109 Chickens and Turkeys (1/2)
”Did you get it?” Carlton Brock asked Lea Panatella. They walking to together to Brock's suite in the United Nations building, an object of much envy from leaders of national territories that weren't as important as the United States.
”Yes, I got it,” said Panatella.
Brock felt a great wave of affection for Lea Panatella.
”Lea, you're the best,” he said. ”No one can - fuck it. I don't want to think about all those losers. I can't remember when was the last time I had roast chicken. A whole roast chicken!”
”Half of it is mine,” warned Panatella.
”Of course, of course. Did you - did they -”
”Yes, they made a big bowl of potato salad. And I've also brought some pickles and of course pepper and salt.”
”Lea! You're as good to me as my wife. Better than my wife, dammit.”
This was true. Brock had recently taken a few days off, and spent them at home in Virginia. As governor of the entire US territory, he rated a plane ride. On his way down to Virginia, he wished he'd taken the train. The airplane was an ancient Beechcraft Bonanza. It was a single-engine plane, and Brock mistrusted single-engine planes. If something went wrong with the engine, that was it. In a twin or any other multi-engined job, the airplane could continue to fly on its remaining engine or engines.
The Beechcraft's engine was as ancient as the aircraft. It lost its beat and spluttered several times during the journey: Brock was briefly convinced he was listening to its death rattles. After they'd landed on the deserted, lifeless international airport in Washington, DC, Brock directed his steps straight to the airport manager's office. After five minutes of shouting they promised to do their best to secure a twin-engine plane for his trip back to New York.
While Brock was haranguing the airport manager, his wife was waiting for him in the empty arrival lobby, busy composing a harangue of her own. Carlton Brock's wife was a socialite. She'd been born with a swizzle stick in her mouth, along with the silver spoon. Her favorite way of spending the time was to sip a very dry, ice-cold martini at a party, making catty comments about everyone except her audience.
There was a distinct shortage of parties to attend following the catastrophe, and Carlton Brock's wife was close to bursting with frustration. Brock's stay with her had not been a happy one. He'd finally gotten laid, true, but at times he wondered whether it had been worth it. He was truly relieved to escape back to New York, back into the loony bin located in the United Nations building.
”Lea, you just can't imagine how stupid most of those guys are,” he said as he opened the door to his suite. Back in the old days, it would be opened for him by his security detail. But all the bodyguards belonging to the assembled national leaders were busy providing security for the whole building. The police and the soldiers had been withdrawn: they were very badly needed elsewhere.
Brock and Panatella didn't talk much for the next ten minutes. In the space of those ten minutes, they managed to consume a whole chicken plus nearly two pounds of potato salad. They washed it all down with a bottle of white wine. Brock had had the foresight to secure himself a very large supply of alcohol right after the disaster struck. He instinctively knew that alcohol would be very hot commodity in the days that followed, and time proved him right.
His foresight had benefited him in more ways than one. Several world leaders pledged their undying allegiance after Brock had presented them with a couple of nice bottles. An ashen-faced, trembling Ruslan Grot pledged an eternal alliance between Russia and the United States, and Brock liked to think the trembling was caused by genuine emotion.
”I am ready to sign the agreement tomorrow,” Grot had declared. ”Just bring me the paper and the pen, and I will sign.”
Two bottles of vodka had achieved, in two minutes, what the best diplomacy had failed to achieve in twenty years of trying.
”Have you decided who you're going to appoint governor of Illinois?” asked Panatella.
”No. The other Illinois guy, Chuck Warner, is a total asshole. I'm not going to call him senator. He doesn't deserve to be called senator.”
”I wonder how he managed to get elected,” said Panatella.
Brock sighed.
”Lea, Lea, Lea,” he said. ”You're too sweet for your own good, do you know that? People vote for the politician they identify with, and most people are assholes. That's how Warner got elected. Fuck! We've got to move. We've got to do that fucking lunch with all those fucking losers.”
”Carlton, you're being very cruel,” said Panatella, wiping her mouth and rising from the table.
”I'm not being cruel. It's a realistic assessment. They get the biggest break in their fucking lives handed to them on a plate, and what do they do? They freeze with terror and moan and bitch. Did you see anyone cheering or clapping, Lea? I didn't. Have you forgotten what was going on yesterday, when those guys began arriving? Carlton, I don't know what to do. Carlton, please help me. Carlton this, Carlton that. There are exceptions, of course. Kirk Lander is one. I'm really impressed by that guy. He just fixed half a dozen major problems with a single sentence. Did you hear what he said?”
”Yes. He wants to control the number of issued licenses. I thought you were fundamentally opposed towards any regulations like that. You were saying the New World must be open to everyone.”
”It will be, it will be. Some people will just have to wait a little.”
”How are you going to manage to eat your lunch?” asked Panatella, as they rounded the final corner on their way to the conference room.”
”I'm getting a slice of melon. Same as breakfast.”
”Won't it excite comment?”
”Fuck that,” said Carlton Brock.
A small group of senators were standing near the entrance to the conference room: it looked to Brock that they were having a little conference of their own. It displeased him, because the group was composed of people he disliked. He had no doubt they were criticizing him behind his back. Bunch of fucking assholes! He stopped by them, put on his best smile, and said: