The Winner: Part Thirty-four

“You may want to rethink blowing me up,” I whisper back to him.

“I doubt your reason is any good, but tell me anyway. You can consider them your last words.”

I clear my throat. “Well, if you want another chance to kill the President, then you really should leave me alive. After all, if you think his security is skittish now, just think how tight it will be after a failed assassination attempt. I think you can pretty much write off the President be let out in public for the rest of his term.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Also, I’m sure there will be an investigation into how I could get past all their security measures with a bomb, so if you blow me up now, you can pretty much count on Burke’s role in your conspiracy getting exposed. Am I right?”

“And what are we supposed to do? Just let you go?”

“Yes, just let me go,” I say. “As well as Apple and her babies.”

“And you think I believe you wouldn’t talk if we just let you go”

“Listen, I really don’t give a shit if you assassinate Bush or not. I’ll keep quiet about your little conspiracy. Hell, conspiracy theorists are a dime a dozen nowadays, you think anyone would even listen me? As long as the two of us are safe, you can count on my silence. However, should your stupid little plot succeed in getting you on a ballot, I wouldn’t count on my vote.”

Van Hertzwelder laughs. “You think you’re real clever, don’t you? You must have spent a lot of time thinking this through, huh? Got all the angles covered.”

“I think so,” I say, since I have been making most of this shit up as I went along. “Did I miss something?”

“Well, I’m sorry to say that I’m unconvinced by your reasoning Peanutz. First off, we probably don’t even need to assassinate the President now in the light of this ‘suitcase nuke’ stunt. I can only assume you’re the one who’d be so stupid as to think you could derail us by calling in a bomb threat.”

“I didn’t have to call it in,” I say. “It’s just my mom in a burqua standing outside the country club holding a suitcase and yelling ‘allahu ackbar’. The dead man’s stick is just a heavy duty stapler tied to the case with some rubber tubing. The only thing toxic inside that suitcase is a couple pairs of soiled underwear.” I shrug. “I guess that makes it less of a suitcase nuke and more of a dirty bomb.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Van Hertzwelder says. “By the time we get Rupert on it, we’ll have the public convinced it’s a twenty megaton warhead your bitch of a mother is carrying out there. And between a nuclear device on American soil and the attempted assassination of a sitting President, we won’t need to actually kill Bush in order to turn Iran and Syria into sheets of glass by the end of the day. And it can only help my budding candidacy that I narrowly survived the assassination attempt myself.”

I feel deflated. “Shit, I didn’t think of that.”

“Besides, to me at least, whether any of that happens is just the cherry on the sundae. The only thing I really want is revenge for you raping and killing my son.”

“Hey I didn’t kill him,” I protest. “He committed suicide…”

“He committed suicide because you raped him, therefore I hold you responsible. I’m done arguing with you now Peanutz. I only wish you’d die in a more painful manner than what’s been planned out for you.”

“Okay then,” I say as Van Hertzwelder starts backing away from me. “Better hope this gets caught in the blast too.”

So I pull out the mini-tape player I’ve had in my pocket on RECORD, and snap it off. I push the slider to rewind for a few seconds before pressing play and turning the volume all the way up. “…by the time we get Rupert on this, we’ll have the public convinced it’s a twenty megaton warhead…”

Van Hertzwelder’s face turns white as I hold the tape recorder up in the air. I savor it for a millisecond, then say out loud, “Excuse me everyone…I have something you all really need to hear…”

“STOP HIM! HE HAS A BOMB!” Van Hertzwelder screams, apparently louder than me because everyone seems to hear him and not me.

A Secret Service agent trots over to us with his weapon drawn but not aimed at anyone. He is busy talking into the microphone on his wrist, whispering tersely, “Unit twelve…location Bravo…be advised…VIP is reporting a second bomb on the premises…”

Van Hertzwelder begins walking backwards, trying to put some distance between me and him. The Secret Service agent yells at him, “Halt, sir! Where is this bomb located?”

The agent isn’t paying attention to me, but he’s going to soon with all of Van Hertzwelder’s yelling, and good ole’ Carl is quickly getting out of the kill radius of this bomb. I’ll be dead any second unless I do something NOW…

So I drop the tape recorder and stick my hand down the back of pants into the wet, warm, squishy pile of feces that’s collected there. I twist my hand in my ass crack a few times, just to make sure my whole hand is coated and that I have a good handful in there.

Then I turn to the Secret Service agent (who is still distracted from yelling at Van Hertzwelder) and rub a wad of my shit filled with partially digested corn and peanuts into his face. I get some into his eyes, in his nose, and try to get some into his mouth before flinches away and doubles over vomiting into the grass.

This is my chance. While the agent is puking, I pry the automatic pistol out of his hand. This snaps him out of his nausea, and he rubs the shit out of his eyes and looks like he’s about to pounce, but not before I kick him in the face, which sends him falling backwards on his ass.

I don’t stop to see if I laid him out. I start running after Van Hertzwelder as fast as I can. He’s running towards the edge of the golf course where Burke is patrolling. He’s got about a twenty meter head start on me, and for an old man, he runs very quick. I don’t think I can bridge the distance so I aim the gun at him and shoot as his leg…

…and being a crack shot, I miss him completely, the bullet doing nothing more than kicking up a clod grass in front of Van Hertzwelder, who stops running on tries to cover his head with his hands so I guess it does the trick. I bridge the distance and punch Van Hertzwelder in the back of the head before putting him in a headlock with my shit covered hand bracing him just under the chin. I put the barrel of the gun in his ear and turn around towards the legion of Secret Service and SWAT team members racing towards us, guns drawn.

“STOP!” I yell at them. “COME ANY CLOSER AND I’LL BLOW HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF!”

They screech to a halt, but keep their guns trained on me. There at least six glowing red dots from their laser sights running over my chest, so I let Van Hertzwelder out of the headlock with my gun pressed against his temple the whole time and put him in front of me, where they won’t have as easy of a shot.

I look over my shoulder and try backing up as close to Burke as I can, but he backs up just the same, just out of bombs presumed blast radius. “Burke, toss the detonator on the grass. This is over.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he says. At least I see both of his hands since their both keeping his Sig-Sauer trained on the back of my head.

