid's an asshole, and they all know it.  Each generation gets worse with that family.

Pebbles couldn't help but think about how much this guy sounded like her father.

STRANGER:  I really liked Avery too.  Thought he was all in.  Tragedy.  Oh yeah, Locke mentioned that Harper is getting anxious and wants someone to take him to Basel soon.  I know.  If you give a mouse a cookie.  Maybe I can dangle that over him too.  When's the next Jamboree we can bring him to?  Heh, yes, if we can get him and the Chancellor there and kill two birds with one stone...thank you, sir.  I try my hardest for you all.

Basel must've been an ultra ritzy club if The President of the United States wasn't able to get in without an invite, Pebbles thought.

STRANGER:  One more thing.  About Locke.  She's been going off script lately.  Talking to the independent press about Iraq.  Does she know something that I don't?  Understood.  I'll keep an eye on her.

The stranger let out a long sigh as he hung up his cell phone.  Not three seconds had elapsed since disconnecting the previous call, when his ring tone sounded again.

STRANGER:  Ugh.  No more tonight.

The stranger apparently pressed ignore and moved towards the edge of the balcony.  He placed his palms on the railing and extended his arms with a hunch in his back.  Pebbles thought about stealing a look from around the corner of her hiding pillar to assess how threatening the stranger was.  He sounded kind of intimating.

STRANGER:  You know, I plan to be out here for a while.  You should probably come out from there.

Pebbles froze and clenched her jaw.  She also closed her eyes under the playground assumption that "if I can't see him, he can't see me".  A cracking sound came from the stranger.  It could have been his knuckles.  Or maybe he was doing trunk rotators.  Whichever was less threatening, Pebbles hoped.

STRANGER:  Don't make me ask again.  I don't want to have to come over there.  I'm packing heat.

Pebbles didn't know what to do.  She stayed put.

STRANGER:  Don't you listen?  I said, come out of there.

The stranger swept around the corner, dukes up.  Just as he was about to launch a round house kick, he made out the non threatening frame of Pebbles Hawkins in the darkness.  The stranger brought his danger foot down to the ground and caged his pythons.

STRANGER:  Well, pardon me ma'am.

The stranger reached his hand out to help Pebbles up.  She obliged.

STRANGER:  So you've been there quite a while.
PEBBLES:  Little bit, yeah.  Don't worry.  I was only, like, half listening.

The stranger chuckled.  Pebbles wiped the back of her dress off with her hands.

STRANGER:  I'm Clayton.
PEBBLES:  Clayton what?
STRANGER:  Clayton Does-It-Matter?

Pebbles was kind of taken aback by such brashness.  She wondered what ever happened to decency.

PEBBLES:  I suppose it doesn't.  Pleasure to meet you.  I'm Pebbles.
CLAYTON:  Likewise.

Pebbles moved from out of her hiding spot to have a lean on the edge of the balcony.  There always seemed to be a perpetual breeze at that height.  She could hear the uneasy roar of the protestors carried from a distance.

CLAYTON:  So, am I the only one that smells that?
PEBBLES:  No!  Smells what?
CLAYTON:  You know, some pot.

Pebbles decided to play dumb.  She really didn't know this guys story.  She gave an exaggerated sniff to the air to humor him.

PEBBLES:  Maybe it's coming over from the protests.  All those vets are probably hooked on the stuff.

CLAYTON:  Could be.  I might have to go over there and ask those guys for a light.

Pebbles looked to Clayton's hands as he produced an extravagantly large marjiuana cigarette from the breast pocket of his expensive sports jacket.  Her eyes grew so wide that they could have sparked it with just that gaze.  She had just been beating herself up for throwing her perfectly good joint off of the edge of the balcony, just because this harmless stranger had snuck up on her.  She no longer cared about his story.  He was now good people in her book.

PEBBLES:  I think I can save you a walk.

She pulled out her lighter and handed it over.  Clayton grinned.

CLAYTON:  Oh, you partake?

PEBBLES:  I've dabbled.  Spark her up and find out.

Clayton did just that.

CLAYTON:  So what brings you here?

He passed it to Pebbles who was eager to take it.

PEBBLES:  The street art exhibit.  You?
CLAYTON:  My stupid w...company.  My company is a sponsor of this whole artsy thing.  Do you know we get a tax write off for putting this thing on?
PEBBLES:  Instead of paying taxes to help the community, they allow you to put on this party of gain more connections and close more deals?
CLAYTON:  Bingo.
PEBBLES:  Why aren't you down there hobnobbing right now?
CLAYTON:  Please.  There's no one important down there.  The deals I make don't happen here.  I'm just on he board of directors of this foundation.  I'm not even quite sure what they do.

Pebbles smirked and handed it back to Clayton.

CLAYTON:  I saw you down there.  You were...you are...you look stunning.

Pebbles began to blush.

PEBBLES:  That's very kind of you to say.  Thank you.  You look very handsome this evening as well.

She searched his face for signs of reciprocated blush.

CLAYTON:  Was that your husband you were with?
PEBBLES:  No.
CLAYTON:  Fiance?
PEBBLES:  Nope.
CLAYTON:  Boyfriend?

Pebbles pondered for a moment.

PEBBLES:  I think you can call it that.  Yeah, that's appropriate.

Clayton seized on her hesitance.

CLAYTON:  You don't seem so sure there.

Her inhibitions were down.  Smoking always did that to her.  So did drinking.

