A Dickens of A Problem (#4 of the Pride Series)

Part Four of Pride, More Pride and Quite a Lot of Extreme Prejudice (see the previous part):

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of misguidance and mis-intelligence.  In short, the period was – like all periods – exactly like the present.  The old imperialists and the new imperialists sat in two cities, independently fading.

There was a leader of well-thought promises and no action at work in London; his name is unimportant – the light here has already gone. There was a president of unthought actions and no promise in the American Capital; Zack Frussterer was all that mattered in the corridors of power.  He was yet to find the true depths of emasculation to which that position might reduce anyone of mere human frailty.  So far he’d lost only one ball.  Perhaps a metaphorical ball, who knows?  No one but a young intern called Tiffany was likely to know the truth.  No one even knew how the rumour leaked out.

Now, Dear Reader, walk with me.  Roaming these still virile and virulent corridors in the twilight of imperialism, we might just chance upon Washington Post, a balding journalist with a notepad, a malformed view of reality, and an imminent and recurring deadline that aggravates his ulcer.  Wash, as he has been abbreviated, is aptly named, or at least would be if he weren’t an employee of the New York Times.  His father, a Lithuanian immigrant, named his only son to demonstrate loyalty to this new country, and Wash always does his damnedest to report its actions in the most patriotic light.

It is now Hour Thirty-Six of Frussterer’s Body Part Crisis and Wash confronts a bedraggled Ted Sicanto half way between the Press Room and Sicanto’s office as Communications Director.

“I’m hearing rumours, Ted.”

“What kind of rumours, Wash?”

“That your boy has lost something.  London’s reporting it as a kidney.  In five minutes, we’re going to press with an appendix, but then, you know, we’ve always minimised your downside.”

“OK, let me put you at ease… exclusively.  I can deny all vital organ rumours.”

“Would that be a categorical denial, or only a provisional one?”

“Let’s call it provisionally categorical.  I might want to come back and admit to the appendix, if anything blows up, you know what I mean?”

“Roger, Ted,” says Wash, scribbling the letters ‘PC’ on his notepad and underlining them.

“Thanks, Wash,” says Ted.  For a moment, Ted is reminded that ‘Roger’ is a word from Air Force days, back when he had proved his future suitability for presidential service by dropping napalm on villages of East Asian peasants.  The previous incumbent of his office had, as a seventeen year-old, taken a different career path, watched the Stars and Stripes burn in Times Square, and – thirty years later – been forced to resign.  The idea that dropping napalm on East Asian peasants was un-American has, itself, latterly been shown to be un-American, but for now the napalm droppers are still in charge, having been democratically elected by a population who believes that the helicopters brought classical music to Vietnam.

Wash goes off to meet his deadline.  Ted, the ex-pilot, hurries away down the corridor to get briefed on the latest state of America’s latest foreign crisis, and to find out whether the guys with sniffer dogs have yet managed to locate the President’s missing manhood.

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Lights burn in the White House.  They say there’s no sleep for the wicked, just late night drinking.

“Oughta have had GPS… national treasure of that magnitude,” says Henry Ayeland wearily.  He’s on his third shot of Jack Daniels, knocking it back.  “Course, they doubled the guard now.”

“Four times as many men per testicle?  That should be enough,” says Carrington, and laughs at his transatlantic cousin.

Archie Carrington is the visiting Brit, an old codger at the top of the Whitehall tower.  Pushing retirement now, but proper experience in such crises.  He sounds drunk as an English lord, but drinks only Perrier.  The fizzy EU water keeps him alive.  Too many liquid lunches, liquid dinners, liquid nights; he needs the detox.  He takes a sip, and says, “But isn’t that rather like shutting the stable door after the stallion’s a gelding, old boy?”