“Alright then, Tupac, let me spell it out for you. If you blow me up now, you’ll kill Van Hertzwelder too and you’re whole plan goes to shit. Toss the detonator on the ground and get away while you still can.”

Burke gives a little chuckle. “My dear Poopy, you’re mistaken. The events of today are larger than all of us. They are certainly larger than Van Hertzwelder. I’m sure my superiors will consider him acceptable collateral damage.”

“WHAT?” Van Hertzwelder yells in disbelief. I half expect him to shit in his pants himself. “You…you can’t do this! The whole point of this is to get me elected to office!”

Burke shakes his head. “The whole point of this is way larger than a moron like you, Carl Van Hertzwelder, could possibly understand.” He drops his hand into his pocket to trigger the detonator. “Goodbye.”

I let go of Van Hertzwelder and whip the gun around and shoot at Burke. I fire about half the clip but it only looks like I hit him once in the bicep. It’s enough to keep his hand away from his pocket for the moment. Burke dives towards the ground and lays prone.

I’m about to unload the rest of my bullets into him and kill this motherfucker once and for all when I feel a bullet cut hot air next to my ear. I pop off two of my bullets towards the crowd of SWAT and Secret Service behind me and they dive for cover. This gives me the bare opportunity to dash off into the wooded area around the golf course.

I get a few meters inside the woods when they start shooting at me again. I get behind the biggest tree I can, and stop. Bullets fly past me or pock against the tree, sending splinters and pieces of bark flying everywhere. Goddammit, I’m pinned down.

And even worse, the explosive watch on my wrist starts to vibrate. Oh shit…I’ve got maybe a few seconds before the binary explosive mixes and I’m dead.

I struggle with the clasp, but it’s locked down on my wrist. I try to pull my whole hand through the band, but my fucking thumb is in the way. I won’t be able to get it off me in time.

There’s only one thing left for me to do.

The one good thing about being put in these life and death situations is that it doesn’t give you much time to think about the horrible choices you have to make to preserve your own life. The best part of it is that even if you fuck up, you’ll be dead anyway, so it’s not like you’ll have to beat up on yourself a whole bunch.

So I pick up my handgun, stick the barrel against the heel of my hand and pull the trigger.

Droplets of my own blood spatter my face and get in my eyes, but I don’t have time to wipe it away. I barely feel the pain in my hand, just a vague sort of heat down there. I look and see that at least the bullet did what I wanted it to: my thumb is hanging from my hand now by nothing but a thin strip of flesh. I drop the gun and yank what’s left of my thumb off and toss it on the ground. If I live through this, maybe I can get it reattached, but judging from the shape it’s in, it’s probably not worth the trouble.

I grab the watchband and slide it down my hand again. It goes down farther without now without the thumb to get in it’s way, but my hand is still wide enough that it doesn’t go easily. My hand sings in pain as the band rubs against the pulpy knot of gore where my thumb used to be.

I scream and pull one last time.

The watch comes free.

I immediately toss it as far as I can into the woods.

It doesn’t even hit the ground before it goes off.

I feel the explosion more than I hear it. I doubt I’ll be able to hear much again after the thunderclap of pressure hits my eardrums. All the air gets sucked out of my lungs and I feel a great heat before I’m lifted from the ground and tossed through the air like a half full sack.

Luckily, I go unconscious before I feel myself hit the ground face first.

The Winner: Part Thirty-Three

The golf cart hits a bump on the green at about fifteen miles per hour. It’s enough to lift me out of my seat and bang my head against the plastic roof. I have the great pleasure of driving out to my execution with Buck, who is driving the cart like it’s a bronco or something.

“Whoo-we!” he yell before spitting a black stream of tobacco spit out of the cart. “Looks like I got ya good there Poopy!”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?”

“Aw jeez, Peanutz, I thought you were a good ‘ole boy. No it ain’t like I did that on purpose.”

I call bullshit on this cousin-fucker. I may be dumb on many levels, but I can always recognize when someone is sending out waves of contempt towards me. I’ve been sending them back. It doesn’t matter. Since it seems as if my plans are quickly going to shit anyway, I will soon be dead. If there is any silver lining to this, at least Buck will likely be killed in the blast as well.

How could I be so naïve? Did I really think that Burke’s men were just going to let Apple go away scot free with her kids before the assassination? Now, I guess I just have to trust that they will let her go after it’s done, a possibility that is probably just as unlikely. Though I won’t be alive to even know what happens, I’m sure in a day or two, someone is going to stumble across Apple’s body stuffed somewhere in a dumpster with a double-tap gunshot wound in her head. Maybe the bodies of her children will be with her as well. It would be best for them not to leave any loose ends.

Sorry I failed you, Apple. You will never know, but at least I tried…

The other two carts are already at the first tee when Buck screams up to it, hitting the brakes suddenly, which causes me to nearly fly out of the cart. “Well, was that fun for you Peanutz?”

The combination of this cart ride, the brandy, and the asthma medication (not to mention the fact that I’m supposed to assassinate the President) has made me nauseous. I stumble out of the cart and grab my bag of golf clubs. Why do I have to lug these fucking things around? Horace and the President are taking some practice swings to loosen up. Van Hertzwelder is setting his ball up on the tee.

“Anyone know what the par for this course is?” the President asks.

“Five,” Horace says. “Try and get your ball as far over to the left as you can. There’s a sand trap right around those trees.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” the President says.

“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” Van Hertzwelder says. “I haven’t played this course for almost a year now. Have any of you checked out the ones they are building in China? They put about eighty percent of the courses in the US to shame. You just have to put up with the hordes of nattering Japs that infest the place.”

Buck shrugs. “Better there than here.”

Van Hertzwelder sets up, takes a deep breath, then swings, his club cutting the air and scooping the ball into the air with a crisp thwack. He puts his hand over his brow while he tracks where it lands. “It went a little farther than I wanted it to. I keep forgetting about how thin the air is in the this state.”

“I, for one like it,” Bush says, setting up his own tee. “My strength on the initial drive is kinda low, so it should help.”