PEBBLES:  We have an emotional connection.  It's just...
CLAYTON:  It's just he's not throwing the heat in bed?

How blunt.

PEBBLES:  He's not throwing anything in bed.  We don't bed.  There is no bed.
CLAYTON:  You call this guy your boyfriend, but he's not taking care of business?
PEBBLES:  He fulfills a lot of needs.  We just don't sleep together.  He's asexual.

Clayton got the impression she wanted him to finish her thought.  He couldn't fathom.

CLAYTON:  A sexual what?

Pebbles returned the chuckled.

PEBBLES:  Asexual.  One word.  As in, he isn't interested in the physical aspect of the relationship.

Clayton was at a loss.

CLAYTON:  What other aspect is there?

Pebbles hit him in the arm with the back of her hand.

CLAYTON:  I'm kidding.  But that is one of the best parts.  That's tough.
PEBBLES:  But he's so, so romantic.  He makes me feel so warm and special in other ways.  And he's good at making out.  Best I've ever had.
CLAYTON:  Whatever works for you all.  Look at you though.  It just seems like a waste to squander a package like that.

Pebbles didn't know whether to slap him or kiss him for a comment like that.  She did go to great lengths to get dolled up that evening.  Clayton must have realized he had overstepped his bounds, judging by his abrupt topic change.

CLAYTON:  Do you hear all of those people out there?
PEBBLES:  I do.  They sure sound angry.
CLAYTON:  They should be.  They were dropped off in the middle of nowhere to fight for issues they could barely comprehend.  They should be pissed.
PEBBLES:  Because they're fighting a war that can't be won?
CLAYTON:  It has been won.  You and I probably have a differing opinion on what winning is.
PEBBLES:  I don't think a war is won just because our President lands a fighter jet on a carrier and waves a few banners.
CLAYTON:  And neither do I.  That stunt was pretty incredible, huh?  That's Harper Babington for you.
PEBBLES:  He's a real moron.
CLAYTON:  He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, agreed.  I can't believe Tripp would let him do that.
PEBBLES:  The veep?  Doesn't the President tell him what to do?
CLAYTON:  Sometimes.

Clayton chastised himself for letting the drug cloud his judgement.

PEBBLES:  But not this time?
CLAYTON:  What do I know?  I'm just some old fart sitting on the board of some non-profit.  I just thought I could impress some co-ed with some SMNCB talking points.  I don't really know shit about them.

Pebbles was flattered he thought she was still in school.  She immensely enjoyed seeing this man move his chiseled jaw line.  What poured out of his mouth was irrelevant.

PEBBLES:  So what does SMNCB say this war is really about?  Is it just for the oil or did Iraq really have nuclear weapons?

Clayton paused for a few seconds as he attempted to condense a very complicated issue into just a few easily digestible words, without giving too much of the real story away.

CLAYTON:  That's tough.  To put it into such few words.
PEBBLES:  Fair enough.  If you can't do it, you can't do it.

Clayton viewed her nonchalance as a challenge.

CLAYTON:  Megalomania.

Pebbles had an inkling that was the case.  She understood those in power always wanted more.  Clayton took the condescending liberty to elaborate.

CLAYTON:  For Harper, it's about redemption.  But he's small potatoes. For the rest of them, it's about oil and power and money, sure, but they have all those things already.  It's more about that remaining sliver that they don't have.  They crave that piece.  It's about taking that sliver from the Iraqis, the Germans, the Icelandic, everyone.  You yourself.  They don't know you on a personal level, but they whatever you've got.

Pebbles was surprised by his candor.  She became quite curious.

PEBBLES:  They?  Do you know who they are?

Clayton wanted more than anything to impress this beautiful redhead he had on the line.  Her emerald green eyes, her soft freckles along the bridge of her nose.  Everything was perfect.  He prudently bit his tongue.

CLAYTON:  Do you?

Two could play at that game.

PEBBLES:  Maybe I do.  You wouldn't know them.

Clayton knew that wasn't the case.  He knew most of the people on the inside, and she wasn't one of them.  Clayton himself was working to get to the core of that rotten onion, or at least a few layers deeper.  A few more years.  A few more jobs and he could possibly get a seat at the big boys table.

CLAYTON:  Have you ever had a shotgun?

Pebbles was definitely feeling the effects of the THC and had already let her mind start to wander.  She let herself play an encore of dumb.

PEBBLES:  Like, for shooting your friend in the face while duck hunting?

Clayton genuinely giggled.  He probably hadn't giggled since he was nine or so.  He held the soon-to-be roach up between his fingers.

CLAYTON:  Like this.

Clayton then took a large hit of the remaining refer cigarette and turned the thing around so the cherry end was a few inches from his lips.

CLAYTON:  Now cup your hands over your mouth and inhale as deep as you can, and I'm going to blow your lungs out.

Pebbles complied as Clayton inserted the lit side of the joint into his mouth, cupping his own hands around it and connecting his tunnel to hers.  One mighty exhale from Clayton, paired with an equally mighty inhale from Pebbles had her knees about to buckle.  Clayton removed the shotgun from his mouth and let his bare lips linger close to Pebbles as he exhaled slowly.  Her eyes were closed and the sweetest grin had, along with a billow of smoke, crept over her face.  She looked so relaxed.  She needed to relax.

PEBBLES:  That was amazing.  I've never had one before.  I thank you, good sir.

Clayton flicked the now minuscule portion of joint off the balcony.

