Deep Throat 2

Perfect World story (The NOW) The Professor chapter _

The President paced around his desk. What a dilemma! Not three months in office and already he had to face down an honest to god missile crisis, only this time it was with a vastly more dangerous country, poised in a very tumultuous part of the world.

One by one his advisors came in and passed along their specialized knowledge. He hoped someone would say something that made sense of it all, before the sky filled with Scudbusters and history ended, but each time the door closed he felt more confusion.

Even a conversation with his wife yielded no insight, though she was his greatest muse; the problem seemed to spread and twist in convoluted paths like a wildly cracked windshield, with each issue intersecting another and complicating potential solutions. There were matters of national pride to take into consideration. Careful sidestepping of individual honor and delicate avoidance of insult between national leaders was a shifting minefield. Promises dredged up from past administrations colored the mix, creating an uneasy and mistrustful melangé of fitful leaders with their fingers poised, dangling over planetwide doom.

The vibration startled him; interrupted his lapwalk. There it was again! It was a cellphone, but his own was sitting silently in his pocket. He moved about the room, triangulating the sound, forgetting for the moment that he had Secret Service agents to do that for him.

There, next to the long couch was a black cell phone, jittering slightly with each hum on the end table's polished surface. How did it get there? He remembered each person at his last few meetings, but they were small gatherings of chairs around his desk-- he wasn't a couch meeting sort of president. He fingered the phone then decisively snapped it open. "Hello?" he barked.

"Hello, Mister President. I've solved your crisis." The voice was calm and intelligent, but was not one he had heard before. This crisis was new, and secret-- only his advisors knew of it, and he recognized each of their voices quite well by now.

"Who is this? How dare you try to influence this offic--"

"The vice president has been eroding your work."

"What?"

"Your summit will fail-- he's been undermining you. When it does he'll keep promises to the senate if they impeach you."

The President paused. The voice was correct-- he was aware of the Vice President's desires, because the President had sources of his own. But he had not realized he was being set up by Congress!

The voice continued. "He is part of The Family, who is helping to achieve his objective."

The President gasped but said, "There is no such group as The Family that I am aware of."

"You shouldn't protect them, sir. Most of the mess we're in is a direct result of their meddling. Don't forget their objective is to manipulate the world's political power structure, bending it to their own selfish desires. These are the powerful and self-serving people who were responsible for JFK's assassination, after all."

"Kennedy was killed by a lone gunman," the President snapped.

"True. One which was hired, and trained, by The Family."

The President knew this, but had no idea how the caller did-- that information was one of the State's most closely held secrets-- but he wasn't ready to trust the man. "I don't know how you're getting this information, but to know it without authorization is Treason."

"I am a patriot, sir, and I also know that you are an honest man. Except for that poker game back in graduate school, you have never failed to impress me, and even then, I know what you did to them was revenge."

The president paused. It was true! This man was a gifted detective... but what could he possibly know about the current situation?

As if reading his mind, the voice continued. "I know a few choice personal details about each of the players in this global confidence game. I believe if you were to use these tidbits at the correct time, you could force each one to back down and end this problem quickly, without bloodshed. Do you have an email account not subject to interception or monitoring?"

The President mulled over the question, seeking deception. "What guarantees do I have that you aren't trying to manipulate me the way you want me to manipulate these others?"

"Sir, your private nickname for your wife is Mittsy. None of your close friends knows where the nickname comes from. I would never tell a soul that you gave it to her after your fourth date, when the two of you drove into a remote part of the woods and had spectacular sex in the back seat of her car... her Mitsubishi."

The President dropped onto the couch, strength gone from his legs. Weakly he said, "And exactly how did you know that?"

"Allow me to send this information to you, sir, and then we can talk some more. Agreed?"

"What the hell... all right." He passed on the email address, wondering if this was, down the line, going to bite him in the ass. "So... will you tell me your name now?"

"It's probably best if I use an alias for now. Call me 'Deep Throat Two'."

"Amusing. So... shall I call you mister Throat, or mister Two? Or is it a hyphen, mister Throat-Two?"

"Soon you'll be calling me a national hero, so it doesn't really matter-- call me Deep. Check your email-- you'll be receiving a packet with instructions now. Follow the instructions in order, because it will unravel if you play it out any other way. And by the way-- for the last page in the document, you're very welcome. It was my pleasure, really." He concluded, "I'll be going now. Keep the phone... I'll call you before too long."

The line disconnected. The President stared at it, then slipped it into his pocket and opened the document, his eyes going wide. It was evidence of disgraceful and embarrassing acts committed by the very world leaders he sought to sway! Following it was a set of instructions outlining how to use the evidence, and when. He looked over the deliciously detailed photographs. It was exactly what he needed and the President could now see a way out of this mess; and yet he could only think of one thing... what was on that last page?