He sets up next to his ball and swings. It lands and bounces to a halt a good fifteen yards short of where Van Hertzwelder’s ball landed. The three of them give a smattering of golf claps.

“Excellent position, George,” Horace says. “What you lack in distance, you make up for in accuracy.”

“Thanks, Horace. I try to play to my strengths.”

Fuckin’ sycophantic pussy. I know nothing about golf, yet even I can tell that was a weak swing. Tiger Woods our Commander and Chief is not.

“Whose up next?” Bush says, taking a swig off a water bottle.

“Let’s let Mr. Peanutz go next,” Buck says. “See what the newcomer is working with here and whether the rest of us should be worried or not.”

I pull a club out of my bag and resist the temptation to beat Buck over the head with it for the condescension. I pick a ball and a tee out of the side pocket and walk up to the box. I kneel down and start setting the ball up. “Umm, Poopy…” Horace says.

“Yeah.”

“You probably want to use a driver for this first shot.”

“Gee, really. Thanks for letting me know,” I sneer. I’m having trouble sticking the tee in the grass so it sticks straight up. My fucking ball keeps falling off. It can’t help that I’m even more distracted, now that I notice Burke standing guard by some trees, scanning the perimeter of the course like he’s looking for threats when he knows damn well I’m the only threat anywhere close to here.

“I’m just saying because you grabbed your sand wedge. Your ball isn’t going to even get half way down the course if you use that.”

I finally get the ball to stay on the tee, so I get up, go back to my golf bag and replace the sand wedge with a different club. I go back to the tee box and start to set up.

“Um, Poopy,” Horace calls out from behind me. “That’s a nine iron. The driver is the club made out of wood.”

I turn around and snap, “Look, asshole. I play my way, you play yours. If I wanna use a nine-iron I’ll fucking use a nine-iron. Okay? It’s called ‘thinking outside the box’.”

Horace slinks back. “I’m just trying to help. No need to get snippy.”

I turn around and try to look like I know what I’m doing. Not that I even give a damn if I win this, I just hate being made to look like a fool. I’m sure Van Hertzwelder is having a blast watching this.

I raise up my club and swing as hard as I can. It feels like a good swing, but all it accomplishes is wacking a large clump of turf about ten feet away from me. Buck and Van Hertzwelder are behind me, giggling like schoolgirls. I set up and try again. I swing the club again and miss the grass this time. Unfortunately, I miss the ball as well. I look down and see it sitting on the tee, and then, as if to mock me, it falls off.

“Here, Poopy,” the President says. “Since you’re new to the game, I’ll give you some pointers.” He sets his water bottle down on the cart and comes up behind me. As in right behind me. As in if this bomb goes off now, his guts are gonna be spread out across this entire golf course before my mom can come to my rescue.

“First, you want to keep your feet at about shoulder width,” Bush says, arranging me close to the ball. I look over to where Burke is standing and I can see that he sees how close Bush is to me. I can’t see Van Hertzwelder, but if he’s smart, he’s probably meandering out of the bomb’s radius just about now.

“Then, you want to keep your left arm straight as you swing. That will give your swing better accuracy…”

I’m fucking shaking. I see Burke reaching into his pocket, probably to activate the detonator. I’m out of time, I’ve got to do something now or I’m dead, the President is dead, and Van Hertzwelder and his fucking conspiracy wins.

So I do what I do best…

“Now, you don’t have to muscle the club. Just use the natural momentum and…”

Suddenly the President jumps back from me. “What’s that smell? Poopy, did you just fart?”

I shrug, trying to put some discreet distance between myself and the President. “I don’t know. It was probably you. You know what they say, ‘he who first smelt it, dealt it.’”

George looks around, incredulous. “I didn’t do that. That wasn’t me. That was most definitely you.”

“What the fuck?” Buck yells, his face screwing up into a rictus of disgust. “My God! Look at that! Peanutz just crapped in his pants!” He uses his club to point at the tan-brown stream of liquid shit running out of the cuff of my pants leg and pooling next to my shoes.

As soon as Buck points this out, all four of them back up quickly in disgust. “Jesus Christ that smells,” Horace says, holding his nose. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

I grin. Normally, shitting your pants in the presence of the President would be quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that could happen to a person. However, in this case, it works completely to my advantage. Van Hertzwelder looks disgusted, just like everyone else, but I also see the undercurrent of rage at his plans quickly coming apart. This makes me grin even more.

“Sorry fellas,” I say. “Guess someone should take me back to the club house so I can get changed up. Maybe I can catch up with you guys on the next hole.”

“Next hole?” Buck says. “Fuck that. I ain’t spending my afternoon playin’ golf with some asshole who ain’t even potty trained.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing my nine-iron at him. “I donated a half-million bucks so I could play with Shrub here, and I plan on getting’ my money’s worth.” Actually, I don’t care if I finish up the game since as soon as I’m out of sight of Burke, I’m telling the first Secret Service agent I see about the bomb on my wrist and getting out of this for good. But I gotta keep up appearances for the time being and besides, giving Buck a heart attack would be a nice side bonus.

“Who gives a fuck?” Buck snaps, spraying spittle as he screams. “I’ve donated ten times that much money to the Party over the years and if they want to see another dime from me, they’re gonna make sure I don’t see you ever again in my whole fucking life you incontinent bastard!”

I almost don’t notice it over Buck’s tirade, but the Secret Service members are suddenly going apeshit. The three members closest to the President grab him by the arm and say urgently “Mr. President, we’ve just had a report of a code red threat in the vicinity. We have to evacuate you to a secure location immediately.”

“Code red?” Bush says. “What is it? What’s the threat?”

“Apparently we have a possible female Muslim extremist suicide bomber on the premises, claiming to be carrying a suitcase nuke.”

“Don’t you have snipers? Shoot her before she can set it off.”

“We can’t risk it,” the agent says. “It appears she’s carrying a deadman’s stick. If she’s shot and releases the pressure on the handle, we’re afraid the device will go off. Please Mr. President. We’ll explain this all to you once we’re at minimum safe distance. But we have to leave right now.”