CLAYTON:  What do you say you make up some story to your boyfriend, and we get out of here and head to my place?

Pebbles was caught off guard by the proposition, and immediately chastised herself for letting that guard down.

PEBBLES:  Well, gee, that's a very sweet offer and all, but I don't think I could.

He could appreciate her snark.

CLAYTON:  Can't blame a guy for swinging for the fences.

It's true.  She couldn't.

CLAYTON:  I'll be right here if you change your mind.

An open invitation?  Pebbles was intrigued.

PEBBLES:  So now that this is adequately awkward, I'm going to head inside.  Sorry to smoke and bounce.

Clayton brushed her away with a simple hand motion.  Not even a "good bye", "so long", or "nice to meet you".  How pompous.  Pebbles could feel the rage inside her bubbling up.  What a prick.  She made it clear she wasn't a fan of his attitude with her extra heavy exit steps.

Pebbles found her way back to the main exhibit to find Trall straight doubled over in laughter, with his hand on the shoulder of some rather hipster looking gentleman.  Pebbles approached with caution.

PEBBLES:  Well, it looks like you've made a new friend.  How'd you pry this guy away from the dick sculpture?

Pebbles elbowed the second stranger of the evening in jest.  He took it well.

TRALL:  Oh, darling.  This is Lowder.  We were roommates as University.  I haven't seen him since...when was it Lowder?
LOWDER:  Oh, I'd say around 1995.  The Senators had just drafted Chuckie Chickster.
TRALL:  I'll have to take your word for it.  I barely remember the 90's.
LOWDER:  I'll bet.  You had some wild times then.  Wild times.  You ever tell your lady about them?

Pebbles had heard the stories along with the rest of group therapy.  She could have probably stood to hear a couple a few more times for Trall's sake, but she couldn't stop her mind from going back to the proposal to go home with the silver fox.  Maybe he wouldn't care about her HIV.  Maybe he would understand the risks are small.

TRALL:  ....And then, what I thought was yogurt, was actually a tub full of...

Pebbles cringed.  She hated that particular story.  She had to interject to save a migraine.

PEBBLES:  I actually just came up to tell you I'm not feeling too well, and my friend Traci...you've met her before, is right around the corner.  She's going to give me a lift home.

A look of concern overtook Trall's face.

TRALL:  Poor baby.  Do you want me to go with you?

She absolutely didn't.  She put on her compassionate voice.

PEBBLES:  Aw, no baby.  I want you to have a good time.  It's still so early.  Lowder, make him stay, would you?

Lowder turned to Trall and tilted his head sideways.

LOWDER:  Do it for me.  I can give you a ride, Tral-la-la-la-la.
TRALL:  Ok, as a favor to you both.

Well, that wasn't difficult.  Pebbles kissed Trall on the cheek and found her way back to the elevator she originally snuck off in.  As she stepped off the elevator three flights up, she broke into a speedy power walk before she had to consciously tell herself to chill out.  She had to play it cool.   She had to make it look like she wasn't crawling back.

As Pebbles was dialing down the enthusiasm, she came within earshot of one familiar voice, in heated conversation with the sound of one not so familiar, much higher pitched voice.  The dread of falling for the weak game of some pick up artist overcame her gut.  Pebbles crept closer in her familiar creep mode for a closer listen.  It was definitely Clayton and some woman.  Another woman.


CLAYTON:  I really told you not to come here tonight.  I told you I was working.
OTHER WOMAN:  I just wanted a couple minutes with you, that's all.  You've been working for five days straight now.  What am I supposed to think?
CLAYTON:  You're supposed to think that those diamonds and furs aren't growing on trees.  You want nice things, I've got to work.  Case closed.

A short pause.  Pebbles got ready to slink away if she heard footsteps making a hasty exit.

OTHER WOMAN:  You'd think you'd make time for your wife.
CLAYTON:  ...I do make time for you.  If you want to go back to living in a trailer with your step dad, feel free.
OTHER WOMAN:  Why do you have to talk like that?  Why do you have to be so hateful?
CLAYTON:  It's not hate.  It's life.  I work so hard just to keep you happy, and you don't even appreciate it.
OTHER WOMAN:  Do I look happy?  Do I look happy you spend every night away from home with your whores?

This other woman had not finished her sentence when the a loud smacking sound reverberated off of the marble of the balcony.  Pebbles could almost feel the sting on her own cheek as she covered her mouth.  The other woman began to bawl.

CLAYTON:  See?  This is what I can't deal with.  You're stressing me out.  You make me do that to you.  You make me be a bad guy.  Cut that out.

After a valiant attempt to cease her outburst to a low whimper, the bawling continued.  A second smacking sound rang out.

CLAYTON:  I swear to God...

Clayton's voice had lowered to a lower rumble, forcing Pebbles to lean in closer.

CLAYTON:  You are going to take this napkin, clean yourself up, and get in a cab before that lip swells up and someone notices.  Nod your head if you understand me.

Pebbles didn't have eyes on the couple, and couldn't confirm if she did.

CLAYTON:  Next time, when I say don't come here, I mean just that.  Don't come here.  I will be home when I am not working.  Until then, you stay there, and wait for me to come home.

The other woman let out one last agonizing whimper as she got to her feet.  Pebbles could hear feet hitting the ground so she sunk back into the shadows.  Sure enough, the other woman emerged from the French doors with her hands over her face and some pep in her step.

