 
01/12/2014 21:29:00

A MURDEROUS CAMPAIGN

a political thriller

By STEVEN TRAVERS

COPYRIGHT (2014) by Steven Travers

USCSTEVE1@aol.com

https://web.archive.org/web/20140701030526/http://redroom.com/member/steven-robert-travers

REPRESENTED BY

Ian Kleinert

Objective Entertainment

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New York, N.Y. 10014

(212) 431-5529/5454

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Table of contents

The politician

The California girl and the pornographer

The plant

The conversation

The muckraker

The Stinson Body Count

The smear

The crash

The safe house

The father

The announcement

The Statue of Liberty

The press conference

The Big Lie

The stealing of America

The age of chivalry is gone

To Terry & Cecile Marks

The events, people and situations depicted in this novel are fictitious. Any similarities to real events, people or situations are coincidental.

Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for you country.

\- John F. Kennedy

Your President is not a crook.

\- Richard M. Nixon

You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time. You cannot fool all of the people all of the time.

\- Abraham Lincoln

If I were the devil . . . I mean, if I were the Prince of Darkness, I would of course, want to engulf the whole Earth in darkness. I would have a third of its real estate and four-fifths of its population, but I would not be happy until I had seized the ripest apple on the tree, so I should set about however necessary to take over the United States.

\- Paul Harvey

The politician

Jim Stinson was not movie star handsome; he was politician handsome. He possessed piercing blue eyes outlined by a smooth, tanned face, although his nose was bulbous, a telltale sign that he enjoyed his alcohol. His body was big and burly. Somebody wrote that he was an ex-football player. He was not, but he let the lie stand because it made him look more all-American. He was overweight, his belly and backside overinflated from too many campaign stops at McDonald's. But he had that beautifully coiffed brown-blonde hair, blow dried and styled by a French hairdresser named Andre, who charged the tax payers $1,000 to keep the Louisiana Governor looking good. Sometimes Andre cut Governor Stinson's hair in his private plane, often keeping other passenger aircraft waiting on the tarmac of Louis Armstrong Airport for an hour or more. Stinson cared not a whit.

He was very well read and thought of himself in Platonic terms; the professional politician forged by what the Greek philosopher first identified as "political science," a "right way of thinking" that Stinson called "political correctness." Career public servants who knew better than the populace and were trained to decide what was best for them.

What Stinson had was indefinable. He had charisma. He had intellect. He never was a lock. There were always conservatives who rallied against him, and in the South they were the majority. He grew up in this environment. A Democrat in the Northeast, in California nowadays, in certain liberal bastions, could say and do anything and they were in. Stinson was different. He had to identify a segment of the population who were receptive to his message. The blacks worshipped him like a god. The white conservatives despised him for that. Stinson used their words against them. To criticize him was "racist," small-minded. Stinson quoted from the Bible and knew just the right phrases to use, and just the ones to omit.

When recalling an incident or telling a story, invariably it started, "Well, we had just gotten out of church . . ." or "We were on our way to church when . . ." some event that never happened would be perfectly described to the rapturous liberals who thought him the savior of their political religion.

When he did attend church, he carried the good book with a huge cross on the cover, and like an angel of light could make the Lord Jesus Christ look like a liberal Democrat. Nothing about judgment, about sin, about many being called but few being chosen. The last thing he was ever going to talk about was God using the homosexuality and immorality of Sodom as a picture of hell.

****

Now, Stinson waited in the wings backstage at the Louisiana Superdome. He was in his element, waiting for this big moment in his hometown of New Orleans, except it was not his big moment. Instead, an upstart whose actual name was Fidel Castro Valenzuela, a nobody from nowhere, had robbed him of that. There were very few, if any, pundits or professionals who could explain how Valenzuela had come out of obscurity, seemingly in the blink of an eye taking from Stinson what he had built, strived, planned for, and sweated to achieve in a lifetime of politics.

So now, instead of accepting the nomination for President of the United States, he was the keynote speaker at the Democratic National Convention, tasked with re-electing Valenzuela President of the greatest nation God ever graced man with.

A speaker droned on, the buzz of 60,000 people waiting in anticipation. The crowd displayed placards everywhere. All colors of the rainbow were represented among the throng. Each state delegation had a sign.

"New York supports Valenzuela."

"Texas has long horns for Valenzuela."

"California says Valenzuela."

"Hawaii says yes to Fidel."

"GEORGIA IS A PEACH FOR FIDEL."

Amongst the crowd, men in suits, some with their sleeves rolled up and ties undone, engaged in heated conversation. Delegates in straw hats and professional women in red power suits hooted, hollered and engaged.

A band played patriotic and uplifting songs, interspersing those with Spanish themes in honor of the incumbent Valenzuela, running for a second term. The entire extravaganza was a scene of frenzied activity. An embarrassing moment had passed earlier when the convocation, urging that God bless America, was met by hearty booing. Another speaker, urging protection of Israel, was practically hooted off the stage.

Stinson waited for his moment. The Governor wore a blue Brooks Brothers suit perfectly designed to hide his flaws and accentuate his attributes, a picture of his entire life. He wore a small lapel pin in the shape of a donkey.

His wife, Jill Wyndham-Stinson came to the microphone. She was strident, Ivy League-educated, a powerful attorney representing Democratic Party interests. She was the picture of the modern woman in a pants suit. If ever she was half-attractive she hid any semblance of sexual appeal under a veneer of presentable feminine professionalism. Her hair was worn in a bun, a stiff collar hiding her neck. Unlike her Southern husband, her voice was bereft of accent; toneless and without soul. But she was a hero to the feminine Left for putting up with her husband's philandering. Abortion was her sacrament, and she sacrificed her career – for now – on its altar.

She had been selected to introduce Governor Stinson at the Superdome; the Louisianan making his biggest speech in the city he grew up in. Stinson was no longer Governor of Louisiana. He had been Secretary of State in the Valenzuela Administration, a position of fealty he resented beyond words. He once told another high-ranking Democrat, "A few years ago, Valenzuela would've been servin' us coffee." Now, he was serving Valenzuela. He had stepped down as Secretary of State a year earlier, his political future not known for sure, but he insisted on being called Governor. Valenzuela needed his support.

The crowd hushed.

"The man I introduce to you now," Jill Wyndham-Stinson stated in her stentorian manner, "needs no introduction to the good people of Louisiana, or to the rest of this great nation. But I know him not as America's greatest Governor; I know him as a husband, a father, a friend."

Hearing that behind the scenes, Jim Stinson guffawed.

"Hurry up, you bitch," he said to himself. A young woman wearing a headset, in charge of the lights, overheard Stinson and let out a slight sound of shock.

"Governor Stinson has dutifully sacrificed a lucrative legal career, disdaining corporate interests, in a selfless pursuit of public service, his only clients the people of Louisiana, of America, and the world," she declared.

Applause rippled through the crowd. A few minutes of political platitudes followed. She did not have her husband's gift. She was perhaps smarter, maybe better educated, but she could not connect to a crowd as he could. There was something dark, impenetrable, and mysterious about her that even her supporters were unable to define. Her enemies, the Christian Right, called it evil. Before her speech grew too long-winded, she brought Governor Stinson to the podium.

"Without further adieu, I present my husband, the greatest Governor in the history of the great state of Louisiana . . ."

"The great, white, PREJUDICED state of Louisiana," Stinson said to himself, laughing at his own inside joke. The light-check girl heard that too, and was shocked again. Stinson just winked at her.

" . . . And one of the bright lights of the Democratic Party, my husband: Governor Jim Stinson."

Stinson stepped out from behind the shadows. Suddenly it was his world, and he was welcome to it. The crowd erupted in a huge standing ovation, with horns and bells and foot stomping. It was pandemonium, Stinson the pagan idol of a secular tent revival. The bright lights blinded him at first, as they always did, but he had long learned to smile right into them as if he was looking 1,000 years into the future.

Jill came to greet him, and together they waved at the crowd as if they were the nominees for President. She leaned into his ear.

"I suppose you got some slut lined up for later."

"Two of 'em." Then he uttered a smiling epithet at his wife, who looked at him as if he were a god, before leaving the stage to her husband.

The crowd continued to roar. When Jill left, their shouts grew louder. They seemed to sense that this man did not like to share the spotlight. Now that it was his alone, they amped up the volume, urged seemingly by his will.

The ovation lasted at least three minutes. In his hotel room near the Superdome, President Fidel Castro Valenzuela watched with scorn. He was slight and skinny and little, half-Mexican, half-black. This made him appear to be something of a United Nations "everyman," a picture of racial diversity to his supporters, a picture of fallen man in a new, dark age to his detractors. His hair was shaved so close he was practically bald, and he sported enormous ears. His critics called him "Dumbo" and "Ears."

"This guy is the biggest egotist I ever saw," he stated.

His wife Melissa, a well-dressed, well-coiffed black version of Lady Macbeth, had a terribly ugly, curled mouth that the Biblically inclined swore literally dripped with false works. She just stared at him.

"Look whose talking."

Valenzuela gave her a quick, dirty look, then focused on the screen. Governor Stinson finally used his arms to calm the cheering crowd into silence. He looked around, smiling every second for all it was worth, then spoke.

"I say to you now, my fellow Americans, have we not had enough of greed, avarice and ethical misconduct? Is it not time for a change?"

"Jesus Christ, that son of a bitch . . ." Valenzuela sputtered at the TV screen. Stinson's speech had been submitted earlier, and he immediately diverted from it. This was a very common practice for him, but on this stage, with the stakes so high, the message seemed pregnant with disdain for Valenzuela. Everybody who was anybody knew the two hated each other.

"He wouldn't . . ." sputtered Melissa Valenzuela.

In a private box, CNN president Harvey Rosenstein just looked at his wife, Natasha.

"Christ is he goin' after Valenzuela?"

"Stop him," she replied. "Cut him off -."

In the President's hotel suite, his 14-year old daughter Leticia turned to her mother.

"Is he talking about . . . Dad?"

"Every four years this country celebrates its most basic right by demonstrating to the world how very free we really are, to choose the person, the philosophy and the direction we want this nation to take," Stinson continued. "What is on the line over the next four months, what is at stake, the question to be answered is, Will the hearts and minds of our young people be captured by the fringe elements of the conservative Right-wing?"

"Thank . . . thank . . . okay he's back on track," Valenzuela breathed a sigh of relief.

"The religious Right has a plan for America, and if you are not rich, white and Republican, you are not part of their grand scheme. Our opponents are obsessed with maintaining the wealth and power of an elite cabal bent on maintaining their status, but we're not going to let that happen!"

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

"Do you think there may come a point in which he acknowledges your existence?" Melissa Valenzuela stared at her husband, ignoring her barb while boring a hole into the screen with his eyes.

"I see a brave, new world. What is it, America, that we ask of our leaders," Stinson continued. "As Governor of Louisiana I have had the privilege of leadership, and . . ."

"You just knew the son of a bitch would plug himself up there," Valenzuela said to the TV.

"Didn't you okay the speech?" Melissa asked him.

"Of course, this was supposed to be later, not all about him."

"During the time I have lived and worked in the Louisiana Governor's mansion, I have had the chance to reflect on what the American public expects and deserves from their elected leaders. The game has changed in Washington, around the country and around the world, my friends. No longer can politicians wrap themselves in a cloak of ambiguity, service the masses with platitudes, and expect to be re-elected, yet not be held accountable.

"What is required, here and now, is a new kind of hero, a modern American from a new generation. We have learned our lessons from the past. We appreciate and honor the commitments and accomplishments of our ancestors. In the past century he have fought wars, and waged as my hero President Kennedy once said, a 'long and bitter peace.' "

"Why doesn't he just announce, 'Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what your country can do for you?' " Missy Valenzuela shouted at her husband, ignoring her. Neither realized that, as if by natural construct, she had mis-quoted John Kennedy's famed 1961 Inauguration speech, instead intoning the modern mantra of their party: looking for a handout.

"But the old century is history, a new well under way. Old methods and theories, of containment and confrontation, must be replaced with a new way of thinking."

"Isn't this where he's supposed to credit you with -?"

"Yes, dear," President Valenzuela cut her off, obviously perturbed. "Yes, it is."

"It is time to pass the torch to the new generation, the most privileged, well-educated, well-equipped people in the history of the world," continued Governor Stinson. "The old must be replaced by the new. That is the task at hand."

"Hmm, wonder what that means," Missy said, snidely.

"The Republican Party is stagnation and inertia. It is our duty to change. It is our responsibility to change. This is sometimes painful reality all of us must face at one time or another. Some day we, too, will be replaced by a younger force. Right now, we are the force of will, the wind of change – for the better – that is sweeping the land, my friends. If not now, when? If not us, who?"

"Oh give me a break," Melissa screamed at the TV. "This was your theme four years ago. Or Bobby Kennedy's. It sounds like he's running against you. By the way, have you heard your name yet?"

Valenzuela just stared at her, cutting a hole in her skull with his eyes.

"I'm beginning to believe you really are as incompetent as the Tea Party says you are. How do you let your biggest Democratic rival make the keynote speech of your re-nomination, except he has not mentioned your name and seems to insinuate that your policies need to be changed? Hey, dumbass, you were change running against McLain. That theme doesn't work when they're running against you."

"You wanna know somethin', Missy," Valenzuela replied, using the name he used for her. "Your mouth is especially ugly today."

It went on . . . and on, and on, and on. For 30 minutes, Governor Jim Stinson talked about highway projects in Louisiana, flood control measures in Orleans Parish, of the courage and tenacity of the citizens of Louisiana in overcoming Republican racism and "global warming" and Hurricane Katrina and their inability to respond to crises, and gay marriage and why voter I.D. is racist and border security is racist and cops are racist and prosecutors are racist until . . . finally, he came to the issue of sitting President Fidel Valenzuela, who by the way was running for re-election.

For five or 10 minutes the theme was, for all practical purposes, that all criticism of Valenzuela was racist. Racist against a Mexican-American man, or his African-American wife. Apparently, Stinson stated, Arab-Americans would not have to "cower in fear in the night" if Valenzuela were re-elected, which left pundits scratching their heads and asking, "Does that mean Arab-Americans are cowering in fear at this time with Valenzuela currently in office?" Valenzuela himself had said the same thing when he made the keynote address years earlier. It, like most of the speech, was way off the prepared text, agreed to if not mostly written by the Valenzuela campaign. It certainly threw the media off base, as they were expecting what they had been given, but Governor Stinson was nothing if not unorthodox and unpredictable. He hated to be put in a corner, ever.

Then Stinson got to the issue of the economy. This was the "elephant in the room." Under Valenzuela, the stock market had tanked, unemployment was consistently high despite the administration giving falsely low statistics, the debt was beyond fixing, and America was adrift. For 15 minutes, Stinson gave the audience, in the Superdome and on TV, a history lesson. Had the entire speech consisted only of this passage, it would have gone down in history as one of the most masterful bits of Democratic Party oratory since William Jennings Bryan's "cross of gold" speech in 1896, and indeed included details of Bryan's populist message. Stinson started with Abraham Lincoln, who he admitted despite being a Republican was a "heroic figure," but pointed out that even "Honest Abe" was in the "pocket of railroad interests." For two minutes he described the building of the trans-continental railroad not as one of the great achievements of world history, but a "blatant act of racist aggression against the Chinese" that largely built it.

Then Stinson essentially said, using code words and veiled language, that 100 years of white racism could have been averted had the Republicans not been put in charge of Reconstruction. William McKinley was a "tool of the trusts." He did not say the Lord Jesus Christ could not be compared to Franklin Roosevelt for "saving" America during the Great Depression, except people smart enough to read between the lines realized he had. The Dwight Eisenhower 1950s were a period only of oppression against blacks and women. Anti-war protestors were the first "enlightened' American citizens, and the Great Society a towering achievement. The Kennedys were not mortals, they were gods. Ronald Reagan was a racist warmonger, and the Silicon Valley entirely a product of Democratic Party ideas and ideals. The War on Terror was racist, and only the election of Fidel Valenzuela had restored America's place in the world, particularly with Muslims. Stinson did not mention that Muslims under Valenzuela were rioting, murdering each other from one end of Asia Minor to the other, but his speech was filled with subtlety, each of the aforementioned themes couched in such a way that the average "low information voter" did not realize he was essentially bad-mouthing America, and as such calling them dumb.

It was such mesmerizing recitation of Democratic Party ideas and liberal myth that, even though Valenzuela was scarcely mentioned, the media immediately said "if Valenzuela wins, he can thank Jim Stinson." Had Stinson ended the speech then and there it would have gone down, among liberals, as one of the best ever made. Instead, he droned on for another half hour. He finally got around to Valenzuela again near the end.

"I see a bright future led by the current and future President of the United States, a man I'm proud to work with," Stinson intoned. "A man I'm proud to call my friend, President Fidel Valenzuela."

The rumors, unconfirmed, over the next weeks, were that only when he heard his name did Valenzuela wake up. Others said he was doing cocaine. In a box next to the lectern sat Governor Stinson's chief of staff, Don Carver. He was a man whose face did not so much resemble a snake's but rather, appeared to actually be one. He had, quite simply, the beadiest eyes in human history, with thick, bushy black eyebrows topped by a shiny bald head. His Louisiana accent, honed in the Bayou, was so thick he could not be understood. People knew what he was saying more by force of nature than audible recognition, like a Marine drill instructor so loud and so full of overbearing jargon that his troops figured it out almost telepathically. He turned, or half-slithered, towards Democratic National Chairman Bill Rothstein. Despite the roar of the crowd, he leaned conspiratorially into Rothstein's ear and told him that the last time Stinson and Valenzuela spoke, Stinson had called him a "Communist faggot," using a term describing men who use their mouths to pleasure other men. On that occasion, Valenzuela had turned to Stinson and, according to Carver, claimed to have "documented proof" that Stinson had sexual intercourse with pigs in Louisiana. Valenzuela was lying. Stinson was not.

"At least they have meaningful dialogue," Rothstein told Carver.

"The Republican Party is stagnation and inertia," Stinson continued. "Fidel Valenzuela and the New Democrats are change."

The term New Democrats was attributed to Stinson, and certainly not Valenzuela. The crowd, bored, antsy, a little confused after close to an hour-and-a-half speech, did not react. Finally, Stinson said, "So in conclusion . . ." The crowd then erupted in a frenzy, followed by a standing ovation.

"The answer . . . is Fidel Valenzuela."

****

Molly Worre was a Cajun gangster's moll who hung around the New Orleans Fair Grounds. In her prime she was never particularly attractive – not ugly, but no beauty – but she was particularly adept at giving oral sex, and had no moral limits. She serviced countless men.

She hung around the racetrack and bet money she usually did not have. When she lost and went into debt, she usually "worked off" the debt in one way or another. Sometimes that meant performing some dirty work for a low-level mobster, perhaps selling, delivering or picking up drugs, often in the Gulf of Mexico. She was good at recruiting prostitutes, who trusted a woman more than a predatory man. She did some low-level hooker work but was deemed not attractive enough to be a good earner. Sometimes a blowjob was enough to satisfy her debt. She was not a complainer and knew her place. She was smart and could be trusted, not just to do what she was told, but not to do something stupid, which was just as dangerous. She believed in the mob life; it was all she knew. Her mother had been a gangster's moll, too. She never knew her father.

She had three abortions but also gave birth to four boys, three by different men. She knew the names of two of the men; the other two were mysteries. One married her, then ran off. She "raised" her kids by doing dirty jobs for the mob, but she was trusted and liked enough that the gangsters made sure she and her kids had a roof over their heads. It was assumed the boys would all work for the New Orleans Mafia when they were old enough, so it was seen as a form of "investment."

All four of her kids were relatively intelligent. None was a total idiot. All were completely devoid of moral compass, not a surprise. None ever did murder and committed that sort of mayhem, but lying, cheating, conniving, drug dealing; these were considered art forms to be proud of in their walk if life. Molly generally taught them the skills needed to do these things, along with an assortment of wise guys who came around, part of the extended family. The family never attended church, read the Bible, or expressed the slightest interest in Christianity, as a way to live or path to salvation.

The two youngest boys were Robert and Jim. Robert Worre was a smart lad but had a weakness for heroin, which he battled all his life. He was a drug dealer off and on, in and out of jail for years. He knew who his father was, a track tout and mob runner. He was the only father of any of Molly's kids who married her, but he was also the one who ran off. Jim did not know who his father was father was. Molly did an inventory of sorts, trying to determine who his father might be. She narrowed down four or five men who had intercourse with her within the time frame that she became pregnant.

She approached one, a higher-level mobster who it was rumored snitched to the FBI. He actually attended two years of college and liked the History Channel. His name was John Stinson. Stinson admitted to having sex with Molly, but insisted he had used a rubber. Molly, however, felt he was the closest thing to a "legitimate" father, and when the baby was born she gave him his last name. Then she decided to try and make the kid sound extra legit by giving him the full name of James Madison Stinson.

John Stinson would have been none too happy to learn that Molly Worre was naming her son after him, attempting to convey the possibility that he was the father. He may very well have had Molly killed, or at least coerced into changing Jim's last name, but when word of his FBI connections got out, his hopes for becoming a capo were over and he skipped town. Nobody really knew what happened to him. It was rumored that he joined the Witness Protection Program, but that was unconfirmed. He never contacted Molly and Jim, and never supported them.

From his earliest youth it was obvious Jim was different. He was, in fact, a genius with a photographic memory. He tended to the heavy side but had youthful good looks. He was popular with girls and boys. Teachers raved about him. Molly could not believe he was her son, but he was. They loved each other and vowed to stick together.

Before Jim entered high school, a group of mobsters came to the house to speak to Molly. They asked Jim to make himself scarce for an hour or so, then return at the appointed time. When he came back, he was told that the New Orleans "family" had noticed how smart he was. He made straight A's, was usually elected class president, and all the librarians raved about his monumental reading interests, which already ranged from Maximilien de Robespierre to David Halberstam. He was voracious when it came to knowledge, and not just politics and history. He was a sports genius, knew philosophy, and could quote the Bible, not because he believed, but because he knew it was the formation of Western Civilization. He joked to his atheist mother he would use scripture to pull the wool over the head of voters and political opponents "just like Lenin said he'd sell the West the rope he'd use to hang us with." He then had to explain he meant V.I. Lenin, not John Lennon.

The mob boys of New Orleans hatched a plot. Jim Stinson, the gangster's moll's boy, would be their boy. They would send him to the best private school, pay his tuition to college, then law school, and keep him in style. Then he would break into politics, and he would be their man in the state house, and from there? The sky was the limit.

So it was that Jim entered one of the most prestigious private academies in New Orleans. The other kids immediately looked down on him; who was this upstart? He had no father, his mother was "white trash," who paid his way? It was assumed he was on a full-ride scholarship, which he was, but he also had spending money, courtesy of the New Orleans mob. His clothes were new, he had a van with Astro-turf laid out in the back, and he ran a swath through the young debutante girls, not to mention all the other girls. The running joke with Stinson was a quote from Bette Davis – "Fasten your seat belts, it's gonna be a bumpy ride" - because his van was always bobbing up and down while he had his way with some chick in the back.

His grades were perfect. He was in every civic and social organization, usually named president. He was the student body president, voted "most likely to succeed," and everybody who knew Jim Stinson said he would be President, or in the Senate, or in jail. His mob ties were barely hidden; it too was a running joke. He was popular with everybody.

It was during this period that he met Don Carver. Carver's father, Cleve Carver, was head of the Orleans Parish Democratic political machine. The Orleans Parish Democratic political machine was, of course, a wing of the New Orleans Mafia, made to look just independent enough to appear not to be a wing of the New Orleans mob. This was another running joke. There was little will to clean up corruption in New Orleans or Louisiana; it was a way of life that traced its roots at least to Reconstruction, if not the Napoleonic Laws.

What Jim did not immediately know was that Don, for all practical purposes, was "assigned" to handle him by his father. He was the one who told his well-to-do classmates to stop making fun of him, who introduced him to debutante girls who helped raise his place in the social hierarchy, and guided him towards the goal Cleve and the mobsters laid out for him: politics.

When Jim graduated from high school he was drafted by the Army, but immediately went to Cleve and told him to "help me dodge the draft." He had a full ride to Louisiana State. It was also legitimate, not a "mob scholarship." He was a brilliant student. Cleve was able to defer his draft status, and the Vietnam War ended shortly thereafter. Don Carver also attended LSU with him. Carver had already attained the nickname "Snake," because his head and beady eyes looked like a cobra. He literally appeared more reptilian than human, his Southern accent so thick he could barely be understood, but he like Stinson was a brilliant student. Absolutely dedicated to Democratic politics, and his best friend, the two were inseparable. After their freshman year, the two of them spent the summer in Washington, D.C., where they volunteered to do research for the Democrats in the Watergate hearings against President Richard Nixon.

Stinson and Carver dominated LSU student politics, getting Stinson elected student body president twice. They used a vulgar term that essentially describes the anatomical penetration of a rat; stuffing ballot boxes, spreading lies and rumors of opponents, creating flyers inviting voters to rallies by their opponents that did not exist. This included drawing thousands of music fans to see popular local bands sponsored by their opponents. When the people arrived, they were met by an empty stage. They planted stories in the student newspaper: opponents "coming out" as gay, opponents "arrested" for running a prostitution ring. When confronted over these acts, Carver joked that he was simply doing what all political operatives do.

In the mean time, Stinson and Carver "shared" a girl named Larraine. She was a hot blonde with a voracious sexual appetite. Then Stinson figured out a way to make money off of her, and began pimping her out at $50 a pop. Using Larraine, they set up a sting, arranging for a political rival to pay for her sexual services, only to photograph the encounter and use it as blackmail to get him to drop out of the race. Larraine wanted more money for her participation, and Stinson arranged for his handlers to pay her off. When she got greedy and still wanted more, they killed her, dumping the body in the Gulf of Mexico. It was the first killing done on behalf of Jim Stinson's political career. When he complained to his handlers, ostensibly of the loss of a hot "piece of ass" like Larraine, he was told if he knew better to keep his mouth shut, and not make waves.

Stinson graduated from LSU, the student body president and class valedictorian. He also earned a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford, England. The New Orleans Mafia thought that was hilarious, a definite first. Aside from the scholarship perks, they kept him in style, allowing him to travel freely throughout Europe, broadening his horizons. He was by this time a full-fledged hippy, favoring tie-dyed t-shirts and wearing his frizzy hair long. He smoked a lot of pot, occasionally shot heroin, and began snorting cocaine. He seemed oblivious to any effects.

While at Oxford, he was approached by an operative of the Soviet KGB. The Soviets, he was told, knew about his deal with the New Orleans Mafia. They threatened him with blackmail unless he agreed to do some low-level spying on their behalf. Stinson flew to Moscow, but he was unaware that U.S. intelligence noted his comings and goings. In later years, he discovered that American agents lost track of his whereabouts for five days during the Moscow visit. Those five days were spent with KGB agents who told him they would "feather your nest" for some cooperation. They saw that he was overtly political, obviously planning to run for office, and would occasionally be in touch to get inside scoop on economic and political trends in the United States.

"I don't mind cooperatin' with ya'all," Stinson told the Soviets. "Hell, capitalism's gonna be dead some day. The American's 'll need a guy like me to help transition to a Western-style Socialistic model. We're not enemies, you and me."

"Are you not, shall we say, 'concerned' over past Communist mistakes under Stalin?" he was asked.

"Kill a hundred people yer a murderer," Stinson replied. "Kill 35 million yer a conqueror. It's like Lenin said, man, you can't make an omelet without breakin' a few eggs."

The two Soviet operatives looked at each other and laughed.

"With such dedicated American patriots waiting in the wings, surely Communism is the winner of history."

Stinson lived in style in England, his income buffeted by both the New Orleans mob and the KGB. He breezed through Oxford, graduating with a master's degree in political science. From there it was off to Harvard Law School on a full-ride scholarship. He was already considered a rising star in the Democratic Party, who knew of him from his summer working on the Watergate case. He was the political version of an All-American, a future first round draft pick.

Stinson worked in a "mobbed up" New Orleans law firm the summer after his first year, and the second summer clerked for a liberal Supreme Court Justice in Washington. He was the star of Harvard's law school, making editor of the Law Review his third year. The KGB occasionally contacted him, but his information was limited to trends in American jurisprudence, not of great interest to Soviet spymasters. He did tell his handlers that the 1973 Roe v. Wade ruling, giving all American women access to abortion on demand, would be the fulcrum of a future divided America.

"The Christian Right's goin' crazy over this," he told his contact. "The future of the Democratic Party's gonna be the feminist wing, with abortion the single biggest issue. A guy like me, with my Southern background; I might be seen some day as the kind of 'middle way' figure who can broker both sides together."

"What is the 'middle way,' " his handler asked him.

"Well, sort of between Communism and Democracy, I guess," Stinson replied. "The Vietnam War destroyed jingoistic patriotism in America. That's old school, man. The new generation's gonna be lookin' for a guy like me, a young guy who appeals to moderates."

"And women?"

"You bet yer ass, and women."

By the time Stinson was a third-year law student, he had totally lost count how many women he had sex with over the years. He was no matinee idol, and his frizzy, long hair made him look slightly ridiculous, but he was a true silver-tongued devil. He had also impregnated at least three women four times that he knew of, all of whom aborted the babies.

But in his last year at Harvard, Stinson started dating Jill Wyndham. He had never had a real girlfriend before. He lived for one-night stands, dumping chicks as soon as he got bored with them, which was usually after one or two bed sessions. Jill was the last girl anybody would have predicted to stick with Jim Stinson, who appeared to be a bachelor at least until age 40. His mob ties occasionally suggested girls for him, but none stuck.

Jill was from an affluent Midwestern family with strong ties to the Democratic Party. She first met Stinson when she volunteered to do research on Watergate, but they had little else in common aside from hatred of Richard Nixon. After Radcliffe, she went on to Harvard Law School. She was not bad looking, but she wore the "feminist uniform," which included Birkenstock shoes, long, flowing Earth aprons, frizzy hair, granny glasses, and little in the way of make-up. Abortion was her sacrament. She despised Jim Stinson and turned down his request for a date at least four times. Never had Stinson asked a girl out a third time after being told no twice. His friends could not understand what on Earth he saw in Jill Wyndham. He liked buxom, slutty blondes. He liked to share his girls with friends, which he did to curry favor and get people to owe him back. He was known to occasionally organize bachelor parties in which one or two girls – local strippers or hookers – would have to do prodigious sexual work, taking on a small army of horny dudes.

Word of his exploits got out, and the Harvard feminists despised him. He was so uncouth, so low class. His mother was a chain-smoking broad who wore too-tight shorts and low-slung blouses, yet she and her son always had plenty of dough, courtesy of their organized crime benefactors. He was greasy, slick, full of himself, completely untrustworthy, and beyond arrogant, yet had the temerity to passionately argue on behalf of women's rights in class on Monday after treating girls like whores on Saturday.

When Jill Wyndham finally went out with Jim Stinson, she was absolutely amazed that she liked him. He took on an entirely different demeanor, eloquently discussing politics and history. He deferred to her and flattered her. When she did not eagerly jump into bed with him after the first date – always a deal breaker in the past – it did not stop him from asking her out again.

When the mobsters heard about Jill, they ran some background on her. Cleve Carver had his son tell Stinson they thought he should marry her. Stinson was aghast at first, until it was quickly explained marriage did not mean the end of "fooling around with broads on the side," like his heroes, the Kennedys. That was when the head of the New Orleans syndicate invited he and his mother for a sit-down, along with both Cleve and Don Carver. They had financed his education for years. He earned scholarships, of course, actually saving organized crime many thousands of dollars, but he had never really worked any job, other than cushy internships with a Mafia law office and clerking for a Supreme Court Justice. He had traveled the world, lived like a king, wined and dined chicks like a young Hugh Hefner, and now "the family" wanted something back.

Carver had been groomed like Stinson, deemed too smart with too much potential to turn into a Mafia don. He was already a modern day Nicholo Machiavelli, a backroom dealmaker and strategist. They had been paired since high school, Carver tasked with overseeing Stinson's political rise. Stinson had graduated from LSU, Oxford College, and was on the verge of graduating from Harvard Law School. He had some resume: Rhodes Scholar and a Supreme Court clerkship. He would no doubt pass the bar with flying colors. The New Orleans boys wanted him to be their man in politics. It was similar to a "program" Whitey Bulger ran in Boston, where he would recruit a bright teenager, fostering his rise through school, into the police academy or the Democratic political system, where he would be his mole from the inside. Now was the time to act, to quit fooling around.

The first decision was that Stinson would marry Jill Wyndham.

"The future of the Democratic Party is radical feminism, abortion," Carver told Stinson. Stinson looked at him as if he was being delivered words of wisdom, but underneath he was thinking to himself that he was smarter than Carver; he had made this same observation just a few years earlier to his KGB contacts. The mob boys were not Communists; they would not have taken kindly to his becoming a sort of double agent.

"This broad Jill Wyndham is perfect," Carver continued. "She ain' some trailer trash like those other bimbos of yours, hoss. She'll be your better half with these feminists. She's just the cover you'll need."

They strategized over his career. Who did they "own"? What offices would be opening up? What would be the best course of action? Go back and "handle" Jill Wyndham, he was told.

Stinson did not love Jill Wyndham, and she did not love him, but they were enamored of each other's intellect. Each was politically ambitious. Each offered the other something they needed to help them rise. At first Stinson thought he would tell Jill just enough to get her to say yes, but despite his obvious brilliance, to her he was still a hillbilly with a trailer park mother, a bastard child with no breeding. His slick talk and mind had stood him in good stead so far, but a real political future – Senator, Governor, the White House – seemed beyond even his reach.

