The Winner: Part Fifteen

“What…the…fuck?” I say, though it’s hard to say anything with a someone’s forearm against my windpipe. “I didn’t do shit! Why are you doing this?”

Carl Van Hertzwelder has finally gotten his composure back. “Let him speak, Burke. I’m interested in hearing how this scumbag can explain away killing my son.”

Mr. Burke coolly pulls away his wrist. I immediately suck in a lungful of air and start rubbing my sore trachea.

“I don’t know what the fuck you guys are thinking, but I didn’t kill Chad,” I say. “He killed himself, and in quite a disgusting way I might add. I had to sleep in the gym for a few days while they cleaned him out of my cell.”

Carl Van Hertzwelder smirks, “Keep telling yourself that. He killed himself because of the constant sexual assault he had to endure at your hands, Mr. Peanutz.”

“No one can prove that,” I say, though I doubt these fuckers are too concerned with airtight standards of proof.

“My assistant went to visit Chad a few times during his short stint in jail with you; mostly to deliver money he could use in the commissary. He observed that it was likely that Chad had been—what do you homos call it?—‘turned out’ and forced to feminize himself in order to garner protection.

“When we confronted him regarding this, Chad vehemently denied he was being forced to perform homosexual practices. However, knowing him as I do, Chad was a willful young man. He was too proud to admit he was being raped.

“Because of his denials, when he ended up dead, we had no idea who it was that forced him into this perverted arrangement. The prison board was far from thorough with their investigation, despite the amount of money I contributed to the election of the politicians who appointed them. So I hired my own investigators to work on it.

“Of course, getting information was difficult because of the riot, especially with all the media sniffing around the place. But after a few months, when that scandal died down we finally made some headway. We offered some of the surviving members of Trey-Dog’s gang pro-bono legal work in return for giving me the name of Chad’s rapist. And they all pointed their fingers at you, Mr. Peanutz…”

“Jesus Christ!” I yell. “You’re gonna believe some fucking gang-members you paid to tell you the truth? Those guys all it in for me over some other shit.”

“Poopy…can I call you Poopy?…they explained their whole arrangement they had with you. How they were blackmailing you into killing another prisoner, the event that caused that whole riot in the first place. And it wasn’t just the gang-members. Other prisoners corroborated their story.”

I sigh. Fuck. There’s no way to convincing these guys I’m innocent of this stuff (although, everything they’re saying is pretty accurate). “Well, if you knew so much, why didn’t you just go to the courts and have my sentence extended? What’s up with the cloak and dagger stuff?”

“There’s a couple reasons,” Van Hertzwelder says, steepling his hands on his lap. “For one, by the time we put all this together, you had already been released. Besides, as a lawyer, I can tell you that most of the evidence we put together would be inadmissible in a court.

“Two…I don’t want to just put you back in jail Poopy. I want you fucking dead and in Hell where you belong.”

Fuck, I knew this was coming, and to be honest, at this point I don’t care. “Well, if your gonna do it then hey, I’m here. Do it,” I say. “Just give Apple back her kids. They don’t have anything to do with this.”

“Believe me, I tempted,” Van Hertzwelder says. “But Burke is right. We have plans for you.”

“Pray tell.”

“You’re going to kill the President of the United States.”

I start laughing so hard my ribs hurt. I do this until I realize that Van Hertzwelder and Mr. Burke aren’t laughing. “Are you fucking serious?”

Van Hertzwelder says nothing, he just nods.

“I don’t know how much you talked to those gang members I was in jail with, but I’m not all that good at the assassination thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Van Hertzwelder says. “The actual killing part we’ve already got pretty much set up. We have a mole in the Secret Service that can expedite that. What we really need is a patsy, which is where you come in.”

“Why do you want me to kill Bush?” I ask. I thought that fucker made you fat-cat types panties wet.

“I’ll let Mr. Burke explain this one.”

Burke clears his throat, then turns to face me. “Mr. Van Hertzwelder has been looking into running for president next year. In fact, he’s been looking into running for several years now and has quietly gotten the backing of most high level neo-conservatives, as well as an endorsement from the Project for the New American Century.

“Unfortunately, neo-conservativism has come into great disrepute with the majority of American due to the Iraq War. All of our analysts indicate that a platform that sticks too closely to Bush’s foreign policy will be a political liability. Unfortunately, Mr. Van Hertzwelder will have to have such a platform since that is the condition of his PNAC endorsement.”