Maybe it was because Pebbles had heard so many stories of abuse in her support group.  Maybe it was because this other woman had red hair too.  Maybe it was because Pebbles had always learned it wasn't right for a man to hit a woman.  Maybe it was just her time of the month.  In any event, Pebbles immediately went from turned on by a suave older gentleman, to absolutely disgusted with such unredeemable, vile humanity.  Unfortunately for Clayton, Pebbles was now feeling ultra zealous.

She mustered up the courage to storm through those french doors, out to the balcony she was now familiar with.  There he was.  Target acquired.  Pebbles was making a bee line.

CLAYTON:  What did I...

He turned around from the sound of footsteps approaching him.

CLAYTON:  Oh, it's you, what a...

Pebbles didn't give him one chance to rationalize or defend his position.  In her mind, she was the judge and jury.  In her mind, she needed to execute.  She planted a passionate kiss square on his lips.  In reality, her unplanned flightpath was miscalculated enough to force them to bump front teeth, but Pebbles totally played it off.  She ravished him, caressing his shoulders back and buttocks.  He was definitely turned on and ready to go.  He pushed her away for a second, probably to look her in the eyes and silently let her know he was the one driving this train.  He took her by the hands and led her back inside the french doors and down the hallway to a more...climate controlled location.

Clayton lead her to a bathroom door.  How classy.  They entered the Men's room.  The least he could have done was picked the Ladies room, Pebbles thought.  They probably didn't have any sisters sitting on the board in this stodgy old place anyway.  Once they entered, Clayton bent over to look under each stall to make sure they had sole occupation of that particular restroom.  Pebbles thought this was a paranoid maneuver.  Who would be there at that hour?  She also wondered if it was good for someone that age to be bending that low.  After confirming they were alone, Clayton opened the middle stall door and turned around to back into it, pulling Pebbles in for a kiss by the back of her neck.  His grip was extraordinarily hard.  Pebbles wasn't really into the rough stuff, and immediately had second thoughts about what she was getting herself into when he started biting her tongue and lips.  She kept having to remind herself she wasn't doing this for Clayton...or herself; she was making herself a martyr.  She had to suppress her apprehension and keep moving forward on her crusade.  She wanted to be able to tell herself exactly who she was doing it for, but that seemed much harder than telling herself who it wasn't.

After a particularly stinging bite, Pebbles pushed Clayton with enough force to help him find a seat.  He smirked and looked up at Pebbles with tired eyes as he began to undo his tie.  She reached up to inspect her lip, and sure enough, the jerk had drawn blood.  Perfect.  She moved closer to her prey and straddled his lap, firmly planting an open mouth kiss on his.  Clayton seemed to revel in the slight hint of blood that complimented the taste of her tongue.

Eventually, Pebbles dismounted and hiked her dress up just enough to gain access to what was beneath.  She smiled at her conscious decision to sex it up a bit that night had played right into her impromptu plot.  The fabric was so scarce; the fabric was so transparent, it's a wonder why she bothered to wear anything under there at all.  If she had stuck with her first choice of undergarments, she knew Clayton would have been looking for an exit right about now.  She intentionally took her time sliding her panties down her long legs, eventually reaching her feminine ankles.  She reached out and placed her hand on Clayton's shoulder to stabilize herself while stepping each foot out of her vastly over priced investment.  Clayton had added extra stability by firmly planting his large hands on first her hips, providing an additional upward pull on her satin dress.  As soon as her lower body was introduced to the chilly bathroom air, he repositioned those busy hands to her exposed backside, pulling her stomach closer to his face as he began to kiss around her navel before taking an excursion south.  She quickly developed goosebumps.  Her anticipation turned Clayton on even more.

If one were a fly on that particular bathroom stall wall, one would assume that both parties merely put up a huge front, but in actuality were both quite unexperienced in these types of semi-public, risqué rendezvous.  As dashing as Clayton, or seductive as Pebbles tried to come across, there were far too many bumped elbows and awkward apologies in the heat of the moment to call themselves practiced.  Inexperience aside, Pebbles had him right where she wanted him...and he occasionally hit right where she needed him.

After Pebbles had grown passed the novelty of having sex again for the first time in over nine months, coupled with a banged up cheek from her face being repeatedly smashed into the stall door, much to her ire, the desire for Clayton to finish grew with each additional thrust.  With each passing second, she hated him more and more.  Under a charming façade was an aggressive, manipulative, womanizer who needed his comeuppance.  In due time, with a low pitched groan, Pebbles could feel that he had climaxed as he backpedaled a few steps and slummed down to a seat on the commode.  Pebbles turned her head over her shoulder just enough to catch a glimpse of this sweaty, suddenly much older looking sack of a man gasping for air with a stupid look on his face.  She cringed at the notion that she had actually thought he was appealing less than an hour ago.  The lighting, or lack there of, on the balcony had definitely been generous to Mr. Clayon Does-It-Matter.

With the deed completed, Pebbles picked up her few belongings and opened the stall door.

CLAYTON:  And where do you think you're going?  I wasn't finished with you; I'm just catching my breath.  We're just getting warmed up.  Get back over here.

Pebbles paused for a moment and turned back in his direction.  The most disgusted scowl overtook her face.  Or maybe she was just hocking the biggest wad of snot out of her nasal and throat that she could conjure.  It was probably the later, because Pebbles then released said wad of snot out of her mouth, directly landing on Clayton's forehead.  Pebbles only got to stick around for a fraction of a second to watch his face go from pleasure to rage, as her instincts kicked in an told her to book it.  She must've exited his reach just in time, as she narrowly made it out of the bathroom door and to the elevator, while Clayton was laying face down on the bathroom floor, tripped up by his own downed trousers.

