Chapt. 43 (1st draft -- In the Arena)

It's the swirling...no. There's no swirling. What then? Ridge...circular ridge...no no no no no...ripple! That's it! The ripple in the deep garnet red, rolling out from the...where the drop plunked into the deep garnet...the drop! Holy shit...

House Speaker Edith Glick's head entered a terrible clarity at this moment, one of several she then knew she'd experienced since things had started swirling...there it was again. Swirling. Of course! It was the swirling cognizance. In and out of realization and then loooong stretches of...what? How long has this been going on? Forever! Ever! No! It couldn't have it just seems like it forever forever ever but only an hour at the most how can this be? Omigod...another ripple ipple ipple ipple...WAIT! No more drops! It's the...Omigod I TOOK THE SHIT! No wonder I couldn't find the goddam capsule for chrissake! I took the goddam capsule I musta thought it was the goddam ginkgo biloba shoulda put the goddam thing in a different goddam thing oh shit SHIT I can't give this to fucking Kudlow! Not now! He's a dumb ass but if he goes down in a babbling ball of batshit and I'm already a babbling ball of batshit then that means next comes...

Despite her sudden panic she understood the extraordinary license she'd been given by the collective befuddlement President Morowitz's surprise performance brought to the room. Everyone was agape. An appearance by Morowitz was not scheduled, but this surprised few of those invited to the exclusive annual Gridiron Club dinner. So when his “show” seized the airwaves only minutes into the start of the program its organizers quickly lowered the projection screen and turned the roast over to the commander in chief.

Most at first assumed it was planned, that Morowitz was mailing it in. That he wasn't funny at first was no surprise either. It soon became apparent something terrible was happening.

“Did he say WACKO?” The murmured acronym quickly caromed among the guests, many of whom the Klux owned and managed, while presumably at least one or two actual WACKOs were in the room.

Shuffling, stumbling and muttering like participants in a zombie apocalypse rehearsal, organizers and featured guests moved from the raised head table to find seats on the lower level, allowing them to watch out of the overhead spotlights' glare as the president came apart.

Glick attached herself to Vice President Kudlow. Unable to find the capsule in her purse during dinner and not wanting to use the more conspicuous delivery, she was relieved to see the wine glass in his hand as they worked their way down to an empty table.

“Don't spill it,” she said to the infamously clumsy former Ohio senator plodding beside her.

“Aw, Edie, you don't believe all that stuff in the media, do ya? Oops...didn't spill a drop haha.” His elbow had brushed her arm, accidentally, she assumed, as Kudlow was not one to, as he would put it, kid around. It was her turn to feel awkward when they reached the table, as she sat on the left of the left-handed oaf to give her easier access to the wine glass.

“You a lefty, too?”

“Uh, no, Quentin. This gives me a better angle to see our president make an ass out of himself.”

“Oh, uh huh.”

Someone shushed them. Morowitz had begun the little dance step accompanying his WACKO ditty.

Glick's unusual irritation at being shushed was her first indication something was wrong. She started turning to glare in the direction of the shushing, then remembered who she was and where she was and then remembered what she had to do to Kudlow and then managed to choke off what she knew would quickly become a shrieking giggle. To her horror she realized that in spite of her understanding of all this she actually was glaring in the direction of the shushing. It seemed she'd been glaring for hours.

“Hey, Edie. C'mon.” Louie Lumpkin was pulling gently on her arm.

“Louie, where the fuck am...are we?”

“Time to go, Edie. Sorry, Homer. Cutting in, old boy.”

Former Vice President Lumpkin steered Glick away from President Pro Tempore Homer Twining. Twining's narrow, gargoyle face registered a ménage à trois struggle among fright, lust and confusion as his head wigwagged from the Morowitz fiasco on the screen to the babbling Glick and to her escort and back and forth and back, eventually breaking the pattern by taking a grateful slug of the cabernet in the glass he'd seen Glick eyeing.

“Shit,” he thought he heard from Glick as she and Lumpkin wove unsteadily among the tables to an exit.