Stinson was struck by Carver's Machiavellian nature. He had never read Machiavelli's The Prince. He was a lifelong speed reader with a photographic memory, the ability to instantly recall everything perfectly. Somebody would mention in passing the merits of Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America, and Stinson would go out, get a copy, powering through it in an afternoon. Or somebody would say Edward Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire was the definitive set of volumes on the subject; the best way to predict whether America would meet the same fate. It might take longer - a weekend - but Stinson would read and comprehend.

So, in order to understand Carver – and himself – he read The Prince. At first he felt Sun Tzu's The Art of War more accurately reflected modern politics than Machiavelli's description of ancient feudal families and rivals in Florentine Italy, until he read that Machiavelli advised the prince that there were times to be honest. In fact, honesty was the best policy only until dishonesty was needed, but to establish a reputation of honesty was imperative as a bulwark against the day when a man would need to lie through his teeth to get what he wanted, and needed.

He suddenly decided this policy was needed in "the conversation" he would have with Jill Wyndham. If she were to be his wife, she needed to be in on everything; well, almost everything. He lived a lie, was about to engage in a huge public lie, and if she thought he was something else, she would not be there when the rubber hit the road.

Stinson began not by "proposing" to her, but by telling her he wanted to marry her, and needed to tell her a few things before she decided. He told her the New Orleans syndicate had backed him since he was 14 years old. That was why he always had money without a job. They had recently told him they planned to run him for political office, but he needed a wife as cover. If she married him, they would be set financially through under the table pay offs. This was how it was in Louisiana Democratic politics going back to before Earl and Huey Long. He liked women, he could not lie; he would have affairs, but they could respect each other and be discreet.

Jill revealed that she was bi-sexual and might occasionally find a woman to satisfy her needs. This did not bother Stinson. He immediately conjured fantasies of ménage a trois action. She was sufficiently willing to give him a child, at least.

Stinson decided against telling her he had been a snitch of sorts for the KGB. He had kept that from Carver and the New Orleans boys, and even that seemed too far a stretch, at least until she revealed just how far Left-wing she was. Jill Wyndham was such a radical, she was well beyond liberal. She believed America was an illegitimate country, built on racism and extraction of wealth and resources from rightful Third World natives. She did not believe the murderous regimes of Joseph Stalin and Mao Tse-tung were good, but necessary, and that America had a chance to start over, to get right what the first Communist revolutionaries had failed to do. America needed to lose a war or two, in order to reduce her influence in the world.

Stinson let Jill know that his benefactors would set her up with the same fancy law firm in New Orleans he had clerked at. It would, of course, be "mobbed up," but did enough "legitimate" business with the government, the unions and the Democratic Party to be considered good cover, as well as high paying. He would run for office within the next few years, forging a career in Louisiana politics, and when the time was right, he would bring her to the White House! If she would stay with him on this journey, eventually political power would be hers, too.

Jill Wyndham agreed and married Jim Stinson. Don Carver was the best man. Shortly after the wedding, Stinson was contacted by his KGB handler. He told him the Kremlin was delighted with his choice of a bride. They had their eye on Jill Wyndham for several years, but had not yet approached her. Stinson told them she was far more radical than he was; that it was not necessary to compromise her with some sort of contact or arrangement that the FBI or CIA could find out about. She was sufficiently accommodating to their cause, simply by virtue of her own political choices.

Then the Soviet man told Stinson that his relationship with the U.S.S.R. was changing. They could see that Stinson was a man with a bright future. He could go all the way. They did not want to get him in trouble in case he was ever nominated for a cabinet post and subject to a thorough FBI background investigation.

"We have decided, therefore, that we will no longer subsidize you monetarily," he was told. Stinson balked but was warned that such transactions could jeopardize security, and besides, he was entering the world of big money political graft, while his wife would be working at a fancy law firm.

"The first rule in our business is, don't get greedy," the KGB man said. "Besides, Jim, we no longer think of you as an asset, not in the espionage sense. You are now a political friend. We welcome inside information, but as you gain power, you will be the purveyor of power more than the conveyor of power. We do not wish war with your country. We wish a relationship, to keep the wars 'small,' if you will. Twice in this century we have devastated the world. No more. We seek some advantage, and in return we will help you gain some advantage."

The Russian puffed on his cigarette and gave some thought to what he was about to say next.

"You see, Jim, times have changed. The Vietnam War has been a pivotal event in your nation's history, and changed our approach to you. From the 1920s to the 1950s, Lenin and Stalin ordered an active espionage apparatus meant to get to the innermost levers of American government, military, Hollywood, and academia. We had success with Democrat Presidencies, but could not infiltrate Republican ones. We established strongholds in the movie industry and in the universities, but not in the military.

"But the war in Vietnam changed things drastically. There has manifested itself out of the Anti-War protest movement, the Civil Rights Movement, the hippy movement; even among feminists, environmentalists and homosexuals, a radicalization of America. We recognize that out of this come American citizens who do not need to be paid to spy; do not need to be coerced or blackmailed to do our bidding. Rather, of their own free will, these people more and more are entering politics and their politics are often our politics. They are our friends, the 'useful idiots' long spoken of, but they are no longer a tiny minority. We are forecasting that these people will over the next decades become the dominant force of the Democratic Party. They will do for us freely what we used to pay people to do."

"I'm no Communist," Stinson retorted.

"Of course you are not," his handler told him. "You are a pragmatist, the best kind of diplomat. Perhaps Jill Wyndham could be coerced to Communism, but it does not matter. She is a radical feminist, which is almost the same thing, for our purposes, but you are a man who seeks a 'middle way,' an accommodation. You do not seek destruction of the U.S.S.R., as this man Reagan and others on the Right do. Your interests are our interests."

"You talk as if you really think I can get high enough to make a difference," Stinson said.

"You have the potential to be President, or have influence on world politics. The only thing in you way are your . . . 'appetites.' Also, your connection to the New Orleans Mafia. You must be very careful. We have friends in the media who will aid you. The Republicans will chase after you, but when you survive their investigations, you will look sympathetic and survive all the stronger."

So it was that Jim Stinson, a protégé of the Soviet KGB, had his marching orders, from the New Orleans Mafia and the Communists. Armed with degrees from LSU, Oxford and Harvard, newly minted by the Louisiana State Bar, he moved back home to his hometown with his young wife, taking a position as an aide to a Democratic U.S. Senator from Louisiana. Using that platform, he began preparation for his political career.

Working closely with Don Carver, Stinson and Cleve Carver mapped out a plan. He was elected the youngest Mayor in the history of New Orleans; a Congressman from Orleans Parish; a single term in the United States Senate; and two terms as Governor of Louisiana.

The fall of the Berlin Wall led to the end of the U.S.S.R. That ended Stinson's loose association with the KGB. He had never been a Communist sympathizer like his wife. He had never even told her, Don Carver, or anybody else he had KGB contacts. After the Cold War ended, he was a free agent of sorts. Stinson, Jill, and the two Carvers carefully eyed each Presidential cycle, looking for just the right set of circumstances to jump in with both feet.

The California girl and the pornographer

From the time Michelle Woodward was born, everybody who laid eyes on her said she was the most beautiful girl they had ever seen. She was the most beautiful baby; the prettiest school girl; a junior high heartbreaker; and nothing less than a high school legend.

Michelle's father, Craig Woodward, was an Air Force man who settled in Las Vegas after he finished his military service. He was tall, blonde, and devastatingly handsome. Women loved him and he loved them back. He was known far and wide for bedding gorgeous girls. Eventually, he became a floor manager at a major Vegas casino.

That was where he met Allison Stewart. Allison was a devastating, six-foot blonde. People said she put Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield to shame. She moved to Hollywood from the Midwest to pursue fame, but found herself making bad choices, resulting in her doing hardcore pornographic spreads for a glossy underground magazine owned by an eccentric millionaire.

One night she attended a party in the Hollywood Hills. Several big name movie stars and singers were in attendance. She was drugged and woke up the next day vaguely aware that, all her inhibitions loosened, she had serviced men in an all-night orgy.

Something told her she needed to get out of Los Angeles or she would meet a bad end. For some reason she decided to move to Las Vegas, which was not exactly a moral improvement. She worked as a cocktail waitress. She was constantly approached by men asking to pay her for sex, but she held her ground. She wanted a better life than that. Local whorehouses and pimps, who promised big money compared to her small salary and cocktail tips, recruited her. She resisted, taking dance lessons and managing to land a part in a Vegas strip revue. That was where Craig Woodward saw her. He knew the revue's manager and arranged to meet Allison, on a double date.

For a couple of years they went out, but both had sex with other people. Neither had high morals, but both felt the need to be more legitimate. Finally Craig was offered a big opportunity; to work at a new casino in Lake Tahoe, on the Nevada side. He proposed to Allison, asking her to come to Tahoe with him and start a new life. She said yes.

Lake Tahoe seemed like salvation after L.A. and Vegas. It was beautiful, pure, a clean way of living. It was a chance to start over again. They were married and moved to Tahoe City, California. Craig worked at a casino about 20 minutes away, right on the water in Nevada. He arranged for Allison to get a job as an instructor for the dance revue at the casino. It was legitimate work, and did not require her to strip nude before gawking men every night. Eventually, Craig was promoted until he became a high-ranking executive.

Then Michelle was born. Now they were a real American family. Allison raised her daughter, a happy housewife and mother, able to put the sordid deeds of her sexual past behind her. She chalked those up to youthful indiscretion. People who did not come from money had to struggle to make it in this world, she reasoned. If that meant a few years as a hooker or porn girl, so be it, but that was past her now.

The Woodward's seemed to embody the spirit of the California Gold Rush, which had so dominated this region of the world in the previous century. In California, a person could start over again, re-inventing him or herself. This was what the Woodward's did. Michelle was raised a typical adventurous child in a clean, open environment. Lake Tahoe was a magical place of swimming, hiking and, in the winter, skiing. She had no siblings; all attention was hers. The Woodward's did not attend church, and had no identification with any religion. Craig was busy, often working nights and weekends. He loved Michelle, but left the raising of her to his wife.

Naturally, since Allison was a stunning blonde, Michelle gravitated to glamour. She liked to dress up and try her mother's make-up. Allison did not openly say it, but over time it was made obvious that a beautiful girl – Michelle was beyond beautiful from the beginning – could make her way in the world by getting men to do things for her. A kind of social contract existed in America. According to the rules of this "contract," a girl as beautiful as Michelle was a kind of gift to the world. In return for gifting the world with this tremendous beauty, she was in turn to be rewarded by the men who came in contact with her. There would be many forms of reward, in form of parties, dinners, trips, clothes; but in essence it was monetary in form.

But Michelle had a brain of her own. She was no ditzy blond. In high school, she lost her virginity as a freshman and was active sexually with most of the popular boys. Some thought of her as slutty, but she was careful not to get pregnant and avoided venereal diseases. She became very adept at the sexual arts. Two male teachers at her school got inside her pants, but she was more than a tramp.

She read books and made excellent grades. It was obvious she had a future beyond merely using her looks to make her way. She wanted to go to college. Neither of her parents had ever attended college; she would be the first. Her best friend was a girl named Tiffany, who if not for Michelle would have been the prettiest girl in school. The two were quite the pair, and stories of their taking on guys, switching partners in "sex fests," made their way around the campus.

Tiffany's father was a graduate of the University of Southern California. He was a wealthy businessman and their family lived in a gorgeous home on a rise with a glorious view of the lake. It was always assumed that Tiffany would attend USC. She would go to Los Angeles with her parents to watch football games, and returned with great stories of the warm weather, the golden beaches, of Hollywood, and the cutest guys in the world. USC boys, she told Michelle, were hunks, but on top of that, most of them came from great wealth. If she wanted to find a rich man, USC was the place to do it.

Michelle applied to and was accepted to USC. Craig was a little perplexed. He made good money and fully intended to finance his only daughter's college education, but USC's tuition was sky high. Michelle wanted to be an actress; to study drama at USC and seamlessly move on to nearby Hollywood. This alarmed Allison, who once harbored the same dreams, only to find herself spread eagled in a glossy underground porn magazine . . . a fact her husband had never learned.

But Michelle was headstrong and that was that. So it was that she moved to USC with Tiffany. In her freshman year, she rushed a sorority and was accepted. She took journalism and drama classes. She found a handsome boyfriend on the football team, but was not exclusive. She loved sex and never felt a relationship should bind her to one guy. She loved Los Angeles, dreaming of her big acting break.

After her freshman year, Michelle decided to stay with Tiffany, who rented a seaside cottage in Hermosa Beach for the summer. Tiffany's parents paid for it, and Michelle was able to get by without working. The plan was for she and Tiffany to drive all the guys crazy, sun tanning in two-piece string bikinis, partying and screwing after the sun went down. One evening she and Tiffany pulled another "two-fer," servicing two beach boys in an all-nighter. The next day Michelle was lying in bed around 11:30 in the morning when Tiffany went out to get the mail.

"From yer parents," she said, tossing a letter next to Michelle on the bed.

Michelle casually opened it, and began reading. Then she started to cry. Craig had been fired from his job at the casino. The reasons were not explained, but the result of this news was that her father could no longer afford to pay her tuition at USC!

Suddenly, her carefree world was shattered. She sat with Tiffany and tried to come up with a plan. She could return to Lake Tahoe, live with her parents, take a job, and save up to go back to school. The idea of returning with her tail between her legs to Tahoe, a "drop out" from USC, was too awful to contemplate. She was now addicted to the Southern California lifestyle of warm beaches, sexy guys, and hot nightlife. She could stay in L.A., find a job as a waitress . . . again, not an option. That would never pay anything. She could transfer to a junior college, working her way back to USC. That sounded dull. She could go to a less expensive school, but she wanted to stay with Tiffany, with her sorority. She was a Trojan by now.

"What about porn?" Michelle asked Tiffany.

"Are you out of your mind?" she replied. "That's just drugs, prostitution. You'll shame your family."

"What then?"

"God, Michelle, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life. Try modeling. This is the modeling capital of the world. If you can't be a successful model, nobody can."

Michelle arranged to have a series of photos taken; of her in a bikini, in lingerie, in a sexy dress . . . and nude. She sent them to PartyChicks magazine. A week later she got a phone call; they wanted her to come in and take some test shots.

Michelle came in and spent an afternoon being photographed. It was obvious from the attention given her she was already selected. She was so devastatingly beautiful that her becoming a future PartyChick of the Month was a fait accompli. Indeed, a short time later she was told she was not only going to be a PartyChick, she would be in the January issue, which featured pictorials of all the PartyChicks from the previous year, and was one of the biggest sellers. Over the course of a week, she engaged in long photo-shoots with PartyChick's best photographer, and when she was done moved into the PartyChick mansion along with a coterie of other hotties. She was 19 years old; a statuesque six-footer with platinum blonde hair and natural 40 double-D breasts. She was tanned to a high gloss, shaved and sheared. She was as physically perfect as a woman can get.

PartyChicks magazine was the brainchild of Hart Hadley, an intellectual from the Midwest who had turned it into an empire, making himself rich beyond imagination. The only son of a fabulously wealthy family, in his freshman year of high school Hadley was an assistant manager of the football team. The whole season, he stole glances over his shoulder at a gorgeous cheerleader. He fantasized about her, dreamt of marrying her. She dated football players and, from what Hadley heard, had the quite the reputation. She never paid any attention to him at all.

After the final game of the season, the cheerleader held a party at her parent's house. They owned a nice place, but were out of town for the weekend. After a few hours, the football players slowly began to disappear. Finally, Hadley's curiosity got the better of him. He made his way to the back of the house, to her father's private sporting room, complete with pool table, luxurious rugs, wet bar, and a TV. The door to the room was locked. Hadley knocked on it. It was opened by one of the players, who was shirtless and held a can of beer.

"What's goin' on in here?" Hadley asked him.

"We're takin' care of a cheerleader," he was told.

"Can I come in?" Hadley asked him.

The player opened the door and Hadley walked into the room. Indeed, the cheerleader was nude, surrounded by naked football studs.

"Hadley wants in."

"Whose Hadley?" the girl asked.

"He's our manager. Maybe we should let him in, he's been pickin' up our dirty jocks all year."

"No way," the cheerleader replied. "No jock-sniffing managers."

"Sorry, kid," the player said to him. Hadley walked back outside, the door locked behind him. He suddenly felt a surge of incredible sexual adrenaline. For the first time in his life he had a full erection. The scene, the very fantasy being acted out beyond the locked door he stood next to, was so near yet so far. He made his way home, his erection so powerful he could barely walk.

He had no lotion, no magazines of any kind, but for the first time in his life he masturbated. The only imagery he needed was of the cheerleader, surrounded by football studs, going to town on them in the ultimate act of debauchery. He reached his first orgasm, his life changed forever. In that one vision his entire attitude towards women was encapsulated and would be forever. They were sex objects, not really people. Their purpose on this Earth was to satisfy the needs of the male species. The whorish cheerleader who would not let him in on the party represented all womanhood. Hadley was bound and determined to get his revenge on her, and on all girls.

Hadley never had a girlfriend in high school, but he managed to get his hands on rudimentary "girlie" magazines of the era. He re-enforced in his mind an ideal; beautiful, sexual girls who lived only to pleasure men. He determined then and there that when he became an adult, he would use his parent's money to start a porn empire, and use that empire to be with these kinds of girls. Girls were strictly objects to him. He occasionally read in the newspapers of some girl raped, or even killed. He never felt empathy for them. Women were just physical tools of men.

He majored in journalism in college, but became adept at photography. He was not particularly good-looking, but through this skill, he began taking photos of models. After a few years working for a large magazine, he hit his parents up for $1 million to start a men's magazine, featuring beautiful, nude girls.

In his first edition, he decided to film a porno scene, which he would sell as a movie along with the magazine, which featured stills of the action. He contacted the ex-cheerleader and offered her $20,000 to be in the movie. At first she was aghast and abruptly turned him down, but he kept upping the price: $25,000, then $30,000. It was too much for her to resist.

The girl showed up on the set expecting to engage in the standard act of sex, but Hadley had other plans for her. He wanted to push the envelope of extreme hardcore action. What he forced the girl to do that day – feeding her illicit drugs and alcohol to make her more pliable during the eight-hour shoot – was dirtier, harder and beyond anything X-rated viewers had ever seen. It was in fact illegal. It came to the attention of the local district attorney, but Supreme Court decisions since the 1970s had watered down the obscenity laws so much that prosecution was very difficult. Hadley himself argued that it was "art."

It was also an immediate hit, but as far as the girl was concerned, Hadley had only just begun to exact his revenge on her for not inviting him into her little gangbang party during high school. He produced thousands of videos and hired deliverymen, in the dead of night, to place each one in every singe mailbox in the suburban town, and surrounding community, where Hart and the poor girl had grown up. While her reputation would have been damaged enough from her old high school classmates watching porn, Hadley made sure that thousands of people who otherwise would not have known about it, saw it in all of its explicit glory, turning her into a notorious household name in the community. School teachers, parents, little kids, pastors, soccer moms, CPAs, butchers; every walk of life was exposed to it. Not only was a wayward girl ruined beyond repair, but many people in the town became addicted to porn as a result of it. Marriages were broken up. Many kids who otherwise never would have seen pornography now were enamored with it.

The girl, who originally intended to use her earnings to help pay for design school, dropped out and became a meth whore. She did two more movies for Hart; both just as filthy as the first one. She became something of a cult hit in the adult film world, and had she maintained any sense of good health could have become a big star, but she was destroyed. She overdosed and died in the street.

Hart Hadley was living in Los Angeles by the time the videos were distributed. Nobody ever proved Hadley had distributed them in the town's mailboxes, despite accusations. As far as he was concerned, the meth whore had gotten her just deserts for not letting him join the party when he was a freshman. Now there were so many, many more young girls like her to take advantage of. He was let loose like a kid in candy store.

Reactionary conservatives lambasted him, but he could care less. He was a liberal Democrat and an atheist with no moral boundaries whatsoever. Aside from a coterie of gorgeous girls, PartyChicks featured cutting-edge, avant-garde articles, usually criticizing the Right wing or the "stuck up," puritanical nature of America itself. He paid big money for top writers to pen articles and short stories promoting atheism, feminism, and progressivism. He was one of the first to jump on board with environmentalism, at first warning the world that the Earth was cooling. An article promoting the "science" behind this impending disaster – which could only be stopped via a global tax upon rich corporations – was accompanied by a stylish drawing depicting a busty chick in a bikini kneeling on an iceberg. Over time, when the world did not cool down, he switched and promoted global warming with all the powers of his considerable persuasion. The "answer," as with global cooling, was of course the same: global taxation of rich corporations.

When asked about this discrepancy he remarked in private that it was "all B.S. anyway, but it fires up the masses and raises a lot of donations." In the mean time, he employed an army of CPAs and tax lawyers to save him every dime, find every loophole they could, in order to avoid being taxed more than he already was. He gave very little money to charity; most of what he declared was faked. He did, however, hold wild galas and fundraisers for every conceivable liberal cause embraced by Hollywood dilettantes, all starring swarms of gorgeous women. The real purpose of these soirees was to establish his political base, and make himself popular with the international Left. At the end of the night, everybody had sex.

He was rich beyond imagination and lived a life of parties, orgies and pure debauchery. His Beverly Hills mansion became the place where the wealthy and powerful of Hollywood, of Los Angeles society, of politics and power, in business and media, came to get anything they wanted. Hadley could and did deliver any request. No sex act was too outrageous. He simply paid the girls enough to do whatever was asked of them. Even snuff films occurred, although obviously those poor girls were unaware ahead of time what would happen to them. But some of the most famous, powerful men in the world came to Hadley's PartyChicks mansion to engage in orgies, group sex, bi-sexual liaisons, bondage, sadomasochism, and a thousand other acts of pillage. It was a sexual cult, a super-secret society. The men did not pay Hadley, who did not need their money. What motivated him was something deep seated and insidious; he wanted to corrupt his fellow man. More than one famed athlete or political figure with a spotless reputation, a pretty wife and loving family, found himself invited, oft reluctant to attend, yet curious. It was this kind of fellow who Hadley targeted. Unable to resist the most beautiful girls in the world pawing and kissing them, they submitted and found themselves engaged in the wildest sex acts imaginable.

To the rest of the world, Hart Hadley was an impresario, bon vivant, and great liberal who supported Left-wing causes. In fact, he was a degenerate pervert, having been turned into one by the jolt of seeing a high school cheerleader take on the entire team. That single girl had, to him, become representative of all womanhood. At the heart of his motivation was the now fulfilled desire to gain revenge on her - as if turning her into a meth whore was not bad enough - for not inviting him to join the party, and upon all the girls who turned him down or paid him no never minds in high school and college.

Hadley knew the world was filled with guys just like him. He had the knack for understanding just what drove them, what turned them on, what their fantasies were. In essence, what Hadley created in his magazine and on film were images and scenarios that, broken down to their bare essence, involved outrageously gorgeous girls who, if an average man saw on the streets, in a shopping mall, or at a nightclub, would simply be the most beautiful woman that guy would see that year, or even in their lifetimes. Hadley knew that some women were so hot that men would remember them, and fantasize over them, for years. These were the kind of women they could never have. The kind of women who turned down average guys, who were available only to Wall Street tycoons, sports superstars, Hollywood celebrities. The kind of women who paid normal guys no never minds, yet Hadley would depict them in scenarios that featured them in ways that personalized them to the men who bought his product. Hadley wanted men to see these women depicted in such ways that it seemed, in their minds at least, that they indeed were made personally available to them. It was not an easy trick, yet Hadley was an artist who understood such intricacies as eye contact, lingerie, body language, camera angle, and decoration. He specialized in an ancient Japanese sex act known as "bukkake," which for centuries was used as a public humiliation of wives discovered to have cheated on their husbands. Hadley turned it into an art form. There was nobody better in the world at depicting and maximizing female allure.

Michelle found out first hand that Hadley was not the gentleman of his public image when she was invited to Hart's upstairs room at the mansion. She knew what was in store; sex with Hart. He had sex with all the PartyChicks. It was part of the deal, all but explained when she signed the contract to become a PartyChick. She was given a written memo, given instruction on precisely what to wear to Hart's room: high heels, pink thigh highs, a yellow camisole. A hairdresser was sent to doll her hair up in just the way Hart wanted it . . . today. His whim was her desire. He changed his whim all the time. Hart was known as a generous lover, a man who had been with more beautiful women than any man alive. He was no matinee idol; money, power, and prestige were his aphrodisiacs.

But when Michele arrived in the room, she was stunned to discover Hart's brother, a has-been TV actor, an ex-Rams football star, and some Hollywood agent waiting there. She was to service them all. They had been drinking and doing cocaine. She was none too happy about it, but that was the deal. They had their way with her for two or three hours, until they were spent and she felt like a rag doll. Alcohol and coke helped deaden the sensation. She practically crawled downstairs, where she got drunker and did more blow with a couple of other PartyChicks, both of whom had already experienced one of Hart Hadley's "fun sessions."

Hart Hadley's empire extended well beyond PartyChicks magazine. He was also the world's richest pornographer and pimp. Before Hart, there was a clear separation between "girlie magazines" and porn. The two were not supposed to meet. Pornography had been little more than a mostly-illegal stag party activity or the province of sleazy mob-owned porn theatres, but Hadley got into it just as videocassettes were coming into being. That completely changed the industry, reaching into the very homes of porn addicts worldwide. Men no longer had to drive into a dangerous downtown neighborhood, risking a car jacking or mugging to sit in a sticky seat, rubbing one out while looking at the action on screen. Now, they could find the material they wanted in the adult section of their local video store, even watching it with their wives, girlfriends or buddies. Often kids got hold of the movies, their innocence lost forever.

Hadley funded several big hits, beginning with extreme depictions of the poor high school cheerleader from his hometown, which he used his magazine to promote. He was the money behind the rise of porn in the 1980s. PartyChicks magazine, PartyChicks Productions and PartyChicks.com featured beautiful, classy "girl next door" types, but Hadley's money and guiding vision was behind the increasingly extreme nature of hardcore entertainment on cable TV, hotels, eventually the Internet, and the replacement of DVDs for video. Hadley also owned SluttyChicks magazine, the SluttyChicks nightclub chain, the SluttyChicks strip club chain, and the SluttyChicks adult bookstore/boutique chain, all spread across every state in the U.S. and internationally, in Europe, Asia and beyond. He also owned SluttyChicks.com, and SluttyChicks Productions, which established a reputation for the most hardcore, near-illegal pornography available, along with a hybrid of other web sites and video companies.

SluttyChicks magazine came out every month. The girls were just as beautiful as the incredible PartyChicks models, but instead of the soft core nature of PartyChicks, the SluttyChicks adult performers engaged in the nastiest, most extreme hardcore acts the increasingly liberal laws would allow. It was Hadley who used his team of lawyers to keep pressing and pressing and pressing the courts in an on-going, aggressive push until the most hardcore sex acts were routinely allowed, and found not just in adult bookstores, but on the shelves of liquor stores, markets, and magazine stores in neighborhoods all across the world, easily accessible to kids. On occasion, a PartyChicks model would cross over and do X-rated video for SluttyChicks, but it was relatively rare.

The SluttyChicks nightclub chain was one of the most popular in the world, featuring incredibly sexy bartenders and cocktail waitresses dressed in the skimpiest imaginable "clothing." They were marketed to attract the hottest, most sexually adventurous young girls, and of course men loved the atmosphere; its wild music, hot dance floors, smokin' girls, and reputation for "anything goes" sexuality. Girls were encouraged to give blowjobs to guys practically out in the open. Prostitutes were paid by the nightclub itself to perform sex acts on guys in the bathroom, the VIP section, behind the bar. Occasionally a local police captain would try to curtail this activity and send in some vice cops, but they were usually paid off, corrupted, and so the beat went on.

The SluttyChicks strip club chain was more of the same. Hadley encouraged the club's to pay the girls to have sex with customers if they were attracted to them. He paid for girls to come into the club's and have sex with men. The feature porn stars from SluttyChicks Productions constantly headlined at the clubs, which were dens of iniquity equaling Caligula's Rome. They were often located next door to the SluttyChicks adult bookstore and boutique, a worldwide chain that sold porn videos, magazines, adult toys, lingerie, and every other form of sexual deviance. Instead of being manned by sleazy, perverted old dudes, the store employees were smokin' hot girls dressed like total sluts. Hadley had a paid staff of attractive girls who would often walk around the stores and engage in sex with the clientele, which of course increased traffic, often to the point where there was a line out the door. Since this was not officially client-prostitute sex, dressed up instead to look like consensual acts by adults, the vice squads were frustrated. If on occasion an arrest for indecent exposure or lasciviousness were made, Hadley's attorneys would be employed to make it go away.

He also owned Glazemasters, an absolutely wild male strip revue. The men were chosen for their hunky sexiness. They looked like, and usually were, male models, but all of them were hung like horses. Many were also adult video performers. The concept of Glazemasters and Glazemasters.com was one Hadley devised and took particular joy in, because it was one of his most devious operations. It was one of the ways he was able to get girls who otherwise might not engage in the most extreme sex acts, as so many of his paid models and sex workers did, but freely did it out of coercion, excitement and temptation. In his effort to corrupt the women of the world, this was one of his best methods.

The Glazemasters concept played out in any number of venues. One of the most popular was the time-honored bachelorette party. It was usually held at a private residence, or at a club rented out for the evening, unavailable to the general public. A large group of girls would arrive to party, drink, and have a wild time. They were usually young, fairly attractive, and dressed in a sexual manner. Accompanied by loud dance music, the Glazemaster dancers would descend among them amidst wild cheering. The dancers would strip down to g-strings, and flaunt their manhood in the faces of the cheering, drunken girls. This inevitably would lead to the men pulling their erections out and the girls providing oral sex to them.

This was a common practice at bachelorette parties for years. It was not at all uncommon for some young bride-to-be or bridesmaid to blow a male stripper, all to great cheering from the other girls. But Hadley took it a step further.

He would hire two hot girls from his endless stable of women to dress up in the most provocative manner, then place themselves prominently near the stage, or wherever they were most easily noticed by the strippers. The girls would then talk dirty, making nasty requests of the men, who knew ahead of time who they were and what they were supposed to do to them. That was, at the end of the party, to gather around one of the girls, who would engage in a blowbang, the giving of oral pleasure to all 12 or 15 or however many dancers there were, until each had ejaculated on her face. Then, her friend would lick the ejaculate from her face, and they would take turns spitting it in each other's mouths until one of them finally swallowed it. It was Hart's favorite sex act, one he identified early on as the nastiest, most degrading thing he could do to his women, which was why he loved it so much.

After a while he did not need to hire girls to perform in these blowbangs. The rumors would spread that this was the coup de gras, considered an honor of a sort for whichever girl was picked by the dancers to receive this anointing. Before long, girls were competing to be the one picked to get "glazed." Eventually, cordons would be placed in strategic places; a girl who chose to sit in the designated "glazing" area was giving permission ahead of time that, if picked, she would engage in the full blowbang complete with glazing. Any girls too shy or unwilling to subject themselves to such an act would sit in a different area, but by and large the girls who attended these events – they quickly became popular parties, not relegated to bachelorette celebrations – were more than curious about trying it out. The dancers picked only the best-looking girls, so the women would dress in their sexiest outfits to try and win "favor." They also turned out to be tremendous recruiting tools for Hadley's SluttyChicks Productions video line. Girls happy to engage in a multiple glazing were often hot and wild enough to become full-fledged porn stars. The dancers went to town on these girls; they often took them home for private sessions, sometimes with many men servicing one or two women. The male dancers were very well paid. Word spread that it was the best gig available, but they had to be exceptionally handsome, conditioned, and hung in order to make the grade. Many were called, few were chosen. Those that were found themselves in a world of sex, drugs and money, previously unimaginable to them.

The Glazemasters act became popular at gentleman's clubs, especially Hadley's SluttyChicks strip joints, around Christmas time. The strippers, grinding and unclothing themselves for countless men all year, would be treated to a year-end celebration in which male dancers would strip for them. After most of the girls would take turns blowing the men throughout the course of the party, at the end the dancers would pick out one exceptionally delicious stripper for the "full glazing" treatment. Some strip clubs took to holding a Glazemasters party once a month or more, picking out which of the girls would get glazed each time around.

The Glazemasters dancers also became popular with professional sports cheerleader squads, and other groups of exceptionally beautiful women – models, actresses, singers - who had to maintain a certain sense of decorum in public, but many of the girls, down deep, fantasized about being sluts, hookers and porn stars. These events would be held in private, away from prying eyes.

Incredibly, Hadley took it all a step further. With the exception of the cheerleaders and other groups of quasi-public women, he started filming the parties. Incredibly, often drunk girls would sign releases, then get so into the party they would forget there were cameras. A few months later, the party was all over the Internet and sold as a video. Many a newlywed was confronted by many a young husband holding the video, which depicted wifey surrounded by glaze and spit and giant, dripping manhood. Parents and friends and boyfriends and acquaintances and co-workers and strangers saw many, many girls drunkenly engaged in the most depraved sex acts. Like the high school cheerleader Hadley systematically set out to, and eventually did destroy, many of these young women had their lives ruined, or semi-ruined. There were, of course, lawsuits and complaints. Fox News ran a special on it called Hart Hadley: Menace to Women, but he had his lawyers arguing on his behalf. The girls, they said, had signed the forms; they knew the cameras were there and did what they did freely, uncoerced. Court decisions favoring Hadley quickly took precedent, leading to a rash of sex videos outing countless young people on social media.