Pebbles' adrenaline had kicked in and her heart was pounding as she got to the lobby and in turn, outside to that sweet, sweet air.  She knew she wasn't completely out of the woods, and needed to get home to her safe bed and tub of ice cream as quickly as possible.  As she was walking down the stairs leading to the gallery, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar hair style hailing a cab.  She couldn't put her finger on who it was.  Not from that distance anyway.  Her vision wasn't the best.  Pebbles had to move closer or it would kill her all night.  Three steps later, it dawned on her.  The other woman.

Pebbles knew she shouldn't linger, but she needed to say something.  Anything.  She made the approach.  Just as Pebbles had reached the other woman, a cab pulled up.  How convenient.  The other woman must've felt Pebbles breathing down her neck as she turned around with a startled expression on her face.  Pebbles put her hands up to show she wasn't armed.

PEBBLES:  I'm so sorry to startle you.  I've just been having trouble getting a cab.  Do you mind if we share this one?

The other woman softened her expression.

OTHER WOMAN:  Not at all.  Where are you headed?

Pebbles gambled.

PEBBLES:  H Street?
OTHER WOMAN:  If that was a question, then yes, that's where I'm headed too.

Pebbles smiled and opened the back door of the cab with a corralling motion.

PEBBLES: After you.

The other woman ducked her head and slid into the back seat of the cab.

OTHER WOMAN:  My name is Cornelia, by the way.

Pebbles happened to turn back and take one last glance towards the brilliantly lit entrance of the gallery.  At the top of the steps was none other than a reassembled Clayton, surveying the sidewalk out front like a hawk.  His eyes met Pebbles' for just a moment before he made his way down the gallery steps at full speed.

Pebbles casually stepped into the cab.

PEBBLES:  What a coincidence!  Cornelia is my name too.  I feel like we have a ton to talk about.  Driver?  H street please.  Hurry.

For the second time that evening, Pebbles was just out of reach of one of the most powerful men on the planet.

Flies Dancing On Their Eyes

Sept 4th, 2001

Shimon Asher had an extensive history, no doubt. There isn’t the time to go over the entire rap sheet, but this fellow had put his life on the line for his country in Vietnam; He lost a leg in the process, but came home alive and with an extra heart.  Loosing a part of you is the sort of thing that can break a man and derail his life plans immediately. At first, it's all under the guise of “pain management”. Only at first, though. No, not for old Shimon. He wasn't going to let a mere loss of a little flesh stop him. He had promises he had to keep.

After his tour was over, Mr. Asher continued his public service by working in the US Attorney’s office for over a decade, mainly focusing on international money laundering. Yes, he was certainly a model citizen. The man even put Salvatore Gigiorali away for life after the flamboyant gangster had escaped six prosecutions, for God's sake. Outside of those three years Shimon had spent in the private sector with Marshall & Hum, he had devoted his entire life to the U.S. government’s agenda. He was respected, even beloved by both parties, as a unanimous confirmation told us, and had a strong knack for handling the enormous egos that propped the District up. This respect was not mutual, as Shimon would ultimately become one of the biggest critics of his government.

Nevertheless, at this time, the very folks he would later scorn, celebrated him. On September 4th, 2001, Shimon had entered the poorly lit Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing of the White House, beaming with pride. As soon as the fortified door had opened, Shimon was greeted to some familiar faces, as well as some new ones. To his surprise, everyone in the room, literally everyone stood up and applauded him as he entered. Shimon was certainly no stranger to praise, yet maintained a humble air by feigning a front of bashfulness. One of the familiar faces stepped toward Shimon to greet him on behalf of the group. Yes, Shimon knew Attorney General Baxter Allen quite well. By this time, the rest of the crowd had taken their seats. Shimon was glad the ovation was not awkwardly drawn out.  Although, it could have been a few seconds longer. It was a day to celebrate.

ALLEN: I just want to say congratulations of behalf of Justice. You’ve been with us a long time, and I’m glad you’re staying in the family.

Attorney General Allen extended out his hand and tilted his head to the side with a grin, daring Shimon not to take it. 

SHIMON: I appreciate that sir. You know I look forward to the challenge.

Shimon knew better than to snub his boss in front of the entire war council. He extended his own hand and shook, yielding to Baxter's firmer grip. At the same time, one of the unfamiliar faces muttered something about the inappropriateness of a celebration during a national security briefing, no matter how brief. It is certainly a judgment call, but giving someone accolades for becoming the sixth director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations during a meeting of then hypotheticals seems to be something too trivial to ruffle feathers.

ALLEN: Enough of this sentimental nonsense. Have a seat Shimon. We’d like to get started immediately, so I’ll save the introductions.

Shimon took a seat at the table to the left of the Attorney General and folded his hands in front of him. He nodded to CIA Chief Mathias Babington and Joint Chief’s Chairman Wesley Neely. For a moment or two, no one spoke. Some urgency. Eyes began to frantically move around the room as the shuffle of papers grew in volume. Tripp Sweetwater glanced in Harper's direction. Breakbricker. Per the usual.

TRIPP: Good morning gentleman, ladies. Why don’t you kick us off here, Mr. President?

Tripp waited exactly three seconds before slamming his hand on the mahogany.

TRIPP: Harper!