Thank god. My mother seems to be doing

I nearly laugh as the agents practically drag the President onto the closest golf cart and race towards the contingent of SWAT team members who are already setting up a perimeter for an armored car just down the range. Less than ten seconds later, the President is nowhere close to the bomb on my wrist. The three people of my golf party, as well as two Secret Service agents are all that is left on the golf range. I look over at Van Hertzwelder, and just wonder how he must feel to see his plan all come apart.

I imagine he’s about ready to scream, but instead, he gives off a mean, sinister looking grin. The rest of the party is distracted by the commotion of the President’s detail, so he walks over to me and whispers in my ear:

“Nicely done, Mr. Peanutz,” he says, almost congratulatory. “Doesn’t matter though. You’re still fucking dead.”

The Winner: Part Thirty-Two

I tense up and wince almost uncontrollably. My knees are shaking under the table. This is happening too soon. Way too soon. My life saving plan isn’t going to go into effect for another twenty minutes. Apple’s bus isn’t going to leave for another fifteen. I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked.

Then I calm down. No, I’m fine. Van Hertzwelder is way too close to me for Burke to detonate the bomb on my wrist. This is confirmed by how relaxed Van Hertzwelder looks as he stands up to greet the President. “Terrific to meet you again George. It’s been a hard year for you,” he says in a completely natural way.

“It’s been a hard year for America,” Bush says.

He makes his way around the group to Buck, who grabs Bush’s hand in his meaty paw and starts pumping it. “Glad to see ya ‘gain George. Hope life up in Washington hasn’t been too hard. I know how us Texas folk cotton to too much of that politickin’ and like wise.” I want to groan. I half expect Buck to fucking let loose a hee-haw after he says that.

Bush’s voice instinctively gets a twang when he responds. “Tell me ‘bout it. I got ‘nother two years of doing the Lord’s work before I can go home and clear brush in Crawford. Nothin’ is more relaxing. It’s like clearing the mind.”

“Provided that cunt Cindy Sheehan isn’t within twenty miles of the county,” Buck quips.

Bush chuckles. “Thankfully, she’s been leaving me alone for awhile. Off crying to her dead son at her communist party rallies I suspect.”

Another round of chuckles go around the table and I do so as well so I don’t look out of place. I’m the only person who hasn’t greeted the President yet. In fact, I’m still frozen in my chair. He comes around to me, smiling in a friendly, affable way. “And I think you’re the only one here I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

He holds his hand out to me and I shake it. I’m in a cold sweat, still wondering if the bomb is going to go off now that I’m right next to Bush.

“Boy, was you born in a barn or something?” Buck loudly barks at me. “Ain’t you got no manners? Stand when you greet the President of the U-nited States of ‘Merica!”

Fuck, he’s right. I’m looking totally flustered here. I get up, my knees still shaking. “I’m sorry.” Once I’m on my feet, I shake the President’s hand again. “Hello Mr. President, I’m Poopy Peanutz.”

The President gives me a kind, smile. “I’m only Mr. President to my staff and to the press. Here you can call me George…”

I probably shake his hand a little too long, but I quickly let go. “Sorry if I seem nervous here, Mr. Pres…I mean, George. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever get to meet you, you know…in person.”

“Don’t worry, Poopy. I can call you Poopy right? Behind all the pomp and circumstance, I’m really just a normal fellow just like you.”

“Just like me,” I repeat. “Yes. I apologize for acting so nervous.”

“Nervous?” Buck says. “More like shellshocked. You’re shaking like you just saw Hillary Clinton’s snatch. Have another brandy, willya?”

Bush shoots him a look, “Now Buck, be nice. Poopy here just isn’t used to running in the same circles as you and I.” He pulls out the chair next to mine. “Let’s all sit down and have a quick brandy before we go do our thirteen holes.”

I’m too fucking terrified to be seriously angry, but dammit, if this bomb does end up going off I really hope that faux cowboy Buck gets killed in the blast too. Or maimed. Yes, maimed would be better. Get half his face shredded off and maybe his hand fused into his thigh in the blast. Maybe get his balls blown off too…

I keep thinking progressively worse and worse fates for Buck, even though in the end I want none of them to happen since that would mean I’d have to die. Still, this cold anger is calming me, focusing me, which is something I dearly need. The President is sitting right next to me, ordering a brandy from that gangly waiter. Van Hertzwelder is still at the table with us. I hope hope HOPE he doesn’t get up to use the bathroom or anything, since Burke will surely set this thing off if he does. Please, at least not for another twenty minutes.

The next round comes to the table. The President lifts his snifter up, “Well, gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast, namely to all of you who have contributed so much money to the cause of the freedom in this country when it is in such desperate peril from enemies foreign and domestic. Cheers…”

Bush then upends the entire snifter, swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. Everyone else does the same except me. The last four glasses are starting to catch up with me so I can only get down a quarter of an inch without gagging. Bush puts his snifter down and gives off a loud belch. He waves one of his aides over and says, “Have the waiter bring us another round. Whaddya all say, let’s get one more in before we hit the course?”

Grunts of agreement go all around the table. Something doesn’t feel right. I look over at him and ask, “Say, I thought you didn’t drink. Didn’t you have to stop because you got a DUI or something?”

Bush raises his eyebrow, “I don’t drink?” He looks around the table, pauses, and then breaks into a hearty peal of laughter. “Listen here, Poopy. It is almost physically impossible for someone to be President and not drink. The demands of the job are such that if I didn’t let off some steam and get drunk on a daily basis, I’d have nuked half the countries in the world just for the fuck of it. Of course, I tell the public that I’m a teetotaler, but that’s just because the evangelicals are uncomfortable with the conspicuous consumption of alcohol.”

I think I get that. “Oh-kay.”

“Okay. You tell anyone you saw me drinking, of course, I’ll deny it. Then I’ll sic Rove on you, have you smeared in the press, put on the no-fly list, and have your taxes audited every year for the rest of your life. Not to mention you won’t get invited to any more of our little golf outings,” he claps his hand on my back. “But you’re a smart fellow, Poopy. I’m sure I don’t need to spell this all out for you.”

“Right,” I say. “Don’t worry, Prez. You’re secret is safe with me.”