Nobody really knew how many suicides they caused. That was Hart Hadley's method of operation.

That was still not all there was to know about Hart Hadley. Hadley was a connoisseur, a collector. Some people collect fine art, or memorabilia, or any number of other things. Hadley "collected" beautiful women. His collection were not merely the 12 PartyChicks who debuted each year, or the PartyChick of the Year, or the girls who worked at his clubs around the world, or the many girls he turned into enormous, often wealthy adult film stars. His was the entire world revolving around these girls. This included their sexy friends, their sexy little sisters, and a wide array of models, actresses, Hooters girls, pro and college cheerleaders, and high-priced call girls; most ended up doing that one way or another.

Hart Hadley was in fact a misogynist extraordinaire; the lonely kid who could not get a date in high school, who hated the pretty girls who paid no attention to him, and who he vowed he would get collective vengeance against.

The liberals and the civil rights crowd, grudgingly even the feminists and all the radical chic elements of society, praised Hadley for promoting a woman's right to choose, and his promotion of civil rights causes favoring the oppressed, the victims, the black and the brown. PartyChicks magazine featured cutting edge articles often promoting Roe v. Wade, the "oppressiveness" of the Pro Life crowd, the racism of Christianity. Conservative women on Fox News and talk radio pointed out his hypocrisy, in the form of 10 or 15 blacks having their way with a single white girl, wasting enough semen to populate a small city. Hadley's cartoonists in turn created the vilest possible depictions of any pontificator, male or female, advocating Christianity or family values. Youths and young men, along with conservative men, read his magazine not because they liked the articles but were addicted to the sexy women, but in so doing they had to endure these caricatures of people many personally admired. It was the corrosive price Hadley charged to be in his world.

His parties were inter-racial affairs. He promoted black writers and musicians, giving voice to outraged African-American and Latino "victims," whose compensation often was to have sex with Hadley's white models, encouraged to give their bodies to these men as a form of "reparations" for centuries of repression.

While Hadley was an elitist liberal in good standing, hosting major Democratic Party fundraisers and using his power to promote Left-wing causes in every way he could, bragging that he was a "feminist," in fact he turned the most beautiful women in the world into debauched sluts. He did it the old-fashioned way. He used money, drugs and addiction.

A PartyChick was paid a nice salary and the PartyChick of the Year a much nicer one. There were perks, which included staying rent-free at the mansion, jet-set travel around the world, invites to the most exclusive parties with the richest, most exciting men. It was all paid for by Hart Hadley, but the money he paid his models was only enough to live on for a year or two. By no means was it enough to sustain the lifestyle he introduced them to.

Eventually, they needed more. By that time, most were addicted to jet set living. Some returned to normal lives; marriage, family, careers. Many wanted only more of Hart Hadley's "drug," a potent combination of sex and fame and excitement, oft laced with coke or other narcotics. Hart Hadley did it the way Satan does it. Hadley himself was adamantly opposed to religious faith. From hell, however, the devil applauded and cheered Hart Hadley. He was his guy.

A PartyChick was supposed to be different from the porn stars that did X-rated movies for SluttyChicks Productions. Those movies specialized in gangbangs, blowbangs, massive glazings, "double penetrations," and many other forms of depravity. The porn connoisseurs of the world especially loved Slutty Chicks Productions because they featured what was known as a "POV style" (point of view), featuring exceptionally hot girls (advertised as "glamour sluts," dolled up in the sexiest lingerie, accentuated by beautiful make-up and hair styles) who would use coconut milk or other liquids while giving oral pleasure, mixed with saliva, to create the imagery of semen slathered all over their faces. Then, when the men (known for their enormous "loads") would actually ejaculate, or glaze their faces, they kept their eyes open, smiling seductively into the camera even when as many as 15, 20 men or more deposited "pop shots" on them. For years, porn viewers had complained that adult film actresses "shied away" from what was known as "cum shots" (known as "cum dodging"), or too often kept their eyes closed to avoid the stinging sensation of semen. Hadley's girls were groundbreakers because they did not do that. Some called Hadley the "Orson Welles of porn," an artist whose work was comparable to Welles's cinematic breakthrough, a kind of X-rated Citizen Kane.

But PartyChicks were supposed to be above all that. They were nude models, not porn stars. They would appear in the magazine, do a round of publicity, and spend a year or so at the mansion living large. At parties, the SluttyChicks made fun of the PartyChicks, calling them "princesses," while the PartyChicks thought the porn sluts to be just that, sluts who were beneath them.

But after a year or so the PartyChicks would start to get pressured to move out, and the modeling salary was by then dried up. Many of the PartyChicks had believed an appearance in PartyChicks magazine would vault them to careers in TV, film, and modeling, but they discovered that this was a cut-throat world in which every year younger girls, every bit as beautiful as they were, entered the scene. TV and movie roles were few and far between. A PartyChick was "cheesecake," the low-paid bikini girl in a pool scene, never a starring role that required acting. The porn girls never even dreamed of mainstream work. They just did porn and were well compensated for it. To them, they were honest about themselves and who they were. If a SluttyChick stayed relatively clean from overdoing the drugs and alcohol, with a little smarts she could parlay it all into a relatively long, lucrative career. Hadley was one of the first to introduce the term "cougars" into the adult lexicon. There was a tremendous market for women, generally over the age or 30; mature, yet curvy, seductive and hot. Suddenly through this genre a girl could have a solid career in porn lasting from the age of 19 to 40 . . . even beyond.

The PartyChicks were actually despised by the women and the gays who made up so much of Hollywood's decision-making process. It was around the time that this realization began to sink in to the girls, who at age 22 or 24 or 25, started to think they had no careers, when Hart Hadley came with his "offer."

Aside from the pornographic wing of his empire, Hadley had his own private stable, which he called the "porn slut experience." At any given time Hadley employed hundreds of "studs," who he paid to service his girls. These were young men, many porn stars or former porn stars, picked for their hot looks and enormous manhood, who constantly lifted weights, stayed crispy brown under a tanning bed, and were given a steady diet of Viagra, African Black Ant pills, Yohimbe bark, vitamin E, zinc, and enough protein to power the Green Bay Packers through a season. They were under strict orders not to have much sex with girlfriends or "civilians." They needed to be ready to take care of Hart Hadley's girls. They made up his Glazemasters and Glazemasters.com empire, but Hadley always kept 100 or 200 of them at his mansion for "private use."

Once a month Hadley would throw wild Glazemasters parties at the mansion. Any girl who entered one of these parties gave tacit approval that his studs could have their way with them, whether it be one-on-one or 10-on-one. It was a no hold's barred orgy, but the purpose was to degrade the girls. Many of the PartyChicks who dared enter this den of inequity, curious and horny, never returned. It was often the final act in a downward slope of humiliation, that started with the high hopes of a career launched from a PartyChicks magazine shoot, ending in the inglorious humiliation of having multiple men, gorged on Viagra and zinc, shooting endless wads of hot semen all over their faces. Crying, morally compromised, many PartyChicks became addicted to drugs, prostituting themselves to pay for it, or some other act of self-induced punishment for their wicked choices. Others were saved, by a loving family willing to accept a curvy, wayward daughter back home. Some found marriage, families. Some became schoolteachers and nurses. But many could not escape the memories, and when husbands, boyfriends, even children discovered the details, many could not handle the reality of it. A few committed suicide, courtesy of Hart Hadley. The devil applauded.

But there was always a core of chicks who found themselves addicted to extreme sex only Hart Hadley, it seemed, could offer. These were not merely PartyChicks, but the beautiful models, NFL and NBA cheerleaders, actresses and others who wanted the "porn slut experience" without actually being porn sluts, their actions seen by anybody with access to a computer. Several girls who participated were Oscar- and Emmy-nominated actresses, or well-known fashion models, who could not afford to expose themselves publicly. Hadley offered them privacy. Only the hottest girls were allowed into the parties. Many, many girls wanted to attend, but were deemed not sufficiently sexy.

At each monthly party, one girl was selected for the coup de gras. This "lucky" girl would be placed on her knees in the center of the room while all the other girls surrounded her, cheering wildly. There, studs would surround her. Some 30 or 40 men, pumped to the gills on Viagra, would drain all the semen they had onto that one girl's face. When this act was concluded, often a few sluts would come and lick all of it off in depraved manner. The glazings at the mansion made the actions at the Glazemasters parties around the country look like children's dance recitals. It was at these parties that he successfully co-mingled all his girls into one, big, orgiastic slutfest. That was one of his favorite pastimes, to take the "prissy" PartyChicks who posed so haughtily in his magazine, bringing them down to the level of the wild porn girls and quasi-prostitutes who starred in his adult movies, or blew men at the SluttyChicks adult bookstores and boutiques.

But this was still not the end of Hadley's world of sex. He was, of course, a collector. He would invite a selected girl to engage in his own personal video, a private keepsake. The girl, often a former PartyChick who was just about out of money and ready to be "released back into the wild" (as Hadley put it); or a former model who had failed to find her way beyond the PartyChicks' mansions gates, only to return, would be offered between $500,000 and $1 million to "star" in a gangbang. Most said yes. The money was too great to say no to. Many had already compromised themselves at one of Hadley's Glazemasters' parties anyway. Hadley would arrange a camera crew to film a pornographic video of a PartyChicks being manhandled by some 15 or 20 or more of his studs, complete with "massive facials," or glazings, his preferred expression which had made its way into the lexicon of American culture, all the way to college fraternities and sororities where many a female pledge endured one in order to be accepted.

Young men around the world started referring to high school and college girls as "cum dumpsters . . . sperm swappers" or the charming term "sperm receptacles," courtesy of Hart Hadley, who conjured these and many other put-down terms for the female of the species, all of whom were somebody's daughter. As for the father's of these daughters, many of them were just as addicted to pornography as the college kids. Many a marriage broke up because a husband – or sometimes a wife – found porn to be more "enjoyable" than marital relations. Many a man spent hours stroking to images of girls younger than their own children, all the while shamed by guilty the knowledge that their own kids were doing this thing, and they were in a tacit way endorsing it. Hadley had changed the perception of women and sex. Largely because of the images he presented, men now looked at women as idealized sex creatures. Average women found themselves trying to live up to these silicone standards of sexuality, not just in terms of their physical appearance but their willingness to perform the nastiest bedroom acts. After all, if they did not provide what their men were looking for, Hart Hadley's stable of hotties surely would. The pornographer was personally responsible for the moral downfall of a new generation that turned from God and worshipped sex, porn and lust, offered them on a silver platter by SluttyChicks Productions and the easily accessible SluttyChicks.com.

Hadley loved "glazings" above all sex acts. It represented the ultimate degradation of women, and there was nothing he loved more than to degrade the 12 "princesses" selected as PartyChicks of the Month, or especially the PartyChick of the Year; or the pro football cheerleaders and other models who thought themselves "above" the hardcore adult film stars who were so open and exposed to the public. He paid $1 million or more to the top girls to appear in his private video, to be part of his personal "collection." If Hadley was fixated upon some girl, he went after her with all the powers of his persuasion and purse, until he broke her down and got her to do it. He loved looking at some PartyChick or cheerleader or supermodel strutting her stuff, knowing that in his possession was a video of that girl being turned upside down, every orifice penetrated, slimed and made a pincushion by an army of hard men.

Some turned him down; many did not. A contract was signed, in which Hadley promised that he and only he would retain a copy of the DVD. Each girl was given a few copies of her own. Over the years, quite a few bootlegs copies made their way into the public domain. They were huge hits with porn audiences, driving one former PartyChick to suicide, while ruining the lives of several others.

Finally, there was Hadley's most insidious operation. It was for all practical purposes a prostitution ring, except Hadley took no money from his "clients." Instead, he provided women for sports stars, business executives, Hollywood big shots, and Democratic Party leaders, paying the girls lucrative sums out of his own pocket to service these men. He wanted these people to be on his side, to provide business or political favors to him and his friends. However, the heart of his motivation was misogynistic. As a youth, he looked upon all women as whores. This was his way of "proving" it.

The devil applauded.

Unsuspecting Michele Woodward only wanted to make enough money to pay for tuition at the University of Southern California, but when Hart Hadley got his first look at her, he decided she would be his ultimate prize. The most beautiful blonde queen on the planet would be turned into a depraved slut. This was his specialty, what he was expert at. He had all the advantages.

Michelle was indeed the January PartyChick of the Month, and then the PartyChick of the Year. She looked demure and coquettish. She was instantly one of the most popular PartyChicks in the magazine's history. Then she got invited to one of Hart's Glazemaster parties. She wanted to know what the "porn slut experience" really was. It was there that Michele discovered something primal about herself. She was a sexual dynamo who let all of her inhibitions down. Everything society said a "lady" should not do, she did. It was, to her then and there at least, liberating.

At her fifth party she got the ultimate "porn slut experience" when Hadley personally chose her to be the "honored" girl. 21 studs, personally chosen from his legion of Glazemasters to work the coveted "mansion detail," were presented before Michelle while a roomful of sexy, lingerie- or bikini-clad girls, and leering friends of Hart Hadley drank, cheered, hooted and hollered.

At the end of the routine, Michelle was placed on her knees "like a proper slut," as the lead Glazemaster ordered her to do. She suddenly found herself surrounded by them. She went crazy, sucking and licking in furious, frenzied action, having learned the intimate tricks of blowbanging from the experienced porn stars and previous recipients of the Glazemaster offerings.

Each Glazemaster unloaded all over her face. By this time, she was so damaged, so drunk on sex, that she had lost her desire to return to USC. That life, her entire old life, was over. She barely spoke to her parents anymore. Tiffany tried to stay in contact with her, but after being invited to one of Hadley's parties Tiffany – who was no shrinking violet herself – was shocked at the depravity. By this time, Michelle had gotten breast upgrades, carrying "perfect" 44 double-D-24-36 measurements to go with her leggy six-foot frame. She had collagen injections in her lips, creating perfect little heart-shaped pouts, or lips that she laughingly referred to using a porn term emphasizing her special talent for blowing men and receiving their effluence. It was as if this was the defining characteristic of her life now.

Willing to perform depraved acts to Hart Hadley's specifications, she was allowed to live in the mansion and paid a handsome sum, essentially to be a concubine or whatever term might be applied to such a situation. Her days were filled with long, hard workouts in the mansion's gym with a personal trainer, followed by tanning sessions and special spa treatments, all meant to keep her skin and face luxuriantly smooth and beautiful. Hollywood make-up artists and hairdressers dolled her up. The most expensive mini-skirts, dresses, halter tops, lingerie and bikinis, most little more than floss made out of some material, were provided for her. By nights she partied and screwed man after man after man. She was the ultimate sex symbol. Sex was all she cared about and lived for.

Hadley carefully calculated it all, of course. He wanted to turn her into such a depraved sexpot that she would do the final act he desired above all others. She would be part of his collection. By this time Hadley was laughingly telling his friends he was the "slut collector," the name of a series he released through SluttyChicks Productions. The girls who agreed to be part of this collection were unaware of the fact that Hadley, while not letting the DVDs be copied or removed from the mansion, did in fact show them to many of his friends. He especially enjoyed watching one of his "princesses" get gangbanged in a particularly extreme manner on his big screen HD-quality television, often playing the glazings in slow motion, only to have four or five of his buddies who viewed it with him then meet the very girl they had seen, dressed in a demure little outfit with high heeled shoes, unaware that they all knew what she did, at a party or fancy dinner downstairs.

So it was that finally Michelle Woodward was prepped, primed and pumped to be part of Hadley's private porn collection. She decided to do one, but decided ahead of time she was special, a particular prize. Hadley normally topped out at $1 million, but for Michelle, after she negotiated hard, doled out $1.5 million. It was enough to pay for USC, but she now thought of herself as a sexual creature. Nothing else seemed to matter. Hadley teamed her up with 40 hung studs who turned her upside down and sidewise, filled every orifice, gave her double penetration, leaving her glazed and confused or, as Hadley laughingly said, "Doing backstrokes in an ocean of jizz." She used coconut milk while giving oral sex, creating tremendous amounts of spit, which was constantly spread in a sloppy mess all over her face, making her look beyond merely slutty. Then his most popular adult film star, a smoking blonde sporting enormous, siliconed 40 double Ds, was brought in to lick all the glaze off her face, until they took turns spiting it into each others mouths, until they swallowed what they could of it.

Afterwards, Michelle was thrilled. She loved every second of it. A few years ago, she would have thought it depravity worthy only of a fallen whore. Now it was her specialty. She was given two copies of the DVD, told she could do with them what she wanted. Hadley maintained the only two other copies, but of course he had the master copy. A contract was signed whereby if Hadley or anybody other than Michelle ever allowed the video to go public, Michelle would be paid $1 million, which of course was a drop in the bucket for Hadley, a billionaire several times over.

On occasion Michelle showed some of her lovers or girlfriends the DVD. It was shocking to even the most depraved of guys and gals. Then Hadley added her to his stable of prized fantasy escorts. Because she was paid by Hadley, not the men, she somehow thought of herself as something other than a prostitute. She met captains of industry, pro football quarterbacks, Academy Award-winning actors and directors; all manner of wildly successful men. She traveled the world, skiing in Switzerland, sunning in the French Riviera, gambling in Monaco, sitting at the 50-yard line of the Super Bowl. She was given elaborate insider stock tips that quickly added tens of thousands of dollars to her portfolio. She heard all manner of rumor and story, was in with the ultimate in crowd. She had it all. The devil applauded.

The plant

Maria Valenzuela came from an affluent family in Mexico City. When she was 14 a maid told her of the Communist painter and philosopher Frida Kahlo. Inspired, she began to read Marxist literature. Her family all but abandoned her, so she found a home with the revolutionistas of the Mexican Communist Party.

When she was 19, the Soviet KGB recruited her. Still young and beautiful, she had tremendous assets in the world of espionage. She was asked if she was willing to risk her life for the cause of social justice. She said yes, and awaited her assignment.

That came a short time later when she was introduced to a black man named Obama al Mustafa. Mustafa was a member of Egypt's Muslim Brotherhood. The Muslim Brotherhood was on the outs in Egypt. Mustafa was part of a cell that found refuge in Mexico. The main Egyptian government was secular, but not friendly to the United States. Egypt and much of the Middle East were Soviet client states, but the KGB also arranged a shaky alliance with the Brotherhood, since their aims were semi-similar; opposition to the U.S. and Israel. The Brotherhood hated Soviet atheism, but preferred it to the Judeo-Christian tradition linking America and Israel.

The orders were simple. Mustafa was to impregnate Maria, then leave for his next assignment. They would not be married. He would have nothing to do with the child's life until ordered back. If the child were a boy, then Maria was to cross the border into El Paso, Texas and give birth to an "anchor baby," making the child a U.S. citizen. She would get further instructions from her handlers, but was assured all expenses would be paid for.

Mustafa and Maria met and, after a short "courtship," repaired to a private place for the necessary sexual congress. Mustafa was unable to produce an erection, so they met two days later and tried again. He again failed. Overall, it took eight meetings before he successfully impregnated Maria, but at the earliest opportunity she saw a doctor who determined the child was a girl. An abortion was immediately performed. Mustafa was called on again. He again impregnated her. This time it was a boy. Maria named him after hero, Fidel Castro Valenzuela. She thought by the time he became a political figure, Communism would have succeeded, one-world government would rule, and the name Fidel Castro would be hailed as a heroic figure, as Abraham Lincoln and Dwight Eisenhower were. Obama al Mustafa disappeared, his work done for now.

Maria crossed the border into El Paso and waited for the birth of her son, but a month or so before the due date she was called back to Mexico to meet with her handlers. It was then that she went into labor, prematurely delivering her son. The Communists then smuggled her and her son, Fidel Castro Valenzuela, across the border, where they created a fake birth certificate stating that he was born in the United States and was, therefore, an American citizen. They also wrote a birth announcement and mailed it to the El Paso Times, who unwittingly printed the news that Fidel Castro Valenzuela had been born in El Paso, Texas. An American baby.

Maria was part of a much wider operation the KGB called "Operation Anchor Baby." Communist and fellow traveler girls, generally between ages 18 and 24, were recruited in Mexico and the United States. They were paired with males, usually men of color, from Kenya, Mexico, Pakistan, Egypt and other Third World places. The men would impregnate them, then move on. There were hundreds of these pairings over the course of more than a decade. Many did not take. Girls were aborted; only boys were allowed to live. Some of the impregnated girls lost their enthusiasm for Communism. Some children were dolts, not bright enough to establish themselves as plants, promising moles or spies in the American political system.

But Fidel Valenzuela was a sharp child, his mother a committed Communist willing to do her duty. She was provided for by the party, and nurtured her son, who bore swarthy Mexican features mixed with the black skin of his father. He was a picture of diversity.

When the child was five Obama al Mustafa re-appeared with orders to take his son to Egypt. A marriage was arranged with Maria, and the three of them moved to Egypt where, from the age of five until the age of nine, young Fidel attended a fanatical Muslim madrassa. The theory behind this was that to indoctrinate a young "American" boy in Communism was too risky and would not take. There were too many influences in the United States working against an American adopting Communism. He might start rooting for a baseball or football team, uniquely red-blooded American pursuits. If Fidel developed into a big fan of "America's Team," the Dallas Cowboys, for instance, there was little chance he would become a Communist, or even a liberal. He might see John Wayne movies on TV. He might hear somebody preaching the words of Jesus Christ and begin to believe it. If any of these and any number of other strong patriotic influences were to implant themselves within a young child's consciousness, he could be lost to the cause forever. The handling of a plant was fraught with peril, and more often than not failed. Some of the children in the program even became Republicans! A child was not told he was a plant. He was supposed to seamlessly develop a hatred of America that would motivate him to adopt anti-American political ideals. If he were a smart kid, a good student, a promising young fellow, then he would move to the next level. That meant a special mentor who would prepare his mind for revolutionary thought, followed by payment of his education at elite, secular, liberal educational academies.

The madrassa experience was one the Communists quickly discovered to be effective. Islam was antithetical to Western culture and freedoms. It was filled with anti-American rhetoric. The United States was routinely called the Great Satan. It also served a second purpose, which was to radicalize the young student with pro-Muslim sentiment and hatred of Israel. The Communists felt that full-scale war with the United States was unwinnable. Even proxy wars with Communist allies were risky, since American conservatives were so strongly allied against Communism that they would gin up huge patriotic sentiment. But they believed the Muslim world was the next battleground, and that liberal opinion could be used in the media to counter Right-wing sentiment against it.

Islam had never allied itself with American ideals. Some of the earliest American Naval actions had been to free shipping lanes off the shores of Libya from Muslim pirates stealing U.S. cargo. In World War I, Kaiser's Germany allied itself with the Ottoman Empire against the Western Democracies. When Adolf Hitler rose to power, he found some of his most receptive support from Muslims, who formed S.S. units and considered the Holocaust to be "God's work."

By the 1960s, however, the Islamic world was increasingly seen as the losers of history. Anti-colonial revolutions had shed the yoke of English and French control. Monarchs were replaced in coups, and Middle Eastern nations became easy pickins, client states of the Soviet Union. It was the perfect environment to make a young mind hate America. This was precisely what happened to Fidel Valenzuela, who was given Muslim theocratic indoctrination, convinced that America was immoral, corrupt, racist, and illegitimate.

At the behest of Maria's handlers, when Fidel was 10 Obama al Mustafa left, never seen or heard from again. She returned to Texas, where she was paired with a black man named Frederick Manson Jones. He was a card-carrying member of the Communist Party, one of the blacks recruited by the actor-singer Paul Robeson, who among others indoctrinated both Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier into Communism. Belafonte remained a committed lifelong Communist. Poitier, realizing the damage it could do to his career, veered away from politics

Jones married Maria, but they never consummated the relationship. He was, in fact, homosexual, with a taste for teenage boys. His only job was to mentor young Fidel, to take his hatred for America, learned in an Egyptian madrassa, and channel it into Communist ideals. The choice of a black man was not without logic, either. In Texas, there was racism directed at blacks and Mexicans. This was pointed out to Fidel every step of the way, used to fuel his belief system that America was immoral. When other kids – not to mention adults – made fun of, and took exception to his name, this was just further ammo to increase his antipathy towards the U.S.

The process was tricky. Jones never came right out and called himself a Communist, or that what he was teaching young Valenzuela was in fact Communism. In Texas it was exceptionally dangerous to be associated with Communism. When others accused Jones of Communist sympathies, he used the accusations, pointing them out to Fidel as examples of American bigotry, racism and closed-mindedness.

But Jones was an exceptional teacher who inculcated Fidel Valenzuela with Marxist beliefs, all built on the strength of a rock-solid understanding of American illegitimacy. Fidel's Latino heritage was of particular use in that Jones and Maria taught him that the American Southwest had been stolen from Mexico, and that it was their duty to join a revolutionary cause bent on re-claiming what was rightfully theirs.

Fidel was educated at an elite private high school, all paid for by his handlers, who funneled the money to Maria. When Fidel turned 16, Jones introduced him to homosexuality and drug use. He never had anal sex with Fidel, but he did teach him oral skills. These were considered to be activities that would further alienate the youth from traditional notions of "all-Americanism." Fidel's cocaine habit and propensity for beer drinking became something of a problem, however, when he began to engage in risky behavior. Throughout his high school and college years he often "paid" for his cocaine habit by giving blowjobs to homosexual drug dealers. He was bi-sexual, attracted to girls, but discovered he could not achieve erection with them. His physical relationship with Jones mentally destroyed his ability to perform with the opposite sex. This was an aspect of his make-up Jones, trained by KGB psychiatrists, used to manipulate young Fidel. It helped create in him a mindset veering away from traditionalism, instead making "alternative lifestyle" choices the Communists identified as anti-thetical to the so-called American Way embodied by the likes of John "Duke" Wayne, identified as their great enemy, who secretly survived four assassination attempts by Communist hit squads over the years.

It was arranged for Fidel to go on regular dates, having his photo taken being "cool" at the senior prom, and to be sociable. As Fidel was ready to graduate from high school, the KGB poisoned and murdered his mother, but kept that fact from Fidel. They wanted to create as sympathetic a portrait of struggle as possible; the motherless child adrift in a heartless, racist America.

Fidel applied to Columbia University. His grades were not quite good enough, but the Communists had one of their people in the admissions office. He knew that Fidel was not born in the U.S., and that he was a Muslim, or at least had been in Egypt. In truth, Fidel was an atheist. It was arranged for him to be given an "affirmative action" scholarship based on being a foreign-born Muslim student.

At Columbia, Valenzuela continued to do cocaine, which he often "bought" outside a gay bar in Greenwich Village, usually by giving blowjobs to a bi-sexual black drug dealer named Calvin Jackson, who bragged that he was a rapper and would some day be a millionaire. All of Valenzuela's expenses were paid for by the Communists, so he never had to work, yet he had enough money to live easily in New York, and socialize. It was at Columbia, just before graduation, where a Communist handler, who felt it was the right time to apprise him of his mission, approached Valenzuela. Unlike many of the children produced in "Operation Anchor Baby" who were not smart enough, not committed enough, or just too darn American, Fidel displayed the appropriate traits they felt necessary to move to the next step.

That mission was to enter American politics. His first move was Harvard Law School, all arranged and continually paid for by his Communist handlers. Valenzuela entered Harvard Law School the same way he had entered Columbia. He was basically a B student; good but not great. Again, he entered on a special dispensation, arranged by KGB plants in the Harvard admissions office, for foreign-born Muslims. After obtaining his education, he would move into radical Left-wing politics, which the Communists were convinced was the future of the Democratic Party. This was the moment of truth for Fidel Valenzuela, his last chance to be a patriotic American citizen. Instead, he agreed to his role; a spy, a mole, a sleeper, a plant. Even if he had any problems with treason against "his" country, his narcissistic desire for fame and power overshadowed that. Besides, America was not his country; not really. He knew he had been born in Mexico to a Mexican women and a Muslim man from Egypt.

At Harvard he came under the sway of radical black and Latino professors, joined La Raza, and became a vocal advocate of the idea that the U.S. had illegitimately stolen the Southwest from Mexico, and should return it to its "rightful owners." When some Muslim students heard he was Muslim, they wanted him to join with them, but rejected him when they discovered he was in fact an atheist who snorted cocaine and gave blowjobs to men.

One of the Communist handlers on the Harvard faculty arranged for Valenzuela to intern with U.S. Senator Edward "Teddy" Kennedy in the summer after his first year, to be made a summer law clerk for a liberal Supreme Court Justice after his second, then to be named editor of the Harvard Law Review in his third year. He was basically getting Cs and Bs, but there were no other Latinos with the grades or credentials. He was already establishing relationships, creating coalitions, and learning the angles of racial politics. He never wrote any opinions or theses in the Law Review; the only editor before or since to leave zero paper trail.

After graduation, Valenzuela die not wish to enter the legal profession. The one area his handlers were concerned about was his work ethic. He was basically lazy. Everything had been handed him all his life. His education was paid for by affirmative action scholarships and racial set-asides. He had never really earned anything. His graduation from Columbia and Harvard was a fait accompli; if his grades were down the Communists on the inside made sure he was elevated to a passing mark. In fact, he did not pass the Massachusetts Bar Exam, but KGB sleuths manipulated the results to make it look like he had.

But associates spend their first year with big law firms practically doing slave labor. They get little sleep, work seven days a week, morning to night, and are burdened by an impossible workload. If a young legal eagle survives this ordeal, he is deemed worthy of advancement in the lucrative field of corporate law. Fidel Valenzuela had no desire to work in corporate law, which he viewed as a tool of an unethical capitalist system, "enemy territory" in his mind. He certainly had no desire to work very hard. He wanted things to continue to be handed him.

He decided he wanted to be a literary voice of the enraged Latino Left, a kind of Mexican-American William Baldwin. He met with an agent, who created a biography to send to prospective publishers. The biography stated that Valenzuela was born in Mexico, had rejected Catholicism for Islam, and offered to write books – fiction and non-fiction – from the perspective of the displaced Latino advocating that the American Southwest was the rightful property of Mexico.

When his Communist handlers saw the biography, they quickly told Valenzuela to pull it and give up on a literary career. First, publicly admitting he was born in Mexico to a Mexican woman was potential death to the political aspirations they had for him. They were also worried that he might succeed as writer. If so, he would have wealth, fame and a platform. While his opinions were certainly in sync with Communist aspirations, such a successful career would distance him from them. They needed him to need them, for money and support. Unlike Jim Stinson, who was not a Communist but was seen as a protégé, a political asset who could advocate and find a "middle way" between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R., Valenzuela was a true believer Marxist who could fulfill their ultimate ambition: a plant reaching high inside the American government; a mole doing their bidding.

There were those within the Soviet spy services who began to think Fidel Castro Valenzuela was on track to become the KGB's first Communist mole to ascend to the White House. What happened next at first appeared to sidetrack those plans, but it is only in understanding that Satan indeed is the prince of the world can one understand how he turned what seemed to be a terrible blow into an evil "triumph."

Ronald Reagan was able to lead the United States to victory in the Cold War. The Soviet Union was broken into pieces. The Venona Papers were unearthed, revealing that Hollywood, the federal government, and the education system indeed had been infiltrated by Communist spies in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s; that Senator Joseph McCarthy had no idea how right he really was; and that the Vietnam War protests of the 1960s, along with many liberal causes of the era, were largely funded by international Communist fronts. But the most recent operations, such as "Operation Anchor Baby," were not included in Venona, remaining secret.

The fall of international Communism in fact gave rise to Western liberalism. The old Communists, now free to espouse their views without being accused of Moscow's taint, began to spread their "gospel" in the universities, the public schools, in Hollywood, in government, in the media, and in international diplomatic circles. The new causes were global warming, gay marriage, socialized medicine, the environment, civil rights, return of the Southwest to Mexico, and Palestinian statehood, just to name a few.

Fidel Valenzuela was stunned to discover that the U.S.S.R. had been destroyed, ostensibly, by Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and conservatism! How could that have happened?

Then one day a man approached him from the Muslim Brotherhood. The Brotherhood was still on the outs in Egypt, but it was the oldest terrorist organization in the Middle East. It had the power and money to withstand what Abu Nidal, Al Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah, and other terrorist organizations could not: war with the Central Intelligence Agency.

The Muslim Brotherhood had played a secondary role in "Operation Anchor Baby," supplying in the person of Obama al Mustafa Valenzuela's surrogate father, but after his initial anti-American indoctrination at an Egyptian madrassa, little else. Now, with the KGB brutally battered, unable to maintain its charter, its very political identity in question, the Muslim Brotherhood decided to step in. They took over as handlers of Fidel Valenzuela.

Valenzuela went back to work for Senator Kennedy, then was made a community organizer for Walnut, a radical Left-wing coalition of blacks and Latinos who extorted money from corporations in return for not protesting in front of their headquarters with accusations of racism. Walnut was started and run by a Communist named Sol Brudzinski. In the 1960s, Brudzinski conjured Satan. He wrote a book called Community Organization. It was dedicated to Lucifer. He asked for power and influence on Earth. It was granted him. The race extortion business was the most "successful" money making operation within liberal circles. Valenzuela was exceptionally good at it and Brudzinski took Valenzuela under his wing, recognizing that he had a particular talent. Many of the black activists could barely speak the English language, and were fodder for tremendous spoof by Right-wingers making fun of their stupidity. The Latino activists too often spoke in pigeon tones. But Valenzuela had no accent; he was articulate and intelligent.