Harper Babington was seemingly caught of guard when he heard his name; he looked to be rather taxed with unearthing a hangnail from his left ring finger. The President was gracious enough to set that project aside for a moment to address the meeting of principles of the National Security Council on that September morning.

HARPER: Now let me get this straight. I’ve been summoned to this meeting for a seemingly dire issue of terrorism, and I’m the one that’s kicking this off? Christ people! I had a round of golf with Senator Domingez I had to cancel.

Tripp, never missing a moment to correct The President, interjected.

TRIPP:  Senator Rodriguez.

Harper’s National Coordinator for Security, Infrastructure Protection, and Counter-terrorism, otherwise known as the President’s Counterterrorism “czar”, saw this as an opportunity to chime in. He was an intense, grinding man named Byron Fluff. Yep.

FLUFF: I can go ahead and get us started, Mr. President.

HARPER: One minute. Now that I think about it, last I heard, I said I didn’t want to be briefed on this stuff anymore. Didn't I Tripp?  Those guys are small potatoes.  We know the issue is Udir. I think I was born with that craw up my ass. He’s the one we need to focus on. What do we have on him?

General Udir Hammadi was most definitely someone who needed to be brought to justice. As the leader of tumultuous Iraq for half a century, Hammadi has had to rule with an iron, bloody fist to maintain power for so long. He had oppressed not only his own people, but also threatened the majority of the countries that share its boarders. Harper felt strongly that the United States had to do something about this problem. After the first round with Udir, American citizens were weary. Oh, sure the general public could be quarreled into supporting the war just enough by being mislead into thinking that Hammadi possessed weapons of mass destruction, but that wasn’t the reason for Harper. Harper wanted revenge. Harper wanted to avenge.

FLUFF: Sir, with all due respect, we’ve gone through the proper channels to assemble this meeting. Others in this room agree that this topic of Syed Muqeel Azad…

Harper nearly fell out of his chair.

HARPER: Excuse me, mushmouth? Where the hell is a Muqeel Asad? Something from Burger Mac? Heh.

FLUFF: Syed Muqeel Azad. With a ‘Z’ sir. He’s an Islamic militant, sir.

HARPER: Iraqi?

FLUFF: Saudi.

HARPER: Saudi?

Harper leaned back and whispered to Tripp. Tripp nodded.

HARPER: The Saudi's are one of our strongest allies in the Middle East, are they not?

FLUFF: I’d have to defer to State.

Secretary of State Tamara Locke immediately perked up as eyes fixated on her.

LOCKE: Good morning Mr. President.

HARPER: Well, good morning to you Secretary Tamara. You look like you got some good rest last night.

Tamara raised an eyebrow as if she thought that comment was out of line coming from Harper.

LOCKE: I did all right, sir. Yes, the Suadis have been more willing to cooperate as of late. Are they as good as their word? Well, I put it at 76%. Extremists could take the country at any time, but I believe we’re on top of things there, diplomatically speaking.
HARPER: I always appreciated that you never hesitate to throw a number out there.  Ok, then, go ahead Fluffy.

Byron hated that nickname.

FLUFF: Sir, as I've mentioned to the administration on several occasions, there’s been a lot of chatter in the intelligence channels that would suggest he is planning an attack on U.S. soil. I believe you saw Brecken’s report in your daily brief last month.

Harper had moved his attention back to that hangnail.

FLUFF: Mathias, did the President get your man’s report?  I know it was in the Morning Book.

MATHIAS: I’m certain he forwarded it along. Your office got that, didn’t they Milsted?

Milsted diverted his attention from the monitors that were built into the wood paneling of the walls. He unfolded his hands, raised them behind his head, and refolded.

MILSTED: Cathode ray tube monitors? I’ve had LCD since ’98.

Fluff grew more agitated.

FLUFF: The Azad report, please!

Byron Fluff was known for his short temper, but today, it was especially short. His wife had just left him after thirty years of marriage. She had even taken the cocker spaniel they shared, Nixon. Byron was heartbroken, but would never let that show to his colleagues. The reason his wife left him was even more heartbreaking. Earlier in the year, none other than the new National Security Advisor, Wendy Trusilla, had downgraded his position in the administration to deputy level. No longer did he have Cabinet level privileges. His communications ceased going directly to the President, and had to now go through Trusilla and her Neocons to be framed. Sensing Byron was now a nobody, his former wife decided it was time to pack her bags and move on with her life while she had a few good years. The only thing Bryon had left in his world was Syed Muqeel Azad.

MILSTED: Yes, I got it. I put it into the Daily Briefing. The President was on a, um... working vacation, so it might not have been…digested as thoroughly as usual.

Milstead was always careful with his words.

Up to this point, nearly half of Harper’s time as President had been spent on vacation, pardon, a “working vacation” as President Babington’s Chief of Staff Henry Milsted so elegantly phrased it. To the casual observer, it would appear the work consisted of quail hunting and mixers.  Be that as it may, odds are, the report was indeed included in that August 6th Daily Brief; The President just wasn’t paying full attention.  The reason to place such confidence in Milsted is for a very simple reason. Compiling the Daily Brief is one of his few responsibilities in the second Babington Administration.

Some Chiefs of Staff have been quite powerful, historically speaking. The ones whom can truly control access to the President can become even more powerful than the President himself. Luckily for the United States of America, this plucky young man was not the one in charge. He never was called on to make an actual decision in his tenure. He solely collected the daily news and compiled it into bite-sized snippets for President Babington to shit out in the early afternoon. Everyone knew who was really in charge in this administration.

