“Tell me about it,” said Malcolm, spinning at the wall and heading back. “Millions of people across our great land who want nothing more than to be left alone and pursue their own happiness of believing mean-spirited bullshit. Except society has evolved away from ignorance. And that’s where we come in.”
“How?”
“We make being shitty feel good again.”
More glances and murmurs.
Another hand went up. “What are we supposed to do?”
Malcolm pounded the table again. “We lie.”
A junior partner cleared his throat. “But in politics, everybody else lies. That’s what has set us apart.”
Malcolm smugly folded his arms. “Except they don’t tell the Big Lie.”
“What’s that?”
Glide leaned forward and seized the edge of the end of the table. “We don’t simply say something that’s untrue. We make statements so insane that there’s no possible intelligent response. Like arguing with some old fart in a rocking chair who claims we never landed on the moon. Any educated person can only laugh. Meanwhile, we’ve just won over all the non-moon-landing votes.”
“Example?” asked the same partner.
“Most of our clients are against health-care reform, right?”
Nodding again around the table.
“Get those pens ready and take this down!” said Glide. “Tomorrow we send out this talking point to our top candidates: The government wants to create death panels to kill your grandmother.”
The table laughed.
They weren’t laughing long. Next meeting:
“… I can’t believe they bought it…”
“… Even Palin’s quoting us…”
“… It’s all over Fox News…”
Glide swiveled side to side in his high-backed leather chair and puffed a fat cigar. “Remember you heard it here first.”
“But how did you know?” asked their mass-mail manager.
“There’s a new dawn in America! It isn’t enough just to disagree with your opponent anymore. True patriots hate their fucking guts!” Glide got up and kicked the chair out from under a speechwriter. “Anger is sweeping the country! Tea bags from sea to shining sea! Voters everywhere exploding from frustration!”
“Why?”
“Because the facts don’t support their beliefs. And we mean to fix that.”
“But how?”
“Talk in code.” Glide poured a glass of ice water from a sterling carafe. “From now on, the president is a socialist.”
“He is?”
“No, but he’s black.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Tons of people can’t stand that the president is the wrong flavor.”
“That’s racism,” said a pollster.
“And racism’s not cool anymore,” said Glide. “Even for racists. So we call him a socialist.”
“That’s nuts.”
“The people we’re trying to reach will get it,” said Glide. “ Socialist is the new ‘N-word.’ Have that imprinted on some stress balls.”
Chapter Two
Tampa International Airport
A cab pulled into the departures lane outside Delta.
Two passengers got out with luggage, and the taxi sped off before Serge had a chance to pay.
Coleman jumped back to avoid getting a foot run over. “What the hell was that about?”
“Beats me.” Serge clicked open the handle on his bag. “He was acting weird the whole way, ever since I hopped in the front seat with him.”
“I think we’re supposed to sit in back.”
“And that’s why I always sit up front.” They walked through automatic doors. “It’s about class struggle. You sit in back like King Tut, and you’re saying, ‘Dance, monkey.’ But if you jump up front like equals, it’s a bold statement that you’ll tolerate B.O. to pull our country together.”
Coleman got on an escalator under a sign: ALL GATES. “Then maybe it was when you handed him your gun.”
“Could be a new driver,” said Serge. “Anyone who works the airport knows you can’t take guns on a plane. I could have just thrown it away, but I figured he’s got a dangerous job and could use a piece. Even mentioned the serial number had already been filed off.”
“You were being considerate.”
“Plus I gave him an ammo box to get started and explained that those hollow-point bullets fragment and rattle around inside the body, so there’s no way ballistic tests can connect him to anything I might have done.”
“That’s when he totally wigged,” said Coleman. “Shaking real bad, nearly hitting that family unloading their car.”
“Must have been carrying some emotional baggage from a domestic fight at home this morning over mysterious phone numbers on the bill that his wife called, and somebody named Loretta answered.” Serge got off at the top of the escalator. “Hey, I’m not the one fucking Loretta, so he shouldn’t be dumping his wife’s shit on me.”
“I heard you tell him that,” said Coleman.
A bustle of people crisscrossed the hub of the main terminal. Others stared up at arrival and departure screens. Serge stopped for coffee. “… And a cup of ice on the side please.”
“Iced coffee is more,” said the young clerk.
“I didn’t order that,” said Serge. “Just regular coffee with ice on the side.”
“That’s still considered iced coffee.”
“I don’t want iced coffee. I want temperature control. I want a lot of other things, too, but I won’t burden you with my agenda because there’s a really long line behind me, except if you don’t vote, please consider your grandchildren, who could end up in a bizarre futurescape with thought police zipping around ten feet off the ground on antigravity platforms, using pocket brain-erasers to curb individuality and coffee-clerk annoyance. Ice please.”
She warily handed him a small cup. Serge walked to the preparation area, counted six cubes into his beverage, then drained the whole thing in one guzzle.
“I love airports!” Serge briskly rolled a suitcase toward the security checkpoint. “All the norms from the regular world are out the window.”
“How so?”
“Like that tavern between those gates. People drinking in the morning.” He looked at Coleman. “Okay, bad example. Let’s go in this gift shop. To enhance the airport gift-shop experience, I pretend I’m a historical figure who’s just been time-ported to the twenty-first century. I’m Leonardo da Vinci now. What would such a quotable Renaissance man say in a place like this? ‘Five dollars for water from an atoll in the Pacific? Fuck me in the ass!’ ”
“Serge, people are staring.”
The pair walked to the back of the security line. They produced authentic state driver’s licenses with fake names acquired from a street broker who hooked them up with a contact in the motor vehicle office. Then they entered the queue leading to the X-ray machines.
