Chapter 3: The Reformer II

President of the United States, the Reverend Matthew Roman stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He was not pleased with the image that stared back at him. It bothered him that he didn't look more like a statesman. He needed to look more presidential.

From his very first day in office, he had insisted he be called by the title, "The Reverend President Of The United States." At the time of his swearing in, he stated in unctuous tones, "This title is to remind me and the citizens of this great country that," He pointed solemnly at the sky, "there is One who directs me in all I do to guide America in these perilous times."

"Not even George Bush Junior was this full of shit," one of the older television reporters assigned to cover the event said under his breath.

"We have four years of this unctuous crap to put up with," his cameraman agreed.

It had been the most hotly contested presidential election ever. Al Gore's run for the presidency and the arguments over chads? Forget chads and think whole precincts where the voting machines malfunctioned and switched votes around.

What about Lyndon Johnson's theft of ballot boxes that ended up in the Nueces River? Think bigger, where all the voting machines disappeared from certain key polling places. Observers were threatened and one ancient US Supreme Court justice who had to be reminded several times what his decision had been decided the results of the election. Finally, his clerk read the document for him while he sat quiet and nodded off to sleep.

The clear winner was declared the loser and The United States Of America had its first televangelist as president. Although a few other ministers had tried, Matthew Roman made it. Aging Pat Robertson swallowed his anger that he hadn't been the one elected and congratulated his fellow minister. The Reverend Matthew Roman followed in the footsteps of Fred Jordan, Jimmy Swaggert and Jim Bakker. He became richer and told his followers that it was God's will he prospered. Now at last, six months after the inauguration, on this night of nights, he was ready to take another step upward.

Matthew Roman admired his somewhat distinguished image. He'd show those damned socialist bastards who wanted to take the money right out of the pockets of the upright and righteous citizens of this great country. At times it seemed the only reason most people existed was to steal everything he owned and give it to the bastardly lazy wretches who never worked a day in their lives. They sucked the profits, the very lifeblood right out of this country and from good Christians everywhere.

"Martha, god damn it, get your ass in here and straighten out my collar," he shouted.

To himself, he said, "Christ, if I wasn't such a soft touch none of these ass kissing sycophants would have a life." He grimaced at his image.

"God damn it, Martha!" he yelled and turned quickly away from the mirror when he saw the twin wattles of loose flesh under his chin flap against each other.

He decided again, he needed to have plastic surgery to remove those unsightly flaps of ugly flesh. Deep inside he knew that the only reason he hesitated and put it off was fear. He couldn't trust anyone with a knife at his throat. The people all loved him; he sort of believed that with all his heart. However, There were those of the Antichrist, ever alert and ever waiting ready to destroy him and all the great works he had begun.

An attractive, olive skinned woman in her mid thirties rushed into the room and began to fuss with his dress shirt collar. "You should discontinue the practice of wearing dress shirts and go with turtlenecks, sir. All these materials they use today just won't absorb perspiration like they should, Reverend Sir."

"Those damned turtleneck shirts make me look like a pencil necked, stuffed penguin." He frowned at the way the collar had already wilted after just an hour since he put it on. He could feel heat rash coming on.

"That's because you are the perfect stand in for a pencil necked, stuffed penguin. Let's us add in your little pencil dick to complete the picture of the whole you." That's what Martha wanted to tell him. Instead, she gave him an adoring look. She kept her face as bland and happy as she could manage.

Her job and her very life depended on the whims of this pink-faced version of the yellow Big Bird on "Sesame Street." Unemployment now stood at thirty percent and threatened to go higher. To not have a job, or some source of income was the promise of a miserable death by starvation.

Peck Martin, chauffeur to the great people in the White House and the wannabes, hated tonight's gig more than most. That scrawny assed, pot gutted, dip shit preacher conman had been elected president of these United States by a slim margin of tampered with voting machines and other acts of fraud too numerous to count. Peck wondered what had happened? How had it happen?

What it basically meant to Peck was, he chauffeured for whomsoever picked him out of the drivers' pool or he went home. To be sent home was to die. Peck had heard stories about how nobody lived very long after being "sent home." He figured it was because the bastards who really run things hated loose ends.

He had driven too many of the "power guys," as he called them to himself, to even think he would make it home if he was let go. He was well aware that if he ever was sent home, he'd never make it there alive. Peck had heard all to many conversations.

On the other hand, if he had to listen to one more sermon on why he should accept Jesus as his personal savior, he would go all the way nuts. That silly dip shit sat in the back of the big vehicle and brayed like a jackass after every stupid joke he told. Peck wondered how those Secret Service guys put up with this asshole on a day-to-day basis? Right then he wished the Secret Service still furnished the president's drivers, instead of a VIP drivers' pool.

"Well, If you aren't a Christian, what are you?" the Great Man asked, as soon as he got in the rear door of the armored vehicle this time. He picked up the conversation from where it had ended the last time Peck drove him anywhere.

"I'm an Ultra-Orthodox reborn pervert of the Church of the Perpetual Erection," he wanted to say. "Oh, I guess I'm not much of anything, Most Reverend Sir" is what he answered.

"I'll pray for you, son," The Reverend President Of The United States told him and set Perk's teeth on edge with his East Texas redneck, trailer trash whine.

"Thank you, Reverent President Sir," Perk told him and turned all his attention to the road.

Matt Roman became more excited as he thought ahead. Tonight's dinner was billed as a million dollar a plate fund raising dinner "to blow off steam and plan for the upcoming elections. Those not in the know tried their best to buy an invitation to the event. Those in the know, but had not the proper credentials to attend, told themselves, "Some day..." To those who were called to the event, it was business as usual.