Scrolling down, he reached the final document. He stared at the starkly clear color images, taking in their detail; a smile spreading across his face. Each image was a damning piece of evidence linking one man to payola, underage sex and murder. The scenes were graphic and professional; it was almost if a photographer had been hired to document the whole scene from the best possible angles-- the concept was unthinkable. And yet, there it was-- all the evidence needed to turn a respected political figure into a laughingstock, and a hypocrite, and ultimately, a federal prisoner.

He picked up the phone on his desk and said, "Get me the email addresses for the Tanaqi ambassador and King Sarak-al-Fariz... and summon the Vice President to a private meeting tonight at midnight. I have a proposition for him." He chuckled quietly at the photograph of the VP with the teenage prostitute... the teenage male prostitute. The teenage male prostitute who was performing his job while in the top position.

His first few months as President of the United States might have been unremarkable, but the next few were anything but. First, in a stunning turnaround, a treaty was proffered to the President from the government of Tanaq, making them lucrative partners in the manufacture of clean and renewable energy. The ambassador to Tanaq was discovered to have been selling secrets to his country's mortal enemies in the north and was to be executed, but had disappeared without a trace despite a nationwide search.

Then, in a very public battle of wills, the President bested the cruel and indomitable King Sarak-al-Fariz of Saunibaria, causing him disgrace before his people. He was soon deposed in a deadly coup by his son, a much more moderate and forward thinking man trying to advance his nation to first-world status, not create more solid gold palaces as had been the folly of his father.

Finally, the aged Vice-President was 'crippled' with a 'serious cardiac incident' and had to retire after it became clear he would not be able to resume his duties. In his wake, the position was filled by the current Speaker of The House, a competent woman selected by the President because of her high moral values and clarity on the spirit of the law.

The President's policies were turning around the country. His bid to create nationalized mortgage protection was passed in the liberal congress, and many people were returned to the homes which had been ripped out from under them in the loan scandal of the previous decade. Further, the psychiatric patients cast out from state care were readmitted, and the full attention of the latest psychological methods were implemented to help them. His approval numbers were strong and he looked good to sail through the next election.

But his success was colored by help from the phone call which had brought this all about, from Mister Deep Throat Two. He was grateful for the help, but had wanted to learn something of a personal nature about the man. Where did he get his information? How did he know seemingly impossible details? How did he get such incriminating evidence-- exactly the right picture or video at exactly the right time? What deal with the devil had the President unwittingly signed by taking the man's help in the first place?

There was no question the man was a ghost--- the phone trace he had requested indicated it was placed from within the oval office itself; an impossibility, and yet there it was. The voice had promised information but had disappeared-- and that had been months ago.

So he was almost shocked when that familiar hmmmm tickled his thigh. He snatched it from his pocket and spoke deliberately. "Deep? Is that you?"

"Good evening, Mister President. I trust you are satisfied with how events have unfolded in these last few months?"

"Where have you been? You owe me an explanation, Deep. You said you would tell me more about how you know what it is that you know."

"You're welcome... I think. All I said was that we would talk from time to time, and we shall. But I need you to schedule weapons training for yourself... until you can shoot a handgun with great accuracy. You need to become proficient in three weeks, sir. You have a Camp David vacation coming up, right, sir? You should do it then."

"Dammit, Deep! How do you know these things? Nobody has my schedule yet!"

"Oh, the former Tanaq ambassador says hello."

"Where is he? Nobody can find him!"

"I have him."

"What?! He needs to pay for his crimes!"

"Oh he is, he is. Daily. So, three weeks and you're an expert marksman, right?"

The President sputtered. "Why do I need to be an expert marksman?"

"To cement your relationship with the American people, among other things. I'll call you in three weeks. Tell no one." He hung up.

"Dammit!" the President spat. "He dodged me again!"

The President's wife and children were most perplexed. He had been needing this vacation after nearly six months of nonstop presidential action, but was he resting? No! He was spending every spare minute with Ralph, the Secret Service's most accurate marksman, playing cops and robbers over at the firing range. He barely came back to the ranch for meals and sleep. When the vacation was over, the President had a 97 percent handgun accuracy rating from a distance of fifty feet, and was also 10 pounds lighter, much to his wife's delight.

Back in the Oval Office he should not have been surprised when the phone in his pocket began to hum, but was nonetheless.

"How was the vacation, sir?"

The President laid into his beneficiary/tormentor. "Crappy! Becoming the next Annie Oakley is no kind of vacation -- my family barely saw me! Did I really need to learn 'drop and roll' techniques? Plus, I lost ten pounds! Who loses ten pounds on a vacation!?"