The Muslim Brotherhood identified him as their number one plant in the United States. Out of hundreds of children born to "Operation Anchor Baby," most had dropped by the wayside; not smart enough, not able to make it academically, lacking articulation, charisma and drive. Others had given up when the Soviet Union fell, not willing to work for the Muslim Brotherhood. But Valenzuela's anti-American views were in sync with his new Muslim masters, honed by four childhood years in a madrassa. He looked like the sort of prophet the progressives had long waited for, a Left-wing Christ.

It was then that he was paired with and married to Melissa Barnes, who Fidel called Missy. She was similarly recruited and handled since she was identified as a Communist sympathizer in high school. Melissa was black. Her Ivy League undergraduate and law school education was paid by a combination of underground Communist handlers and affirmative action handouts. She joined a series of radical African-American organizations and wrote as her major theses a scathing indictment of the United States, claiming all she ever "accomplished" was after a bitter struggle against white racism. In fact, she never actually heard a single white person ever call her by the N-word in her entire life. Whites went out of their way to promote her, help her, and lift her above her "circumstances."

While the Muslim Brotherhood arranged the marriage, unbeknownst to them, it was a marriage made in hell. Literally. The KGB plants had been required to be atheists, in line with official Soviet ideology, but such things were difficult to control. What the KGB did not know about Melissa Barnes was that she not atheist; she worshipped Satan. Shortly after meeting Fidel Valenzuela, she told him about this. Valenzuela did not believe her. He was an atheist who believed in neither God nor the devil. To the extent that he favored any religion, it was Islam, but he was under strict orders to keep that hidden. But he did not actually believe in Islam from a spiritual point of view. He simply liked its anti-Americanism, its radical elements.

But Melissa arranged a black mass. Surrounded by candles and pentagrams, Melissa Barnes conjured up in the presence of Fidel Valenzuela Satan himself, and offered their souls in return for fame, fortune and political power, which they vowed they would use in order to further evil.

"You will appear as an angel of light," Satan told them. But Satan mesmerized Fidel. He lost all memory of the conjuring, of his request to Satan, of his appearance, and the granting of the request. The devil placed Melissa as the guide who would steer her husband on the path of power, all the while serving evil. He would remain an atheist, favoring Islam, while posing under the guise of a Christian.

Shortly after, Valenzuela and Melissa were married. Frederick Manson Jones ruined Fidel's sexuality. He was unable to maintain an erection, so the marriage was largely devoid of sex. It, like the marriage between Jim and Jill Stinson, was a political arrangement. But the Muslim Brotherhood felt it necessary that they have a child. They provided gay pornography and a homosexual "fluffer" to give oral sex to Fidel, who was pumped with a new drug called Viagra. He was given seven pills, Yohimbe bark and vitamin E. This was enough stimulant for Fidel to get hard, enter Melissa, and achieve orgasm. The union worked, and nine months later their daughter Leticia was born. In order to maintain the fiction that they were Christian, they joined a radical Catholic church run by a flagrantly Left-wing Latino priest who advocated revolutionary 1960s "liberation theology." He had strongly opposed Reagan's arming of the Contras in Nicaragua, the reactionaries opposing Marxism in El Salvador in the 1980s, and was a close associate of Hugo Chavez, who a few years later would ascend as Venezuela's Socialist dictator. He introduced Valenzuela to Chavez. Chavez knew from his own contacts with the Muslim Brotherhood and old KGB contacts that Valenzuela was a plant with high political hopes. They got along famously, exchanging Left-wing books, and fist-bumping each other in agreement over most issues. The priest's main thesis was that the United States did not have a legitimate claim to the Southwest, particularly Texas, and should recognize Fidel Castro's regime in Cuba. After 9/11 he said the United States was "damned to hell." In later years, Fidel and Missy Valenzuela claimed they were not in the pews that day and never heard of it. It was a lie. They were there.

The priest supposedly took a vow of poverty, but his parishioners arranged to buy him a million-dollar home. Fidel and Missy argued to their handlers that they too deserved a nice home, and were handed a similar house, courtesy of a sweetheart loan from a crooked Boston real estate developer who did dirty deals with Walnut. His specialty was handling racial discrimination claims from blacks that invented stories of housing bias. The sellers, in order to avoid public accusations of racism, agreed to sell the homes for far less than their market value, usually to minorities unable to pay the mortgages. Walnut got a kickback and in turn kicked graft back to the dirty real estate man.

The Muslim Brotherhood then arranged Valenzuela to be given his introduction to Massachusetts Democratic politics by a college professor named Warren Wolfsheim. In the 1960s Wolfsheim and his wife, both members of the radical Left-wing terrorist organization known as the Weather Underground, worked in concert with Communist German terrorists, the Baader Meinhof Complex, attempting to bomb military and police installations in protest against the Vietnam War. For reasons that were never made clear, they were allowed not only to freely walk about the Earth, but given tenured university professorships at Harvard. Wolfsheim was bi-sexual and had a brief physical relationship with Valenzuela.

Through Wolfsheim and his wife, Valenzuela was made a Harvard adjunct professor, but he never actually taught classes. Instead, he participated in forums and studies organized by Wolfsheim and an ultra-radical colleague named Noah Silverstein. The forums were essentially anti-American screeds meant to sow the seeds that the U.S. is an illegitimate nation built on the backs of slaves and the dispossessed colored peoples of the world, that both the dropping of the Atomic bomb and the conduct of the Vietnam War were little different from the Nazi Holocaust. They were also designed to create the fiction that the figure 100 million, the number of human beings said to have been murdered by international Communism in the 20th Century, was highly exaggerated. The Muslim Brotherhood and its affiliate, the Palestine Liberation Organization, insisted they also initiate studies questioning whether the Holocaust indeed had murdered 6 million Jews.

Valenzuela's former KGB handlers, out of business by now, were amazed to see in fact the radicals within this program were espousing their beliefs and doing their bidding all of their own free will, without being paid or asked to do it.

It was also at this time that Valenzuela came under the shield of a man named Gyorgy Szabo. Szabo was a Hungarian Jew during the Holocaust. An atheist by nature, Szabo began to believe that evil in fact did exist. He conjured Satan and asked that he help him survive this ordeal. Satan told him if he collaborated with the Nazis, delivering his fellow Jews to the death camps and ovens, he would be given money and power. Szabo agreed, enthusiastically helping the Nazis round up his fellow man. After the war, Szabo joined the Hungarian Communist Party, and became an active KGB mole. He eventually made his way to England, then the United States, where he was put in charge of a $1 billion operation aimed at shorting the stock market for profit. Szabo successfully orchestrated the 1987 Wall Street crash, and for a few brief weeks he and his fellow Communists celebrated their victory; bringing down Ronald Reagan's economy. Then they were stunned to discover that free market capitalism, unleashed by Reagan, could not be defeated. The American economy roared back. However, Szabo had shorted the market in anticipation of the crash and, like JFK's father, Joseph Kennedy in 1929, became wealthy beyond his imagination.

Szabo then turned his attention to the British economy, which after the tenure of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was weakened enough for him to manipulate markets and bring down the British pound. This brought him even greater wealth. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, however, Szabo was a man without an ideology, so to speak. He offered his services to the Chinese, who had long broken with the Soviets and were still supposedly Communists, but they rebuffed him. They knew Communist economic principles did not work and in effect were turning towards free market capitalism in an effort to build their economy.

Szabo became part of a shadowy network of disaffected former Communists, which included Valenzuela and his wife, Walnut, Warren Wolfsheim, Noah Silverstein, and a coterie of college professors, media mavens, and like-minded veterans of the 1960s, who formed the post-Cold War Left. They took up as their cause global warming, the environment, gay marriage, gays in the military, abortion, and the re-writing of American history, particularly aimed at the content of textbooks in public schools. This was the group that Wolfsheim introduced Valenzuela and his wife to. Wolfsheim's main desire was to change textbooks and use Left-wing influence on public school children, knowing that over time if he created enough anti-Americanism within the youth, the Democratic Party would have a permanent majority.

The Muslim Brotherhood controlled Valenzuela, but did not attempt to control or influence the group; not Wolfsheim, Szabo or any of the rest. They saw in Valenzuela, because his biological father was Egyptian and he had been trained in Islam, a particularly virulent strain of anti-Americanism that could be turned into the ultimate lethal weapon against the United States and Israel. The radicalism of the ex-Communists, despite control of public schools, could never overcome patriotism in America; the kind emanating from the rural South, Christian faith, and conservative talk radio. The Brotherhood thought little of these fuzzy ex-hippies who had turned cowardly during the Vietnam War. They could care less about global warming or the environment; most of their money came from oil profits, anyway. It was the only thing the Middle East "produced." They would just as soon burn gays alive, much less promote their legal marriages.

But Valenzuela was younger. He had not protested against Vietnam. They saw in him the first real fissure in the American Way, part of a 1,000-year plan to destroy the West and give ultimate victory to the Prophet Muhammad. Valenzuela was their version of a "useful idiot," who could be persuaded by his own narcissism, arrogance and self-importance into pursuing the Presidency, and then weakening America beyond recognition, even if he was not motivated by Islamic zeal per se. The Muslim Brotherhood was perfectly happy to use liberal ideals, most of which they despised, to further their aims in the name of Allah. Melissa Valenzuela's ultimate loyalty was to Satan, but she was perfectly happy to pretend to go along with the Muslim Brotherhood. Their aims were more or less the same as the devil's. Fidel, mesmerized and not aware that he had sold his soul to the devil, was a little unsure of the arrangement. He did not veer from the Brotherhood's political aims or philosophy, but was concerned that his association with them might be discovered. Melissa convinced him that he needed their money to foment his political aspirations.

Valenzuela's first autobiography was actually written by Warren Wolfsheim; a fanciful, largely false tale with just a touch of truth to it, describing the racism he saw in Texas when the black Frederick Manson Jones married his Mexican mother. While Valenzuela promoted himself as an intellectual, he had not read 10 books in his life and was, despite the best education Communist money could buy, largely ignorant.

"His" book was dedicated to the Communist Satan worshiper Sol Brudzinski. The tale of "overcoming terrible injustice" vaulted him into politics. Using money and support generated by Wolfsheim and the forum, Valenzuela's name began to be bandied about, not just as a potential political star in Massachusetts, but nationally. Wolfsheim saw even beyond that; he was thinking globally, just as he had when he worked with the Baader Meinhof Complex. He knew Valenzuela, such a racial mix of identities, ethnicities and nationalities, was a sort of United Nations prophet who could mesmerize the masses. Valenzuela, despite being unread, had a quality that cannot be bought or taught. Whereby a Reagan would give history lessons in his speeches, detailing with fact and anecdote why Socialism failed everywhere it was tried; why nationalized medicine could not work; why free market enterprise benefited all of society top to bottom; Valenzuela said nothing, yet the young, the impressionable, the discontented would glaze over in his presence. It was an aspect of human nature nobody could grasp, but Wolfsheim knew it when he saw it. Valenzuela had this one-in-a-million talent. He was a "rock star." He was what Warren Wolfsheim had long been waiting for.

Ex-Communists arranged for Melissa to be given a $175,000 a year administrative position with Planned Parenthood. She never actually had to go there or work; it was all for show. They needed a black woman's face on their executive board.

Valenzuela was invited to a retreat for Democratic bigwigs, hailed as a bright future star of the party. He was told that if a Democrat were elected President, he would be offered a cabinet position. Valenzuela told his Muslim handler this a short while later.

"You cannot accept such a position," he was told. "You cannot subject yourself to an FBI background check. Even assuming they do not uncover your connections to the KGB or the Muslim Brotherhood, your 'radical' associations – with Frederick Manson Jones, dedicating your brook to Sol Brudzinski, your membership in a 'liberation theology' church; and of course Wolfsheim, Silverstein, and Gyorgy Szabo – would eliminate you from offices requiring security clearance, ranging from military officers, the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service . . . or the cabinet, or the Supreme Court. But there is a hole in the Constitution, something the Founding Fathers of your country never addressed or predicted. Virtually any man can be elected President, or Senator, or any other office. Even the fact you were not born in Texas, as it was arranged for your birth certificate to read, can be turned in your favor. Those questioning it will be vilified as racist and extremist."

Szabo was perfectly positioned to use his money to form a New Media alliance promoting Valenzuela, the Democratic Party, and radically liberal causes. He came into power just as the Cold War was ending, cable television was expanding, and the Internet came into existence. Out of this he created multi-million-dollar "news" organizations such as the Atlantic Cable News channel, a wildly Left-wing network that spun off several smaller, equally liberal stations. He created TuneIn.org and NewsMedia.com, Left-wing web sites devoted to the personal destruction of conservative Republicans who got too powerful and spouted too many true facts about liberalism. He worked closely with liberal allies in the Silicon Valley to create algorithms on web sites and eventually in social media that would assure that search engines would by a far wider margin direct web browsers to sites favorable to liberals, and hurtful to conservatives.

But perhaps most insidious of all, he began to buy a series of companies that built vote-counting machines. His goal was to ultimately fix the game in such a way as to control elections. He did all of this largely behind the scenes. Many conservatives pointed out his atrocities. Occasionally, Fox News or Human Events magazine would do an "expose" of him. Many Christians openly wondered if he was the anti-Christ. To the amazement of the righteous, he just kept doing what he was doing, his money and his operation protecting him from any real harm. The public did not know that he, like Melissa Valenzuela, had made a deal with Satan when he was in a Nazi concentration camp, asking for power and influence in return for turning in his fellow Jews. Satan mesmerized the world in such a way that only the righteous could see Szabo for what he was. There was a time in which there were enough righteous that he would be exposed, tried, and jailed. Beginning in the 1990s, those days were long gone. Darkness had descended upon the planet, and with it the rise of men like Szabo and Valenzuela, women like Melissa Barnes Valenzuela, and many others of like mind.

The Kennedy wing of Massachusetts politics promoted Valenzuela, a rising star in the Democratic Party; the most corrupt, thuggish, and heavy-handed machine in America. Given that imprimatur, he was in. As such he was given the keynote speaking address at the national convention, in which he claimed that Latinos were being rounded up and shipped back to Mexico "like Jews during the Holocaust" by a "racist regime bent on white supremacy." Arab-Americans, he stated, "cower in fear in the night" while waiting for the police to "come charging through their front doors guns blazing." He was given a standing ovation by the Democrats, who "booed God" and Israel during the invocation, as was their wont at these events. Satan applauded.

Melissa Barnes Valenzuela. Just as God had said in the Gospel of John that he was "well pleased" with his son Jesus, so too did Satan convey to his disciple that he approved of what they were doing on his behalf.

Valenzuela ran for the U.S. Senate in Massachusetts. He faced strong opposition from a Republican named Mitch Roberts. Roberts was a Mormon with a Wharton MBA who had made multiple millions in investment banking, and was able to largely fund his own campaign. Valenzuela tried to paint him as an out-of-touch white capitalist. A month before the election, however, Roberts led Valenzuela by 10 points. Then Satan made a liberal reporter with the Boston Globe aware of a controversial divorce case involving a former fraternity brother of Roberts. The fraternity brother, now the owner of a Major League baseball team, had gone through a messy divorce in which his ex-wife sought many millions of dollars. During the course of the divorce proceedings, the wife produced a videotape of a fraternity initiation in which her husband had participated in an act of sex involving a number of frat boys and a single sorority sister. Roberts appeared in the background, clothed and apparently not participating.

The husband, however, was plainly seen having sex with the girl. It was of great value to the wife, who secured some $30 million more in the divorce as a result of its disclosure. The judge sealed the tape so the press or anybody else could not obtain it. However, a copy of the tape had been secretly sent to Hart Hadley at PartyChicks magazine. Given the chance to embarrass a Republican, he enthusiastically sent it to the Valenzuela campaign. That was when Satan informed the Globe reporter, a reliable Kennedy plant, who began to inquire of its existence. His efforts to get it were rebuffed. The Valenzuela campaign could not reveal it without breaking the judge's order, but the Kennedys knew a friendly judge who unsealed it

Hadley edited it in such a way as to make it appear that Roberts was participating in the sex act, not just standing in the background. Then they released it. The campaign used their surrogates in the media to routinely state the lie that Roberts did have sex with the girl.

Hadley turned the tape into a mass seller and showed stills in all his magazines and web sites. The result was devastating and widespread. First, the divorced man was forced by public embarrassment to lose his baseball team to his divorced wife, the settlement amount named as the greatest ever by The Guinness Book of World Records. The sorority girl, who by this time was a housewife with three kids, attempted suicide. Their wives divorced three of the other men seen in the tape. Roberts, who had five children, separated from his wife but they eventually got back together when virtually the entire fraternity contacted her to let her know her husband not only did not participate, he vocally tried to stop it before eventually walking out in disgust. By the time this became public knowledge, Mitch Roberts had lost by five points to Fidel Valenzuela. Satan thought it was just great.

Valenzuela's Senate career was undistinguished. Once in office Wolfsheim ghostwrote his second autobiography, detailing his "struggle" as a young Latino battling the white establishment in America. He offered almost no legislation, no statesmanship, made no great speeches, was often absent, rarely voted, and was described by colleagues as "bored." The Muslim Brotherhood advocated that he establish as little a record as possible; certainly nothing the conservatives could pin on him. The only bill he sponsored was legislation making it possible for women to more easily access late term abortions.

He – actually Wolfsheim again - did write his third autobiography, however. This was a Left wing tome filled with liberal pipe dreams; their vision of a Utopian society. It was his Presidential campaign book. Conservatives, realizing he could go all the way, read it with alarm, vainly trying to warn the world that it, like Adolf Hitler's Mein Kampf, was a blueprint of evil. They were dismissed as racist and extremist.

From the moment he entered the Senate, his – and the Muslim Brotherhood's - only goal was the Presidency. If elected President, he was ordered to weaken America economically and militarily, cease strong support for Israel, and favor Islamic causes the Brotherhood identified in the Middle East. But Valenzuela faced an obstacle in his own party that was greater than anything the Republicans trotted out.

His name was Jim Stinson.

Stinson's one-time Communist handlers had paid little attention to him when he was elected Mayor of New Orleans, then to the U.S. Congress from Louisiana. Louisiana Democratic politics were too corrupt and too diverse for them to get a handle on. The state was far too conservative for the Communists to have much influence there, as opposed to Massachusetts, where most of the Kennedyites might as well have been modern Alger Hiss's. Stinson was forced to work with too many Republicans and adopt too many GOP ideas in order to get along, and get re-elected. Besides, he had even told his handler that he was not a Communist. He was forced to promote himself as a Christian, as a good ol' boy. He reliably did the bidding of the New Orleans mob that had promoted him since he was identified as a "comer" at the age of 14

The Communists were, however, pleased with the influence of his wife, Jill Wyndham-Stinson, who advocated the Communist line without knowing it, all of her own free will. But Reagan's Cold War victory left them out in the . . . cold, and it left Jim Stinson a free agent of sorts. He was beholden to nobody.

After his Senate career, Stinson was elected Governor of Louisiana. He ignored most of Jill's admonitions for more liberal policies, which would have been terribly unpopular in the state. Most of the legislature was Republican. He adopted their low taxes, and the result was low unemployment and a strong economy. His name was bandied about as a major Democratic Presidential contender. His time had come.

The Iraq War popularized the GOP, however. Stinson read the tealeaves and held off running until the Democrats achieved a majority in Congress and the nation was off its war footing. When he entered the Democratic primaries, the press at first said it was an anointing; he was heavily favored. But Fidel Castro Valenzuela had entered the race, too. Valenzuela had the power of Gyorgy Szabo behind him. Stinson never knew what hit him.

It started during the New Hampshire primary campaign, when ACN aired an interview with a woman in Palm Beach, Florida. She claimed that some years earlier, Governor Stinson and the nephew of a big Democrat politician entered a swanky nightclub. A night of drinking ensued, but at some point Stinson decided to leave, returning to the politician's mansion, where he was staying. The nephew continued to drink with the attractive young woman, eventually talking her into going back to the mansion with him.

Once there, he began to paw at her, but she had a change of heart, telling him she wanted to go home. The nephew got violent, punching and scratching her, tearing her clothes off, and sexually assaulting her. She called out for help, her screams heard by Governor Stinson, lying in bed. Stinson got up, wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. From the top of the staircase, he looked down while the nephew raped the girl. When the girl saw him, she hoped he would call the police. Instead Stinson, still wearing only a t-shirt, approached.

"Well, well, well, what've we got here?" he asked.

"You want some sloppy seconds, Jim?" the nephew asked him.

"Naw, you take care of business," Stinson told him. The Governor sat back on the couch pleasuring himself while the nephew raped and assaulted the girl some more. Stinson gave him directions, telling him to turn her sideways, make her blow him, do her "doggy style," and the like. Finally, Stinson was ready to climax. He approached, aimed at the girl, and shot his semen, which landed on her hair and ears.

"Nice shot, Jim," the nephew told him.

When the nephew was finished with her, he called a cab and sent her on her way along with $1,000 for "your trouble." When Stinson saw she had a black eye he cavalierly advised, "You'd better get some ice on that." The girl contacted the West Palm Beach Police Department, who were in cahoots with the Democrat politician. It was arranged that she be paid $100,000, a drop in the bucket for the family, in order that she remain silent.

She was a hot young thing with racy naked and even pornographic pictures that she knew some photographer had taken, plus a reputation for promiscuity. She decided to stay silent, but Szabo's network knew all about her. They paid her half a million dollars to talk about it on ACN. The photos were offered to Hart Hadley, but he was a Stinson man and would not publish them. Szabo did, a major coup.

Stinson's longtime campaign manager, Don Carver called her "trailer trash," but her story rang true. Then more women stepped forward, revealing not only that Stinson was a world-class womanizer - a fact nobody ever tried to deny – but that he was also a rapist and sex offender. A litany of "bimbos," as the Stinson campaign tried to portray them, told "Stinson stories," of being hit, assaulted, and forced to have sex against their will. One woman, the wife of a loyal Stinson political aide, was raped in his office. She had not planned to come forward until she heard that Stinson told the girl in West Palm Beach, "You'd better put some ice on that" black eye of hers. She told the press that Stinson gave her the same "advice" when she left, too.

Stinson's sordid past in Louisiana was dug up. The conservative media had a field day, although they did not realize that in so doing they were promoting an even worse enemy of America, Fidel Valenzuela, one step closer to the White House. The Valenzuela machine, fully backed by Szabo, went after Stinson, no hold's barred. Stinson and his wife made hundreds of thousands of dollars in an illegal real estate venture. Jill Wyndham-Stinson had made $100,000 on an illegal insider stock tip in a single day, selling the stock hours before it plummeted. They were rumored to have run a drug-smuggling operation out of Mena, Arkansas worth millions to the Stinsons. The Louisiana state troopers were used like Mafia body guards not only to affect Stinson's sexual liaisons, but also to kill his political enemies. A "Stinson body count" was discovered.

There were several kids found dead near railroad tracks after stumbling upon the drug smuggling operation. Various drug dealers who bought and sold coke to the Stinson's and his brother mysteriously turned up dead. Political rivals were killed in car crashes or had "heart attacks" in their 40s.

Valenzuela played the "race card" to maximum effect, accusing the Southerner Stinson of racism against Hispanics and his black wife. That was when Stinson told another high-level Democrat, "Four years ago, this son of a bitch would've been servin' us coffee." He was stunned to discover this nobody Senator from nowhere had political muscle behind him that rivaled anything in American political history. He had mastered social media and fundraising in a way that befuddled Stinson. Szabo's money and media empire was enormous. In the past, Stinson would have had Valenzuela assassinated before he was a big political name. Now it was too late, and besides, Jill nixed any talk of it.

Then nationally syndicated conservative talk radio host Randy Lebow, the biggest of all thorns in the side of the Left, began what he called "Operation Chaos." Many of the Democratic primaries had open registration. Lebow urged Republicans to vote for whoever was behind at the time. Valenzuela would pull ahead, and Lebow would tell his listeners in the next state to vote for Stinson. Then when Stinson took the lead, he would order a reversal of the vote, allowing Valenzuela to go ahead.

Stinson was dismayed by the advice that he could not use the opposition research compiled against Valenzuela. Nobody had ever seen his birth certificate. He was rumored to have been born in Mexico. His mother was not an American citizen. Nobody really knew who his father was. Some said he was a Jihadist. He had been educated in an Egyptian madrassa. Nobody knew who paid for him to attend elite private schools from age 14 until graduation from law school. His records were sealed and he refused to release them. He paid for his cocaine habit by giving blowjobs to men. He had come under the sway of a card-carrying Communist. He was a Communist plant. The truth about Valenzuela was so outlandish as to be beyond belief. This was his ace in the hole. Nobody could actually be that bad.

When Stinson openly asked Valenzuela to produce his birth certificate, Szabo's media accomplices accused him of racism and he fell in the polls. Stinson tried to make hay of the fact that Valenzuela's political mentor was an unrepentant terrorist who never paid for his crimes; the attempt to blow up military installations and police stations.

"He's just a guuuy who lives in my neighborhood," Valenzuela lied. The media, lapping up every word dripping out of his mouth, gave him a complete pass. Then a video surfaced showing Valenzuela's radical Catholic priest excoriating America after 9/11.

"America is damned to hell for the sins of her history," he told his flock. "She has stolen the Southwest from Mexico and pilfered its wealth from the indigenous people's of the Earth. Now she is paying for her crimes against humanity."

Given every chance by a fawning press to explain the priest, Valenzuela was contacted by the devil in the bathroom before the press conference.

"Appear as an angel of light," Satan told him, just as he had when he first granted Melissa's wish that he give them fame and power. No sooner had the devil conveyed his message than he mesmerized Valenzuela, who no longer possessed knowledge of the fact he had sold his soul to Satan years earlier, but did know what to say. Valenzuela lied to the press, telling them that while the priest could be "pretty controversial" at times, he had nevertheless "led me to Jesus Christ," but he had not been sitting in the pews when the priest said what he did. The message was not for liberals; they largely rejected Christ. It was for the Christian Right, desperate to give him the benefit of the doubt, to disbelieve that the man who might be their President was an atheist, or a Muslim, or worse.

Stinson met with Carver, but was horrified by what his old friend and advisor told him. For decades, Carville had told thousands of lies in order to promote his old friend's political career. Now he was telling the God's honest truth.

"The Democratic Party ain't what it used to be, hoss," he told Stinson. "There was a time, they'd hear all this stuff and get turned off, Valenzuela would be done. You'd tell 'em the guy was snortin' blow, he was payin' for it with suck jobs; he hangs out with terrorists and so-called priests who think it's great America loses wars . . . hell pardner, he'd be done. Somethin' happened. The '60s, Vietnam, Commie influence . . .

"All I'm tellin' you is that we've reached the point where a majority of Democratic voters hear this stuff about Valenzuela, and man, I hate to say this, but they agree with it. They like him more for it. He'll get their votes because of it."

Carver went on to explain that Republicans might suddenly like Stinson if he went after Valenzuela on these issues, but in a Democratic primary, they were of no value to him beyond Lebow's "Operation Chaos" manipulations.

"They prefer homosexual behavior, Jim. They like people who talk America down. They believe we should lose wars sometimes! They think we're too powerful, they definitely think we're too damn Christian.

"Look, you gotta keep yer mouth shut," Carver said, adding he needed to "eat" what comes out of anal cavities. "Do a deal, get Jill appointed to the U.N., that's open and comin' up. Come back in four, eight years. I doubt Valenzuela can win the general election."

"If he wins this go around, I'm retiring from politics," Stinson told his friend. He meant it. In his mind, if Valenzuela lost to the Republican challenger, Jack McLain, then he would emerge as the party savior four years later, but if Valenzuela was a front-runner he wanted out.

"I'll believe that when I see it," Carver told him.

Advised he could not tell true facts about Fidel Castro Valenzuela, Governor Jim Stinson, the smartest man in the Democratic Party, with a long history of keeping unemployment and taxes low in Louisiana, a man who could be President, a man known for crossing the aisle and working with the GOP, watched in frustration while the unknown Valenzuela won out until he had captured the Democratic nomination. He was the first man to win the nomination of a major political party essentially on the strength of open anti-Americanism.

With her husband's nomination secure, Melissa Barnes Valenzuela began making speeches.

"For the first time in my life, I'm proud to be an American," she told cheering liberals. Now, and only now, in her mind had the United States of America committed an act of morality . . . at least, morality according to a Satanist.

With the nomination, Valenzuela then worked on his image. He was the man the Left had long waited for, a liberal messiah. He told them he would roll back global warming, oversee the receding of ocean levels, make gay marriage legal, institute nationalized medicine, disengage the United States from messy military conflicts, and institute "social justice for all." He said if elected he would "fundamentally change the country," that a decade after he left office nobody living today would recognize it. Conservatives howled. Liberals thought it manna from Heaven, if they actually believed in Heaven. He was packaged like no man had ever been packaged; the Latino wonder boy and his African-American princess of a wife, who did adoring interviews with Glamour and Fitness, who wrote glowing pieces telling American women how "you can have toned arms like Melissa Valenzuela."

The big Silicon Valley honchos came out for him, and through Szabo arranged for algorithms on social media – his specialty - to lead web searchers to glowing Valenzuela pieces. Searches for his opponent, the military hero McLain, more often than not led to pictures of him looking old, angry and out of touch. AOL users signed on each morning looking at the smiling visages of Fidel and Melissa Valenzuela, or their daughter, urging them to wish Fidel or his kid "happy birthday," or "wish Fidel and Melissa a happy wedding anniversary," or to just plain donate to their righteous cause.

He was not a politician, he was an icon. An event. A Che Guevara-style poster of him became all the rage, adorning t-shirts and bumper stickers. Valenzuela went to Europe, making him look like an international rock star. He made speeches next to Greek statuary, leaving the impression he was a modern Plato or Aristotle. He consolidated the minority vote, firing up millions of illegal Mexicans and ghetto blacks who never would have voted, but now believed the American Dream was within their grasp, courtesy of a special brand of social justice served up by Fidel Valenzuela. Any Republican who called him by his full name – Fidel Castro Valenzuela – was called racist. Even McLain refused to call him by his actual name. He was warned not to mention his priest who had said America was damned to hell, or that his political mentor in Boston had tried to blow up American military installations.

Then a funny thing happened. Trailing by 10 points heading into the Republican National Convention, McLain named his running mate, Shelly Rider. She was the 42-year old Governor of Montana, a busty, curvy brunette who looked like a movie star. Men swooned over her, but women loved her brashness. She was an outspoken conservative and born again Christian who made no bones about her faith, her disdain for abortion or Valenzuela, which she seemed to believe were about equal in moral depravity. She spoke endlessly of his associations.

"Heck, if this guy applied to West Point or Annapolis, he'd be denied when they found out his priest of 12 years thought Texas belonged to Mexico," she proclaimed, going "rogue," so to speak, since the McLain campaign had told her not to bring such things up. She did anyway. "What about his mentors, this Wolfsheim character who tried to blow up our troops? I'm still trying to figure out why that guy and his wife are freely allowed to walk around in America, not to mention are given tenure in the Ivy League, but that's just me. By the way, I still have never seen Fidel's birth certificate. I don't know who his father his. He won't tell us about some Communist who taught him about Marx when he was a kid. We don't know who paid for him to go to private school, to Columbia, or to Harvard. He was editor of the Law Review, and is apparently the only editor of their Law Review who never edited anything. He never practiced law. He calls himself a professor, but there are no students walking around on terra firma who recall him teaching a class. He won't release his grades, admission records or who paid for him. Did he get in on affirmative action? As a Muslim? As a foreign-born student? Apparently he did coke for years, but 'paid' for it through certain . . . acts. Not money. He says he believes in Jesus Christ. My colleagues on the Right want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I ask if a real Christian advocates the murder of 60 million children since Roe v. Wade. He sure does.

"He could not pass a background check to be in the military, certainly not as an officer, or in the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, probably not the Bozeman Police Department or even to be a park ranger at Yellowstone National Park, but I guess we're just backwards compared to sophisticated Massachusetts. But he was a community organizer for somebody called Walnut, a group that at one time would have been Communist until Ronald Reagan won the Cold War. I looked into Walnut, which of course the 'lamestream media' never did. It seems the main thing they do is talk blacks and minority women into having abortions. Did you know that's the reason the black population is going down? Now you do, 'cause I just informed you of it. They get more federal funding the more abortions they talk women into having. Isn't that special? I look at stuff like that and see it's always Democrats involved; which is why I, of my own free will, choose not to be a Democrat. Now we're to believe all those displaced Commies just took to American capitalism. You wanna know where they went? The Democrat Party, where they'd been all along. Yeah, those pesky Communists. All they did was kill, oh I don't know, 10 times more people than Hitler, but whose counting? Why worry? But hey, that's just me."

The American public loved Rider and by mid-September she had lifted the McLain-Rider ticket to a five-point lead in the Gallup poll. Valenzuela contacted his handlers in the Muslim Brotherhood, and told them if McLain still led by five in mid-October, to assassinate Rider. But Gyorgy Szabo had a better idea. First, he orchestrated the most vitriolic hit campaign in American politics, meant to personally destroy Rider by tarnishing her as a racist, a hick, unqualified, and stupid. The American media, with the exception of Fox News and conservative talk radio, reacted as if Szabo's was the word of whatever god they worshipped. Hadley made a porn parody of Rider called Sleazy Rider, but it was pointed out that the girl portraying Rider was not as attractive as the real-life Rider.

But the Right fought back and the public continued to support Rider, who just fed off the passions of her supporters. Finally, Szabo went to his old playbook, the one he used to help orchestrate the 1987 stock market crash for the KGB, and then the destruction of the British pound a few years later.