“Half a gelding,” Henry says.  “There’s a world of political difference.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.  To lose one testicle may be regarded as misfortune.  Lose both and you might look like you needed a handbag.  Still, President and PM would have a special relationship then.  But we don’t want panic in the streets, do we?”  Carrington takes another sip, bubbles popping up his nose.  “My man lost one once, you know.  Only a golf ball in his case.  Hooked his drive off the First at St. Andy’s.  Bloody press-hounds were all over us like a rash.  ‘Government takes turn to the left.’  Had to slash top-rate income tax just to get back on an even keel.”

“You’re not treating this terribly seriously,” Henry complains.  He, of course, knows just how serious it is.  Personal property in the White House has been searched and re-searched.  He only just managed to erase a thousand incriminating images from his own laptop before the CIA moved in.  Elsewhere, raids targeting diplomatic bags have breeched the sovereignty of several Middle-Eastern nations.  (The Secret Service reasoned these were countries where a President’s testicle might be considered a trophy hors d’oeuvre.)  Embassy kitchens have also been violated.  The diplomatic fall out will run and run.

“National leaders losing anatomy?  It happens,” Carrington muses.  “In my time, had a PM who lost his mind.  One Italian chappie lost his whole head, the French one’s always losing his gallic guts, and – before or after their bad brickwork fell down – the German lost the funny bone in both arms.  Once went to a G8 meeting with only enough body parts to make seven world leaders.”

“I’ve never seen the Secret Service this worried,” Henry tells him.

“The SS are paid to be worried, dear boy.  Haven’t you seen the expressions on their faces?

“And the political strategists are thinking paternity suits.  Women saying they’d slept with the President and producing the rugrat evidence, when all they’ve done is buy a hundred dollars of jizz.  We’re expecting it to turn up on E-Bay any time now.  We’re just hoping it hasn’t already been broken down into ‘job’ lots, as it were.”

“On the other hand,” says Carrington, thinking it over.  “If he had actually dipped his brush in the wrong ink pot, so to speak, publicly losing a testicle could give you a stonewall defence later.  Is it true there’s been no ransom demand?”

“None demanded, none paid.  Though, globally, one hundred and forty-seven terrorist groups have claimed responsibility.  The bulk of the field are religious, obviously, pro-this and anti-that.  Actually they just hate everybody who isn’t them.  If God exists, Archie, he’s been sending some pretty mixed messages.  He needs a Chief of Staff, in my opinion.  If I die young, you’ll know I’ve been headhunted to a higher calling.  Seems to have promised at least a dozen different races that they were the chosen ones.  Go figure.”

“Yes…yes.  ‘You’re it, kill the infidels.’  Message always the same.  Just change the names,” Carrington agrees.  “The British Empire was built on that model.  Choose, divide, conquer.  Receive eternal gratitude from the winners.  ‘Veni; vidi; vici’, don’t you know?  Only without the need for so many ships or the right wind.  Anyway, not terribly sound in the long run.”

“Ended up giving it all back, eh?”

“In general, couldn’t pay them enough to take it, old boy.  Losing you lot in a war was one of our better results.  The only time we united a country instead of dividing it.  As the Lost Empire advising the New, I’d say, look to the home front.  You can’t get your nether regions straight, how can you rule?  Get this ball back soon as possible.  Smuggle in a new one, if necessary.  It’s not as if the country was familiar enough with the wrinkles to make an identification, you know.  A ping-pong ball would stabilise the situation.  The English Crown once smuggled in a Catholic son and heir inside a warming pan.  What’s the latest prognosis on your man?  Do you think he will survive, politically or otherwise?”

“We’re still doing tests … taking polling data.  You know, Frussty’s a knee jerker?  Some suggest he may have inadvertently booted the testicle up behind some of his other vital organs while answering a question.   Haven’t found it yet, though.”

“And the alternative?”

“Black magic.”

“Black magic?”

“Voodoo.  PR-wise, how else do I explain failure in America?”

< ….. to be continued: Part 5 on 20/12/2015 at 1800 GMT>