TRIPP: Why don’t you just refresh everyone’s memory and get them up to speed, Fluff?

FLUFF: Gladly. Numerous channels are telling us that Syed Muqeel Azad is the most credible threat to this country, sir. General Hammadi is not where we should be focusing. It is these non-state actors.

Mathias rolled his eyes so hard, his head went with them.  

TRIPP: Non-state actors? From what I’m hearing, these groups aren’t serious enough to do any real damage without state support.  Are you saying that isn't the case?

FLUFF: That used to be the case. Times have certainly changed. The Azad Network, as we call his followers, has grown rapidly, and merged with various other militant groups.  Some familiar faces, but mostly new jacks.

TRIPP: But where do they get the money? Where are they training?

FLUFF: You remember Mr. Vice President.  A lot of it came from us back in the late 70's.  The new money comes from donors as far as we can tell.

Hearing the word donor must have snapped Harper back to attention.

HARPER: How could someone have enough donors to launch a war against the United States?

FLUFF: They’re not launching a war in the conventional sense, Mr. President. They are planning to attack us on U.S. soul. With a bombing maybe. Anthrax, possibly.

HARPER: What would that prove?

FLUFF: That we have a weakness. It would make people not so afraid to cross us. Support for The Network would skyrocket. You've seen Stoney IV, haven't you, sir?

The President had. It was played aboard Air Force One during Fluff's last hurrah.

HARPER: Well, they mussed it up last time they tried, didn’t they?

FLUFF: They are much more sophisticated now. Much more discipline and elegant in their planning.

HARPER: Fluffy, if I didn’t know better, I would say you admire this guy. Allen, what does Justice have to say? You run counterterrorism don’t you?

ALLEN: We do. Terrorism isn’t high on the list at the moment sir. I can go over all the details with you if you’d like.

HARPER: No, I trust you there. You keep your people on this. Throw a few more on the job, won't you?

Harper turned and winked at Fluff, as if doing him a favor of personal nature.  Attorney General Allen grinned and shook his head.

ALLEN: Will do sir.

Fluff sunk back in his chair. He knew he wasn’t reaching the President. He was a holdover from a previous administration, and it greatly showed.  He wasn't there for the old Cold War days like the rest of the Cabinet.  He was slowly being squeezed out.

FLUFF: Mr. President, please, we know this group is planning something big. If they are capable or not of achieving this, I don’t know, but what I do know is this; if you do not act now to dismantle this threat, they will become capable soon.

Harper looked over at Tripp and let out a nervous chuckle.

HARPER: Well Fluffy, you’re scarin’ the giblets out of me. Asad Network is it?

FLUFF: Azad, sir. With a ‘z’, remember?

HARPER: Right. What do you propose we do about this?

FLUFF: I have to turn it over to CIA for the master plan. They’ve put together a comprehensive attack plan that I fully endorse, Mr. President.

Harper set his attention on his uncle.

HARPER: Well, Mathias, what have you got?

MATHIAS: It’s really a comprehensive plan, Harper. I believe it will truly be effective.

HARPER: So I hear.

Tripp looked annoyed.

TRIPP: Could you enlighten us with the details, Mathias?

MATHIAS: I believe it’s best to let my Counterterrorism chief go over the finer points. He’s been heavily involved since conception. Would you, Brecken?

Brecken Garcia had been battling butterflies in his stomach all morning. It had actually felt like a full on F18 dog-fight had been waged in his lower abdomen. It was a very uncomfortable feeling, but a feeling that was all too common for Brecken. He despised speaking in front of large groups. His dislike for public speaking was amplified many times over due to the leader of the free world and his inner circle being his audience. These were the most powerful men and women in the world, and all their eyes were now focused on Brecken. It was show time.

BRECKEN: Folks.

Brecken abruptly stopped talking. He tore himself up inside for starting with “folks”. Good God, what was he doing there? He began to glisten. Knowing everyone could start to see him glisten made that glisten turn to a light drizzle. He backtracked.

BRECKEN: I mean, gaides and lentilmen.

A light chuckle filled the room. Brecken was mortified.

HARPER: Ha, just like Jed, right Tripp?

Tripp nodded.

Attorney General Allen saw an opening to score.

ALLEN: This guy's got a mouthful of marbles!

Allen immediately felt disgusted at himself for pandering. He quickly got over it when Harper became amused.

HARPER: Come now, let the man speak. Lets have it Marbles.

That light drizzle turned into a flash flood rather quickly. The rage that was building inside of him due to that savage embarrassment imparted by Baxter Allen raised his core temperature at least a degree and a half, turning up the skin waterworks. Brecken hoped that no one was noticing the lakes forming under his armpits. He cursed himself for taking his jacket off. At this point he had but no choice other than to move passed his newly sullied image. Brecken Garcia may have single handedly doomed America because of a self diagnosed thyroid problem.

BRECKEN: Well, I'll keep this brief. We've been monitoring the movements of the Azad network with an unmanned ariel vehicle, a drone, equipped with highly sensitive cameras and are capable of flying at very high altitudes for long periods of time.

Harper leaned in with an eyebrow cocked. Brecken knew he caught the Presidents attention with that piece of gadgetry.

BRECKEN: We've actually caught footage of the reclusive Azad on several occasions, mostly in Pakistan and Afghanistan. It is of the CIA's recommendation that we arm these drones with live Hellfire missles. That way, we'll be able to have the option to strike him, should the mood strike you.