The sub-prime loan program, a longtime Democratic program meant to allow minorities to "buy" homes even when they could not afford to pay their mortgages, was on the verge of collapse. Szabo went to Massachusetts Congressman Bob Fink, an openly homosexual man who once ran a gay whorehouse out of his apartment, which for some reason made him a hero in the Democratic Party. Fink was in charge of the program. The two manipulated it in such a manner that it fell apart within a matter of days in late September. The blame, courtesy of the Szabo media machine, was affixed to McLain's Republican Party. The McLain-Rider lead of five points evaporated, and they never contended again. Valenzuela called off the hit on Rider, and won by five points. The margin of victory was credited to millions and millions of uneducated blacks and Mexicans, many on welfare, who had never voted before but saw in Valenzuela a savior of the poor. Millions of illegal Mexicans were allowed to vote using laws and regulations put in place by Democratic Governors and legislatures in key swing states, such as Nevada and Colorado. Republican calls for voter identification in the form of driver's licenses or some other legal I.D. were ignored, called racist and bigoted by the Left and their liberal media allies.

On election night, Melissa sidled up to her husband, now the President-elect.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," she told him.

Valenzuela addressed an enormous throng filling Boston's main downtown square. Many were stunned to see that he appeared alone, absent his wife and child. It seemed to be the ultimate act of selfish narcissism; a man determined to be glorified absent credit to any others. Indeed, in his speech he spoke of himself, his upbringing in overcoming the odds, but gave little credit to his family, his party, his campaign staff, the volunteers, God, or anybody.

The cameras caught him watching the crowd . . . watching him.

A round table TV discussion of respected journalists – all liberal supporters of Valenzuela – revealed surprising honesty when none could point to a single book they knew he had read . . . other than his three autobiographies (ghostwritten by Warren Wolfsheim). He had no paper trail; his college records were sealed, he was, as Governor Rider pointed out, the only editor of the Harvard Law Review who apparently never edited the Harvard Law Review. He hardly voted in the Senate, proposed no laws except one to make abortion easier to obtain.

His plan was simple: bankrupt and weaken what once was the greatest nation on Earth. Have the largest number of people dependent upon government as possible. Government was the new god. Marginalize and demonize Christians as hicks, rubes and "banjo-pickers." ave th H

A Mexican-American comic got an HBO special called "We're Takin' Over," chortling that a wave of illegals would "take over" the United States, re-claiming "what was taken from us in 1847."

Satan knew what was only suspected among American Christians, which was that God uses nations, armies, empires and political ideologies to serve His purposes. Just as he once used national Israel to teach the human race to worship only one God; and had used the Roman Empire to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the gentiles; and used the British Empire to spread capitalism and trade across the globe; he had used the new Promised Land of America to spread freedom, to end slavery, to make the world safe for Democracy, to destroy the Nazis, to bring civil rights to blacks, to break the yoke of centuries of Jewish oppression, and to end Soviet Communism. Finally, he had used technology, born in the Silicon Valley of California, to create a communications system that now allowed the largest number of human beings spread through all corners of the globe, to hear the saving Word of Jesus Christ. The election of Fidel Valenzuela was the end of America's position as a nation favored by God. This fact began to dawn on the righteous, who realized that the Good Lord no longer favored a nation that aborted 60, approaching 70 million babies since Roe v. Wade, and now elected Fidel Valenzuela. He had used America as he had used national Israel and the Roman Empire. Now she was left to her own devices, its marginalized Christian citizenry left only with their faith.

Many began to openly question whether Valenzuela himself was the anti-Christ. This served only to marginalize them. They were kooks, religious nuts, racists. The media, firmly in control of the forces of unrighteousness, destroyed them.

Jack Harris, the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, administered the oath of office to Valenzuela on Inauguration Day. Just as he was in the process of asking if "I Fidel . . . uh . . . Castro . . . Valenzuela, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States," Harris stumbled, his words faltering. He recovered and barely finished the oath: "and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God."

After the ceremony, HHHarris was invited along with other dignitaries to a series of balls honoring the new President. Ashen-faced, he told his stunned wife he felt sick and wanted to go home.

He crawled into bed, then after a few hours began drinking Bourbon until he was drunk. His wife approached to ask him what was wrong.

"You won't believe me if I tell you," he said to her.

"Honey, what is it?"

"Do you believe in God?"

"What?"

"Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?"

"You're scaring me."
"Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?"

She hesitated.

"Yes, Jack. Why? Why are you asking me this?"

Harris took a big swallow of Bourbon, straight.

"When I administered the oath to Valenzuela, when I asked him if he'd defend the Constitution, when I stumbled over his name and used the words 'so help me God,' I saw something. Oh God . . ."

"What did you see?" she asked him.

He stared into space, then looked at her.

"I saw the devil," he told her.

"What?" she said, half laughing, but realizing he was serious.

"The devil was right behind him, above him and Melissa Valenzuela. The devil was a . . . she . . . I recognized her. I don't know where I recognized her from, but I've seen her. This guy is the devil's child. The anti-Christ. We've elected the anti-Christ President of the United States and I swore him in." At that moment, Jack Harris fell to his knees and began to recite the Lord's Prayer.

Randy Lebow told his audience, "I hope Valenzuela fails." He was excoriated as a racist and unpatriotic. A female black comic told the Washington Gridiron Dinner she hoped Lebow's "liver fails." Any criticism of Valenzuela was immediately branded racist and unpatriotic

Unflattering comic depictions or Halloween costumes of Valenzuela were quickly denounced. In public school, kids were forced to sing Mao-like songs favoring this new American god, while those who protested were fired or ostracized. Valenzuela compared himself to Abraham Lincoln before he even entered office.

Half of Valenzuela's administration were displaced Communists, including one woman who had to resign only when a speech she made appeared on YouTube.com. In it she declared "my personal political hero is Mao Tse-tung." One conservative political commentator then went after her, asking if the "the fact Mao murdered 70 million human beings was the defining characteristic that drew her to him?" Another high-ranking black fellow was exposed as an ex-Communist and, like Valenzuela, a leading community organizer with Walnut. The conservative commentator crunched the numbers and determined that under this man's stewardship, Walnut had probably added some 10,000 aborted black children to the list of the murdered since Roe, stating that they that might not have died had they not been "advised" by Walnut. After the man resigned he was given a cushy job excoriating conservatives on Szabo's ACN.

The sub-prime housing crisis had turned a normal, cyclical downturn in the economy into a full-blown financial disaster. The Republicans had already spent so much money, increasing the national debt so much (to no good avail) that for all practical purposes they were giving Valenzuela carte blanche permission to go all the way; to make America Socialist once and for all. Valenzuela was swept into office with filibuster-proof Democratic majorities in the House and Senate, which he used to immediately sign into law a spending bill that in one fell swoop expended more money than all governments in history since the birth of Christ. All debt accumulated by all Presidents in history did not add up to what Valenzuela accumulated with the single signing of his pen a mere three weeks into office.

"See how easy that was," his Muslim master, Geb Ali, told him over a secure telephone line. "Everything the United States ever was, destroyed with the signing of a pen. Now, debt that can never be re-paid."

"Valenzuela could do more good if he just wrote a check to every legal voting-age American citizen for $1 million, deducting the taxes to pay down the debt," Governor Rider stated. At first she was made fun of until several respected economic think tanks agreed that it would be more efficient than Valenzuela's spending bill.

"The reason he doesn't want to do what I suggest – I don't suggest he write a check to every citizen, but it is better than his plan – is because if he did that, then there would be an entire nation of suddenly independent American citizens walking across this land with a million dollars in their pockets," Rider stated. "That is the last thing he wants. Decent, independent Americans thriving on their own, not dependent on him to pay for their health care, their welfare, their food stamps, their public education. They might even, God forbid, invest in the stock market and let capitalism grow their money. That's the last thing this character wants. He needs a citizenry that is dependent on government, and on him. He needs all power centralized in bureaucracies, in government, all controlled by a federal purse string and government regulations."

The Left, including Saturday Night Live and the elite media, made more fun of Rider and her million-dollar-check gambit, but of course as conservatives pointed out, she was right on. It did not matter. The media template was that she was racist for saying what she said, which confused those who possessed knowledge of . . . things.

Valenzuela nationalized the American auto industry and returned a bust of Winston Churchill to England, privatively telling aides England was a colonialist country that obtained their power illegitimately. From there, Valenzuela pushed for national health care, dubbed Valuecare (Valenzuela care). He made speech after speech after speech in which his mouth dripped with the lie, "If you want your doctor, you can keep him." When members of his own party balked at its provisions, he used his allies in the Congress to push it through, using technically illegal methods in the dead of night.

The law went before the Supreme Court, who mulled over its Constitutionality. The liberals all voted for it, but four conservatives called it un-Constitutional. It came down to Chief Justice Harris. Harris was convinced it was un-Constitutional, yet woke up on the day he was scheduled to cast the deciding vote, as if in a trance. He had seen Satan on Inauguration Day. This time he entered his heart, just as he had entered that of Judas at the Last Supper. Harris voted that it was a tax, and therefore Constitutional.

After the law was implemented, Valenzuela's lie was revealed. It was too late. People could not keep their doctors. Millions lost their existing medical coverage, saw premiums and deductibles quadruple – or worse – and received no remedy via Valuecare. Valuecare was the "law of the land," his supporters said, just as Roe v. Wade was the law of the land.

Valenzuela abused executive privilege, signing regulations extending the period in which abortions could be performed on pregnant women. Feminists claimed only under Valenzuela did they have access to contraception. One law student claimed an outlandish cost for her contraceptive needs.

Lebow remarked that what she claimed cost "thousands of dollars" could be obtained at CVS Pharmacy for $22. Using a calculator he determined that for her to actually use the amount of rubbers she claimed she needed via national health care, she would have to "have more sex than Wilt Chamberlain claimed in his autobiography." It was further pointed out that she was too ugly to attract that many willing males. Catholic hospitals and charities were forced to perform abortions and other services they deemed antithetical to their religious values. Valenzuela ordered federal funding of embryonic research that extended beyond his predecessors refusal to harvest living fetuses. Valenzuela claimed his funding would lead to cures for Lou Gehrig's disease, cystic fibrosis, Alzheimer's disease, and other maladies. It did not.

Valenzuela instituted 10,000 new laws and federal regulations in his first year, with more to follow. Very few of them were known by the citizenry or the media, affecting spending, taxes, the military, the environment; massive tentacles reaching into the household of every man, woman and child in the country. When the nation faced what was dubbed a "fiscal cliff" of tax hikes, Valenzuela blamed the debt on the Republicans, not a single one of which had voted for either his spending plan (in which he expended more dollars than all previous governments since the birth of Christ) or Valuecare. He re-instated the "death tax" and massively raised both income and capital gains taxes, lecturing the GOP who, he said, "have no one to blame but yourselves for holding the country hostage to a few millionaires and billionaires." When it was pointed out that there is a difference between a millionaire and billionaire, it was as if blinders were put on the eyes of the citizenry, mufflers on their ears. No one heard it except the Tea Party, effectively tarred as racist, just like all who found fault with President Valenzuela. Of free market capitalism, Valenzuela insinuated that to succeed was somehow immoral, that nobody really got ahead without Big Government.

"You didn't build dat," he spouted in defense of government programs. Satan laughed.

A TV camera capturing his speech at West Point revealed cadets falling asleep. A media hack called the U.S. Military Academy "enemy territory" for this President. The Valenzuela Administration proffered the fiction that real terror threats were not from radical Islam, but from racist white Iraq war veterans. None, however, emerged on Earth. A conversation he had with a former Communist, now a leading Russian diplomat, referenced his time as a KGB plant. The reporter who captured the tape on an open microphone was killed, and it was hidden from the public.

He allowed gays in the military, let them marry, and openly kiss each other in uniform. Some did more than just kiss. A strict order went out: only Democrats could be promoted to the highest levels of the Pentagon. Then it was discovered there were not enough Democrats in the military to fulfill that requirement, so the edict was relaxed a little bit. Free speech in the military was clamped down on; personnel overhead criticizing the Commander-in-Chief faced loss of rank and worse. They certainly found promotion harder to come by. Critical articles and editorials in military newspapers such as Stars and Stripes were censored. Open prayer was outlawed by Christian personnel in uniform, but when Muslims rolled out prayer rugs they were allowed to face Mecca and pray to Allah.

Valenzuela did not attend D-Day ceremonies at Normandy, Pearl Harbor memorials, an event marking the fall of the Berlin Wall, or other events marking American military victories. When the Republicans put a sequester in place to freeze government spending, and later when they shut down the government for a couple of weeks in an effort to cut spending, Valenzuela shut down military war memorials. Veterans crashed the gates and honored their history and war dead anyway. The guards, sympathetic to their cause, allowed it. Valenzuela seethed. Melissa Valenzuela threw a fit in the residential quarters of the White House. Valenzuela, however, allowed illegal Mexicans to stage a protest at the Vietnam Memorial. Melissa Valenzuela used high-ranking military officers as waiters, carrying trays of food and drinks, at White House parties, including a big ACLU soiree in which half the attendees were homosexual. It was meant to demoralize and offend the military men. It did.

A leading general and war hero, considered a potential Republican Presidential contender, was set up by a special White House squad that used an old college term describing the sexual penetration of a rat, exposing an affair he was having with his former aide and biographer. He was forced to resign, his political future all but over.

Valenzuela legalized gay marriage. He eliminated the National Prayer Day and never attended church. He claimed he received Scripture on his smart phone every morning. It was a lie. A black pastor was trotted out to write a fake book called President Valenzuela's Daily Devotional. The pastor went on television and stated that Valenzuela was a devout Christian, but few see it because "it is very personal to him." Nobody read the book. It was a lie. Missy reminded him that they were to appear "as an angel of light."

Valenzuela's first medical report was embarrassing, revealing that he drank far too much. The part about cocaine still in his system was deleted, the doctor fired, and no more medical reports on his health were ever released.

Thinking he was far more popular than he was, Valenzuela attended baseball's All-Star Game in St. Louis. Missouri was a divided state that had barely gone for McLain, but St. Loo was a Democratic city. However, the fans wealthy enough to afford tickets to such an extravaganza were generally wealthy Republicans from the suburbs, who booed him lustily. It was the first chink in his amour. He threw out the first ball, but embarrassed the office when he looked like a six-year old girl. American boys learn to throw baseballs. Valenzuela's youth was spent in an Egyptian madrassa.

Then he went to the announcer's booth to spend an inning with the broadcast team from Fox Sports. He claimed he grew up a "big baseball fan" but despite the announcers urging him with hints of Texas baseball icons of the past – Jimmy Wynn, Jeff Burroughs, J.R. Richard – then of Boston stars like Roger Clemens and Wade Boggs, heroes when he attended Harvard and came of age in Massachusetts, he could only recall an obscure trip to Chicago's "Cominskey Park." He meant Comiskey Park, old home of the White Sox, except that Randy Lebow informed his audience the next day that it had been torn down by the time Valenzuela said he was there, and that he "could not help but Communize the name from Comiskey to 'Cominskey' in honor of Sol Brudzinski. This guy literally does not have the truth in him."

Valenzuela never openly attended another major sporting event or threw out any more first balls.

He and his wife took huge vacations, often traveling separately at tremendous additional cost due to added security. Melissa ordered the most expensive caviar, Champagne, imported wines, crystal stem glasses, and millions of dollars of improvements to the White House residential quarters, which she was quoted saying "feels like living in a prison."

The Republicans, cowed and lacking conviction in their cause, rolled over while a compliant media applauded Valuecare, cheerleading every action taken by the young, progressive Mexican-American (?) President.

Every hurricane and flood was said to be the result of global warming. When a huge storm hit the East Coast, Valenzuela's response was nothing short of incompetent. Conservatives correctly pointed out that the media criticized a previous Republican President whose response was vastly superior to Valenzuela's, but praised Valenzuela. Valenzuela and the Left called them racist, accusing them of ignoring "the future of our children." He used the incident to drive through disastrous, not to mention useless, cap and trade policies, using a non-sensical thing dubbed "carbon credits," which was another way of raising taxes. When it was revealed that the Earth had not risen in temperature since 1998, Valenzuela squelched the report. All criticism of him was called racist.

Hollywood movies and documentaries glamorized and promoted Valenzuela while mocking Republicans. Movie stars held lavish galas and fundraisers, honoring Fidel and Melissa, both of whom actually believed they deserved the honors. Christians watched, reminded of the Golden Calf worshipped by the stiff-necked Israelites of Moses's time, who incurred His wrath when they turned away from God.

The biggest movie star in the world, George Close, had like Melissa and Fidel actually conjured Satan when, approaching 30 years of age and still unknown, he sold his soul in return for looks, fame, women, money and unbridled success. Close never got sick. No matter how much he drank, or how many drugs he partook, he was never hung over the next day. His movies were one big box office hit after another. Critics raved about him. Oscars and honors came his way in waves. When he directed, he won an Academy Award. Every interviewer and celebrity magazine wrote glowingly of his propensity for charity, his kind heart, his benevolent nature. He was a tremendous Democratic supporter who raised more money for Valenzuela than anybody in the industry.

Now over 50, he had hardly aged and was still incredibly handsome. Never married, without children, he had a coterie of unbelievably beautiful women traipse in and out of his bedroom. He was a good friend with Jim Stinson, arranging orgies and trysts for the Louisiana politician. He was a regular at Hart Hadley's mansion, where rumor had it that the sexual action he engaged in was so over-the-the-top it made even Hadley blush. Questioned about it, Close simply said, "Man, I've seen things that make Dante's Inferno look like Winnie the Pooh." He liked to defecate on girl's chests and urinate in their mouths.

Hadley had only arranged two snuff films; both were for Close, who personally "sacrificed" beautiful teenage girls tied to a stake; one with a knife, the other by fire, Joan of Arc-style. He tried a third snuff film, bringing in over 100 men to ejaculate in a girl's mouth in an attempt to suffocate her. Incredibly, the girl, a well-known porn star, was able to handle it. The men literally ran out of semen, so Hadley, who had finally seen enough, called it off.

"No more snuff films, George," he admonished the actor after the girl left the room to do endless lines of blow. "I don't need to stand trial for murder." Close got pissed, going ballistic and trashing an adjacent room before drinking himself into a stupor.

He and Valenzuela were thick as thieves. When a Fox News reporter asked him at the Academy Awards "how do you think Valenzuela's doing?" Close replied, "He's President Valenzuela to you and me."

The liberal machine went after anybody opposed to Valenzuela, trying to ruin them with oft-false accusations of plagiarism and sexual misconduct. One of their favorite tactics was to smear Christians opposed to gay marriage as being homosexual themselves. The devil thought it was just great!

Valenzuela was given the Nobel Peace Prize. It might as well have been the devil who accepted the award. Valenzuela bathed himself in adoration and glory. The conservative media excoriated Valenzuela. The economy tanked and never recovered. It was pointed out that former enclaves of wealth were experiencing tremendous reductions in income and, therefore, as tax bases. Big cities run by Democrats for 50 or 60 years went bankrupt one after another, but Washington, D.C. and the surrounding Virginia suburbs suddenly became the wealthiest section of the United States, due to huge raises, benefits for government workers, their unions, as well as the increased power of Democratic lobbyists. The Democrats simply sucked the public troughs, creating a steady flow of stolen booty from the good citizens of America. The post-Vietnam citizenry was now come of age, having been indoctrinated in the public schools to worship global warming, gay marriage and racial justice since kindergarten. Nobody read books anymore. Everybody it seemed was addled by "smart phones" with stupid, violent video games. Mindlessness and fluff replaced thought. Porn was everywhere, in people's homes, enticing young children, who grew up with long hair, smoking dope, having sex in junior high, disrespecting authority and demanding every entitlement.

Ronald Reagan had argued that each American generation had to fight to maintain the freedoms that the previous generations had fought for. They had fought for liberty in the Revolution; to end slavery and keep the union intact; to make the world safe for Democracy; to defeat the Nazis and the Japanese militarists; to ensure civil rights for blacks; and to tear down the Soviet empire.

A hardy few had gone to Afghanistan and Iraq to fight Islamic jihad, but Fidel Castro Valenzuela, a plant of the now-defunct KGB and still-thriving Muslim Brotherhood, managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of a victory they thought they had won. The veterans looked at Valenzuela with disgust and scorn. Was this what their ancestors – what they - had fought and sacrificed for? To hand it all to this . . . unimpressive?

This generation, the kids born after 1960 and especially after 1970, were the first generation to fail to fight and secure the freedoms fought and won by previous Americans. They had overcome Adolf Hitler and Communism, but they could not overcome Fidel Valenzuela. The world of Ronald Reagan and John "Duke" Wayne was gone. Ex-Communists, who of course were still Communists but called themselves progressives - men like Warren Wolfsheim, Noah Silverstein and Gyorgy Szabo – congratulated themselves. The "Long March," what Chairman Mao had called the endless struggle of Communism, would win in the end. No, this was not Reagan's or Wayne's world. It was Hart Hadley's world. It was Fidel and Missy Valenzuela's world.

It was now Satan's world.

Despite being propped up by the Muslim Brotherhood, the liberal media, and the devil himself, Valenzuela trailed by 10 points in his re-election bid, to Governor Rider, the Republican Presidential nominee, after the conventions. His approval rating slipped to 40 percent.

Conservatives questioned the authenticity of the fake birth certificate that the KGB had created for Valenzuela after he was born in Mexico. They had mistakenly said he was born in a hospital that actually had not been built yet on the day he was born. Affidavits from hospital workers indicated that he had not been born there, and many said they had been forced to lie and say he had. Valenzuela used special contacts within the CIA to create a perfect document, which he suddenly showed to a fawning press. They bought it hook, line and sinker. They argued that it just made the Tea Party look like "nuts" and "extremists."

YouTube.com ran an interview with an uneducated illegal Mexican woman missing three front teeth. She was asked why she was voting for Valenzuela. Unable to speak the English language, her answer was given in sub-titles: "He gimme Valuephone," the moniker given free cell phones the Valenzuela Administration was handing out to illegals and blacks in the ghettos. The Rider campaign tracked the woman down and found that while she was not an American citizen and had no ID, she was registered to vote. They played a commercial dubbed "Valuephone," re-playing the woman telling the interviewer in Spanish, "He gimme me Valuephone." Rider herself then appeared on screen.

"America, do you want your country decided by this woman?"

The media called it racist.

Defending the ad and the term "illegals" in an interview, Rider pointed out that if a citizen drove past a stop sign or was speeding on the highway, he was "driving illegally." The media called her racist.

Valenzuela used the IRS to threaten and destroy his political enemies and detractors. He de-funded Tea Party groups, who were unable to launch political advertisements against him as planned. Gorgy Szabo worked with leading liberals in the Silicon Valley to again arrange algorithms on search engines and social media web sites resulting in more favorable Valenzuela hits, while painting Rider as a stupid racist. Valenzuela arranged for the unemployment numbers to be fudged to make it look like more people were working. They were not. When Rider squared off with Valenzuela in their first debate, she was confident and still held a 10-point lead in the Gallup poll.

When she came out to shake Valenzuela's hand, however, she was horrified to see what Chief Justice Harris had seen. Only the righteous were able to see demons, and Rider was a righteous, believing Christian. She looked into Valenzuela's eyes, and suddenly his face transformed itself into that of a demon, seen only by her. Above him, she saw Satan. Like Harris, she somehow recognized the devil as a woman, vaguely familiar.

So mortified was Governor Rider that she shook like a leaf, lost all of her powers of concentration, and performed miserably in the debate. After the debate, when the candidate's families came on stage, Governor Rider saw in Melissa Barnes Valenzuela's face a demon, and again the image of a vaguely familiar female Lucifer above her.

She spent hours watching replays of the debate, desperately looking at the faces of Valenzuela, then of Melissa, to see signs of the demon or the devil she had seen. Unable to pick anything out watching it, she practically drove herself crazy and told no one.

Despite her poor performance, girded by the belief that her cause was not just political, but spiritual, she pressed on and two weeks prior to the election still led by five points. On Election Day, however, Valenzuela prevailed by four. He stole the election using his old friend Szabo. The elections had long been counted by Diebold machines, which had the temerity to once inform the world that a Republican had been elected President with more votes than any President in U.S. history. This, Szabo said, could not go on.

He bought a French company and arranged that it replace the Diebold machines in time for Valenzuela's re-election. Using similar technology to the one that created algorithms Silicon Valley supporters devised to web searchers to favorable Valenzuela sites and unfavorable Republicans ones, the French machines were calculated to discount every fourth Republican vote, in selected GOP strongholds, in battleground states on Election Day. These included Ohio, Florida, Pennsylvania. Wisconsin and Michigan, all states in which Rider held a slight lead or was tied heading into the last weekend. All went to Valenzuela, by far larger margins than the polls had indicated. Much credit for Valenzuela's surprise victory was given to former Louisiana Governor Jim Stinson, whose speech at the Democratic National Convention, and subsequent stump speeches on the campaign trail, were said to have brilliantly dissuaded at least the uninformed that the bad economy was not Valenzuela's fault. Stinson said that he had taken over a struggling economy in Louisiana, but needed time to turn it around. The American public simply needed to give Fidel Valenzuela one more term and he would "accomplish what my administration did in the great state of Louisiana."

Republicans frothed, knowing full well the only thing that saved Stinson's economy in his home state was a GOP legislature whose policies and laws Stinson adopted. The pundits were quite dumbfounded at the results of the election. Every indicator previously considered reliable by prognosticators proved an unreliable predictor this time around. The Republicans had won resounding victories in the mid-term Congressional elections. A recall of a Republican Governor in the Midwest who rolled back union power resulted in a resounding GOP victory. Recent elections in industrial Western Democracies were swinging to the Right. The economy was brutal, with unemployment hanging between eight and nine percent, but considering the percentage of people who just gave up and dropped out of the work force, it was closer to 15. No previous incumbent since the Great Depression had been elected with unemployment higher than 7.8 percent.

A respected economic model that accurately predicted every previous Presidential election for 60 years forecast that Rider would win with a landslide 320 Electoral votes. The Republicans led in every generic poll; aside from Rider's lead it was predicted they would pick up significant seats in the House and Senate. Many Democrats voiced pessimism. Republicans were optimistic, with polls showing a high degree of enthusiasm and willingness to get out the vote on Election Night, all favoring the GOP. A respected political commentator predicted a "Rider landslide."

But that did not happen. An analysis of the election showed that while Valenzuela received far fewer votes than in his big win over Jack McLain four years earlier, Rider inexplicably received far fewer Republican votes. Incredibly, despite being the most openly Christian Presidential candidate at least since William Jennings Bryan, her support among Christians dipped significantly from that given McLain, a Christian man but not one to wear his faith on his sleeve. There was no explanation. In truth, the reason was because Szabo's French polling machines were devised to not count every third or fourth Republican vote. Many Christians throughout the nation later said, in news the mainstream media dubbed anecdotal and not worthy of reporting, that strange events occurred on Election Day preventing them from voting: sickness, children getting in trouble at school, car problems, freak weather in GOP strongholds, and a myriad of other events.

The world had further descended into a dark age. Truth and righteousness, which were of no good value to Fidel and Melissa "Missy" Valenzuela; to Jim and Jill Stinson; or to their supporters; were no longer animating Mankind. Lies and false works were.

In his second term, a dispirited populace began to come apart at the seams. In this new dark age, hopelessness prevailed and there was a rise in mass shootings. When a white man in self-defense shot a Mexican kid, Valenzuela said, "If I had a son he'd look just like him." A short while later black and Mexican gangbangers began what came to be called the "knockout game," coming up from behind unsuspecting, always-white people, and knocking them out with a single punch. One of the gangbangers actually did look like Valenzuela. Another, from his hometown of El Paso, actually was related to him. Valenzuela made no mention of this, nor of an epidemic of black-on-black murders infesting all big cities. His calls for gun control conveniently left out the fact that Chicago had the strictest gun control laws in the U.S., and the highest murder rate.

When a single white man punched a black, he was the only one singled out for hate crime prosecution.

President Valenzuela began a DEA operation called Violent 'n' Powerful. The purpose of it was to create the illusion of terrible cross-border gun violence on an international scale, leading to calls for more gun control. Then it was discovered that the operation resulted in American government weapons ending up in the hands of Mexican drug lords, leading to the killing of hundreds of Mexicans. The Republicans called for investigations. Truth and righteousness did not prevail. Valenzuela did not pay for this crime.

Instead, all mass shootings, which under Valenzuela went up tremendously amidst increasing hopelessness, were mere photo-ops for him; a chance to use grief in order to push his political agenda. He got away with it.

Valenzuela argued that the shootings were instead the result of a racist society that needed to have its guns taken from them. He used this as an excuse to take gun rights away from Americans. Everything was racial, political, and polarizing, precisely the way Satan wanted it to be. Valenzuela, who had campaigned promising the "most honest and transparent administration in history," made La Casa Nostra look like a public relations firm. Leaks were met by the most violent outbursts. Valenzuela and his handlers used language so filthy and disgusting as to be beyond the pale.

Blacks argued racism at every turn, ignoring the genocide of black-on-black crime in the drug-addled inner cities. Several cities run historically by black Democrats went bankrupt. Whites were blamed; they were racist for leaving, taking their money, businesses and tax bases with them.

Valenzuela spied on Americans and European allies, using the NSA. Conservatives correctly pointed out that a British media mogul was on trial for hacking into phone records of celebrities, and that President Richard Nixon had resigned over wiretapping. What Valenzuela did was far worse. The world seemed mesmerized into ignoring it, the conservative pleas lost to history, modern John the Baptists crying in the wilderness.

Valenzuela orchestrated immigration reform. Millions of Mexicans filled Democratic voter rolls without so much as a driver's license to their names. He opened the borders, legalizing hordes of previously undocumented Mexicans, ensuring a permanent Democratic majority. The joke among them was to "voter early and vote often." When opposed by Republicans in Congress, Valenzuela just issued executive orders. Illegals were given preferential admissions treatment to colleges. Whites had to pay tuition. The Mexicans were given free rides. The economy limped along. Hollywood loved the Valenzuelas, glorifying them at every turn. He enthusiastically shook Raul Castro's hand at the funeral of a former African Communist elevated to great statesman status, then recognized Fidel Castro's Cuba.

Valenzuela organized his own private army under the guise of a "security force" representing the Environmental Protection Agency and other governmental agencies. Businessmen and farmers deemed to have polluted or endangered some species or another found jackbooted thugs in riot gear taking over their property. Average citizens were subject to raids. Unlike the Arab Americans who Valenzuela once said "cowered in fear in the night" over government raids that lacked existence, these people actually did cower in fear in the night over government raids that did happen. Friendly Valenzuela judges upheld the action. When Republicans protested Valenzuela overrode them with more executive decisions.

He massively raised taxes on the wealthy, creating a huge divide among the people, while increasing handouts and food stamps. His detractors said Valenzuela "so loved the poor he created millions more of them" and dubbed him "the food stamp President." They were called racists. The Occupy Wall Street Movement claimed that "the one percent" had stolen all their wealth. Randy Lebow first pointed out women were routinely raped at Occupy camps, which were fouled by defecating drug addicts. Lebow theorized it was probably similar to the atmosphere where Valenzuela had bought his cocaine while attending Columbia.

On the other hand the Tea Party rallies, Lebow stated, were neat and cleaned up by the patriots who picked up after themselves. Then he pointed out, in response to Valenzuela's widespread lie that America, and whites, had stolen all the wealth from the dark-skinned peoples of the world, that if one man had $50, another man cannot steal $1 million from him. When Valenzuela railed on and on about "millionaires and billionaires getting richer, while the poor get poorer," which incidentally happened on his watch, Lebow used the following example.

"Say 10 years ago I make $1 million a year, and you make $50,000 a year," he told his audience of 20 million. "Now, a decade later, I make $10 million a year. You have done business with me, done some contractual work with me, and benefited from what I have contributed to the economy. You now make $100,000 a year. Valenzuela would say that I 'stole' $950,000 from you, when in fact you have prospered and now make twice what you made 10 years ago."

A TV mini-series about The Bible captivated audiences, receiving huge ratings in a time in which people hungered for truth. An Ethiopian actor was selected to play the devil. Viewers were flabbergasted; he was a "dead ringer" for Valenzuela. Incredibly, he did not actually look like Valenzuela. Other photos of him, and interviews with him, revealed a man who did not look like the devil portrayed on screen. The producers and make-up artists had not intended to create this similarity. What nobody except a few of the righteous suspected was that God Himself changed the actor's appearance, alerting the world that evil was in their midst.

Lebow pointed this out, chortling, "Well, I guess if the devil had a son . . ." breaking into a quick-cut commercial, leaving the fact "he would look like Valenzuela" hanging in pregnant animation.

Lebow's arguments, and the similarity between a TV devil and the President, was far too logical, requiring too much desire to live truthfully for anybody except conservatives to understand. Lebow was called a racist. Again. Other television shows featured various traitors, spies and plants. It reminded many of Fidel Castro Valenzuela.

But ultimately the purpose the Muslim Brotherhood set out for him was to propel Islam. At the beginning of his Presidency he had been given a laundry list of orders, which he dutifully did. The Muslims, like the Chinese, saw everything from the long view. They knew that if they were to go too far, to explode a nuclear bomb in an American city, for instance, it would serve only to inflame conservative elements in the U.S., and the West, as Pearl Harbor had once "awakened a sleeping giant." Militarists might go so far as to annihilate Mecca.

