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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© cBiZinc.  All rights reserved.

It Take's Three To Hang, Yo

GERALD:  So this is how they run things here, eh?

This was actually a rhetorical question.  Gerald didn’t expect anyone to be listening, let alone care to respond.

CLASSMATE:  You’re telling me, the professor better not be extending class past 4:30.  I have practice to get to and I’m trying to grab a bite to eat.  I’m starved.
GERALD:  I wonder what’s keeping mister...professor…Colorado, wait, is that a typo?  Who do you show teaching this class?
CLASSMATE:  Ha, I’m showing Cecil Colorado too.  Weird.

Gerald got awkward when it came to small talk.  He had inadvertently provided the catalyst for it again by thinking out loud.  For someone who wasn’t able withstand some light banter, Gerald sure got himself involved in the process fairly frequently.  Was the exchange now over?  Was Gerald obligated to keep his end of the social bargain going?  He noticed his classmate start to tap his pencil on his desk.  Gerald was sitting in the row behind this classmate, which required him to lean over in order to avoid talking to the back of his head.

GERALD:  So, you say you have practice?  Are you on the football team?
CLASSMATE:  Not quite.  Lacrosse.  Football team looks good this year.  You play?
GERALD:  No…do I look like I play?

Denny turned around and gave Gerald an once-over.

CLASSMATE:  No, you don’t.
GERALD:  The name’s Gerald Eickel.

Gerald put his hand out.  Denny turned around one more time and extended his own.  Denny sure had a firm grip.  Gerald’s was rather flimsy…and moist.

CLASSMATE:  Denny Ramirez.  Nice to meet you.
GERALD:  Likewise.

Denny turned back around to face the lectern.  Feelings of awkwardness began to creep over Gerald once again.  They quickly gave way to startle as the auditorium door swung open.  The entire class turned around, expecting to find a rather tardy Professor Colorado arriving fashionably late.  Instead they were treated to the chiseled jawline and piercing blue eyes of freshman outside linebacker, C.J. Frank.  Seats were scare in the auditorium that first day of class.  Word had gotten out that American Politics 101 with Cecil Colorado was a ‘gimme’ class where attendance wasn’t taken.  All a crafty student would have to do would be show up for the mid-term and final exams to pass.  It was a very popular class among the athletic crowd.

C.J. took his time sauntering down the auditorium stairs, surveying the landscape, closer to the four remaining seats in the classroom.  He didn’t know anyone at Boston University, let alone anyone in Greater Boston, so selecting his seat in his first class was akin to choosing your first best friend in kindergarten.  Yes, C.J. sure took his time so he could assess each open seat and the undergraduate occupying the ones next to it.  First criteria, gender.  Nope.  No empty seats next to females.  Second criteria, attractiveness.  Moot.  Third criteria, athletic prowess.  C.J.’s eyes fell on the empty seat next to Gerald.  While not official criteria, C.J. found himself to be rather uncomfortable around people of color.  C.J. did not discriminate; ANY person of ANY color made him uncomfortable.  At that point Gerald had noticed that C.J. way eyeballing the seat next to him.

GERALD:  Would you like to sit here?  I can scoot in.

C.J. thought it was mighty nice of Gerald to offer to give him the aisle seat, but even still, his discomfort prevailed as C.J. struggled to find polite enough words to turn him down.  As he opened his lips to speak, the divine intervention that C.J. had hoped for arrived. 

DENNY:  Hey!  Didn’t I see you completely lay out that backup quarterback at practice yesterday?

C.J. quickly nodded at Gerald in appreciation and moved down to the next row to take a seat next to Denny.  Denny actually had a little bit of ‘color’ in his blood, as his mother was from Mexico, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from outward appearances.

C.J.:  Oh yeah, you saw that?
DENNY:  Haha, I definitely did, dude.  His lights were out.
C.J.:  Heh, he sure wasn’t too happy about that hit back in the locker room.  You’re not on the team are you?
DENNY:  Not your team.  I play lacrosse here.  We practice on the field overlooking your practice fields.  I’m Denny Ramirez.
C.J.:  C.J. Frank.  Nice to meet you.  Where abouts are you from?
DENNY:  Southern California, really close to Santa Barbara.  What about you C.J.?
C.J.:  I’ve never been out West.  Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas.
DENNY:  Never heard of it.
C.J.:  It’s quaint, but its home.  Texas Tech is out there.
DENNY:  Well, that’s all you had to say.  I bet the town is going nuts after they didn’t get a bowl game last year.
C.J.:  To say they were upset was an understatement.  This year looks promising though.  So lacrosse is big out West?
DENNY:  Not really, but they say I have a natural gift for the sport.  It is big here in the Northeast though.  My pops played in his day and got me into it.
C.J.: Now that, I’ve noticed.  You all going to do big things for BU?
DENNY:  We’re sure as hell going to try.
C.J.:  Did they give you any money to come here?
DENNY:  They gave me some, but it’s no full ride.  American University in Washington, D.C. was actually going to give me more.