Now drink up so we can play. I’ve gotta be in Fresno for a dinner with the South Korean Ambassador by tonight, so we can’t dawdle in the club for too long.”

I sip at my brandy some more, mostly just enough to coat my lips. Van Hertzwelder speaks up, “Yes, we should finish and get on the course quickly. Gentlemen, I’m afraid that my incompetent secretary managed to schedule a board meeting two hours from now, forgetting that I had this game today. I’ll be able to play one hole with you fellows, then I’ll have to be going.”

“Oh Jesus, Carl,” the President whines. “Couldn’t you have told them you were meeting with the fucking President? I’m sure they’d reschedule for that.”

“I would, but these guys are on a flight to Beijing to talk to work on the contract tonight. I absolutely can’t get out of it. Don’t worry, I’ll probably have some free time in August and we can meet again down at your ranch.”

Bush lifts his refreshed snifter to his mouth. “Well, it’s up to you. As long as the party can keep the donation you gave us.”

“But of course,” Van Hertzwelder says. He looks at me and smirks. This is good to know though. He is going to be close enough to me that Burke won’t be able to detonate the explosive without getting him in the blast as well. At least until we finish up the first hole. This actually is good news since I’m sure my mom will come into play before we even reach the first hole.

Then I feel something buzzing. I’m certain it’s the bomb being primed to explode, but it’s coming from my pocket, not my wrist. Yes, it’s just my cellphone. I pull it out and the caller ID says it’s the phone from the bus station. I flip open the phone, put it to my ear and turn away from the table so I can talk semi-discreetly.

“Poopy,” It’s Apple’s voice on the other end. She sounds calmer than she did when I spoke with her in the locker room. “I’m calling you, just like you said you wanted me to.”

“Yes. Did you make it over there all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. All three of us made it over here okay.”

“Do you still have the bus tickets?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Get on there now and don’t talk to anyone until you get to Oklahoma City.”

“I will.”

Something doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t sound normal.

“Apple, are you sure no one followed you to the bus station?”

“Yes. I’m sure, Poopy. Everything is all right.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t know what else I can do. “Okay, well. Good luck Apple. And I’m truly sorry about everything that has happened to you and your children. I never meant for you all to get caught up in my mess.”

“It’s okay, Poopy. I forgive you. I’ll see you on Friday.”

I’ll see you on Friday. Oh shit…

“Wait, Apple, what did you just say?” but she’s already hung up and I’m just talking to dial tone. I slowly snap the phone shut and stick it in my pocket. Buck seems to notice my change in demeanor.

“You look a little green around the gills there, Poopy,” he says. “You drink too much brandy, or did you just get a bad call from your hedge fund manager?”

I suddenly feel sick. Things are spinning out of control, but I take a deep breath and get a handle on myself. “I’d…rather not say. It’s personal.”

“Suit yerself,” he says, then goes back to talking with the President.

Van Hertzwelder raises his brandy to me and smiles.

“Cheers, Mr. Peanutz.”

The Winner: Part Thirty-One

“Waiter,” I yell over to the skinny, bowtied twerp in the corner who is there just to serve our table. “I’m empty.”

He comes over and takes the empty brandy snifter from in front of me and scurries off to the bar to get me a refill, my third in fifteen minutes. The other three fellows at the table are talking some stock market shit I can barely follow and don’t pay me any mind. Van Hertzwelder leans over to me and says quietly. “You should slow down on those. Remember, you have a job to do.”

I belch in his face. “I can blow up just as good drunk as I can sober. I just won’t mind so much drunk.”

Van Hertzwelder visibly winces when I say the words “blow up” even though the other three haven’t heard me. “Yes,” he says. “You most certainly did blow up your stroke count the last time you had four brandies before a game. Care to wager on again on the likelihood of that happening again?”

“Stroke what?” I slur. Van Hertzwelder gives me a slap on the back and one of those artificial, upper class chuckles, then goes back to ignoring me and praying I don’t say something stupid.

Really, I’m acting a lot more drunk than I actually am since I know it will piss Van Hertzwelder off. Sitting here, trying to act nonchalant with a bomb strapped to my wrist, four snifters of brandy is barely dulling my edge. Between that and the asthma medication I took earlier, I doubt the liquor is gonna have much of an effect on me.

So I won’t get drunk, but I might choke to death off the cigar smoke at this table. Some butler looking guy passed around a box of Cuban Cohibas when we first sat down (“Please don’t worry about their legality. There are certain rules that can be bent here, especially during diplomatic functions…”) but I declined. The only cigar I’ve ever smoked was a Swisher Sweet I shoplifted from a 7-11 when I was fourteen, and that one made me puke for an hour. I feel on the verge of puking from smelling the four of these assholes smoke theirs.

One of the President’s twenty year-old aides walks up to our table and says in her perky, Christian fat-girl voice, “Hello gentlemen! I’m just here to inform you that the President will meet you all out on the course in about fifteen minutes. He just needs to finish a conference call and he’ll be with you.”

“Good,” the member of our party who introduced himself to me as Buck Hargrove says. “I’m itching to get out on those links, see if George has improved his game since the spell we played in his first term.”

There’s a series of grunts of agreement around the table. The scrawny waiter finally brings back my brandy. This one looks about an ounce and a half lighter than the other three, but I don’t waste time telling him to take it back and top it off. Even if I didn’t have a bomb strapped to me, being in the presence of these jerk offs would make me want to drink. Like this fucking “Buck” character. His fake cowpoke accent makes him sound like the product of breeding too close to the gene pool, but I doubt the guy ever worked a day on a farm in his life. Shit, I doubt the guy ever really worked a day doing anything in his life. His hands were softer than a six-year old girl’s when I shook them. Despite that, he says he’s the CEO of some construction outfit with a couple billion dollars worth of no-bid contracts in Iraq. He was quite shameless about saying how he’s here to (as he said in his own words) “butter up Dub,” so he could get a few billion more to build schools in Anbar province that he never completed the first time.

The fellow he’s talking, whose name is Horace or something to looks more like just a straight up, evil middle aged white man. He’s got a bit less good ole’ boy bluster than Buck, so I have no idea what he’s here to do. Seeing that I’m the sole person who hasn’t jumped in on the conversation yet, he politely tries to include me. “So, Mr. Peanutz, how is your game? Have you played this course before?”

