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.

Chapt. 40 (1st draft) - Ride to the West Wing

The SUV's blue grill lights were flashing urgency when Trueblood saw it pull up in front of the house. Not taking time to kiss his wife and son, both transfixed in front of the TV, he dashed out to his ride, iPhone in hand, and climbed into the psychedelic maelstrom of President Morowitz's animated voice launching the WACKO song. Joe Secord took a moment to study Trueblood's face, which reflected a three-way mix of shock, confusion and horror, before punching the accelerator and squealing the tires back onto the roadway.

“Bart know anything?”

“He's so upset he kept breaking the connection.”

“You get Chapman?”

“He called me. Called Bart, too. Watching the game when it started. He's probly there by now.”

“Good thing traffic is light.”

“Yeah. Everybody inside watching. What we gonna do?”

“Let it play out, whatever it is. Probly be over by the time we get there, anyway. Morowitz will be in a straitjacket by daylight.”

Trueblood's iPhone chirped. Bart. Trueblood put it on speaker.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Almost there, Bart.”

“Joe?”

“He's driving. Roger there yet?”

“Huh?”

“Chapman.”

“Oh, the hacker. Just got here. Told him to shoot the damned thing down.”

“Anybody from WACKO?”

“Oh, yeah. Sonofabitch sitting at my desk when I got here.”

“Buford?”

“Little one. I told him I'll shoot that big bald-headed bastard I ever see him in my office again. Don't fuck with Bart, goddammit!”