A shudder came across Harper. He liked the sound of the possibilities this magic flying machine could offer. His mind wandered to Udir.

HARPER: Do we have any of these things jetting over Iraq?

Brecken turned and looked an Mathias. Mathias just averted his eyes. Brecken was on his own.

BRECKEN: Yes, sir. We do.

Harper slapped his hands together.

HARPER: Hot damn! We'll get that sumabitch real soon, Trippie.

Tripp was now the one who was growing agitated.  One may mistake his biometrics for nervous.

TRIPP: Look, I've got about 10 minutes until my next meeting. Could we wrap this up?

Harper put on his stern face and nodded in agreement.

BRECKEN: Focusing back on the Network, we'd like to arm these drones that fly over Pakistan and Afghanistan with missiles, just in case we get the opportunity to take one of the leaders out. We'd also like to put six CIA teams on the ground in eastern Afghanistan, near the Tora Bora mountain range, to, to, uh, survey the area and see who they can find. We've got people on the ground as we speak, and those people tell me they are fairly confidant we could go in the tribal and mountain regions quickly and quietly, to wrap this network up before they know what hit's them.

Harper actually looked like he was following the plan.  That was a good sign.  Brecken noticed that Attourney General Allen clearing his throat.  That was not.

ALLEN:  Wrap them up?  Good God.  Whatever happened to justice?  We can't capture and put them on trial?

Brecken found his question valid, and had anticipated someone floating that idea.

BRECKEN:  That would certainly be ideal, natrually.  The problem is, these guys don't surrender.  General Hamiz of the Northern Alliance once told me he has been fighting these guys for years, and hasn't managed to capture one alive yet.  He says that when the network fighters are cornered, they'll all huddle up and one will detonate a grenade. 
ALLEN:  Christ.  That can't be true.

Mathias finally chimed in.

MATHIAS:  It's sick, but true.  The Russians confirm this.

A somber mood swept over the room.  Brecken could taste the dispair.  They all quietly understood that none of them knew how deep the rabbit hole went.

TRIPP: Why CIA? Why don't the SEALs go in? Or the Air Force? Why aren't they flying the planes?

BRECKEN: The Air Force has agreed to outfit the CIA's drones with hellfires, Mr. Vice President, but they refuse to use their drones due to budgetary and practical concerns.

Joint Chairman Wesley Neely found the need to defend himself.

NEELY: We can't afford to lose one, sir. We have them earmarked as it is.  You know how thin we are right now.  Besides, Mathias and his boys can launch and maintain the program more nimbly than we can.  They're the intel guys.

Mathias only coyly smiled.

NEELY:  Also, last I checked we were not at war with these countries.  You know we can't go in there like that.

Brecken had no intention of relinquishing the spotlight. He was already damp.

BRECKEN: CIA has an adequate arsenal of drones, sir. We just don't have the firepower. As far as the feet on the ground...you probably don't want the worlds greatest armed forces to go around performing these targeted killings. You don't want them jammed up in all that...muck.  That's our work.  We have guys with no insignia or other markings queued up. They're the bravest men this country has to offer, and we've kept them hungry and waiting. They're ready to rip through anything leaving nothing but bodies with flies walking on their eyes.

Brecken could see Harper becoming squeamish at the thought. He dialed it back a notch.

BRECKEN: We've got them looking like the natives, too, sir. It's quite remarkable what a few hours in the tanning bed and not shaving can do to some of our guys. A few of them actually have family from those countries, I believe...heh.

Brecken's stomach turned again. This time was certainly not due to his glossophobia. No, it was his naivety.  It's like the scope of his project...his years of hard work and gung-ho planning had finally lent itself to his own level of consciousness. Maybe he never had to rationalize why the CIA was the only place for the task. Maybe he had chosen to suppress the though. Either way, he had his epiphany at that moment. He was trying to convince the President of the United States to sanction an airborne death squad. An illness overcame him. He questioned every Christian fiber in his being. Brecken immediately began to draft his resignation letter in his head. How could he publicly ask the President to break the Geneva Conventions and authorize an operation so vile?

No one had spoken since Brecken let out his nervous chuckle. Close to a full minute must have elapsed; In Brecken's mind in was seven. He had to speak up.

BRECKEN: I just want to...

Brecken was cut off. This time he was utterly thankful to be interrupted.

TRUSILLA: Well, I like it!

The peppiness of Wendy Trusilla's support would haunt Brecken for the rest of his natural days.

TRIPP: I do too. Does anyone have any objections?

Tripp looked around the room for dissent. No set of eyes at the table would meet his own as he scanned from right to left, as if not making eye contact was enough protest to save them at their trials. Tripp eventually landed on Harper, his rubber stamp. Harper had returned to the rubber match with his hangnail.  Before Tripp could will Harper's attention, Fluff took his final shot.

FLUFF:  Mr. President...these machines have been ready for the better part of a year.  What we're arguing about is bureaucracy.  It sounds like CIA is willing if Defense can supply the juice.    

Mr. Vice President took his usual initiative.

TRIPP: Ok, Brecken. Your idea has some legs. Get me the details within two hours, two hours now, I mean it. How we launch. When we launch. I want it all. We're not half-assing this thing if we're moving.  

Brecken swallowed hard.  He assured himself he would be sharing a condo in hell with Pandora.

He nodded.

TRIPP:  Good.  What's next?

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