Gerald was a little embarrassed that he had been brushed off so easily.  A casual observer would think he would be used to it at this point in his life, but that was just not the case.  He couldn’t stand it.  It’s not as though people were constantly being intentionally malicious to him, but Gerald was no stranger to being overlooked or treated like an outsider when he did get acknowledged.  He had certainly developed a chip on his shoulder and once he got to BU, he decided it was time to assert himself more and command some respect.

You see, Gerald had been raised as an only child in an affluent neighbor in Georgetown, D.C., and received an obscene amount of attention from his parents in his youth.  This attention was welcomed by Gerald at most times, but his parents did have a tendency to become overbearing.  They would often attempt to micromanage his childhood, using their own memories and experiences to guide Gerald through life.  No one can blame the Eickel’s for this, as they were only trying to lead Gerald to make what they considered the right decisions, and down a path of success.  The unfortunately part is that this attention did not radiate from Gerald’s peers as it had from his parents.  For various reasons, Gerald would oft find himself as the last pick in dodge ball, the odd man out when classmates paired up for partner oriented tasks (forcing him to awkwardly beg an established duo to allow a trio to form), and alone at his own corner of the cafeteria during lunch time.  It was quite a conflict, as Gerald had once been diagnosed as an extrovert and truly did like interacting with others, but these interactions would nary result in a sustained conversation.  Others generally would not give Gerald the time of day or the necessary reciprocation of conversation in order to make Gerald feel comfortable in the exchange and not like he was intruding on the personal space of others.  Yes, once he had arrived at BU, Gerald decided he needed to assert himself more.  At the risk of yet another embarrassing moment, Gerald leaned back over and inserted himself into the conversation.

GERALD:  Did you say you considered going to American?

Denny was actually quite startled, as he forgot that he was acquainted with the gentleman behind him.  He had grown quite tired of contorting his body to engage in a conversation, but thought better of being rude…it was the first day of classes, and you never know who is the Dean’s kid or worse, who was in Chi Delta Upsilon.  Better safe than sorry when making a first impression.

DENNY:  Well, I wouldn’t say I considered going there, but they did offer me a full ride to attend.
GERALD:  Ah, well it’s certainly a great school.  I grew up about 10 minutes away from there.
DENNY:  Is that right?  I’m Denny; it’s nice to meet you.  
GERALD:  You’re joking right?  We literally met 5 minutes ago…

It was an honest mistake on Denny’s part; short-term memory was not his forte, especially when he wasn’t actively listening.  Realizing that Gerald was, in fact, correct, Denny covered for himself.

DENNY:  I’m just dogging you bud.  I know we were talking earlier.  Do you think I’m special or something, Gerry?

Gerald was relieved he hadn’t been forgotten so easily.  He let out a nervous chuckle.

GERALD:  Haha, I thought you might be messing around, but wasn’t 100% sure.  Lot of new faces to take in, you know?

Denny turned back towards the front, catching glances with C.J. on the way.  They both rolled their eyes at Gerald’s comments.  Luckily for Gerald, he didn’t catch this subtle slight, although, even if he did, he wouldn’t have had much time to analyze it.  At that moment, a middle-aged man entered to auditorium, carrying a leather attaché.  

DENNY:  Professor Colorado, I presume.

Cecil Colorado was of a man of impressive stature.  Weighing in at 215 pounds, he stood around 6’ 2”.  In his prime ball playing days, Cecil was more like 235 pounds, but alas, atrophy and age often go hand in hand.  Holding old age’s other hand is usually male pattern baldness, and Cecil’s ongoing war was no exception.  While all of his hair follicles had not completely surrendered, they were losing the push on the front lines at a rapidly accelerating pace.  Traces of experience could also be seen in Cecil’s salt and pepper winter beard he was sporting at the time.

CECIL:  Good afternoon class.  You must forgive my tardiness.

Cecil finally found himself at the bottom of the stairs and behind the lectern.  He opened his attaché as he looked out in the crowd to take in the essence of his new batch of pupils.  

CECIL:  I am Professor Cecil Colorado.  You all can call me Cecil, CC, or Captain Colorado…any of those are fine.  Obviously, I don’t know any of yours yet, but I will certainly learn all in due time.

Cecil continued to pan over the crowd.

CECIL:  Welcome to American Politics 101 with a focus on Neoclassical Economics.  If this is your first class this semester, welcome to Boston University as well.  

Cecil removed a stapled stack of papers from his attaché and held it up in the air.

CECIL:  Does anyone know what this is?

There was no response from the class, other than a few students looking at each other in confusion.  