"America was ruined by Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal in the late 1930s," Geb Ali told Valenzuela. "It was only World War II that ended the Great Depression, and thus propelled the United States into an empire more powerful than Alexander's Greece or Rome at its heights. But these empires, like the American Empire, were stolen from rightful rulers. The Persians and the Greeks were the great civilizations of the world until Jewish lies brought them down. Greed and theft took from them what was rightfully theirs.

"Now, having spent America into oblivion, we can accomplish what almost happened until Hitler and Tojo and Stalin tried to rule the world. Now, there is no enemy left to motivate the jingoists and the cowboys. In the end, only Allah will be victorious. But we seek not a major event. Osama bin Laden was stupid. He practically did what Pearl Harbor did, revive an empire, but this time the liberals of the 1960s, in control of the levers of persuasion, finally prevailed. We seek a gradual weakening of America: spiritually, morally, financially, militarily. You are a bankrupt society, aborting your children, prostituting your girls, selling them into pornography. Only Islam has the moral will to handle real power, and with the weakening of America, we can finally destroy Israel. We will bide our time, but we will prevail. This struggle will continue after you are out of office, probably after you are dead.

"Perhaps it will take a thousand years, but it will happen as I predict, for it is God's will. It is written."

Ali ordered Valenzuela to make a trip to the Middle East dubbed the "apology tour," asking Muslim terrorists to forgive America for defending herself from 9/11. He bowed down before a variety of Islamic dictators and sponsors of terror. Ali then told him to institute rules of engagement in which soldiers fighting the War on Terror, a term his administration refused to use, had to read rights to captured terrorists in the field (who they called "enemy combatants"). The result was that more Americans died in Afghanistan than had died prior to his Presidency. Ali ordered him to close Guantanamo Bay and cease the use of "water boarding" or any "enhanced interrogation" against terrorists. Intel dried up as a result. Al-Qaeda was emboldened, given hints through jihadist circles that they now had "a friend in Washington."

A litany of terrorist acts on a weakened America followed, on her soil. They were treated as law enforcement matters. The Valenzuela Administration called it "workplace violence" in one instance, always refusing to call it terrorism. Each was treated as a criminal matter, not an act of war. Jihadists knew they would not be killed; they could be martyred in a prison cell while given three squares a day, a Koran, and a prayer rug facing the east.

Valenzuela used drone strikes to supposedly "decapitate al Qaeda," but instead killed more civilians than had died prior to his first Inauguration. The result was inflammation of the Islamic world against the U.S., the political pre-text Ali said was needed to withdraw altogether. The result was a weakened America, and a vulnerable Israel. Valenzuela pulled American troops from hot spots in the Middle East, snatching "defeat from the jaws of victory," as Shelly Rider called it.

Ali ordered Valenzuela to cease America's longtime support for the military strongman running Egypt. He was the only non-Israeli leader in the region who was friendly to America and recognized Israel's right to exist. Valenzuela organized strikes which became a civil war, then forced the strongman out of his position. He was jailed, tried, and imprisoned. Valenzuela replaced him with Ali's handpicked man from the Muslim Brotherhood.

"Eventually Israel will be unable to defend itself," his Muslim master told him. He fomented revolutions among Muslim countries, propping up longtime enemies of the U.S. while seeing to it that military strongmen, long allied with America and Israel, were removed and thrown in jail. When Jihadists overran an American embassy, Valenzuela was nowhere to be found. His standing orders left the embassy virtually unarmed, key security personnel not allowed to carry weapons lest they inflame anger among local Muslims. In fact, he was in Las Vegas with a bi-sexual rap star named J-C, who had once been his coke dealer when he was a student at Columbia. Valenzuela had "paid" for his coke by blowing J-C, whose name back then had been Calvin Jackson. At the moment brave Navy SEALS were dying defending the embassy, J-C was ejaculating in Valenzuela's mouth.

Valenzuela blamed the attack on a fake video that he knew did not exist. When conservatives pointed out it did not exist, he still insisted it did for months afterward, eventually running out the clock until his detractors found other complaints.

When Valenzuela received intel that a known terrorist was holed up somewhere, he did not order bombing strikes, as he did not want the "collateral damage." The result was that many Navy SEALS were killed trying to penetrate fortresses. The public was not made aware of any of the "black ops" missions gone badly.

Finally, towards the end of his second term, Valenzuela recognized Iran, ending longtime sanctions against the country since the 1979 revolution. The Iranian nuclear program, long kept under wraps by Western sanctions, was up and ready to deliver a massive nuclear attack against Israel.

"When the time is right, we will wipe Israel off the face of the Earth," Ali told Valenzuela.

"Won't that cause a massive retaliation against Iran?" Valenzuela asked him.

"Yes, but the Apocalypse will usher in the return of the 12 Imams promised by the Prophet Muhammad. The death of millions in Iran we will happily sacrifice for the glory of Allah."

The media applauded him at every turn. Valenzuela wanted to overturn the Constitution, and run for a third term. But Melissa Valenzuela mysteriously told him no, that was not the "plan." He had done enough in destroying the economy, creating a leviathan welfare state, making most of America dependent on government, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged come to fruition. He had recognized Cuba and begun socialized medicine, for decades just liberal dreams. In so doing he had destroyed the country. China and Russia were now ascendant, more influential than America. He had strengthened Islamic jihad and now nukes were poised to strike Israel, alone and vulnerable.

Mesmerized or not, Fidel Castro Valenzuela was not merely doing the bidding of the Muslim Brotherhood, displaced Communists, or following 35-year old orders from a KGB handler. He was working for the devil himself, and in this respect he did the devil's work. African-Americans had made steady progress economically and socially for decades since the Civil Rights Movement. Under Valenzuela, their incomes decreased, more black babies were aborted, and most unfortunately, whites who for years truly wanted to get along with them and see them succeed, for the first time were taking a dim view of them. Blacks, by the same turn, liked whites less and blamed racism on more things than ever.

It was no better with Latinos. Instead of assimilating, they were taking the unfortunate position, long advocated by Valenzuela, that America was stolen from Mexico. Class warfare was rampant. Gays saw straights as "breeders," enemies unless they were in favor of all their demands. Christians were anathema to them. The media was either to the Right or to the Left.

Democrats hated Republicans. Republicans had no respect for Democrats. Valenzuela had truly succeeded in dividing the Right among themselves. Moderate and conservative Republicans were arguing amongst each other as much as they did with Democrats. Several of the leading conservative talk show hosts were engaged in open warfare with each other, instead of aiming their barbs solely at Valenzuela. They aimed some of their harshest barbs at other Republicans they felt were too soft. Tea Partiers openly quarreled with the establishment GOP.

The nation was divided as much as they had been during the Civil War and during Vietnam, but the "better angels of our nature" seemed to be in hiding. Good does not always triumph, and it had not triumphed under Valenzuela.

The President's net worth when he entered office was $500,000, mostly equity in a house given him by Walnut and some book royalties from tomes ghostwritten by Warren Wolfsheim. After eight years he and Melissa were worth $20 million. Randy Lebow said he "succeeded."

The conversation

Jim Stinson hated Valenzuela. The upstart from Massachusetts had not only stolen what was "rightfully" his – the White House – but had managed to tarnish him with a racist label. Stinson learned what all of Valenzuela's detractors learned; to criticize the half-Latino, half-black man was to engender accusations of racism.

Still, Stinson had been forced by political necessity to campaign for Valenzuela, and make a rip-roaring speech on his behalf at the convention. In return, Stinson was named Secretary of State, and his wife Jill was made Secretary-General of the United Nations. After three years as Secretary of State, Stinson stepped down. He hated taking orders from Valenzuela. Despite his background as a pawn for the New Orleans mob and a one-time protected asset of the Soviet Union, Stinson still believed in America. He was a Southern Democrat who fought his own liberal wife on issues such as low taxes and welfare reform. He had told his KGB handler he was not a Communist, and with the U.S.S.R. long gone by now, he was not beholden to Communism in any way. He was highly educated, well read, and understood politics like nobody else, yet a man he considered an incompetent, unqualified illegal Mexican had stolen his thunder. Worse, he had to just take it without complaint.

When he quit as Secretary of State, he secretly hoped Valenzuela would lose in his re-election campaign against Governor Rider. He would then ride in as the last, best hope of the Democratic Party four years later. But when Valenzuela won – ostensibly by virtue of Szabo stealing the election using rigged voting machines – Stinson decided to hang 'em up. He felt the nation would be so badly weakened by four more years of Valenzuela that almost any Republican could win after eight years of it. He made one last speech, explaining that the stimulus and nationalized health care needed more time to be implemented in order to benefit the nation. He knew it was a lie, but that was his specialty. When Valenzuela won, many pundits said Stinson's speech was the difference maker.

Finally relieved of the burden of public office, thinking he was free to live as he pleased, he set out to make money, drawing $1 million-plus for speeches to every Left-wing group in and out of the country. With Jill ensconced at the U.N., he traveled around the globe, and had sex with every woman he could lay his slick fingers on. In Los Angeles, he attended a wild lingerie event at the PartyChicks mansion, hosted by his friend and political benefactor, Hart Hadley. Hadley met him and, after exchanging pleasantries, led him to a special room.

"You are not gonna believe what I'm about to show you," Hadley told him.

He led Stinson to a door, and beyond it was a wild scene. This consisted of some 40 or 50 of the most delectable chicks Stinson had ever laid his eyes on, all dressed in skimpy lingerie, string bikinis, or less. It was a strip club setting, with a stage, but spread throughout the room were some 20 male strippers; the famed Glazemasters. They were exceptionally handsome, buffed, tanned studs, each with massive, fully erect shafts, which they stroked to full hardness. They moved about the room, dancing and gyrating to loud music, sticking their shafts in the faces of any hot girl they wanted to. The girls in turn blew them, turned over and took it "doggy style," and in all ways went wild.

"See that brunette who just took her top off, sucking off those two dudes?" Hadley pointed to a sex-crazed girl having the time of her life. "That chick was a virgin all through the University of Texas, but her sister became one of my models. She invited her out here, and I've single-handedly turned her into a sex hound extraordinaire. She wants to do porn now . . .

"See that smoking blonde at the corner," Hadley said to Stinson, pointing out an incredibly beautiful girl with the face of a Botticelli angel and pouty red lips, dressed in a little camisole, her perfect breasts exploding against the fabric.

"Yeah, I sure do."

"That girl used to be a cheerleader for the Carolina Panthers. Small town girl from the South. Good Christian family, church going, the 'girl next door.' "

"Those Southern belles, under it all, are the wildest girls," Stinson said. "Take my word for it."

"Well, you got that right," Hadley replied. "But you ain't seen nothin' yet. In about five minutes this girl's innocence is gonna be gone forever and she'll never get it back."

Sure enough, a few minutes later all the men pulled away from whatever girl was pawing or sucking them. They then gathered around the cheerleader in the camisole. This was Hadley's favorite act of degradation, and had been since the high school girl refused to let him join the gangbang when he was a kid. The gorgeous cheerleader began gorging on huge shafts, all surrounding her face. The other girls got up and moved in to get a closer look, cheering her on. For some 10 minute she engaged in blowbang action, until finally one of the men stroked off a huge load of semen that landed all over her face. After that, it was "Katy bar the door," with man after man shooting everything he had until her face was completely covered, from forehead to chin. Then two of the other girls moved in and ate the semen off her face, spitting it into each other's mouths several times, until one of them swallowed it all. All of this was done to raucous cheering and chanting.

"How do you get them to do this stuff?" Stinson asked in admiration.

"I've been doing it for decades. I have an eye for slutty girls. I know their weaknesses. In the end they'll do anything for money. Then you strip them of their middle class morality and addict them to sex as a way of life."

"What motivates you, man?" Stinson asked him.

"In what way?"

"I mean, you run a porn production, but you seem to have this private stable of chicks."

Hadley thought about it. "The porn chicks belong to the world, Jim. These girls belong to me. The world thinks my PartyChicks, these high-class models, pro cheerleaders; they think these girls are above porn or something. I have this private experience in which I know their not, they belong to me, and I can use 'em as I see fit without sharing 'em with the world."

"But you like sharing 'em with your friends?" Stinson remarked

'You got it."

"What's up with these chicks having like 20 guys shoot cum all over their faces?" Stinson asked. "What's the appeal?

"Oh man, that's the biggest sell in porn," Hadley replied. "Porn addicts love it. It's the most popular thing. It's just the most degrading thing you can do to these sluts. Here are these outrageous girls, the kind of chicks that are out of reach, average guys have no shot, if you saw 'em at a club they wouldn't give you the time of day, but this reduces them to just being whores, just being degraded and brought down off their pedestals. I love doing that!"

"Man, you are cold," Stinson said. "I never really thought of women like that."

"That's because you got laid in high school. Guys like me, these high school hunnies gave it up to everybody else but me. Now I can get all those cheerleaders and teenage beauty queens and wipe that smirk off their faces."

"I suppose if 20 guys shoot their loads on their faces that'll get rid of their smirks."

Hadley laughed.

"Exactly. But there's another thing about jacking off on some chick's face, besides degrading them and making them think they like it."

"What's that?"

"All that sperm is being wasted on lust instead of making babies. It's like they're

getting abortions all over their face."

"Yer a sick puppy."

"Thank you."

"Have you ever thought, man, these girls are somebody's daughter?" Stinson asked.

"Man, their mine now, brother. I'm their daddy!"

They laughed

"Speaking of, have I got a girl for you," Hadley told him. "Remember Michelle Woodward?"

"The PartyChick of the Year?" Stinson replied.

"One and the same," Hadley replied. "I've turned this girl from an innocent college student into a depraved whore. She'll do anything you want and then she'll do your favorite football team."

Indeed, Michelle Woodward had been turned into a full-scale sex addict. She had no religious moorings, no spiritual voice telling her she had limits; only her incredible beauty, turned loose on a world of men who lusted after her. Once turned into a sex addict herself, she was unable to say no. She certainly did not have sex with any old Tom, Dick or Harry off the streets. Hadley, who kept her in style, arranged all her escapades. In return, she participated in his most sordid activities, and was freely handed out to his friends.

"She's been the 'main attraction' at these 'facial fests,' or what I've dubbed Glazemaster parties, twice before," Hadley said.

Now, along came Jim Stinson. Stinson had seen a million beautiful women, but when he laid eyes on Michelle Woodward his eyes popped out of his head. She was devastating in a black leather mini dress, her enormous breasts, now pumped with silicone, popping out of the top. Her skin was super-tanned, her hair done up in a French twist. She worked out in the mansion's gym for two hours a day, followed by 45 minutes in the tanning booth. She was on a strict health food diet, and was irresistibly hot.

She knew how to talk to the men Hadley introduced her to. Some needed to be talked dirty to, told in no uncertain terms of her desire to provide oral pleasure, how much she loved the taste of male effluence, how no less than eight studs could satisfy her carnal urges. But Stinson, slick and slimy a politician as he was, was still a horse of a different color. Compared to the sleazebags of Hollywood Hadley hung out with, he almost seemed to have class. He had shared women with other men before, but a girl as stunning as Michelle he wanted all to himself.

That first night, Stinson made love to Michele for two hours in an upstairs guest bedroom at the mansion. It was the first time in a long while in which Michelle felt she was actually making love, and not merely engaging in the sex act. Even though she was not officially a porn star – except for the private gangbang video she made for Hadley – she felt all the sex was pornographic. Half the time it entailed Hadley directing her, telling different men to do this, or try that. But Stinson made her feel like a real woman. He took his time and they were alone. She had several wonderful orgasms.

Two nights later, Michelle received a phone call.

"Hello."

"Michelle Woodward?" a male voice asked.

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Ma'am, I'm not at liberty to divulge my name. I work for Governor Jim Stinson. I believe you've met him."

"Can't he call me himself?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but for security reasons we have to arrange the comings and goings of the Governor ourselves. I'm not allowed to release any more information than that. However, the Governor requests the pleasure of your company on Friday night, when he'll be back in town for a fundraising dinner. I would ask that you be waiting in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel at eight P.M. sharp. A man will identify himself as John White and escort you to the Governor's room. Is this understood?"

"Friday, eight, Beverly Wilshire."

On Friday evening, Michelle was stunning in a blue gown, her hair perfectly styled. Men gave her admiring stares until at 7:59 she was met in the lobby by a tall, stern man in a black business suit.

"Miss Woodward."

"Yes."

"I'm John White. I'm with the Governor's security detail. Please follow me."

He led her to an elevator. A man and a woman were on the elevator. The man's mouth dropped half-way to the ground when he got a look a Michelle, while the woman stared indignantly at the unfairness of it: that in this world one woman should be so much more beautiful than all the others.

At the 17th floor White and Michelle exited, then walked up to the 18th floor. White needed to help Michelle negotiate the stairs, as she was wearing high heels and could barely walk in them. Then they took the elevator again, this time to the 30th floor. They knocked on a door, it was opened, and White motioned Michelle in. White posted himself outside the door.

Another tall, stern man in a black suit met Michelle. His name was Carlton Blackledge, the Governor's security chief, but he did not offer his name.

"I need to frisk you for weapons, ma'am," he said in a Southern accent. He proceeded to pat Michelle down very professionally. Michelle was miffed, but slightly amused. As soon as Blackledge was finished, he left the room.

"Howdy Michelle," Stinson called from another room. "Come on in and make yourself comfortable."

Michelle entered a corner of the room while Stinson sat in a chair, then rose to greet her.

"You seem to take a lot of security precautions."

"Well, yes. I'm in the public eye and pretty well known. You never know when some wacko decides to take a shot at ya. I have a family and an image to uphold back home, too, so I gotta be careful about who I'm galivantin' around with."

"I wore the lingerie you requested."

Michelle gets up and approaches Stinson seductively. His eyes follow her. The small talk is over.

Stinson liked it rough, but with Michelle he treated her tenderly. He took care of her needs and made passionate love to her all night long.

A few days later, Michelle was at the PartyChicks mansion when a delivery arrived. They were flowers for Michelle from Jim Stinson, with a note.

"You are the most exciting woman I've ever met. I can't wait to see you again. Saturday night, Beverly Wilshire, 8 P.M. Love, Jim."

"I've known this guy quite a while," Hart Hadley told her. "I've never seen him send flowers."

Thus, a relationship began. Jim Stinson and Michelle Woodward. They stayed together at the Malibu estate of one of Stinson's supporters, partied at exclusive clubs, and traveled the world.

"Stinson's got a crush on you," is how Hadley put it.

"Don't be silly," Michelle replied. "He flatters all his women."

"No, Michelle, Jim Stinson's an old friend. He's been using escorts, porn stars, chicks I've set him up with for years. He's not into the wild swing scene like we are, but he's no daisy. I've never heard him talk about a girl like he talks about you."

"What about his wife?"

"Jill Wyndham-Stinson is a political wife. Besides, she's a lesbian. Theirs' is a political marriage of convenience, a business partnership. She's given him a child and I understand she's having an affair with another woman. I don't think Jim cares."

"What about his political plans?"

"They're both ambitious. There's no telling. People say he will run for President again. Some say Jill wants the Presidency. You do need to be careful with him but for now have fun."

"He's an exciting man, very intelligent without being patronizing. He's fun. Did he come from wealth?"

"He has friends in Louisiana who've always kept him living well, believe me. He has access to a lot of cash, and now he's making big speeches for a million dollars a pop. But I think he's in the mob."

"The mob? You mean the Mafia?"

"Not the Mafia, per se. Not the Sicilian Mafia. The New Orleans mob boys, and their even more ruthless. That's all I have to say, be careful."

The affair carried on for several weeks. One night they were lying in bed.

"You know, Michelle, I have to apologize to you."

"About what, Jim?"

"About all the secrecy, the mysterious phone calls."

"Oh, Jim, don't worry about that. A man in your position must be cautious."

"There's another thing. I know Hart Hadley's paying you for your time, but I don't think of you in that way."

"Well, he doesn't really pay me for my time. He pays me a . . . salary. It's not conventional, but I'm not paid to be with you. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. I'm with you because I wanna be with you. I really care for you."

"I'm glad to hear you say that."

"Look, Jim, I don't know if you realize the way I've been living."

Stinson look at her. He does know; Hadley has told him, but he does not reveal it.

"I mean, you saw what was happening, that crazy male stripper party at the mansion the night I met you. I'm not really that way, but Hart Hadley introduced me to a new kind of world, a way of living I never knew existed, and I fell for it pretty hard. But with you I feel normal. One guy, one girl, kissing, flowers. I'd almost forgotten there's such a thing as romance."

Stinson looks into her eyes. He is a master at emotion and sincerity.

"I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, and I have to tell you something," he coos. "I love you."

Michelle looks with amazement at him. She leans over and kisses him.

"You're so sweet, Jim. I could fall for a guy like you."

"You know, sweetheart, other than being in PartyChicks magazine, you're not exposed at all. I know you've done some wild stuff with Hadley -."

Stinson is about to reveal that he knows she was gangbanged by almost 40 men on a private tape only she and Hadley have copies of, but catches himself. "But that stays private," he continues. "Publicly, you're just a hot model. I could be with you and it wouldn't really be any sort of a scandal."

After that, the relationship took on an even more heated tone. Stinson took her to sumptuous meals, flew her on a Lear jet he had access to, and treated her to the finest Champagne.

One night with the lights turned low, Stinson got serious.

"I've made some decisions. I'm tired of public life. I'm tired of living on a public salary, I like the private sector. I have offers from some big law firms in L.A. and New York."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I suppose I am. Michelle, I don't plan to run for President again. I'm married to Jill, strictly for politics. I respect her but I'm not in love with her, if I ever was. I want more out of life. I plan to divorce her."

Michelle, stunned, cannot believe what she is hearing.

"We can be together much more," she says.

"I don't just want to be with you. I want to marry you."

"Yes, Jim, I want to marry you."

They embrace and kiss.

"You've made me the happiest man in the world, Michelle Woodward."

A short time later, Stinson received word that his wife Jill Wyndham-Stinson, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, needed to see him at once in New York.

"Christ, what does that bitch want?" he said when he received word.

Jill Wyndham-Stinson was overweight and ugly. She had never been much of a looker, but the contrast between her and Michelle Woodward was vast.

"You enjoying that little slut Hart Hadley set you up with?" she started the conversation.

"Listen, Jill, hear me out."

Stinson tried to explain that he wanted a divorce and just wanted to live freely.

"Listen, you son of a bitch, you're not divorcing me. What you will do is run for President in the next election."

"What?

"You heard me. "

"Listen, Jill, I don't have it in me."

"The only thing you have in you is what I tell you to have."

"Christ, Valenzuela's screwed this country so bad no Democrat could win on his coattails."

"Leave that to me."

"How, Jill -?"

"Leave it to me."

The rest of the visit, all orchestrated by Jill Wyndham-Stinson, consisted of the reluctant contender Jim Stinson taking meetings with all of the Stinson family's longtime political advisors and fundraisers. Indeed, it was decided, in three years he would run for the Democratic nomination for President.

Stinson knew he needed to gear up for the campaign, but decided to take one last trip with Michelle, to the Caribbean island of San Martin, where they could be more open in public.

Michelle had been treated like a queen everywhere she went with Stinson, but this was beyond the norm. She was feted in luxury, the hotel staff told to be extra attentive to her every need. She could not believe her good luck. Not long ago, she had been a college drop out, unsure of her future. But Hart Hadley and PartyChicks magazine had changed all that. She had enjoyed a year as reigning PartyChick of the Year, and was paid lavishly by Hadley to be a "party chick" at the mansion. She had subjected herself to degrading sexual acts, yes, including a private video that was almost beyond imagination, but she had enough money to survive for decades. There were pangs of regret that she had never returned to USC to get her education, and she had almost no communication with her parents anymore; her old friends and way of life were gone forever, but she put that out of her mind.

The pornography with Hadley in her mind was all behind her. She had become like so many of the girls caught in Hart Hadley's web, a sex addict, drawn as if against her will into whatever wild scenario his perverted mind conjured up, but now one of the most powerful men in the world was her fiancée, of a sort. Jim Stinson had rescued her, and now she had respectability.

On the second day in San Martin, Michelle was a vision of tanned loveliness, as dark as the locals in this tropical paradise, wearing a tiny string bikini barely containing her assets. She decided to head to the beach to take in some sun. There, she settled in with The New Republic – Stinson suggested it as good reading to further her political education – when her cell phone rang.

"Hello."

"Hi beautiful." It was Stinson.

"Hi, honey."

"What'cha doin'?"

"Working on my perfect tan."

"You gonna be there awhile?"

"All day."

"Don't go anywhere, I'll join you as soon as I make a few phone calls."

"Okay. I'll just lie here and fantasize about you."

Visions of happiness danced around in her head. She had fallen for Governor Jim Stinson.

"Stop it, I'm getting a hard-on. I'll see you in a little while."

"Se ya."

"Bye, honey."

****

Stinson, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, hangs up the phone. Standing behind him is Don Carver, his old friend and advisor from New Orleans. Carver is beholden to Stinson. He has been made powerful and famous beyond his wildest imagination by his old friend's political rise, which seemed to have come to an end when he lost in the Democratic primaries to Fidel Valenzuela, then after three years of uneasy loyalty as Secretary of State, ostensibly saved his re-election via a speech at the Democratic National Convention at the Superdome. Both Carver and Stinson were particularly miffed that this biggest of political events, occurring in their hometown, had ultimately glorified not them, but Valenzuela. Then, Stinson was seemingly headed to retirement . . . until Jill Wyndham-Stinson asserted her power and told him he was not put out to pasture just yet.

Carver is way out of place in this paradise, wearing a full three-piece suit. He is even more dark and sinister than usual. His hotel room is adjacent to Stinson and Michelle's suite. The door leading from one room to another, normally locked, is open.

Meanwhile back at the beach, Michelle starts to look in her bag. She is looking for something but cannot find it. She turns the bag upside down and empties its contents on the towel next to her, but frowns. The desired item comes up missing.

Michelle gets up, dons a sarong, and begins to stroll back to the hotel to find her sun tanning lotion. She strolls past the mall, past shops and admiring stares. She walks through the mall. Then she crosses the street, while people still stare at her.

At the hotel lobby, the doorman, Jose, waves her in with a smile and a flourish.

"Hi, Jose,"

"Good morning, Miss Woodward."

At the elevator, a married couple gets on. The man stares at her, open mouthed. The woman is disgusted. Michelle remains oblivious. She walks down the hall to her door, takes the key to open the door, but discovers it is ajar. She enters.

From her room, she can hear voices. She is quiet, her presence undetected, the thick carpet masking her footsteps. A TV drones in the background. She walks toward the bathroom, but can hear a conversation. It is Carver and Stinson, in Carver's room.

"You and Jill have to start campaigning in New Hampshire and Iowa," she hears Carver say. "We must get an early start."

"She's rarin' to go," replies Stinson. "What about 'Rallykiller?' ''

"It's taken care of. MacArthur's recruited a sharpshooter."

"Hell Don, who?" Stinson says. "It's been a long time since we used anybody to do 'wet work.' Christ, I thought I was finished with this kind of thing. I'm outta the loop, it's not like Louisiana days when we had our pick of shooters."

"He used to be a soldier in Chicago. Jill's friends. It'll be an appropriately bloody assassination."

"Man, that broad is gettin' more diabolical by the year."

"She's waited for years for this, Jim-boy." He hesitates. "And so have I."

"The first political killing in New York since McKinley," states Stinson.

"Technically New Jersey," replies Carver. "If you wanna get technical. The result this time will be a Democrat in the White House. If you stay the course."

"I've demonstrated my commitment."

"When we started, I warned you about keeping your dick in your pants," Carver says. "Now, within weeks of your biggest announcement, you come down here with a Goddamn porn star."

"She's not really a porn star."

"A hooker, a slut, I know those chicks Hadley sets you up with. They're total nymphomaniacs."

"I'm sorry, Don."

"What have you told her? I know you like to brag to these bimbos before you screw 'em."

"I haven't told her anything," says Stinson. "She's a stupid hooker anyway, she doesn't follow politics."

"For all you know she could be a Republican plant," replies Carver.

With those words, Michelle moves quickly out of the room, in the process knocking a magazine off a chair.

Carver and Stinson hear a sound from the other room.

"What was that?" Carver asks.

Michelle moves quickly down the hall, a disturbed look on her face, a small tear coming down her cheek. She is in her bikini and sarong, carrying only her bag, which contains her purse and a few personal items.

Michelle Woodward was unsure of what she heard. She felt it possible she had heard Jim Stinson and his oldest friend and aide, Don Carver, discuss plans for the assassination of some person, whose identity she did not know. She was not sure, but believed that Stinson and Carville heard her in the next room, and they could not discount the possibility that she had heard what they were planning to do.

What had she heard? " 'Rallykiller' . . . New York . . . technically New Jersey." An assassination. She could not think straight enough to understand what any of that meant, but she understood well enough what she had heard to know Jim Stinson was getting ready for New Hampshire and Iowa. That meant he was running for President of the United States. She had also heard both Carver and Stinson refer to her as "a hooker, a slut" . . . a "total nymphomaniac." These were not words a man used, or let somebody else use, to describe the woman he loved and planned to marry.

She knew of Stinson's reputation as a womanizer, but she vaguely recalled something else. Reading up on Stinson, she had come across something on the Internet called "the Stinson Body Count." It seemed to have been libelous, a description of people who knew Jim and Jill Stinson who had died, violently or mysteriously. He was a powerful politician and had enemies who would lie about him, but she also recalled Hart Hadley telling her he was part of the New Orleans mob, that they were more dangerous than the Sicilian Mafia . . . and that she should "be careful." If they were willing to assassinate somebody, they would be willing to kill her. Surely they had the means to do so. She needed to run.

Michelle ran from the hotel in her bikini, sarong, flip-flops, and bag. Luckily, her passport was in the bag. The rest of her belongings she left behind in the hotel room. She flagged down the first taxicab she could find, and told him to take her to the airport. Then, a minute later, she told the driver to take her to a bank and to wait in the cab while she did business inside.

Something told her she needed to get money out of her bank account now, because if Stinson's reach was as wide as she suspected it might be, she may not have access to it later. It was a local bank on the island of San Martin. She knew she needed more than she could get out of the ATM. Michelle calmly asked how much she could get in cash. The branch manager, a suave, dark-skinned fellow who appeared totally smitten by her, more interested in getting in her pants, smilingly helped her draw $15,000, a combination of her checking account debit card and a credit card.

She had over $1 million to her name, courtesy of Hart Hadley's "generosity" in paying her to be a "party chick" and a gangbang virtuoso in his private DVD, but would not have full access to it until she could get to the United States, where she could draw off it. But what if it would be frozen? She at least had $15,000 in cash, but decided against using her credit card after the cash advance at the bank. That was traceable.

The cab was still waiting. She hurriedly got in it and made her way to the airport. There, she paid the driver and bought some clothes at a store, immediately putting them on. She made her way to the counter and inquired of the first flight off San Martin. It was to San Pedro de Macoris, Dominican Republic.

Michelle boarded the plane but did not see John White and Carlton Blackledge, Stinson's security men, both wearing Hawaiian beach shirts with dark shades, arrive at the terminal minutes later. She had evaded them, for now.

She flew to San Pedro de Macoris, where she cabbed from the airport to a cheap hotel, renting a room with cash, and got something to eat. She heard about a baseball game and went there to try and lay low while formulating a strategy, but several fans and players recognized her from her PartyChicks spread. Worried that her photo would appear on social media, she cabbed to the airport and paid cash for a flight to Mexico City, and from there to Houston. She was afraid to go to Los Angeles, thinking she might be found there.

In Houston, Michelle took a cab to another cheap motel and tried to sleep. In the morning she left the motel to get some coffee and breakfast at a nearby diner. Several patrons stared at her. She was so beautiful both men and women stared at her in awe everywhere she went, but she had been the PartyChicks magazine PartyChick of the Year and attracted paparazzi, Twitter and Facebook photos from people with camera phones all the time. She needed a better plan. She could not run forever. She decided against trying to get more money from her bank, Bank of America, of which there were branches in Houston. It could be traced.

Returning to her motel, she saw three men approach her room. She could tell they were ready to draw guns. She now knew that she was the target of Jim Stinson's vaunted hit squad. She took off running and passed a bar. She captured a glimpse of the television. Images of Jim and Jill Stinson were on CNN. A scroll ran on the bottom of the screen: "Will Jim Stinson declare for Democratic nomination?"

Then her cell phone rang. She jumped, unsure of whether to answer it. It was from a blocked number. She let it ring to voicemail then checked it.

"Hello, Miss Woodward." It was one of those voices like from the witness protection program, disguised. "Please listen to me, Miss Woodward. You're in danger and don't have much time. I cannot give you my name, and I can't call you on my phone, and I can't give you my number. That would endanger me, too. But I will call you again from this blocked number and you need to pick up. I can help you."

Michelle listened to the message twice. During that time, two more calls from a blocked number came in. She did not answer, but when she checked there were two more voice messages. Both were from the same blocked number, and had gone straight to voicemail.

She also made mental note of the fact that Jim Stinson had not called her. Obviously he knew she had understood him speak with Carver about an assassination plot. Otherwise he would have called wondering where the heck she had disappeared. They apparently understood each other. Then the phone rang again; the blocked number. She let it ring three times, but before the fourth ring which would send it to voicemail, she picked up. It was a risk. It could be Stinson trying to narrow her location down, but they already had gotten to her motel room. She was desperate.

"Hello, Miss Woodward." It was the disguised voice, but she could recognize a Southern accent. "You're in danger and don't have much time."