"I'd call it the smartest vacation of your life. Now, taped under your desk is a snub nosed plastic gun with four bullets in it. Keep it in your pocket. You'll be needing it. Oh, and slip on that bulletproof vest hanging in the closet there... you'll be needing that too."

Shocked, the President asked, "How did you get this stuff into the Oval Office?"

"Friends of yours. You'll be addressing the joint chiefs in an hour. Listen carefully-- there will be an attempt on your life."

"What?! By whom?"

Deep plodded on. "You'll need to drop the shooter. He'll be a Secret Service guy. He's planning on shooting you, then setting off a c-4 vest. Aim high."

The President was stunned but recovered and asked, "Why can't I just have him caught now?"

"Do this and the American people will fall in love with their powerful leader. Don't worry-- you won't fail. He'll be in the back of the room, dead center, and won't pull the gun out until your comment about terrorism. Pull yours out right after you speak the words '...will be largely eliminated in our lifetime'."

"This is not good, Throat. I didn't know I'd be defending my own life with a handgun! I have guys for that sort of thing, you know."

"They won't be expecting an attack coming from the target. But I make this promise to you, sir. Survive the meeting today and I'll give you the information you desire." Deep Throat Two hung up.

"Oh, great," the President muttered, "more compromises with a spook." But he did what the man said, nonetheless, grumbling as he slipped the bulky vest on, then donning his shirt and jacket and headed to a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff with a lethal weapon that wouldn't set off metal detectors in his pocket.

It was a small hall, of perhaps 50 seats. The Joint Chiefs were sitting front and center, and other important spectators and press filled in the remaining seats. The President's trusted Secret Service spread around the room, silent and impervious, eyes always moving. His target was standing in the back of the hall and didn't look nervous for a man who was about to kill everyone in the room, the President thought. He began his speech, moving through the talking points mechanically, for about twenty minutes. He realized what a good time had been chosen for an attempt on his life... his audience was starting to lose focus. Even the Secret Service guys weren't glancing around as much.

This was it! The moment was fast approaching. He unbuttoned his jacket and grasped the gun, a movement invisible behind the podium. As he neared the target sentence, he could see the would-be assassin moving his own hand. Like clockwork, the President recited the line, "And I foresee a time when terrorism will be largely eliminated in our lifetime," pulled the gun, dropped, rolled and squeezed off two rounds POP! POP!-- all in under a second.

People in the small audience screamed, diving for the floor. Secret Service guys had their revolvers out, looking wildly for the danger, but could find none.

On the floor in the back of the room was the rogue Secret Service agent, dead, with two evenly spaced bullet holes in his forehead. In his hand was a plastic gun similar to the one used by the President. And encircling his waist was a densely packed c-4 bomb, just as Deep had said.

The President was rushed by his Secret Service men and brought out of the room, their bodies protecting him from every direction.

Washington was in shock. Reporters at the meeting expecting the same old dull routine were instead a chattering uproar. White House staffers furiously handled an unending jangle of phone calls. It only took moments for the Internet to carry the first whispers of news, a small wave preceding an enormous tsunami, and soon headlines like 'Presidential Assassination Attempt Foiled... By The President!' were everywhere.

Back in the Oval Office, after the concerned throng had left, he dropped into his leather easy chair and let out a long breath. "That's two I owe you, Deep," he said aloud, the words cantilevering back in his ears. The phone in his pocket rang. "How the hell does he do that?"

"Nice aim, mister President. It's good to know you'll be around for your second term... and third and fourth terms as well."

Third and fourth terms? The President had figured out the man's conversational style-- slip in an outrageous statement to control the conversation. But not this time.

"Confess, Deep. How do you get your information?"

"Okay. I've made you wait long enough-- here goes. I get my data using a device I invented."

"What kind of device have you invented?"

"Solar powered flying nanocameras, sir. Each one is smaller than a ladybug. They infiltrate a target's office, and electronic devices, and gather evidence. I heard about the plot on your life that way-- one of my nanocams piggybacked a ride on the target's coat, waiting for him to arrive at his office. But he was smart and held meetings outdoors, so I let it remain on his clothing."

"Bugs, huh? Literally!" The President laughed. "Glad you're on my side, Deep. I wonder why we haven't invented something like that yet?"

"You've tried. I've stopped it. I felt the potential for abuse was tremendous, and quite frankly, I don't trust bureaucrats. Could you imagine the 1984 we would face if tiny flying cameras were placed in the hands of government fearmongers? I couldn't let that happen."

"Don't you believe your government has the good of the people in mind at all times?"

"You're kidding, right? Remember your predecessor?" The sarcasm was syrupy.