CECIL:  Anyone?  Alright, well, I’ll tell you.  This is the curriculum this semester.  I’m supposed to follow this, each session spoon feeding you as much information as the department chair thinks you can handle at time, periodically testing your involvement and comprehension of the material, and assigning you a letter grade based on how shitty your classmates do.  How’s that sound?

Again, there was no response but confused looks from the audience.

CECIL:  My sentiments exactly.

Cecil proceeded to take the stack of papers and placed them in the trash receptacle.  Cecil then reached in his pockets, but came away empty handed.

CECIL:  Which one of you was duped by the intense marketing campaigns of Joe Camel in the late 80’s?

Once more, no response, just vacant looks.

CECIL:  You all must not be awake yet…even though it is 3PM.  Which one of you smokes?  I need a light.
STUDENT:  I do!
CECIL:  Toss that down here would you?  

The student reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a white plastic lighter and tossed it over 17 rows, right into Cecil’s waiting hands.  He skeptically eyed the color choice.

C.J.:  Nice toss.

Cecil reached back into the wastebasket and pulled out a single sheet of paper.  After rolling it up, and lighting it on fire, he dropped the flaming mass back into the waste bin.  The crowd let out a unified, audible gasp as smoke began to billow out from the heap.  

CECIL:  Class, the political environment in this country is rapidly changing.  The curriculum you are watching burn to ashes is too static to really do our government, or any government justice.  Instead of feeding you the traditional history of how our system came to be and how it ideally should function, we are going to have class discussions on what the system is today and how various factions manipulate it as they vie for control of the countries agenda.  No exams, no homework to turn in, only discussions.  Frankly, I don’t even care if you are participating in these discussions, but I do expect you will listen quietly and won’t disrupt the rest of the class.

A dull murmur overtook the class.  Cecil scanned the faces in the crowd again as Denny leaned over to whisper to C.J.

DENNY:  Jackpot.

Denny extended his closed fist.  C.J. just turned and smiled, pounding Denny’s fist in agreement.

CECIL:  That being said, let’s get started.

Cecil looked at his watch.  

CECIL:  Because I was so late, we only have about twenty minutes left, so we won’t delve too deep.  Where to begin….where to begin?  Do you all have any ideas?  Is there any part of the political machine that interests you all?

When it became apparent that no one was going to speak up, a young lady in the crowd threw out her question.

YOUNG LADY:  Why is that creep Jeremiah Nicklaus still the President?  I thought he was impeached or something?  

Gerald, who was sitting a few rows in front of the young lady chimed in.

GERALD:  He was impeached.

Cecil’s face light up as his attention shifted to Gerald.

CECIL:  You sir, what’s your name?
GERALD:  Gerald, sir.
CECIL:  Cecil.
GERALD: Gerald, Cecil.
CECIL:  You’re both correct.  Nicklaus was impeached for his alleged infidelities and for lying about it to Congress.  Gerald, can you tell us the rest of the story?

Gerald could feel both eyes from each member of the class fixate on him.  The room began to become extremely hot under those seemingly incandescent lamps, and Gerald could feel himself in the beginning stages of a full blown nervous sweat.  He wiped his brown with his shirtsleeve and began the explanation to the best of his knowledge.

GERALD:  Well, sure.  I believe that a White House intern was…
CECIL:  Hahah, no, Gerald, we all know about the whole scandal.  Tell us about the process of removing an official from office.

Gerald began to blush, although he took comfort in knowing that the rest of the class couldn’t tell.

GERALD:  Ahem, right.  Sorry.  Being impeached isn’t the same thing as being thrown out of office; it’s only the first part of it.  I believe Congress first votes to see if they want to actually bring charges against the office holder.
CECIL:  Right, specifically the U.S. House of Representatives has this power.
GERALD:  Ok, the U.S. House of Representatives has a vote to see if they want to charge the office holder with a crime, or if there is no confidence in the office holder.  If the majority of the House reps decide that charges are warranted, then the office holder has been ‘impeached’.  This is what happened to Nicklaus.
CECIL:  Very good.  Do you know what happens next?
GERALD:  I think so.  If the House impeaches the office holder, then I suppose the Senate…
CECIL:  You’re going great, Gerald, but let me stop you right there to make sure everyone else is on board.  You all are aware of the bicameral nature of our national Congress, correct?

The class seemed to agree that they were aware that the United States Congress was made up of the Senate (upper house) and the House of Representatives (lower house).