“Well then why do you want Bush dead?” I ask. “He sounds like your dream politician.”

“We have no beef with his policies,” Mr. Burke says. “In fact, we wholeheartedly support them. The problem is, Bush is a lame duck now. Almost every bit of his political influence has eroded away. In order to perpetuate his policies, we have determined that Bush will have to die.

“We expect that in the wake of a successful assassination of the POTUS, there will be a sort of ‘Camelot Effect’. After the JFK assassination, it was easy for Johnson to escalate US involvement in Vietnam. We are counting on a similar reaction in order to escalate the scope of our activities in the Middle East, especially when it comes to light that the assassin was a sleeper Islamic extremist with ties to Al Qaeda.”

“Well homie, you fucked up since I’m far from being an Islamic extremist with ties to Al Qaeda.”

Burke shrugs. “Perhaps in reality, but we can spin your background to make it look that way. We’ve been investigating you for some time Mr. Peanutz. You know your friend Sergei? The syndicate, of which he is a minor member, is heavily involved in money laundering. Some of that is done for terrorist groups all over the world. We even have evidence of some assault rifles they sold that ended up in the hands of Sunni insurgents.

“Also, your friend from Africa that you’ve been corresponding with…Ugundo I believe it is. Ugundo is the leader of a terrorist cell that invests in conflict diamonds. Through one of our back channels, we advised him that you were a contact inside the United States that could provide him with funding. He's been communicating to you in code in the last few letters."

"I didn't know that guy was a terrorist," I say. "I was just fucking with him, I wasn't gonna send him any money."

"We were just amazed that you've actually been writing him back. We've had pretty much every two-bit organization on the terrorist watch list sending you coded solicitations for money and logistics. So far you've been flying under the radar of the intelligence community, but with one call from us to the NSA, you could be in Guantanamo Bay."

I sit back. Something doesn't make sense with all this. "Your plan is interesting. But you're a bunch of fucking idiots if you don't see the gaping flaws in it."

Van Hertzwelder snorts. "Please...enlighten us."

"Okay," I say leaning forward. "First of all, Russian mobsters? Nigerian Islamic terrorists? Al Qaeda? How does this all make sense that I'd be killing the president?"

"It doesn't need to make sense," he says. "Let the conspiracy nuts make sense of it. As long as your record is sufficiently distracting to deflect suspicion from the principals, it will work."

"Very well," I say. "Which brings us to your second problem: how do you expect an ex-convict still under probation with all these supposed terrorist ties to get within a mile of the President?"

"That's a good question," Van Hertzwelder says. "I give this one to Burke as well."
Burke clears his throat. "As I said, we have a mole inside the Secret Service who can paper over any minor impediments to having a face to face encounter with the President. Your cover story will be one of an ex-convict who wins the lottery within a few months of being released. You decided to change your ways and credit your windfall to God and doing the Lord's work and use half of your considerable fortune to set up a scholarship fund for minorities. Christian, Republican minorities that is."

"Again, something I haven't done..."

Burke smiles, condescendingly. "You will. According to our records, you have a little over five hundred thousand dollars left in your accounts. We already have lawyers setting up the paperwork for your non-profit scholarship fund. All you will have to do is sign the checks..."

"Your winning the lottery was the thing that made me realize we could use you," Van Hertzwelder says. "Otherwise, you would have been dead weeks ago."

Burke coughs, signaling to Van Hertzwelder that he should let him finish.

"At the same time, we will be using journalists we've planted in the major media outlets to triumph the story of your 'miraculous conversion' and charity. Smile, you'll get some face time on Fox News when we set this up."

I don't smile. I really want to bite this nigger's nose off. I would if I wasn't certain he'd beat me to death afterwards.

He continues: "Since the President is making one last go at his 'faith-based charities' initiatives, we'll arrange through his Chief of Staff for the two of you to have a meeting, some PR for his bill that will look good for the cameras. This is when you will detonate explosives we will have attached to your person after you've been searched by security."

"Can't I just shoot him or something?" I ask. Burke gives a faggy little giggle.

"I'm afraid it's imperative that you die in the attack. Afterwards, we will leak the story about your alleged terrorist ties, blame the lapse in security on some whistleblowers in the NSA and FBI who have been giving us problems in the press, and everyone comes out ahead. Except you, that is."

