PROLOGUE
Rosedale, Mississippi
Main Street
The campaign bus rolled
slowly down Main Street in Rosedale, Mississippi, last stop on the Bible Belt
portion of the campaign trail. As per usual, the Future Second Lady was
affecting an attitude of being asleep. Fake napping was, she felt, the best way
available to politely express her disapproval and, perhaps even more
importantly, to avoid involvement.
The bitter
truth was she just wanted the whole thing to be over and done. The Founding
Fathers, chosen by God the Father, inspired by Jesus Christ the Son, led by the
Holy Spirit in establishing this, the greatest nation in the entire,
six-thousand-year history of The Earth, would be appalled at the prospect of a several
times divorced, foul-mouthed, hedonistic, narcissistic, serial liar being
installed in the White House, of that she had no doubt. And on top of it all,
she was quite convinced they had no chance of winning anyway, so what was the
point? Might as well nap until the whole miserable business was over.
And yet, as
the bus slowed and pulled off to the side of the road, she felt an undeniable
impulse to open her eyes.
The first
thing she saw through the massive windshield was a group of people gathered in
front of a small, white clapboard building. Not terribly interesting. But her
gaze was drawn to a blue plaque on a white post just to the side of where the
bus had parked. Standing next to the plaque was a man. Tall, slim, almost gaunt
but with an inexplicable smoothness and sheen about him. Taking him in from
ground level on up, she saw he had on a pair of what appeared to be crocodile
skin boots the color of freshly spilt blood. A pair of coal black, skintight
jeans were tucked into the tops of the boots. Around his waist was a shiny
black belt dotted with red crystals and joined together with a large silver
buckle shaped like two stacked triangles, the top one turned on its head. Then
a shimmering white shirt with poofy, billowing, almost piratical sleeves. All
topped off with a wide brimmed hat of even darker black than the jeans, trimmed
with a snakeskin band and single red feather. But the most remarkable feature
of this singular individual alongside the road in this sleepy town was his
smile.
It glinted.
The man
raised a finger to his temple and nodded. Not to the bus in general, but to her
specifically, although how he could see her through the heavily tinted, bullet
proof windows she had no idea.
A soft hand
touched her shoulder, bringing her attention back to the interior of the bus. Her
husband.was standing in the aisle, smiling benignly and rather hopefully down
on her.
“We’re
here,” he said. “Ready? I know you like tamales.”
She could
not recall ever having expressed an opinion one way or the other about tamales.
“Best
tamales in the Delta region!” said Artemus Sibley, the Party’s Southeast
strategist for the VP portion of the campaign. Sibley was standing behind the Future
Vice President and wearing his usual expression of anticipatory anxiety. From
the moment they had been officially introduced in Atlanta, he had been
painfully aware that her heart was not in it, and getting her to truly
participate, to pull her weight as she must if they were going to win this
election, had been a struggle to say the least.
“That’s what
they say.” The Future Vice President gave his wife a hopeful and encouraging
smile. “Best tamales in the Delta region.”
But her
attention was elsewhere.
The man in
black and red and billowy white was still standing by the plaque, still looking
her way.
“Who is that
man?” she asked.
“What man?”
asked Artemus Sibley.
“Him,” she
pointed in the direction of the blue plaque. “That man by the.…That’s strange.
He’s gone.”
“The area is
secure, sir.” It was Sam, the tallest and most handsome of their Secret Service
agents, leaning in the front door of the bus.
The Future
Second Lady placed a delicate hand on The Future Vice President’s arm and
whispered in his ear. He patted her hand and nodded.
“Of course,”
he said gently. Then, to Sibley. “Mother is feeling just a bit travel-queasy
and doesn’t want to embarrass the proprietor by having to turn down a tamale.”
Sibley was
not surprised.
“Of course.”
The stop
went as well as any of the fourteen that had preceded it. The Future Vice
President shook hands, ascended to the top of the three steps leading to the
front door of the tamale shop, and gave his usual whistle stop speech, commending
those gathered for their patriotism, faith in God, and general, all-around
exceptional Americanism. Joe, the owner of the tamale establishment, joined him
for a brief give and take which aimed for a sense of down-home neighborliness
and gentle humor and failed on both counts. A tamale that had been curated by
campaign assistant Leonora, who knew what did and what did not play fair with
the Future Vice President’s digestive system, was sampled with exaggerated
gusto, and pronounced to be a national culinary treasure.
There was
the scheduled ninety seconds allowed for the second and final round of pressing
of the flesh before the Future Vice President, Sibley, and the rest of the
entourage headed back to the campaign bus.
The vast
majority of the locals resumed their places in the queue so they could pick up
their tamale orders.
As they
approached the bus, they saw The Future Second Lady standing there, engaged in
what appeared to be a very pleasant conversation with a man unfamiliar to either
Sibley or The Future VP. He was a tall man, of exemplary bearing and
distinctive taste in apparel. The outfit of black, red, and billowing white was
an eye-catcher, no doubt, but his most immediately noticeable feature was his
smile, which as they came nearer, they could see was being directed at The
Future Second Lady.
When The
Future Vice President and his entourage were perhaps five yards distant and
closing, the man touched the rim of his hat and strode casually behind the
white post and blue plaque and was there no more.
“Well now,”
said The Future VP. “I see you made a friend.” He gave her his hand to assist
her up the steps onto the bus.
“We had a
lovely little conversation,” she replied.
“Sharp
dresser, that’s for sure,” said Sibley. It was met with an over-the shoulder “I
don’t think I appreciate your tone” look from The Future Second Lady.
“I’ll have
you know I found Mr. Skratte to be a thoughtful and very spiritual man,” she
said. She planted her feet at the top of the steps, effectively blocking both
her husband and Sibley from boarding. “It is true there was a moment when I
thought I detected a bit of the Episcopalian about him, but…” And here she
raised a finger of emphasis. “But I could tell that he has not allowed that to
keep him from being a Seeker of the Truth. Mr. Skratte had some very
interesting thoughts regarding God’s Plan to save the soul of this country.”
“That’s
fine, Mother,” said her husband. “I’m glad you weren’t bored.”
“Bored? Of
course not. I feel renewed.” She took her husband’s hand and looked at him with
a fire and spirit he hadn’t seen in a long time. It was a bit unnerving. “We
shall win this election,” she said. “And it will signal a new beginning. A
rebirth of this nation under God. I know it.”
“Well, I
think that’s fine, Mother,” said The Future Vice President. “Just fine.”
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