The Reverend President of the United States Matthew Roman sat at a table with three others of secondary import. These were members of a group who were "useful, but not powerful." In Roman's case, his mesmerizing sermons influenced millions across the whole United States. Although not of sufficient intelligence to fully utilize his self-professed "God given talents," he did have the smarts to know enough to latch on to those who did and follow their orders.

His speeches were sermons and "American listened and prayed with him in these, our darkest hours." ("And he brayed like a jackass at his own stupid jokes," as his many detractors said.) Tonight, the Reverend Matthew Roman, President of the United States, listened and kept quiet.

This evening's chairman pro tem rapped his empty brandy goblet on the podium. The speakers amplified the noise and the eighty-seven attendees ceased their chatter. "May I have your attention? Security assures us that the room has been swept and the usual three bugs have been disposed of. We'll chastise the enterprising reporter tomorrow."

"Where'll we send the condolence cards?" a would-be comedian in the audience asked. This evening's chairman, Chad Harriman, president of HLZ International Systems, frowned. He cleared his throat and continued. The comedian blanched and sat quiet for the rest of the evening.

"Tonight we have a problem that must be addressed immediately. "Incompetents were left in charge of what should have been a minor surveillance chore and botched the job miserably.

"What should have been a minor task has been turned into an emergency that we must handle properly or we'll suffer a setback as bad as the one our predecessors suffered with the Kennedy affair, almost eighty years ago.

He stared out over the darkened room. "I presume you have all seen the news coverage of that incident in Salt Lake City." Heads nodded and a few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Others looked puzzled that a failed shooting would cause unrest in the nation's capital. It was newsworthy, but...

"One of our members permitted a not too unintelligent young woman to be in charge of what he considered a minor detail. It was her reward for the previous night's sex. She turned a simple surveillance into a disaster when she tried to resolve a matter best left alone.

"She shot at a reform candidate who would have lost the election anyway, if he had been ignored and left alone. How many saw the three pictures of the three candidates, either on television, or in the newspapers?" Nearly every person in the room nodded.

"In addition to this Salt Lake City debacle, a new political party has begun to form. The DOK Banking crowd have started to test our influence in Texas and Oklahoma. These two instances may or may not be related. However we must have a final resolution, immediately."

The buzz of conversation out in the audience became noisier and noisier until the goblet crashed against the podium hard enough to put a dent in the wood. "Shut UP!" Chad Harriman yelled into the microphone. "Mister Ice" had raised his voice. Those close to the center of power drew in their breaths.

Then the Reverend President of the United States said in ensuing silence, "Why don't I turn my Baptist Church Of Truth And Beauty members loose in a massive proselytizing campaign? You know anything can happen when emotions are raised on high after a good old fashioned revival."

"You," Chairman Harriman told the president, I want to talk to you after the meeting." The meeting was essentially over at that point. Everyone else went home and the president of the United States attended the most important meeting of his life. He had just been temporarily promoted to the inner circle of power, but only if he politically survived the days ahead and delivered.

In Salt Lake City, the staff of one congressional candidate soon found he had a plethora of help. The "nerd and the nurdett," as Frank had affectionately named them, each had a small staff of their own.

Tanya Garcia had enlisted the entire membership of a motorcycle gang, the "Toltec Warriors," better known for dealing drugs, to wit, marijuana and hash, than good deeds of a civic nature.

"You dudes know more about how to spot the man than any undercover cop in this state. You act as unofficial security and keep Evan safe and I promise you we'll do our best to get grass legalized in Utah."

"How do you plan on doing that?" Juan Cortez sneered at her. "Shit man, these Mormon assholes wanna outlaw smoked beef. How you goin' to get them to legalize smokin' weed?"

"Medicine, my man, medicine. If we can get it legalized for use as a medicine, Utah will go the way of California and Washington and the other states."

Three weeks later, Frank learned about Tanya's recruiting efforts. Right then, he was ready to shoot Tanya, just as a matter of principle. "You did what?" he exclaimed, "You went out behind my back and hired a bunch of brain dead motorcycle outlaws to act as bodyguards?

"Do you have any idea what you have just done?" He wanted to punch her, but knew how that would turn out. He'd be flat on his ass again with a new crop of bruises. Frank frowned at her waited for an answer.

Tanya glared back at him for a moment. "You're not the only one with a brain around here. Those dudes can spot the man a mile away and smell one two miles away. They know how to look for that what isn't quite right better than any narc you ever saw. Believe me, these guys are better spotters than anyone you could hire from the big agencies."

Frank took a deep, cleansing breath and asked with exaggerated patience, "Yes, Tanya, but what happens when the newspapers get wind of it?"

She smirked at him, "Then Evan asks the media," she paused to remind Frank that she was learning to speak better, "He asks the media if it was better that a group of people who were looked down on by much of society volunteered their services and began to take part in the American Way Of Life? He reminds those reporters that everyone ought to be given a chance to be good citizens, yackety-yak, yackety-yak, yackety-yak."

Frank thought, nodded, grinned and said, "Have them wear their colors. For a female of a no longer minority persuasion, you do have good ideas. I may just take you to bed tonight to reward you."

"In your dreams," she snorted.

Then he kissed her like he had done the day they collided for the first time. "There's something between us and I want to find out what it is." He looked serious at her, "I know you feel it too. Kisses now, but after the election we need..."

For the first time in her life, Tanya felt shy. "Uh huh," she told him and blushed.