I’m too busy checking out his watch, a gold Rolex similar to mine. Well, similar in everything except that mine could wallpaper the room with the flesh of every person sitting at this table. I quickly realize he’s addressing me and say, “Sorry, what was that?”

Horace clears his throat. “I asked if you’d played this course before. I mean, looking at the layout for the first hole, I can’t believe that it just has a par of four.”

Great. Golf talk. What do I say to this? I decide to shrug and just tell the truth. “I’ll be honest here fellas, I haven’t ever played golf in my life unless you count the miniature golf I played at the rec center for my birthday when I was ten.” I could add that that was the only birthday my mother ever did anything special for me, but I don’t think these guys want to hear that Dr. Phil bullshit right now.

I thought that this Horace fuck would be taken aback by this, instead he just smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that today,” then he leans in closer to me. “If you say I said this, I’ll deny it. But even having never played golf before, you’ll still likely give the President a run for his money. George seems to populate his staff with nothing but sycophants that shield him from the reality that he can’t play golf worth a damn. I admire the fact that you’re honest about it though.”

“Well, I’ve always said honesty is the best policy,” I lie as I take another sip of my brandy.

Horace lets loose another insincere chuckle. “Cliché’s are cliché’s because they are true, my dear man. Since we’re being honest with each other, I’d like to talk with you about your prison privatization ideas.”

“Prison what?…oh, oh yeah,” I’d totally forgotten my the story I’d used for my cover. Probably not a good thing at this point. “How did you know I was here about that?”

Horace smiles. “My dear sir. A man in my position does his best to know as much about the people he’s paying a considerable amount of money to meet as he can before he steps in the room with them. Now, I know what Mr. Hargrove here is about. He wants to snatch up as many no-bid contracts as he can so he can purchase a yacht before we’re finally forced out of that Iraq mess. Carl Van Hertzwelder wants to make the jump directly from law to a Senate seat this election cycle and figures getting as much face time with the powers-that-be will help him. I myself am trying to lobby a plan to privatize the intelligence field as a way to supplement the CIA, NSA, and ONI, but really more to supplant them. Kind of like what groups like Blackwater are doing with the military.”

“Oh, and here I was thinking you were just another Jesus freak,” I say snidely, motioning towards the gold cross he’s wearing around his neck. Horace, however, seems non-plussed.

“My Catholic faith is important to me, yes. But the defense of free market capitalism means so much more since that is the only way to true religious freedom. I digress though. You, Mr. Peanutz, are something of a cipher. All I’ve been able to find out is that you’re hear to lobby the President about the privatization of prisons. Now, I’ve been able to put together that you’ve been in prison yourself and that you’ve come about your windfall from winning the state lottery.”

“Wow,” I say, gulping the rest of my brandy. “You’re good. I’d totally turn over the nation’s intelligence services over to you.”

“So why are you lobbying for more privatization of the prison system?” Horace comes out and says. “All the analysts I’ve read say that the prison privatization boom ended at least five years ago. And if anything, sentencing guidelines in the courts have been lightening up, meaning that privatized prisons are a low growth market. So my question is, why would you spend so much to try and lobby for such a low growth market?”

I glance briefly towards Van Hertzwelder, but he doesn’t seem to be too concerned that I’m talking to some wannabe spook (or at least just hides it well). Shit, if he can’t even see through the holes in my cover story, he can’t be that good at his job. So I tell him, “Well, I just happen to have some inside information that you don’t know about and I’m not really at liberty to tell about, so that’s that.”

“Very well, Mr. Peanutz,” Horace says. “If I can’t bend your ear as to what you’re up to now, perhaps sometime we should talk about what I do believe is a growth area. Privatized black sites in nations with few human rights laws. It will be the future of the intelligence industry as I see it. Nations typically can’t torture suspects without much public outcry, but companies within companies which are subsidiaries of companies owned by shell corporations would have fewer such restrictions.”

I’m kind of amused by the conspiratorial tone that Horace has taken with me, especially considering the fact that two of the people he’s sitting with are part of a bigger conspiracy than he could even comprehend. However, I don’t want to continue talking to him in case he isn’t a total dumbshit and puts two and two together, so I dismissively say, “Have your people talk to my people. We’ll lunch.”

He grins and claps me on the back, “Believe me, you’ll want to hear what I have to say. Remember, anything not done for the profit motive is inherently socialism. National security is no different.”

Horace pulls away from me and suddenly stands up. “Mr. President, how good to see you!”

In my peripheral vision, I see the President’s personal detail move in around us. They are all dressed in casual clothing, but their stern visage makes them unmistakably Secret Service. Then, I hear his voice, the voice I’d only heard filtered through news broadcasts or Internet clips of him flubbing some common homily: “Hey there, Horace, good to seeya again!”

George W. Bush is fucking standing right behind me.

The Winner: Part Thirty

I don’t even notice there is another person sitting in the back of the towncar until my butt is planted on the black leather seat. Not only has Burke decided to show up for this golf game, Carl Van Hertzwelder is sitting there as well.

“Come on, Mr. Peanutz,” he says. “We mustn’t keep the President waiting.”

Burke slams the passenger door shut and gets in the driver’s seat. He adjusts the mirror, then holds his wrist up to his mouth. “Unit Twelve to Candlestick, second VIP is in the box. We are proceeding to primary location; over.”

The car starts moving and I look out the window, watching the buildings pass by. Van Hertzwelder nudges me. “Are you surprised to see me Peanutz?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He chuckles. “Well, I hope in your shock seeing the both of us, you will still be able to complete your task. You know what’s on the line.”

I smirk. “Look, I’m surprised, but I’m not shocked. Let me guess, Burke is your inside man with the Secret Service.”

Van Hertzwelder nods. “It’s good to see you’re not too slow on the uptake. Maybe you’ll have the brains to see this through after all.”

I give him an insincere smile to go along with his backhanded compliment. “Well, since I figured that out, you care to shed some light on why you’re accompanying us on this little coup d’etat?”