Van Hertzwelder smiles. Even though I've been told I'm expected to die in this whole thing, I smile as well.

"Clever," I say. "But there's one last thing you overlooked in your plan. Now that you people have made the Bond villian mistake of telling me the who-when-where and why of your plan, what's keeping me from going straight to the authorities and telling them everything you've told me."

"Well," Mr. Burke shrugs. "You must remember that the lives of your stripper friend's infants lay in the balance. I can assure you, she won't mourn long as we would kill her too. We can also make sure something nasty happens to your mother when she arrives back from Argentina next week." He pats me on my knee. "Poopy, you must realize that we have you under almost constant surveillance and it would be fruitless of you to try and alert the authorities."

"Fuck my mom, fuck Apple, and fuck her little welfare babies," I snort. "You fucked up if you're counting on using them to ensure my cooperation. Good fucking riddance..."

"You convinced me," Van Hertzwelder says. "Let's just kill him now Burke."

"Whoa, I didn't mean that..." I say, immediately realizing that pointing this stuff out was a mistake.

Burke holds out his gloved hand to Van Hertzwelder, indicating to him to calm down. "Poopy, I know this is a lot for you to take in, but you would do well to realize that from this point on, you are a dead man. There is no scenario you can think up that we haven't anticipated with an entire section of strategists and game theorists. Within a month, you will be dead and the only choice you have in this manner is how you are going to die."

"Let me put it to you this way," Van Hertzwelder sneers. "If you don't play ball with us, you won't get to die quickly and cleanly in some bomb-blast. I know these guys who are ex-Army who used to do interrogations at Abu-Ghraib. They know techniques that would give Jack Bauer nightmares. They can keep you alive for days, weeks even, until you'd trade your immortal soul just for them to kill you."

"I suppose I'm fucked then since I don't believe in an 'immortal soul' you churchy cuntstain."
I can literally see Van Hertzwelder's blood boil in his face at my insult. Burke jumps in before he can do anything.

"There is one last thing to consider," he says. "Let's face the facts, Poopy. You're a piece of shit..."

I mumble an insincere, "Thanks."

"It's the truth," Burke continues. "I know it. Most everyone you've ever encountered in your life knows it. Deep down in your heart, I'm sure you know it as well. You're existence is a downward spiral through the toilet bowl of life. Sure, you have your speed bumps now and then. Most people if they won a lotto windfall like yours would be able to do something positive with their life. You, on the other hand, have burned through over half your fortune in the space of three months. Even if we let you live, you know that things will be the same if not worse a year from now, or ten years from now. You fuck up everything you touch Poopy."

Burke pauses. He must expect me to say something or protest but I don't.

"On the other hand, truly consider what happens if you go through with our plan. True, you would save the lives of a few innocent people in your life, but men like you need more. You don't believe in an afterlife, but do you believe in the judgment of history? Go through with this and your name will be uttered in the same breath with John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. Long after people like me have been forgotten, your name will live on in infamy...

"Or, you could die a piece of shit pervert. It's up to you."

I sit there. There's so many thoughts racing through my mind it's hard to latch onto one. These guys mean serious business and it's plainly pointless to continue arguing with them. Finally, I squeak out. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good to know we have your cooperation," Van Hertzwelder says. "Especially since you don't have a fucking choice."

I don't say anything. There's nothing to say since he's, essentially, right. Mr. Burke opens the door to the limousine and gets out, then motions for me to do the same. My knees are shaking horribly when I step out into the parking garage.

"Do you still have the cell phone we provided to you?"

I nod.

"Good. Keep it on you at all times. The SIM card is specially encrypted, so don't think you can give it to the authorities and they will be able to trace us using it. We will give you instructions through it. Failure to follow our instructions to the letter will first result in the death of the stripper's children, then the stripper, then your mother, and finally you. Do you understand?"

Again, I nod.

"Good. We'll be in contact with you in the next week or so when we have things in place," Mr. Burke says. "Enjoy the rest of your day Mr. Peanutz. From now on, they are numbered."

Mr. Burke gets back in the limosine and it almost immediately peels off, leaving nothing behind but the smell of rubber and exhaust fumes. I stand still long after it's gone, wondering if there is a sniper on me right now. All I can hear is the hum of pipes through the ceiling. All I can see is the bright daylight outside the parking garage.

And then I do something that I haven't done for a couple of months...

I shit in my pants.