"Who the hell is this?"

"Thank God you answered. I have very little time so listen closely. You're life is in danger."

"WHO IS THIS?"

There is momentary silence, then the sound of a man sighing.

"Use common sense. I can't use my phone and I can't have my voice recognized which is why I'm on this machine to disguise it. I can't say who I am. I'm in danger just calling you. You must leave immediately. Men will come to kill you."

"Somebody's at my motel already."

"Then the hit is already on. I was unaware of that hit but I know you're a marked woman, obviously. You must leave if you value your life. You have to get rid of your cell phone. They are tracking you through it. I can only contact you this one time. Listen to me, and don't waste time questioning me. You have minutes, maybe seconds. Are you near a bar, a restaurant."

Michelle looks and sees a coffee shop down the block.

"Yes."

"What's the name of it?"

She stares at the place.

"Cookie's."

"Are you in Houston?"

"Yes."

"Not Sharpstown or some suburb; Houston?"

"Yes."

"Go to Cookie's and stand in front of the cash register."

She runs to the coffee shop, half expecting that she has been set up to be shot at Cookie's, but she cannot think of an alternative. She enters and stands in front of the cash register. A heavy set woman manning the front sees her.

"Just one?" she asks.

"I'm looking up the phone number of Cookie's on the web. Here it is. I'm calling it. Tell the person at the counter a call is coming in for you."

"A call is coming in for me, here," Michelle tells the woman.

"What?"

The phone rings. The woman answers.

"Cookie's."

She listens for a second, then hesitatingly hands the phone to Michelle.

"I guess you do have a call."

Michelle answers it.

"Hang up your cell and throw it in the trash," the disguised voice says to her. She complies.

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

Michelle sees a pen and paper on the counter.

"Can I borrow this," she asks the woman.

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Listen very, very, very closely. Write this down."

"Yes."

"I've uncovered facts that reveal many things about the Governor and one is that Michelle Woodward is a dead woman unless you leave now. I can't reveal more. Write down a name and number."

"What?'

"Goldarnit, Michelle, record this information."

Michelle uses the pen and paper.

"The news says Stinson may run for President."

"I know. Contact Duke Ramsay of Human Events magazine. His number is (202) 216-0601. Get away from where you are, don't use credit cards. Do you have cash?"

She writes it down.

"Yes."

"Leave right this minute. Call Duke Ramsay. I won't be able to contact you after this. Good luck."

The line clicks dead. Michelle sees the three men who were at her motel walking on the street some 100 yards down the street. She turns to the woman.

"Is there a back door out of here?"

"Yes."

Michelle grabs her bag and makes her way out of Cookie's. From there, she runs down the street, purposefully changing directions. She makes her way to a bar and walks inside. Two drunks are sitting on bar stools, a bar tender working behind the bar.

"Can you call me a cab?" she asks him.

"Sure."

The bar tender makes a call. Michelle buys a pre-packaged sandwich, then sits in the corner eating it. The three men stare at her.

"Hey, I've seen you before," one of the drunks says. At that moment, a cab pulls up. Michelle runs to it.

"The airport," she tells the cabbie.

As the car drives down the street, she sees one of the men from the motel. She slinks down, undetected. At the airport, Michelle pays the cab driver and buys with cash a one-way flight to Washington, D.C. She buys a scarf and a veil, and exchanges $10 for quarters from the vendor, putting the scarf and veil on to hide her appearance. But there is nothing she could do about her gigantic 44 double-D fake breasts, which attract stares from everybody. While waiting for the plane to board, she finds a pay phone and uses quarters to call Duke Ramsay at the Washington Times.

She manages to get his voicemail, but chooses not to leave a message. She tries a second time, again without success, then boards the plane, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. A man sitting across the aisle tries to make time with her, but Michelle ignores him. Finally, the plane lands. Michelle gets off, watching warily to see if anybody is on to her. She tries to call Ramsay again from a pay phone, and again gets only voicemail. She makes her way to the front of the airport, and hails a cab, asking to be taken to the offices of Human Events magazine. She half expects to be shot while riding in the car. Paranoid, she wonders if the cabbie is in on it. She is very worried that Stinson's hit men would be waiting for her at the magazine. She still has no assurance that the man who called her was on her side, or was leading her into a trap.

Entering the magazine's offices, she feels the hot stares of every man and woman staring at her breasts. Hadley had paid for them; she was so proud of them. She was a sex symbol, a hot slut who lived for lust. Now this asset is her giveaway. She was sure she was being recognized, and worse, her photo was being taken, the likeness of the former PartyChick of the Year spread all over Twitter, Facebook and other social media. Surely Stinson's people would find her this way, but what choice did she have? Who was Duke Ramsay, anyway? She did not follow politics; knew nothing about Human Events. She is desperate.

She asks the security man at the front desk for Duke Ramsay. He asks her if he was expecting her. She says no. He calls up but like Michelle gets his voicemail. He leaves a message for Ramsay, telling her he has a visitor waiting for him in the lobby. "Sorry, he's not picking up," he tells her.

"Can you call and ask somebody where he might be?" she asks him. He picks up the phone and calls the newsroom, asking for the whereabouts of Ramsay.

"Oh, okay," he said after a few minutes. He hangs up the phone. "It turns out Duke Ramsay doesn't work for Human Events anymore," he says. "I guess he's not off the phone directory yet. He's over at WorldNetDaily."

"Where's WorldNetDaily?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"Can you find out? I don't have my phone, I have no access."

The security man has a smart phone and looks up WorldNetDaily.com on it. He finds a web site, but has to look more to find out where they are.

"Are they in Washington?" he asks her.

"Not sure."

Finally he finds the information he was looking for.

"It turns out they are . . . in Washington."

"Could you call them for me and let me ask for Duke Ramsay?"

The man looks at her, ready to say no. It was against policy, but this girl's breasts negate that policy.

"Okay." He dials the number and hands her the phone.

She gets a voicemail directory, and manages to punch in the name "R-A-M-S-E-Y," but is told there is no match. She tries again, but this time dials "R-A-M-S-A-Y." It rings through four times, until a voice comes on.

"Hi, this is Duke Ramsay. Leave me a message with a brief description. Thanks."

"Mr. Ramsay, I have to see you as soon as possible and have no way to give you my phone number; I don't even have a place to stay. I have to come to your office and I hope you will meet me there."

She hands the phone back.

"Thanks. Do you have an address for WorldNetDaily?" He writes it down and gives it to her.

"Thanks again." She looks towards the street and sees a taxi. She runs to get it.

"WorldNetDaily," she tells the driver. She reads off the address.

It is about a 15-minute drive. Michelle pays the driver and gets out. She enters WorldNetDaily. It is the offices of a web site, and has photos of conservative political heroes on the wall. Michelle recognizes Ronald Reagan, but that is about it. She finds a secretary and asks for Duke Ramsay; he was not expecting her. She calls but gets voicemail.

"Hi Duke, it's Cheri at the front desk . . . excuse . . . what's your name?"

"Michelle . . . Michelle W."

"Michelle W. is here. Call the desk if you get this."

"Can I wait for him?" Michelle asks.

"Sure," Cheri replies.  
For an hour Michelle waits. She keeps expecting men to come into the building guns blazing, but is slightly comforted by the fact that she is in a place of journalism, probably not a location for political murder. Then the phone rings.

"It's Duke," Cheri said, handing Michelle the phone.

"Are you waiting for me?" a gruff voice asks.

"Yes. I must see you."

"Who are you?"

"I can't tell you much, Mr. Ramsay. Please, can you come here?"

He hesitates.

"I can't be there for another hour. Can you wait?"

"I guess I have to."

By the time Duke Ramsay walks in the door, it is after five P.M. and many of the employees are leaving. Every one of them eyes Michelle as they walk out, remarking at the hot tail sitting in the lobby waiting for Duke Ramsay.

The muckraker

Duke Ramsay looked 10 years older than he was. He was a former alcoholic, well past his prime professionally and personally. The world had passed him by. He had thinning hair, wore glasses, and appeared a bit disheveled. He was twice divorced with no prospects. He was old school; he listened to Frank Sinatra and watched Fox News.

Once upon a time, he was a golden boy. His given name was John, but his parents loved John "Duke" Wayne. They started calling him Duke. He grew up in New Orleans and applied for admission to the same private academy that Jim Stinson attended with Don Carver. He was turned down and instead went to a public high school. He liked a pretty girl at his school and dated her a few times. He was a gentleman who opened doors for her and treated her like a lady, but after they went out a few times, she stopped returning his calls and began avoiding him at school. Eventually he heard she was dating a guy named Jim Stinson. He already had journalistic instincts; he wrote for the school newspaper. He made a few inquiries. Who was this Jim Stinson guy?

Stinson was best friends with Don Carver. Carver's father, Cleve Carver, was a big-time Democratic big wig. Ramsay came from a Republican family. His father was always railing about the local New Orleans Democratic machine, in bed with and controlled by the mob. He knew a few guys over at the private school Stinson and Carver attended, and asked them about Stinson.

"That son of a bitch gets more ass 'n' a toilet seat," one of his buddies told him. "He sticks out like a sore thumb. His mother's a track tout at the fairgrounds. He doesn't know who his daddy is, it's all screwed up, man. I think Carver's old man pays his tuition. But he's the best student here and the chick's dig him."

Indeed, he had stolen Ramsay's girl from him, but she certainly was not Stinson's girlfriend. Apparently she was just a "score." Ramsay noticed the girl, who previously dressed modestly, now came to school looking like a hooker or a stripper. He figured she had been "ruined" by this Jim Stinson character, who was named student body president at his school. He saw the guy; he had brownish-blonde hair and was on the heavy side, but apparently chicks just went for him. He could sweet talk them into doing anything. He had a truck with Astroturf in the back that he covered with a blanket, and was said to deflower many a young woman back there.

Ramsay figured the guy must be an athlete or something. Carver played football, but Stinson did not. Most of the popular guys were athletes, especially in the Southern culture, but apparently the only time Stinson got on a football field was when he played saxophone in the marching band.

Ramsay's application to this prestigious school had been turned down, but here was this guy apparently from the wrong side of the tracks who, in his mind at least, had taken his place. Now he had taken his girl. Most of the kids at that school were from wealthy Republican families, but Stinson was tied with Carver, from a prominent Democratic family. Stinson was a Democrat, too. Ramsay immediately disliked him, but it was more than that. There was something wrong with this picture. His natural inclination was to investigate further. He made a point of asking a lot of questions about Jim Stinson and Don Carver.

Then he started noticing a shiny Cadillac parked just down the street from his house. He would see it at school, too. One day, two guys in suits, with dark hair and furry eyebrows, approached him in the parking lot of his high school.

"Hey Ramsay," one of the men called out to him. Ramsay approached.

"You are a nosy bastard, you know that?" the man said.

"What?"

"You heard me. You better stop asking questions about things that don't concern you."

"Like what?"

"You're smart enough to figure it out."

The man turned and walked away. Duke Ramsay immediately knew they were in organized crime. He began to shake. He also knew it was because he was asking questions about Stinson and Carver.

Perhaps Ramsay would have given up worrying about those two, but fate tied them together. Ramsay was a decent high school baseball player. In his senior year he was scouted by Louisiana State, among others. LSU had one of the better programs in the nation, and they did not offer him a scholarship, but they did make him a "recruited walk-on," which is an athlete not on scholarship, but a member of the team. By his junior year, Ramsay was getting significant playing time at third base, and in his senior year his hard work over four seasons was rewarded when he was given a full scholarship, named the starting third baseman. He batted over .300 and was a key contributor for the Tigers.

But if he wanted to adhere to the mysterious man's admonition to "stop asking questions" about Don Carver and Jim Stinson, the fact that he was a college classmate of both of them made that hard to do. Carver was one of the student managers for the LSU football team. That meant he was always around the athletic facilities, where Ramsay as a baseball player often was. They got to know each other; not friends who hung out, but acquaintances.

Carver and Stinson were both political science majors, as was Ramsay. They had classes together and knew each other on a first name basis. Ramsay ingratiated himself enough to learn a lot about both of them. They were on opposite sides politically. Ramsay supported Richard Nixon, who was embroiled in Watergate, and was disgusted to learn that Stinson spent a summer in Washington, volunteering to work for the Democrats investigating the White House. His first question was, Who paid for that? Stinson's mother was an inveterate gambler, yet the Stinson's had money to live well, and to do things like travel to D.C. and live there for three months. Neither Stinson or Carver ever worked, but they were always volunteering in Democratic causes. Stinson had been drafted by the Army after high school, bragging about how he "dodged the draft." He said he "loathed" the military, and considered the soldiers in Vietnam "baby killers." It made Ramsay's blood boil. Ramsay's dad had been at Anzio, where he had been severely wounded, and still carried the scars.

Ramsay continued to look at both Carver and Stinson with a jaundiced eye. They were both very personable and friendly. He could not find anything about either one of them to really complain about, but it always seemed like he had to earn everything he got while they did not. Ramsay finally got a scholarship in his fourth year; Stinson was on an academic ride all the way, while Carver's family had plenty of money to pay his freight. Ramsay rushed a popular fraternity but was not invited to join; Carver and Stinson both were. Stinson was student body president and valedictorian. Nobody gave him the A's he made all the way through school, but he just seemed to be gifted. Ramsay never scored much with the many hot LSU coeds, while both Stinson and Carver ran a swath through the chick population like nobody else at LSU in those years. He also saw the mysterious, dangerous-looking man who had "warned" him when he was in high school, twice on the LSU campus in those years.

Ramsay was not drafted by any professional teams after his senior year, but a Texas Rangers scout who saw a lot of LSU games gave him a shot as a free agent, absent any signing bonus. He played one year of rookie league ball, batted .223, was released, and that was the end of his baseball career. He needed an extra year to get his bachelor's degree. LSU extended his scholarship, which he considered an act of great kindness, and he was able to graduate. He joined the Army, but the Vietnam War was over and he saw nothing significant. He signed up for a special program in which the Army paid for him to attend law school, but after a year decided it was not for him. Ramsay dropped out, and chose not to re-up in military.

Ramsay tried to sell stocks and bonds, but found he was not cut out for it. Then he went to work as an aide to a Republican Congressman in Louisiana. After several years trying to find himself, he felt he had found his calling. He was a total conservative and it was the era of Ronald Reagan. The politics of Louisiana were changing. Corrupt mob Democrats were being eased out by honest conservative Republicans. Ramsay had always been a Christian, but now he felt the calling of God stronger than ever. He felt he was destined to be a leader during a time in which man would reach his highest calling, which was to wipe out Godless Communism. He got married and had a daughter. He bought a house. His name was brought up as a future Republican elected official. He met most of the heavyweight Republicans in Louisiana, and some of the national leaders, too. Ramsay felt he was on his way.

His boss, the Congressman, identified a state senate seat that seemed ripe for the picking. Ramsay entered the race, but was beaten fairly badly in the Republican primary. The Congressman also ran for statewide office, but was beaten in the general election for Secretary of State.

In the mean time, Jim Stinson was attending Oxford College on a Rhode's Scholarship, then made editor of the Harvard Law Review, married Jill Wyndham, and was elected Mayor of New Orleans. When Ramsay worked in the Congressman's office, he asked if he knew much about a guy named Jim Stinson.

"Why do you ask?" the Congressman replied with a quizzical look on his face.

"Well, I went to LSU with Stinson and Cleve Carver's kid," replied Ramsay. "I was once warned when I was only 17 or 18 by a mob guy not to ask questions or look into their comings and goings. I'm pretty sure they are in the New Orleans Mafia, and are involved in some bad stuff."

"Jesus!" the Congressman exclaimed. "Forgive me Lord for taking thy name in vain."

He stared at Ramsay.

"That might have been good advice," he added. "Stinson's their handpicked golden boy. Carver's son Don is 'handling' him. I hear stuff you wouldn't believe. The FBI's watching them, but these guys are connected and they are dangerous. Dangerous, Duke. Really dangerous."

"Like 'they'll kill you' dangerous?"

"Like they've 'already killed a lotta people' dangerous."

"What about this woman he married, Jill Wyndham?" asked Ramsay. "I don't get that at all. Stinson was the biggest skirt hound I have ever known in my life. I played ball and I've known a few, but none in his league. Then he marries this kind of dikey-looking feminist."

"That's a charade, pure and simple," the Congressman said. "And from what I've heard, she's more ruthless than he is."

When Stinson was elected Mayor of New Orleans, rumors began to swirl about he and his wife: it was a political arrangement, people were bought off, there were mysterious accidents killing shady people in the drug underworld. Nothing could be traced back to the Stinsons, but Ramsay smelled a rat. He had watched this guy operate since high school and instinctively knew he was watching something beyond corrupt, and more approaching evil. He could not quite pin it down, but it was in his gut.

The Congressman warned him that as he navigated his way through politics in Louisiana, he would be wise to give a wide berth to Jim and Jill Stinson, and to Don Carver, who was obviously going to eventually replace his father. The inside word on Cleve Carver was that his Achilles heel was a conscience.

"Cleve was in the KKK but he also attends church," the Congressman told Ramsay. "He's a smart political operative. What I've heard is that he objects to some of the strong-arm stuff. Look, deal with them as political rivals. Don't let it get personal. Don't try to destroy them, because they crush people who do that."

Ramsay had no dealings with the Stinson-Carver group in his losing state senate campaign. With the Congressman also on the outs, suddenly his bright future did not look so bright. He tried his hand at lobbying, but found he was not really cut out for that. He was too honest. He lost his confidence, his mojo.

He started buying PartyChicks magazine and renting adult movies, especially the ones produced by the infamous Hart Hadley. His wife was a nice, attractive, Christian Southern girl, but suddenly she began to pale in comparison to the girls in Hart Hadley's world. Hadley's PartyChicks of the Month were sumptuous beyond belief, but the cutting edge pornography he produced was what had Ramsay in thrall. Ramsay found himself fascinated by adult films, and tried to get his wife to agree to some of the stuff he liked, but she recoiled. He showed her one of Hadley's more infamous tapes. His wife was aghast and ran not just out of the room, but to her mother's.

Ramsay began to drink heavily. He began spending time in strip clubs and saw prostitutes, trying to replicate the images from Hart Hadley movies. This resulted in some harrowing escapades. The prostitutes would not let him do some of the nastier things he requested. The AIDS scare was on; many still believed it to be as much a straight disease as a gay disease. Many enthusiastically agreed to his requests but once they had his money made him wear condoms, or simply refused to acquiesce. On more than one occasion, pimps and bodyguards roughed up Ramsay. He hated himself, crying himself to sleep at night. He prayed that God would relieve him of his addiction. Whenever he asked, "God help me," he heard his own voice, channeled by God, telling him, "God helps those who help themselves." His wife divorced him. She was very wary about letting him have their daughter without supervision, worried she might see pornographic images. She completely poisoned his relationship with her. He had to sell the house he owned, splitting the equity with his ex-wife.

All the while, Jim Stinson was identified as one of the bright lights in Democratic politics. Each move up the ladder was orchestrated by his brilliant aide, Don Carver, considered one of the genius campaign strategists in the United States, a man who was in particular demand because he understood the South, which was by now becoming a near-GOP lock. If the Democrats were to secure the future, they needed in-roads into Dixie. Carver was the man to help forge those in-roads. Behind the scenes was Stinson's equally brilliant wife Jill, installed in a mobbed up New Orleans law firm. She specialized in union deal making while making speeches lambasting conservative efforts to tear down Roe v. Wade. The veneer of Democratic Party imprimatur covered up all her union corruptions.

Fired from different jobs, Duke Ramsay failed at all he tried to do. Using his credit card to finance a move to Los Angeles, he ran up a $100,000 debt over two years, trying to write screenplays. His scripts tended to be political, featuring Republican heroes winning the day against Democratic corruption. He was practically laughed out of town.

He had affairs with women and continued his strip club and prostitute habit. He married a stripper who quit dancing, but she was gone two weeks every month, supposedly to work in a nail salon in Nevada. One day Ramsay received an anonymous, typewritten letter in the mail informing him that his wife was a prostitute at a whorehouse in Pahrump, Nevada, near Las Vegas. When she returned he showed her the letter at the airport. They had a huge argument and split up.

Without credit left to draw on, Ramsay was desperate. He began covering high school sports for the Los Angeles Times. It was the first time he felt pure in years. He was a good sportswriter. He divorced his second wife and moved back to his parent's house in New Orleans, hoping to start over; to pay off his debt, to make a career as a sportswriter, and clean up his act. Shortly after he moved back, his second wife called to tell him she was pregnant with his child, from a final fling. She planned an abortion. He begged her not to kill his child. She told him she would think about it. Ramsay called and emailed her constantly, exhorting her to "choose life." She eventually gave birth to his son, but shortly thereafter moved in with a wealthy 60-year old client who promised to take care of both of them.

Ramsay insisted that he be a part of the boy's life. At first his ex wanted the child to think the ex-client was his real father, but Ramsay managed to win the argument. That did not win him much influence in his life, though. There were a few visits, occasional phone calls, some letters and eventually texts and emails. Ramsay visited him in California a few times and the boy came out to see his father and his family in Louisiana on the rare occasion, but it was all strained, failing to scratch Duke Ramsay's itch. His daughter from his first marriage moved with his first ex-wife to New York, where she re-married. Ramsay's efforts at being a part of her life were no more satisfactory.

Ramsay managed to land a job with a magazine that specialized in Louisiana prep sports, but was fired when the company technical consultant informed the president that Ramsay was looking at pornography on his computer. Ramsay was never actually told this when let go, but in his heart he knew it was true. He had also called and frequented prostitutes on company time, and figured his boss knew that, too. He was a regular at various strip clubs in the French Quarter. He continued to look at porn tapes at home, and continued to pray to Jesus Christ to relieve him of his affliction. The little voice in the back of his head always answered with the same words: "God helps those who help themselves." He drank far too much and began to lose the handsome, athletic appearance of his halcyon youth. He tried Alcoholics Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous. Neither cure took. Ramsay ambled along, mostly failing; getting fired from odd jobs, unable to find himself. Years passed. He was a loser and a loner, except for his single good friend Kevin McDonald, a lifetime bachelor who went with him to bars, drank, commiserated, and watched LSU football games in his company.

All the time, Jim Stinson succeeded at everything he attempted. People routinely called him a future Presidential contender. After four years as Mayor of New Orleans, Stinson was elected to three terms as a U.S. Congressman from Orleans Parish, then a six-year term in the United States Senate. Each Presidential cycle, Stinson's name was bandied about, and Democratic nominees always had him on their short lists as a Vice-Presidential running mate, but for various reasons he was not quite the right guy at the right time. He bided his time.

When the opportunity presented itself, Stinson ran for and was elected Governor of Louisiana. This was the job he had long aspired to, ultimately what his New Orleans mob handlers envisioned for him. By the time he ascended to this position, he was a rarity; a Democratic Southern Governor. Stinson's political instincts, despite having provided tacit "advice" to the Soviet Union until they broke up, were relatively conservative. It was his wife who was a dyed-in-the-wool Marxist, but her beliefs were tamped down for public consumption in Louisiana.

Stinson worked well with Republicans in the state legislature. He kept taxes low and was friendly towards business. The Democratic Party despised such policies, but Stinson's obvious success co-opting the GOP made him a national figure. Now he began to truly eye the White House. When the mob boys first identified Molly Worre's son as a 14-year old wunderkind, they hoped to get a voice in the state legislature, maybe Mayor of New Orleans, at best Governor; Stinson exceeded their expectations by a long shot. He was also so powerful now that he told the mob characters what to do, at least to some extent. He also formed a coalition he called the New Democrats, a group of relatively conservative Southern Democrats the party needed if they were to make any dent in that part of the country. Stinson made a speech to the group, announcing to cheers that, "The era of Big Government is over."

Republicans feared him; he could take a portion of their natural base. He was charismatic, overweight but fairly good-looking, and he possessed the slick voice of the silver-tongued devil he was. He could charm a woman out of her dress and a politician into doing a deal with him. He had that quality all politicians die for; he was born with it, nobody could teach it. He was highly educated, but his photographic memory and total recall of all information gathered over a lifetime was a gift. Jill did not have his charisma or way with people. She was ugly, weighed too much, and turned people off. She worked behind the scenes; waiting, waiting, waiting.

Stinson became the darling of Hollywood, of the liberal media, a major national television presence, a voice of the so-called New Left. Vanity Fair and other major publications ran glowing pieces about this "hope for the future of America."
Duke Ramsay began to become obsessed with Jim Stinson when he was still in the House of Representatives. In fact, he had been obsessed with him since his freshman year in high school, but when he ascended to the Governor's mansion, Ramsay became crazy. He despised the SOB. Even McDonald, who could listen to Duke rail on and on for hours at the bar, got tired of his rantings and ravings about Jim and Jill Stinson, who he called "foul liars" among other things.

"I don't just disagree with those lousy people politically," Ramsay declared. "I find them to be worse than that. There is something inherently evil about them. I just can't put my finger on it, but I've seen this since I first became aware of Stinson and Don Carver in high school. Bastard stole my first girlfriend from me. She was a nice girl, after Stinson she became a slut."

Ramsay was never really sure whether it was a moment of clarity, a religious epiphany, or just a drunken thought. He was sitting in his boyhood bedroom at the home of his parents, where he lived, watching a SluttyChicks Productions video called Slutty Cheerleaders, depicting a sexy girl dressed in a cheerleader's outfit blowing men. Disgusted with himself, he turned it off, and reached into the liquor cabinet he kept hidden, pulling out a bottle of Jim Beam. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Budweiser. Then he poured himself a shot, chasing it with the Bud. He continued this routine for a while when suddenly he saw Jim Stinson making a speech on television, his wife smiling like a Cheshire cat behind him. For some reason, Ramsay thought he saw something; what exactly, he was unsure. Perhaps it was just the alcohol, which after years of abuse had taken its toll, but he thought he saw a message of some kind. The message was that the Stinsons are evil, and if he did not stop them, nobody else would.

"If not me, when? If not now, who?" Stinson managed to bungle a famous Bobby Kennedy line, laughing at the irony, since he despised the Kennedys, too. They were all a bunch of corrupt, foul Democrats ruining a once-great nation, as far as he was concerned. Then he stopped and contemplated himself.

"Who am I to judge anybody else?" he asked himself. He did not like the answer. Then Ramsay scratched a note on a torn piece of paper: "Book. Stinsons." From there he drank himself into oblivion, something he did very regularly. The next day at 11 in the morning, Ramsay's door opened. It was his mother.

"Are you going to get out of bed today?" she asked, then slammed the door hard against the side of the wall.

Ramsay rose, slowly, unsteadily. The empty bottle of Jim Beam and about a dozen empty Budweiser cans were scattered around the room. Another drunk. He made his way upstairs, where his mom had a pot of coffee mercifully brewed.

"Mornin'," Ramsay muttered. His mother murmured something, his father just stared at him. Then they looked at each other as if to ask, "What hath we wrought?" His first ex-wife called him "the pervert" and his second ex-wife called him "the loser." Neither of his parents disagreed with the second description of their son. When his father discussed an issue with wife number one and she just expressed disgust over Duke, good old dad told his wife, "Well, who can blame her?" Duke, listening from downstairs, bathed in shame, just wept, but he still harbored resentment.

"Well, who can blame her?" he repeated to himself, usually drunk, while making vain, incompetent vows to right his ship and generate his own steam. So much potential, so much wasted promise; a decade or more before this he had been a golden boy, considered a Republican political hopeful. Now? He was nothin'. Indeed, most anybody who knew Duke Ramsay thought him a loser. He had only one really close friend from high school. Kevin McDonald stuck with him through thick and thin. That was about it.

Ramsay grabbed a huge, steamin' cup a Joe and the New Orleans Times-Picayune, making his way back to his room, to emerge only for more coffee, his only plans a heavy lunch meant to absorb the toxins and relieve his headache. In the past he went jogging or hit the gym to cure his hangovers, but now he did not even do that. He would return to Slutty Cheerleaders in the privacy of his downstairs bedroom, about the only thing he had to look forward to.

He slumped into his easy chair, sipping the coffee, hoping to generate some life. Stinson's latest political glory was plastered all over the front of the newspaper. It was too much for Ramsay, who turned to the sports section for solace. For an hour he read the newspaper and poured four cups of heavy-duty coffee. He was ready to go back upstairs and scour the kitchen looking for carbs; enough to knock these toxins out of his blood stream. Afterward, he would sit on the toilet reading a book about the New Orleans Saints for 20 minutes, forcing as much of the poison out of his system as he could. Then he saw the note.

"Book. Stinsons."

At first it made no sense to him. Then he remembered seeing Jim and Jill Stinson on TV, swearing at their smiling visages, and being inspired to write this note. He had seen something, but he was too hung over to recall what it was. He knew it was inspiring to him at the time; some thought had crept into his mind that made him feel that he had some duty, some kind of destiny, and that it involved the Stinsons. If it involved the Stinsons, surely it meant exposing the Stinsons. But now, hung over, standing in the harsh light of day, this reality hit like a two-by-four.

Who am I to expose the Stinsons?

He was a part-time freelance high school sportswriter who had been fired from one job for looking at porn and calling hookers from his desk. He had written a few half-ass screenplays, but none were close to being produced. He had never written a book, never written about politics, had no agent, no publisher, no job, no deal, no money, no connections, no nothing. For reasons that did not make sense, Duke Ramsay considered this his only advantage.

"They'll never see me comin'," he told himself.

He did not try to land an agent or a publisher, he just decided to research and write a book about Jim and Jill Stinson, then try and get it published, then let the chips fall where they may. Then he did an odd thing. He wrote a letter to his only real friend Kevin McDonald.

"Dear Kevin," it read. "If I should die please go to the authorities and tell them to investigate Jim and Jill Stinson, for I am looking into their crimes and they may try to kill me for it. Your only evidence will be this letter and the postmark. Keep it in a safe place." Then he mailed it, even though McDonald just lived a few minutes away. He needed the postmark to prove when he wrote it.

Ramsay then made himself some lunch. Instead of loading up on carbs and fats, he decided to try and improve himself, beginning now. He made a big tuna salad with fruit, orange juice, along with a handful of vitamins. Feeling somewhat better, he flossed, brushed and shaved. He picked up his room, folded clothes, hung up shirts. He scrubbed his toilet and his bathtub, cleaned the mirror, then dusted shelves before vacuuming the floor. He cleaned up his computer, putting documents in folders, and went through his email, giving order to them, answering a few. He went through stacks of papers, organizing his desk, and took care of some correspondence that he had been putting off. He washed his car.

Then he went to the gym he had not been to in months, pushing himself through a hard workout, followed by a tanning session. He returned, showered, attended to some mail, then sat down and wrote a list. The list consisted of people he should call in investigating the lives and politics of Jim and Jill Stinson. Then he read the first few pages of the New Testament, followed by a thorough reading of the latest Human Events, Sports Illustrated and Time magazines. He then finished the last 100 pages of Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville. It had sat unfinished on his nightstand for months until now.

It suddenly occurred to him that of all the political writers at the New York Times or Time magazine or wherever, he actually might be the best guy to dig deep into the life Jim Stinson, at least the early years. In his address book he had the phone numbers of perhaps 10 people who had known Stinson in high school and at LSU, where he been classmates with both Stinson and Carver.

The first name on the list was Andre Sanget. Sanget had gone to high school with Ramsay, not Stinson, but he had been a successful teenage drug dealer known to sell cocaine to Jim Stinson and other rich kids at the private school he attended. He figured the number he had was Sanget's parents; if they were still there they might be able to tell him how to get hold of their son. He dialed the number.

"Hello," came a male voice.

"Hi, my name's Duke Ramsay. Have I reached the Sanget residence?

"Yes."

"Hi, I went to high school with Andre Sanget. Could you possibly help put me in touch with him?"

There was silence on the other line, then . . .

"My son is dead."

Stunned, Ramsay was ready to just give his condolences and hang up, but a little voice told him this was a lead. He pursued it, and as diplomatically as he could, got Sanget's father to tell him details of his son's demise.

Sanget was at a party. He left with a girl. His body was found in a motel room, dead from a drug overdose called "a load." This did not seem unusual for a drug dealer, but Ramsay persisted, getting the man to tell him that nobody knew the girl's name or where she came from. She was said to be very pretty and provocatively dressed. She was not in the motel room. Neither were her fingerprints. Her DNA could not be found anywhere. She was a mystery.

The man also expressed the belief that his son, while a one-time known drug dealer, was not really a drug user, and on top of that, had stopped selling drugs altogether years earlier. The heat had become too intense. He had a normal job, was married with kids.

"He smoked some pot but stayed off hard stuff," he insisted. "He never came home stoned, or went on benders, or ended up in a hospital or picked up by the cops. He was good at what he did, a careful businessman, actually. He quit the trade years ago. This drug that 'killed' him, his friends told me he never took that; it was dangerous."

Duke Ramsay immediately suspected that the mystery girl worked for Jim Stinson and/or Don and Cleve Carver, a hooker probably, and she had been hired to lure Jim Stinson's first drug dealer into a death trap so he could not tell stories out of school about Stinson. Ramsay drew a breath, then posed this question to Sanget's father. Could Jim Stinson have had anything to do with this?

"Why do you ask that?"

"He knew Andre in high school. He might have been some embarrassment."

The man breathed long and hard.

"I've never told a soul this, but I've suspected that might be the case."

Thus did Duke Ramsay's life change forever. He was now a reporter, whether anybody else knew about it or not. He would be more than a reporter; he was a muckraker.