“Absolutely,” Van Hertzwelder says. “Two reasons actually. One is, I really, really, want to be there when your faggot ass gets splattered all over the links.”

I grunt. I’m getting real sick of everyone thinking I’m gay just because I did what I had to do in prison. “What’s reason number two?”

“Reason number two is that the cabal believes it would be advantageous to my impending campaign if I’m present during the death of the President. Think Guiliani on 9/11, or Jesse Jackson on the balcony with Martin Luther King. We believe my being present will instantly put me in the public consciousness and give me enormous name recognition.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention during nigger history month, but I didn’t realize Jesse Jackson was with Martin Luther King when he got offed.”

“Peanutz, what did I tell you about using the N-word?” Burke growls at me predictably.

“Fuck you, you can’t do shit to me now and you know it, nigger. Nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger. I’m sure your cabal wouldn’t take too kindly to you fucking up their well laid plans just because I went all Michael Richards on you.”

Burke growls, “I’m gonna enjoy watching you die, Peanutz.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll have cornbread and grits when you join me in hell...nigger.”

“That’s enough, Peanutz!” Van Hertzwelder yells. “You’d better get your act together, after all, you do still have something to lose here. The stripper doesn’t get her kids back until we say so.”

“If you don’t give her kids back, I’ll tell every Secret Service guy at the golf course that isn’t Burke about what you’re up to. It’ll be kind of difficult for you to contain that, won’t it?”

“Peanutz, you’d better keep in mind that we have left nothing to chance here,” Burke says.

I smirk, since I’m pretty sure they have no idea what I have in store for them here.

Anyway, I quiet down for the time being. It’s time to quit fucking with these two and focus. I hadn’t figured on Van Hertzwelder being here, but the more I think about it I realize this makes my plans that much easier. In fact, it makes my plans too easy. “Van Hertzwelder, you fucked up. You do realize that as soon as you put the bomb on me, I’m gonna make sure to detonate it when I’m standing right next to the both of you.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Burke says. “Especially since I’ll the one with the remote detonator. I’ll be sure to that both myself and Mr. Van Hertzwelder are well out of the device’s kill radius before I set it off.”

I shrug, “I guess that makes sense, for you at least.” I knew they couldn’t have been dumb enough to overlook that. Well, at least I know what I’m working with here.

The Cherry Creek Country Club is only a ten minute drive from downtown, so we arrive there pretty quickly (which is good since I’m sick of being in such close proximity to Burke and Van Hertzwelder). I’d driven or taken the bus past the country club almost all my life, but I never imagined I’d be going there, or, more accurately, I never cared about going in there. Golf was never my thing and I never planned on taking it up, even after receiving my windfall from the lottery. Now, of all ironies, my life has a serious chance of ending here. However, the past month of living with this has made me kind of Zen about it all. Even with all my preparations, if my plans do not go off precisely the way I intend them, I’ll be dead by the end of the day. Strangely, it doesn’t bother me too much. Considering what an admittedly self-serving bastard I am, I’m more concerned with making sure Apple and her children are safe and that Van Hertzwelder’s plans go to shit than I am with preserving my own life.

Burke drives the towncar up to the roundabout in front of the country club. He mutters some more of his Secret Service codeword gibberish into his wrist mic, then flashes an ID through the window to some other agents who step up to the car carrying some rather large PDAs. There looks like what must be an entire platoon of Marines patrolling the grounds, their M4 carbines hanging against the chest plates of their body armor.

“It’s time, Peanutz” Burke says ominously. “Play it cool.”

“Fuck you,” I say, then I step out of the car with a big shit-eating grin to the Secret Service agents outside. “Hi fellas! Cold enough for ya out here?”

They don’t seem to have much time for pleasantries. They hold the PDA up to my face, “Sir, please look directly into the camera and hold still for five seconds.”

I do like he says. Van Hertzwelder gets out of the car and the other agent does the same to him. After examining the PDA, the agent goes, “VIP is authentic. Clear for entry into the grounds.”

Burke has gone around to the back of the car and popped open the trunk. I stand there for a minute and look at him, expecting him to get my clubs for me. After a few moments of standing there, he impatiently motions for me to pick them up. I guess it’s too much to expect him to play caddy for me. Once I’ve got mine, Van Hertzwelder hefts up his bag and Burke shuts the trunk. “If you would both follow me…”

We walk into the country club. The interior is very lush, all velvet drapes, burnished wood, with game trophies on the walls and what I swear are endangered birds of prey stuffed and mounted in every little nook and cranny around the damn place. Besides staff members and Secret Service agents patrolling the hallways with MP5s, it looks like we are the only people inside the country club. Burke walks up to one of the other agents, whispers something in his ear, then turns to Van Hertzwelder. “Agent Simmons here will escort you to your private locker room. Mr. Peanutz, I will show you to yours.”

“Delightful,” Van Hertzwelder says, then looks at me. “If we have some time before the match, perhaps you’d join me and the other members of our party for a cigar brandy at the bar.”

I’m about to say “fuck off” to him as well, but I gotta stay in character here. “Yes yes, good sir. That sounds absolutely, well, scrumptious, if I do say.”

Van Hertzwelder looks at me funny, but then says, “Very well then,” and goes off with Agent Simmons. I follow Burke down the hallway to my own dressing room. He’s nice enough to open the door for me as I step inside.

“How am I doing?” I say, loosening my tie. The fucking thing is choking me.

“Fine, Peanutz,” he says, opening up a fancy schmancy wooden locker and pulling out some clothes. “You are well on your way to being the one of the most notorious men of the twenty-first century. Here’s your clothes. I believe we got them in your size.”

I take them, pause, then say, “Do you mind if I have a little privacy here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Burke says. “As much as I don’t want to see you naked, I do have to ensure that you don’t try to do anything to undermine our plans.”

I groan. “Not that there’s much I could do at this point, but fine, have it your way.”

I strip off the suit and don’t bother to fold it or anything. I just leave it on a heap on the ground since this is the last time I’ll ever be wearing it. Unfortunately, when I look at the clothes Burke brought for me, I think I would be more dignified to die in that suit. The pants are polyester of the most hideously colored plaid, along with a salmon colored polo shirt and a white golf cap. This shit was probably Van Hertzwelder’s idea, to humiliate me even further in my death.