CECIL:  Fantastic.  I won’t get into it then.  Continue, Gerald.
GERALD:  So, once the office holder is impeached, the Senate then essentially holds a trial, similar to any criminal trial, but the Senators are the jury.
CECIL:  Except, in this case, partisanship can have a profound impact on how the jury finds the accused.  None of that Twelve Angry Men nonsense.  You stay in line with your party or there are severe repercussions.  We can get into that at another point.
GERALD:  If the Senators find that the charges that were brought up during the impeachment proceedings are valid, and then I guess they would vote in favor of relieving the office holder of his or her duties.
CECIL:  That is amazing.  We have a real Yuri Trychenian in the crowd.  All correct.  Each chamber of Congress has power in the process.  The Senate cannot remove the person from office unless the House recommends they do so (by impeaching the individual), and the House can only initiate the process; they do not have the final say.  I spoke about partisanship a few minutes ago.  Partisanship is why Jeremiah Nicklaus is still President.  While the entire Congress was in the control of the opposition, the Republican Party, they of course wanted to remove the President, but considering he was a lame duck at that point, it was more important that they bring details of Nicklaus’ personal life to light to assassinate his character, and by proxy, the character of his party before the next Presidential election.  While publically embarrassing the President, the same force, partisanship, also prevented him from being removed from office.  Nicklaus’ Democrats had just enough seats in the Senate to prevent a two-thirds vote in favor of removing him from office, and voted down party lines to acquit.  The whole process was a mere show trial, as the Democrats and Republicans would never go against party lines, but that’s not to say damage to the President’s reputation wasn’t done.  Interestingly enough, Nicklaus approval ratings actually increased after the whole scandal unfolded, and it looks like not having Nicklaus’ endorsement may have hurt Fenton Ross’ campaign in the long run, as Ross could not tout the strong economy forged under Nicklaus for fear of being tied to Nicklaus’ infidelities.  Perhaps more interesting is the fact that Democrats actually curbed the Republican Revolution that started in 1994, and won a surprising number of seats to tie control of the Senate at 50 apiece.  The House remained in Republican control after Election Day.

Cecil could tell that he had piqued the class’s interest.  Another young woman raised her hand.

YOUNG WOMAN:  If both those guys are tied, who breaks the tie?
CECIL:  Good question.  Does anyone know who would break the tie in the Senate?  Anyone?

Gerald hesitated and looked around to make sure he wasn’t taking someone’s shot to answer and looking like a know it all.

GERALD:  The Vice President.
CECIL:  Right again Gerald.  The Vice President is also the President of the Senate.  One of the only meaningful powers the veep actually has is the tie-breaking vote.  Unfortunately for the position, they rarely get to exercise this power.

A freshman boy then half-raised his hand.  Little did Cecil know this was the first time that this guy had ever, and I mean EVER, participated in a class discussion.

CECIL:  No need to raise your hand here.  We’re just having a casual discussion.  Go ahead…
YOUNG MAN:  Tyrone.  
CECIL:  Yes, Tyrone.
TYRONE:  So, who will be the next President?  
CECIL:  We actually don’t know who will be the next President.  This is projected to be the tightest race in recent history.  Harper Babington seems to be leading in the latest polls, but Fenton Ross isn’t too far behind.  There is plenty of time left for either of them to make a catastrophic misstep.  That reminds me, there is a debate in two weeks.  Everyone should tune in, as we will discuss in class.

Cecil once again looked at his watch.

CECIL:  Well, it looks like we’re out of time for today.  Next week, we will discuss activist Supreme Court justices and the Electoral College.  Have a nice weekend.

As Cecil and his students were packing up as exiting the auditorium, Denny turned to face C.J.

DENNY:  You get any of that?
C.J.:  He lost me at American.
DENNY:  Truth.  I didn’t follow too much either.

Denny continued turning his torso so he was facing Gerald.

DENNY:  So, Gerry, you’re pretty good with all that stuff, huh?
GERALD:  What stuff are you referring to?
DENNY:  The whole government thing…you sounded like a rock star just now.

Gerald couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed.

GERALD:  Oh, yeah…well, I’ve somewhat familiar.  I’ve always had an interest, but this class may cause me to become more than just a casual observer.  It’s amazing the childish games that are played by the people we put in our highest civilian offices.  Crazy.
DENNY:  Totally.  Do you think you could help C.J. here and myself out?  Maybe give us a rundown of what ol’ Captain Colorado says each day, in layman’s terms?

Gerald tried to contain his smile.  Friends!

GERALD:  I think I can do that.
DENNY:  Excellent.  Well, I'll get up with you later.

Denny and CJ made their exit as Gerald gleefully packed his belongings, savoring the feeling of acceptance that had overtaken his esteem.  By the time he gotten everything together, the rest of the class had dissipated as well.  Everyone, that is, but a small man who was sitting in the back row.  A small man in a dark Italian suit.  A small man that Gerald hadn't noticed earlier.  A small man who had his eyes locked on to Professor Colorado.  As soon as Gerald moved passed him on his exit, the small man whipped his head 90 degrees and gave Gerald a smile and a wink.  Gerald nodded his head out of respect, but kept moving.  He glanced over his shoulder just as he pushed the doors open, only to see the small man hastily descending the auditorium stairs towards a tense looking professor.


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