Disgusted, the President said, "Touché, Deep. It's got to be the right person, I get that. But is that person you? What's your end game? What do you have planned for the world, since you seem to be the puppetmaster? And what's my part in all this?"

"Democracy and Capitalism have taken us far, but have done so at the expense of our virtue. I found a brilliant opus online describing a new social architecture, one which could replace our current, faulty one and save the planet in the process. It has become my playbook. Take a look." He recited the website address; the President pulled it up.

"Perfect World Theory?" The President seemed dismayed. "Doesn't that name seem a little... unlikely?" He quoted, "Perfection is elusive; and if attained is short lived."

"The author explains the term. His architecture is supposed to be 'A Perfect World' for us imperfect people to live in; that it has a expansive definition of 'normal' behavior, and to that end maintains specific rules preventing one belief system from interfering with another. He's trying to build an Eden on Earth."

"Don't you mean rebuild?"

"If you believe in that sort of thing. Read some more... I can wait."

The President scanned the introduction, picking out key changes over the current system. "Individualized education system ... college graduates by puberty ... 100% green ... 95% of all laws dropped ... parental licenses ... 90% population drop ... an end to punishment... " After a minute the President cleared his throat. "Uh, Deep... this 'architecture' seems to be missing a political structure. Where's the government?"

Deep chuckled. "That's what's so great about it-- there is none! The nation and then the world becomes one enormous Cooperative. There's no ruling class to become corrupt, no social strata to climb, and best of all, it will inaugurate the end of human misery."

"Really?" The President sounded doubtful. "I doubt the ruling class and the rich will be happy about that!"

"Read more-- the author discusses solutions for those problems."

"I'd like to sit down with the author, quite frankly."

"So would I. But he prefers to be incognito. The author is listed as 'The Founder', no other information."

"Probably smart. Look what they did to Jesus..."

"True. Mr President, I can't sway the destiny of an entire nation anonymously. That's where you come in. Your party is in the majority-- propose bills for the Senate in private meetings, using my knowledge to convince them you're serious. That should move things along swiftly."

The President sighed heavily. With obvious regret he said, " Deep, I'm a man of honor... you said so yourself. Up until now you have helped right wrongs with those Nanocams of yours, and while the means were questionable, the ends were unassailable. But I cannot, no, I will not be a party to blackmail."

"And I'm not suggesting that at all, sir. It's just that, after reviewing the images I collected from each member of Congress... well, they are each, down to an individual, corrupt."

The president gasped. "All of them?"

"Yes. So what we can do is, we can let the law work for us. The first thing we have to eliminate is influence peddling, which ultimately causes all of our representatives to not vote the way their constituency requests. We have to wrest control of the political body away from the corporate CEOs. Now there's a rich mine field of corruption data-- there are many things they would not want their investors to know."

Smiling, the President added, "And they are outside of the political arena-- perfect! When do we start?"

"I think you know the answer to that already, sir!"

"Deep, I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Agreed, sir. Oh, and call me 'Professor'. 'Deep Throat' is a little too vulgar for my comfort."

"Will do. G'bye, Professor. Call me for our next adventure." The President hung up.

The professor dialed a number and waited. Thirty rings later a man picked up. "What is it, Professor? I thought I told you not to call me again." He sounded contemptuous.

"I thought you'd like to know the President is on board."

"What president? The president of Bellvue asylum?"

"No, sir. The president of the United States."

"Wait. Did you have anything to do with the assassination attempt on his life?"

"Yes. I suggested he train himself how to do a droproll shot."

"Nothing else?"

"Well, I may have hired the assassin, too, a little bit."

"You almost killed the president? Are you insane... wait, what am I saying? You're as mad as a hatter!"

"I resent that. The gun would have backfired on him, and the bomb was miswired."

There was a silence on the phone as wide and as deep as regret. At last the man said, "I told you not to involve yourself in Perfect World any more."

"I can't do that, Founder. When we began this years ago..."

"When I began this, Thackery. When I began this."

"Founder, Perfect World will never get off the ground without a huge infusion of cash and the cooperation of the President, and it's me that got you both. How am I not involved?"

"You're like the stalker who claims that their actor is popular because of the stalking."

"I'm not stalking. I want back in."

"You're not thinking straight, Thackery. You know what Perfect World represents, and yet you're still willing to commit murder to achieve it. Those are mutually exclusive goals, don't you get it?"

"The ends justify the means, Founder."

"No they do not, Thackery. You're not back in because you're not Perfect World material, plain and simple. I just hope you haven't poisoned the well and ruined my chances with the President. I'm changing my phone number." The line went dead.

The Professor chuckled. "Like that's ever worked!"

Copyright 2009 Bruce Ian Friedman