“This stuff is real nice,” I mutter, looking at myself in the full length mirror in the room. “Real stylin’. This shit looks like something my color blind grandpa would wear.”

“You have obviously never played golf before,” Burke says. “Those clothes are from very high end sporting stores.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I snort. “I don’t see Tiger Woods wearing crap like this.”

“I also don’t see Tiger Woods walking around with a brown cumstain on his slacks,” Burke sneers. “At least with those pants, no one could tell if you decided to masturbate all over yourself like you usually do.”

I turn and face him. “That mean you don’t mind if I rub one out here really quick with you watching, Mandingo?”

Burke smiles but doesn’t answer me. He pulls his phone out of pocket and checks his messages. “Okay, Mr. Peanutz. It looks like we’re ready to get to business. My associates have just informed me that they have given your stripper friend back her children and she is ready to talk to you now.” He presses a button on the phone and speaks into it, “Put her on now…Ms. Clements? Yes, has everything gone to your satisfaction?…Please calm down ma’am…please be quiet for just a second…Perhaps Mr. Peanutz can explain that to you…” Burke hands the phone over to me. “Here’s your chance to talk with her, like we agreed…”

I take the phone from him and put it up to my ear. “Apple...”

I don’t get a chance to say more than that before she starts babbling hysterically into the phone. “Poopy, what’s wrong with Bubba? Where’s his arm? What happened to my precious little Bubba’s arm, Poopy?”

“Apple, calm down. Do you have the kids? Are they alive?”

Apple is crying too much to say anything, so prod her again and finally she says, “Yes, they’re alive but…Bubba…he’s deformed!”

“Goddammit, they told me they wouldn’t do anything to them,” I say, trying to act like I didn’t know this had happened all along. “Don’t worry, Apple. Because they did that, I’m not going to pay them everything I said I would. I’m gonna take that money and send it to you so you can buy him a prosthetic arm. Is that better?”

Apple says nothing, she just keeps crying into the phone. Obviously the prospect of getting extra money doesn’t dull the pain of seeing her child mutilated. “Apple, the people who met with you, have they let you go yet?”

“Noo,” she sobs. “They’re still here. They have gunnns…” she says, then I hear her protesting as the phone is taken away from her.

I hand the phone back to Burke. “Tell them to let her go.”

Burke holds up a shiny looking gold Rolex watch. “Put this on.”

I take the watch and put it on my left wrist. It feels heavier than a typical watch, and the band feels a couple of links too tight for my wrist. Burke watches me do this and says into the phone, “Okay. Let her go. Don’t trail her, just go to your secondary location and wait for instructions. Over.”

He snaps the phone shut, and I fiddle with the clasp of the watch, seeing if I can get it into a position where it’s not cutting off the circulation to my hand. He screams, “DON’T DO THAT!”

I’m taken aback, but I take my fingers away from the clasp. Burke sighs with relief.

“Mr. Peanutz, don’t try and take that off again. If you attempt to remove it, the circuit will be broken and the explosive will go off.”

“Jesus Christ, you could have told me that before I put this thing on you know.”

Burke puts the phone back in his pocket and pulls out his own pocket watch. “I have the detonator on me here. It’s a one time use, neutron burst transmitter. The signal cannot be jammed and does not need line of sight to work. It can set the explosive off even if it’s behind ten feet of steel and concrete, so don’t think you can save yourself with any sort of stunt.”

“I’m not planning on it,” I lie. “You kept your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

“Very well then,” Burke says. “The device on your wrist is a binary explosive. Wherever the President goes, the Secret Service places bomb sniffers that will detect all conventional explosives in the area. The binary explosive uses two chemicals that are inert until their mixed, which will trick the sniffers. However, it takes about five seconds from the moment I press the detonator for the chemicals to mix before it goes off. It will begin making a noise and vibrating when it’s been set, so be sure to have the President close by when you feel it. The effective kill radius is ten feet, but the closer you are to him, the better.”

I nod. “Any idea when you’re going to set it off?”

“I’ll do it when Van Hertzwelder and myself are out of range. I am assigned to guard the inner perimeter of the VIP party, so I will be close, but not too close. I will be far enough away that even if you decide to charge at me once the bomb is set, you will not be able to take me with you.”

“I told you, I’ll keep up my end of the bargain,” I say. “Though, since you’re the agent assigned to search me before the game, it’s gonna look awfully suspicious if you let a fucking explosive strapped to my wrist get by you.”

Burke nods. “It will look bad for me, but we’ve got this figured out so it will look like mere incompetence rather than being complicit,” he grins. “I’ll be reprimanded, demoted, suspended, probably placed on a Treasury detail checking the serial numbers on one-hundred dollar bills in some remote office. And after a year or two, when the entire mess has settled down, I’ll call in my favors, retire from the Service and get cushy work as a well paid security consultant for some of the companies that will benefit from today’s events.”

“So it won’t bother you that you’ll be one of the worst traitors in American history? That’s not going to bug your conscious in the least.”

“Mr. Peanutz, myself and the people I work for, we are not traitors. In fact, we are quite the opposite. Despite the circumstances in which you are recruited, I want you to die knowing that in the end you really are helping your country by doing this. You and I both know that if there was any president just asking to be assassinated, it is this one.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “It’s not like I’ll be around to benefit from it.”

“That you won’t,” Burke looks down at his non-explosive watch and sees the time. “Now, we have to leave if we’re going to keep the schedule. Mr. Peanutz, please follow me…”

Again, Burke holds the door open for me and I step out into the country club’s lush hallway. He leads me down a different hallway, past more Secret Service agents coolly surveying everything behind their dark glasses.

He takes me to a spiral staircase that leads up to the club’s bar. I hear a distant beating noise which seems to come closer and closer. The game trophies begin to rattle on the wall as the noise becomes louder. It sounds like a chopper is landing outside. I hear one of the agent’s radios squawk out orders.

“Marine One is wheels down. All sections, alert condition alpha. Tumbler is on premises, repeat, Tumbler is on the premises. Stand by.”