The Stinson Body Count

Jim and Jill Stinson became the Great White Whale, Ramsay a modern Ahab bent on destroying them. He started with the death of Andre Sanget and worked his way up from there. Indeed, Sanget had been telling friends about Jim's drug habit. He woke up every day early and worked well into the night, seven days a week. Since he lived in New Orleans, most of what he wanted was right there. He was not paid and made no attempt to find a publisher for his work until it was completed. His parents were not terribly happy that he was working 15 hours a day for free, but were relieved that their son at least had renewed purpose in his life. He quit drinking, watching pornography, seeing hookers, or frequenting strip clubs. He read two pages of the Bible every morning, attended church on Sundays, plus regular Bible study, and volunteered to feed homeless women. He tried to reach out to his two children by different marriages, but was mostly rebuffed. He girded himself with faith.

When Duke started researching, Stinson was in his first term as Governor of Louisiana. By the time he completed it, he was in his second term, considered the number one front-runner for the next Democratic Presidential nomination. Ramsay's work was a 1,000-page book he called The Stinson Body Count. He had something of a head start, in that Ramsay grew up in New Orleans, understood the local political and cultural scene, knew of Stinson and Carver during high school, had mutual friends and acquaintances of them, and personally knew them at LSU. As a former political operative he had some inside knowledge of their nefarious dealings.

Ramsay detailed the friendship between Don Carver and Jim Stinson. Carver, he wrote, loved to apply the term "white trash" and "trailer trash" to the women in Stinson's life. As long as it was a word that Stinson's people floated around, then it became fair game in relation to him. If ever it applied to anybody, it applied to Stinson and his mother, Molly Worre. She was a woman who slept around with various men in New Orleans, got herself pregnant by a bunch of them, had abortions, but ended up having four children from different ones. One of them was Jim Stinson. Another one was his half-brother Robert, a drug addict, alcoholic and ne'r'do well.

Stinson grew up in New Orleans, one of the most corrupt, mob-controlled cities in America. Stinson's "father," John Stinson (who may or may not have been his real father), at least according to Ramsay liked to wave a gun around in a drunken stupor. His business ventures fell through because he stole money from the mob. He physically abused Stinson's mother, who was a heavy gambler and always owed money to the mob. She figured out "inventive" ways to repay her debts. Probably due to his erratic behavior, John Stinson's promising mob career did not materialize, and he realized he would not become a "made" man, a capo regime as the Sicilians called them. He got into trouble and found himself in a tight squeeze, disappearing, rumored to have entered the Witness Protection Program, but that was never verified. He was not heard from again. Jim's Uncle Albert was a mob character whose house was firebombed in retaliation for some criminal enterprise

"In New Orleans, growing up here, you were living a lie," recalled Bob Paulson, a New Orleans prosecutor. "You lived a lie because you knew that all of these activities were illegal. I mean, as soon as you got old enough to be able to read a newspaper, you knew that gambling in Louisiana was illegal, prostitution was illegal. And so you lived this lie, so you have to find some way to justify that to yourself and, you know, you justify it by saying, `Well,' you know, 'it's okay here.' "

Stinson's mother stated that it did not "occur" to her that gambling was illegal there, and that she was "shocked" when a vote was held to determine its legality. Stinson grew up in an environment of sexual promiscuity. "There is an obvious connection between Jim Stinson and his mother, just as it impossible to separate the Kennedys from Joseph P. Kennedy," wrote Ramsay, detailing an anecdote told him in which Stinson came home only to see his mother nude, "entertaining" three naked men.

Still, he excelled in school and found fascination with beautiful subject matter, like politics and history. He admired John F. Kennedy and even met Senator Edward Kennedy when he was a teenager. Stinson's supposed "other side of the tracks" upbringing did not square with the fact that through is mother, he had wealthy and influential connections, albeit illegal ones.

Stinson was not a bad-looking kid, and he had the gift for speech. He made himself popular through his wit, his smile and his smarts. He grew up in Louisiana at a time when racial bigotry was very common, but he did not harbor outward prejudice towards blacks. Because he was considered so low on the social order, he identified with them. Years later he told a funny lie, claiming he enjoyed sitting in the back of the bus with the blacks forced to sit there "because it was more fun." Randy Lebow pointed out that by that time the Rosa Parks incident making such a thing illegal was years in the past.

At age 14, Ramsay wrote, a meeting was held. Molly Worre owed a lot of money to the mob boys. She was pushing it in terms of looks and age; blowjobs were not going to cut the mustard any more. But she was very loyal, knew her place, never rocked the boat, and was quite popular. So too was her son Jim, a precocious lad with a smart mouth, but the good sense to know when to shut up, who to demonstrate fealty to, and how to do things for people.

Cleve Carver's son Don was about to enter a prestigious private high school. He was the same age as Jim Stinson. Cleve hatched a clever idea, which was to sponsor young Jim. He would get him into the same school as his son, who would be tasked with bringing him along, introducing him to the right people, and teaching him what he would need to know. The mob would pay for his education, as far as Stinson could go, and keep Molly in comfort. In exchange Stinson, mentored by Cleve Carver with his son alongside all the way, would enter politics and rise up the ladder. He would become a legitimate proxy for the mob. If he could get to the state legislature, they would have an advocate. If he made Governor, they would have it made. Nobody really dared dream much beyond that, at least not at first. Molly and Jim Stinson wholeheartedly agreed with the plan.

Stinson was a true scholar. He possessed the ability to work hard, but did not consider studying to be drudgery. He envisioned a career in politics and considered every day an opportunity to prepare himself for that day. After LSU, he earned his way to the prestigious Oxford College in England on a Rhodes Scholarship, then Harvard Law School. Because he was so gifted, he elevated himself above his social ranking, rising far beyond what normally came from his neck of the woods. His scholarships, from high school to Harvard, were not of the affirmative action variety; they were legitimate academic rides, and it all saved the New Orleans Mafia over $100,000 in tuition over the years. In turn they passed some of the savings on to Molly, who lived well, and to Jim a nice French Quarter prostitute as a bonus for straight A's, a paid trip to Washington or New York or L.A.

Stinson was a wild and wooly late 1960s, early 1970s radical. He did drugs. He apparently was emulating his mother and making time with as many girls as possible. These were the days of "free love," and Stinson drank from that trough. In high school he was a loud anti-war protester, with the abominable "bad hair" that went with it. Vietnam was raging. Stinson did not want to touch it with a 10-foot pole. Stinson saw the power of anti-Americanism. He identified with it. Being the poor kid whose mother tramped about the countryside, he saw himself as one of the dispossessed "victims" of American greed and capitalism. Eventually, his mother would be elevated to heroic status by the Democratic Party, and his drug-addled brother trotted out as his spokesman by the liberal media.

"Res ipsa loquiter," wrote Ramsay, meaning in Latin "the thing speaks for itself."

Stinson enthusiastically rallied against America during the war. When he went to Moscow, he said it was a "vacation," a "sight-seeing trip." His detractors implied that he may have offered his services to the Communists, or that they might have recruited him. There was some evidence that his itinerary and travel schedule veered from the tightly controlled tourist schedule of the average foreign visitor to Moscow, which could be a sign that he had a handler. One of his biographers wrote that Stinson was a CIA informer during his Rhodes Scholar days. He had no visible income, yet traveled around Europe and the Soviet Union, staying at the best hotels in Moscow.

"Jim-boy," as Ramsay dubbed him, might have been a "Manchurian Candidate," adding "it explains much about him. If indeed he did endeavor to, or actually carry out, espionage and treason against the U.S., he got away with it." Ramsay discovered most of the underground Louisiana activities Stinson was engaged in, but while his instincts about Stinson working with the Communists was true, he never proved it in the book.

Stinson met a 19-year-old woman in an English bar and had sex with her. She claimed it was rape. Stinson claimed it was not. A retired State Department official, who was involved in the case at the time, told the Capitol Hill Blue news service, "There is no doubt in my mind that this woman suffered severe emotional trauma. But we were under tremendous pressure to avoid the embarrassment of having a Rhodes Scholar charged with rape. I filed a report to my superiors and that was the last I heard of it." The victim's family did not file charges.

Stinson's early political mentors were largely segregationists of the civil rights era, including Cleve Carver and the Arkansas Democrat, Senator William Fulbright. When Dwight Eisenhower tried to enact civil rights laws, Democrats like these men blocked it. When President Lyndon Johnson proposed civil rights in 1964-65, they joined fellow Democrats to try and block it again. Republicans gave Johnson the votes he needed. But by the 1970s, the times they were a-changin', and Stinson had no sympathy for segregation. Instead, he understood the power of the black vote, which if harnessed correctly through social programs, handouts and affirmative action, could be swung to the Democrats with potential 90 percent majorities.

Stinson was drafted but the war ended before he had to face enlistment. "He was a draft dodger," wrote Ramsay, recalling those very words coming out of Stinson's mouth when he was at LSU with him. He met a 22-year-old woman who told the LSU campus police that Stinson sexually assaulted her. No charges were filed, but retired campus policemen contacted by Capitol Hill Blue news service confirmed the incident. The woman later turned up dead.

At Harvard Law School, he met Jill Wyndham. Jill grew up in a prominent Democratic family from the Midwestern suburbs. She was a total liberal, since Stinson was conservative by Democratic standards. "In those days the party had not yet been hi-jacked by liberalism," wrote Ramsay. "This was the first indication that her entire moral base was the hunger for power. She saw at Radcliffe the power of the lesbian elite that is part of liberalism's core. Jill realized that her political chances were better attaching herself to this new, shrill voice than the old-fashioned American values embodied by traditional America." Her senior thesis had never been viewed. She ordered it sealed from public view.

When she met Stinson, her plan was hatched. Here was a smart, savvy Southern Democrat. His politics were not entirely in line with the anti-Americanism she adhered to at Radcliffe, but she apparently did not know he came under a Communist handler, either; one who told Stinson he thought Jill freely chose Marxism on her own. The thinking after Vietnam, as she saw it, was this was the future of the Democratic Party. There was some attraction, by her towards him, but little by him towards her physically. But Jim fell in love with her intellect and saw in her a perfect counter-weight to his Southern style, especially with women. A political marriage was struck.

Jill realized that Jim's star would have to rise and shine first. She would rise with it, in the manner of Eva Peron, who slept her way to success as a political wife in 1940s Argentina. She would bear up to life in Louisiana. In light of Richard Nixon's "Southern strategy," she knew that this part of the country would be instrumental in future national elections. Racial politics had already changed. She perceived that the Democrats could benefit from the new openness. She was right. Jill would take a job as a lawyer and make money while her husband made his name.

Both worked for the Democrats when Watergate broke, trying to impeach Richard Nixon, but they did not meet each other at the time. Once that mission was accomplished, they went on to finish their undergraduate educations. Stinson was profiled occasionally in "hometown boy makes good articles" detailing his rise through LSU, the Rhodes Scholarship, and Harvard Law School, but politically he was unknown. He ran for Mayor in a crowded Democratic primary.

"Yet as soon as he enters the race," his biographer wrote, "Mr. Stinson enjoys a decisive seven-to-one advantage in campaign funds over the nearest Democratic competitor, and will spend twice as much as his well-supported GOP opponent. It begins with a quiet meeting at his mother's house in New Orleans. Around the kitchen table, as Molly Worre will describe the scene, avid young Jim meets with two of his most crucial early backers – Uncle Albert, a prosperous local Buick dealer, and family friend and wealthy businessman Gabby 'Crawdads' Hartley. As they talk, Hartley offers the candidate unlimited use of his private plane, and Uncle Albert not only provides several houses around the city to serve as campaign headquarters, but will secure a $20,000 loan to Jim from the First National Bank of Louisiana - an amount then equal to the yearly income of many Louisiana families. Together, the money and aircraft and other gifts, including thousands more in secret donations, will launch Mr. Stinson in the most richly financed race in the annals of Louisiana . . .

"No mere businessman with a spare plane, Crawdads Hartley presided over a backroom bookie operation that was one of New Orleans' most lucrative criminal enterprises. [And the] inimitable Uncle Albert, was far more than an auto dealer. In the nationally prominent fount of vice and corruption that was New Orleans from the 1920s to the 1980s (its barely concealed casinos generated more income than Las Vegas well into the 1960s), the uncle's Buick agency and other businesses and real estate were widely thought to be facades for illegal gambling, drug money laundering and other ventures, in which Albert was a partner. He was a minion of the organized crime overlord who controlled the American middle South for decades, New Orleans boss Carlos Marcello or 'Mafia Kingfish' as his biographer John Davis called him."

This peaked Ramsay's interest, and using the thread of Uncle Albert and Hartley, he worked backwards and found the lifelong connection of the mob boys to Molly Worre, piecing together their ties to her until he saw, as he had suspected when he was denied entrance into a private academy at age 14 that Stinson seemingly went to "in my place." He determined that was when the decision was made to sponsor the young man's political rise.

His mob connections, orchestrated through his mother, who Ramsay wrote was "a small-time Judith Campbell Exner," belie the image of a man rising from hardscrabble beginnings by dint of talent and work.

Capitol Hill Blue news service reported that a female student claimed Stinson attempted to keep her in his office against her wishes, groping and feeling her out, while working as a law clerk at a Mafia law firm the summer after his first year at Harvard. She reported the incident, but Stinson said she ''came on'' to him. The firm sponsored Stinson, so they protected him. The girl was forced to re-locate in Texas. She chose not to speak to reporters. Others Ramsay interviewed confirmed that it happened.

Much of Stinson's corrupt career was shaped early on when he clashed with a state senator named Conick Henry, a good ol' boy and part of a political machine in Orleans Parish called Weyford/Beaudreau, two of the bosses at the time. Henry smoked and drank. Stinson laced a sandwich with poison and the machine covered up the medical investigation. Henry had a "heart attack" and died. After that Stinson orchestrated the killing of "Pickles" Weyford, 70 years old, who also drank and smoked. He also died of a "heart attack."

The Weyford/Beaudreau machine lost a big wheel and Stinson became the leader of a new group called the Turks. The Turks were the New Orleans Mafia. After that, Democratic politics in New Orleans were completely corrupt. Anybody remotely honest then switched to the Republicans, the Libertarians, or got out of the game. The mob had always been a powerful force in New Orleans. The state was corrupt going back to Napoleon Bonaparte and the Louisiana Purchase. They controlled the Democratic Party, but after the 1960s the Republicans started winning in Louisiana and throughout the South. The mob boys began to lose influence.

"They installed 'Jim-boy' Stinson as their guy, sponsored him since he was 14, and put his best friend growing up, Don Carver, in charge of handling him," wrote Ramsay. "Two men died in three years who stood in Stinson's way. That was just the start."

None of the Turks were older than 40. They included Stinson, Jill Wyndham-Stinson, Hanford MacArthur, and Don Carver. Huey and Earl Long were their idols. The papers wrote that Stinson was taking cash payoffs from a Baton Rouge businessman named Trevor Haskins, fairly minor stuff for Stinson, but Haskins was implicated in a phony land deal and other shady dealings. He turned up dead via suicide, using a shotgun. Louisiana began to trend to the GOP. Republican U.S. Senator Alvin Livingstone was a decorated Marine fighter jock and avid pilot who flew his own private Cessna at air shows. He and a Democratic Congressman from Lake Charles named Taylor Lefleur were up in the air one day, the controls went screwy, and they both died in the ensuing crash on their way from Louisiana to D.C. Lefleur was not considered an ally of Stinson. He was in the same party but he was a conservative with a reputation for incorruptibility. There was a lot of talk of him switching to the GOP. After that Stinson was elected Senator in a wild, close election. Most people, even his allies, stipulated that he stole it. The Stinson's expanded their group into what was called the Coalition, killing everybody who stood in the way of Jim and Jill Stinson's ambitions.

Stinson was also backed by Hot Springs, Arkansas mob interests in league with the state Democratic Party, led by Cleve and Don Carver. Two Indonesian billionaires came to New Orleans to do business with Stinson, who they heard was pliable in various matters. Mochtar Riady and Liem Sioe Liong, close to Indonesian strongman Suharto, ran a company called Riady. Riady was looking for an American bank to buy. It was not unlike Meyer Lansky's decision to do business in Fulgencio Batista's Cuba, where a friendly government would give him carte blanche. Cleve Carver put Riady together with Jackson Stone, and Stone Finance was formed. An association began between Stone and BCCI's founder, Hassan Abedi, with Carver aide Bert Lawson, all sponsored by the city of New Orleans. It was pure corruption.

Jill Wyndham-Stinson joined the New Orleans law firm Broussard and Galatoire, run by the New Orleans Mafia and the Democratic Party. The Stinsons and their friends, James and Susan McDowell, bought land in the Ozarks for $203,000 with mostly borrowed money. The 203-acre plot was called Blackwater. It was scammed to retirees as a retirement community, even though there was no infrastructure or business within 50 miles to support it. The Washington Post later said that some of the retirees were forced to "live off the land" because, to borrow Gertrude Stein's phrase, there was "no there there." More than half of the purchasers lost their plots in the sleazy rip-off deal.

Two months later, Jill Stinson invested $1,000 in an insider cattle futures deal. A few days later her $1,000 was $5,000. She earned almost $100,000 altogether. Economists estimated the chances of making such a profit legally are one in 250 million.

Stinson arranged for Jim McDowell to be made an economic development advisor. His mother was regularly seen "hanging out" at the racetrack with mobsters. She introduced her son, Robert to horse breeder Dan Laster. Laster gave Robert "work" and helped him pay off an $8,000 drug debt to Colombia's infamous Medellin Cartel. Robert had a four-gram per day cocaine habit. He got his stuff from a New York broker of the Medellin supply. The Medellin normally would not extend business to white trash types like Robert. But his family connection, including his mother being a mob associate and, his middleman later testified, "who his brother was," made him an exception. It was during this time that rumors circulated Jill was having an affair with a woman at Broussard and Galatoire.

Stinson raped a woman named Juanita Broadmoor, who was a Democrat volunteer in Stinson's campaign. He almost bit her lip off in the process of the act. The hospital reported the rape. Stinson's people removed the report and photos. Broadmoor was frightened out of her mind, and intimidated by mobsters into not pressing charges against Stinson.

Robert Moore wrote in Partners in Power that Stinson accosted a woman lawyer in Baton Rouge. When she rejecting him, he bit her. The lawyer, like Broadmoor, chose not to press charges against him because he already had a reputation as a man who was protected by forceful elements. When her husband saw Stinson at the Democratic Convention, he told him, "If you ever approach her, I'll kill you." Stinson apologized and told the man he would never contact her.

Shortly after these incidents, Paula Gruber, Stinson's speech interpreter for the deaf who was with him when these incidents occurred, was killed in a high-speed, no witness, one-car crash. A legal secretary said Stinson attempted to force her to perform oral sex. Her boyfriend, a Democratic lawyer, told her that "people who crossed Stinson usually regretted it," and that she should forget that it ever happened.

"I haven't forgotten it," she told Duke Ramsay. "You don't forget crude men like that."

Sharlene Willsey testified that she sold cocaine to Robert Stinson, and observed Jim snort some at Le Bistro, a New Orleans nightclub.

"I watched Jim Stinson lean up against a brick wall," Willsey told a writer named Ambrose Evans Richards. "He was so messed up that night, he slid down the wall into a garbage can and just sat there like a complete idiot."

Willsey said she observed Jim's avid drug use for two years. Drug prosecutor Jean Dufficy said she believed the testimony. Louisiana state trooper Larry Anderson claimed that Governor Stinson had oral sex with a woman in a car parked outside his daughter's school. Governor Stinson appointed Web Howell to head the state ethics commission, with the goal being the weakening of legislation exempting the Governor from strong oversight provisions. Louisiana under "Jim-boy Stinson," as Ramsay referred to him, was the home of some of the most notorious gunrunning, drug and money laundering operations in America. The IRS issued notice that Stinson's "enticing climate" was ripe for bribery. Operatives would go into banks with duffel bags full of cash. Bank officers distributed the dough to tellers in sums under $10,000. Anything under 10 grand is not reportable.

Ambrose Richards wrote that Sharlene Willsey flew cocaine from Mena, Arkansas to Louisiana. Other drugs were stuffed into chickens for shipping. Willsey was known as "the lady with the snow" at "toga parties" attended by Jim Stinson.

"I lived in New Orleans, Louisiana, okay?" said Willsey. "And I worked at a club called Le Bistro's, and I met Robert Stinson there, Governor Jim Stinson, a couple of his state troopers that went with him wherever he went. Robert Stinson had come up to me and he had asked me could I give him some coke, you know, and asked for my one-hitter, which a one-hitter is a very small silver device, okay, that you stick up into your nose and you just squeeze it and a snort of cocaine will go up in there. And I watched Robert hand what I had given him to Governor Stinson, and he just kind of turned around and walked off."

Investor's Business Daily reported that Sally Pardue, a former Miss Arkansas and Little Rock talk show host who said she had an affair with then-Senator Stinson, told the London Sunday Telegraph that he once came over to her house with a bag full of cocaine.

"He had all the equipment laid out, like a real pro," said Pardue. "He smoked marijuana in my presence and offered me the opportunity to snort cocaine if I wanted to."

Gennifer Fairchild, who had an affair with Stinson, told talk host Sean Hanson of Fox News, "I wasn't into that. Jim clearly let me know that he did cocaine. And I know people that knew he did cocaine. He did tell me that when he would use a substantial amount of cocaine that his head would itch so badly that he would become self-conscious at parties where he was doing this. Because all he wanted to do while people were talking to him is stand around and scratch his head . . ."

Two Louisiana state troopers swore under oath that Stinson was ''under the influence'' of drugs. Sharlene Willsey said Jim and Robert snorted blow together. Jack McCloy, a Democratic politician, told the Sunday Telegraph that he could ''remember going into the Governor's conference room once and it reeked of marijuana.'' Robert Moore quoted law enforcement officers who said they knew of Stinson's drug abuse. Apartment manager Jane Park said she would listen through the walls while the Governor and Robert talked about their drugs. The American Spectator tried for years to verify rumors that Stinson overdosed.

Jill Stinson made a $44,000 profit on a $2,000 insider investment in a cellular phone franchise deal designed to bilk minorities and women through an FCC loophole. Her investment was made just before the cellular giant, McCaw, bought the company.

A drug pilot claimed that he would land his Cessna 210 full of cocaine into eastern Louisiana. State troopers would meet him. Jerry Park's wife claimed that security operatives brought huge sums of money from Mena airport to Jill's partner at Broussard and Galatoire, while Vince Forster waited in a K-Mart parking lot. Mrs. Park opened the trunk and found so much cash she could not close it again. Her husband told her that Forster paid him $1,000 for each trip to Mena, and to forget what she had seen.

"Forster was using him as a kind of operative to collect sensitive information on things and do sensitive jobs," Richards wrote. "Some of this appears to have been done on behalf of Jill Stinson . . . Forster told him that Jill wanted it done. Now, my understanding . . . is that she wanted to know how vulnerable he would be in a Presidential race on the question of - how shall I put it? - his appetites."

Interestingly, Ramsay also discovered that Jill Stinson lobbied on behalf of the Nicaraguan Contras, which opened his investigation up to the possibility of a double-deal. Her Marxist views were anathema to the Contras, freedom fighters battling the Castro-supported Sandinistas in Nicaragua. Jim Stinson was in Congress and expanding his connections. Was it possible Stinson was working with the Reagan-Bush Administrations, profiting from rumors of a Mena smuggling operation, yet protected because he was in cahoots with the Republicans, albeit for economic reasons, whereby they were doing it out of political motivation?

Word began to spread around New Orleans that Dan Laster threw parties in which coke and women were available. Jim was a frequent guest. Robert's landlady, Jane Pack, said Jim visited his apartment and shared drugs and underage girls with him. Judy Gill, a model/escort who appeared in Penthouse, ran a brothel in New Orleans. They blackmailed powerful clients. Her family linked her to Stinson, but after she cooperated with police in a cocaine trafficking investigation, she was burned to death inside her home from an unsolved fire.

Newsmax reported that, "[Former Stinson bodyguard Barry] Spicer had become something of a mystery man, who insisted on meeting [Paula Johnson investigator] Rick Lambeaux on a deserted road nestled deep in the Louisiana Bayou. The Johnson investigator admitted he was none too comfortable with the situation. Spicer shared a story about a conversation he had with Stinson while on a flight over the Bayou. The trooper noticed a blackened patch amidst the greenery below that, surprisingly, Stinson recognized. That patch was all that was left of an estate that had burned to the ground some years earlier. According to the trooper, Stinson began reminiscing about rumors of his involvement with the woman of the house, a onetime 'Penthouse pet.' Her husband, Spicer said, was involved in a pornography ring. Stinson explained to Spicer, 'You know that mansion just burned down right on top of them.' " Years later, Spicer told Duke Ramsay, "I was struck by one thing: the eerie expression that crossed Stinson's face as he spoke those words . . ."

Well over 30 people met unexpected, often violent deaths after being connected in some manner to Jim Stinson within a short period of time. Louisiana officials poorly investigated almost all of them. They were either incompetent or chose incompetence. How many were killed by Stinson and his people were not determined, Ramsay concluded. Barbara White's semi-nude body was found in the state Commerce Department. She was said to be a troubled individual, and the chances were that her death had no connection to Stinson. A business figure with connections to espionage operations was scheduled to fly on a plane with a Stinson appointee. At the last second, he cancelled his seat, and the plane crashed. The businessman later died in the crash of TWA 800.

Vince Forster's death could have been part of illegal activities he performed or knew that Stinson was involved in. Investigators may have been getting close to past money laundering, drug trafficking, or illegal intelligence operations.

"All of this leads me to stop for a second and contemplate some possibilities," Ramsay said when he made his media tour promoting The Stinson Body Count. "I am a Christian, and many, especially those of the liberal persuasion (who have adopted the Stinsons as their heroes) think this is an antiquated religion. For some reason, the 'Eastern philosophies,' which are much older than Christianity, are often their preferred 'faiths.' Anyway, Christianity offers the existence of the devil.

"Now, this no doubt will make many think I am a nut, but I do not care. I believe that a human being can summon forth the power of Satan if he believes in his heart that Satan is real. I believe he can make a deal with the devil to achieve greatness that he or she otherwise would not attain. I believe there are famous people in Hollywood, politics, music, the business world, book publishing, and other endeavors, who have achieved their success as a result of these deals. I believe dark forces protect them. I believe it is utterly possible that the Stinsons made such a deal."

Jill refused to change her last name to just Stinson, and showed disdain for the "red-necks" of Louisiana. Larry Nicholson told Ramsay that Stinson had determined that he had to "dry out on the white stuff" before making another run. Ramsay spoke to emergency room workers at the Tulane University Medical Center to confirm whether Stinson had been hospitalized after OD'ing. He was not told "no."

'I can't talk about that,'' a nurse said. Another feared for her life. Dr. Sam Howser, a well-known physician and doctor for Jill's father, told Ramsay it was a cocaine overdose, "well known within medical circles." Howser had full knowledge of the incidents, which involved state troopers and Jill's instructions for the hospital staff. Jill told both resident physicians that they would never practice medicine in the United States if Stinson's drug problem leaked out. She pinned one up against the wall to back up her point. Both hands pressed against his shoulders, as she gave her dire warning.

"I saw something that scared me to death," one doctor told Ramsay. "I can't say for sure but it wasn't human. I backed off."

Jim McDowell developed a system to pass money to Stinson. A contractor agreed to pad his monthly construction bill by $2,000. The contractor put the figure on his invoice as a cost for gravel or culvert work. After he was paid the full amount . . . the contractor reimbursed McDowell the $2,000. He turned the money over to Stinson. Once, after he handed over his latest consignment of 20 hundred-dollar bills to relay to the Governor's office, Stinson's assistant said, "Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First had Cromwell. Stinson could profit from these examples if we cross him.'"

Jill wrote to Jim McDowell that, "If Reagonomics works at all, Blackwater could become the Western Hemisphere's Mecca."

Major drug trafficker Barry Segal, under pressure from Louisiana, relocated his operations to Mena. Segal imported 1,000 pounds of cocaine a month from the Medellin. He claimed to have made over $50 million. As an informant, he said that he made about 60 trips to Central America and returned with 18,000 kilograms.

Ramsay found a report that stated, "The London Telegraph has obtained some of the first depositions in ex-CIA contract flyer Terry Reid's suit against Stinson's ex-security chief - and now a high-paid FEMA director - Buddy Olde. A scared, anonymous Louisiana state trooper told Ramsay there were 'large quantities of drugs being flown into the Mena airport, large quantities of money, large quantities of guns.' State troopers working on Stinson's security detail discussed the subject repeatedly in Stinson's presence, he alleged. Petersen said the Governor 'had very little comment to make; he was just listening to what was being said.' "

State police investigator Russell Walters said the Mena airport was owned by a man who "doesn't exist in history back past a safe house in Baltimore in 1972." Someone who "smuggled heroin through Laos back in the '70s" owned another. Still another was "owned by a guy who just went bankrupt. So what's he do? Flies to Europe for more money." Walters told Ramsay "the DEA's been tracking those planes back and forth to Columbia for a while now."

Ramsay found a detailed DEA report that a backer of Stinson "smuggles cocaine from Colombia, South America, inside race horses to New Orleans." IRS agent William Dunston and an Arkansas state police investigator reportedly took drug trafficking concerns to a U.S Attorney. 20 witnesses were to be subpoenaed before the grand jury.

"Three witnesses appeared before the grand jury, but afterwards, two of them also expressed surprise at how their questioning was handled," wrote Ramsay. "One, a secretary at Rick Mountain Aviation, had given Dunston sworn statements about money laundering at the company, transcripts of which Dunston had provided to the U.S. Attorney. But when the woman left the jury room, she complained that the U.S. Attorney had asked her nothing about the crime or the sworn statements she'd given to Dunston. Dunston said, 'She basically said that she was allowed to give her name, address, position, and not much else.' The other angry witness was a banker who had, in Dunston's words, 'provided a significant amount of evidence relating to the money-laundering operation.' According to Dunston, he, too, emerged from the jury room complaining 'that he was not allowed to provide the evidence that he wanted to provide to the grand jury.' "

Mochtar Riady formed Lippo Finance & Investment in New Orleans. A non-citizen, Riady hired SBA director Vernon Webster to chair the firm, along with a $2 million loan guaranteed by the SBA. Webster used a character reference from Governor Stinson to guarantee the loan, which was funneled to New Orleans Chinese restaurateur Charlie True. Riady and Jack Stevenson formed Pacific Trading, while state regulators warned McDowell's Madson Guarantee S&L to stop making improper loans. Stinson knew about the warnings but did nothing. All the while, Ramsay discovered, the Mena drug-running operation was in full swing. The drugs were transported in coolers marked "medical supplies." Jim Stinson reportedly met the planes.

Dan Laster's firm was under investigation for drug peddling, but he still was given parts of 14 state bond issues. Judge David McHale's Investment Management Services began loaning money to state figures. Stevenson and Riady bought Southern Bank, installing Riady's 28-year-old son, Jonni as president. BCCI investor Abdullah Taha Bakhish was a co-owner. Jim McDowell attempted to keep his S&L, which had been providing cash for the Blackwater operation from being shut down by the state.

Stinson used to "jog over to McDowell's office about once a month to pick up the [retainer] check for his wife," Ramsay quoted a business associate. Goldman Sachs, Payne Webber, Salomon Brothers and Merrill Lynch became Stinson's financial backers. So did Washington socialite Paula Harrelson. They were not the only "backers" of Jim Stinson.

" . . . The mob really came into Arkansas and Louisiana politics," a former U.S. Attorney told Ramsay. "It wasn't just Jim Stinson and it went beyond our old Dixie Mafia . . . This was Eastern and West Coast crime money that noticed the possibilities just like the legitimate corporations did."

Dan Laster bought a New Mexico ski resort for $20 million, and the Stinson's promoted it. U.S. Customs determined that the resort was a front for drugs and money laundering. Laster, with Patsy Thomson, bought a 24,000-acre ranch in the drug emporium of Belize, helped by the U.S. Ambassador, a Democrat. The Belize government nixed the deal, though.

Under Stinson, Louisiana's prison system sold prisoners' blood to Canada, until a problem was discovered involving AIDS and hepatitis. Thousands of dollars in mysterious checks were cashed through the Blackwater account at Madson Guaranty in a check-kiting scheme McDowell operated, probably with the Stinsons. When Robert Stinson was arrested for buying more cocaine in Arkansas, he told Hot Springs police, "Got to get some for my brother. He's got a nose like a vacuum cleaner." Robert was working for Dan Laster at the time.

Barry Segal said the Mena operation earned him between $60 and $100 million, but the drug task force was closing in on him. He flew to D.C. to cut a deal, "rolling" for the DEA on the Medellin Cartel. Louisiana and Arkansas agents were unaware of Segal's deal.

"By Segal's own account," Ramsay wrote, "his gross income in the year and a half after he became an informant - while he was based at Mena and while Asa Houston was the federal prosecutor in Fort Smith, 82 miles away - was three-quarters of a million dollars. Segal reported that $575,000 of that income had been derived from a single cocaine shipment, which the DEA had allowed him to keep. Pressed further, he testified that, since going to work for the DEA, he had imported 1,500 pounds of cocaine into the U.S. Supposed informant Segal will fly repeatedly to Colombia, Guatemala, and Panama, where he meets with Jorge Ochoa, Fabio Ochoa, Pablo Escobar, and Carlos Lehder - leaders of the cartel that at the time controlled an estimated 80 percent of the cocaine entering the United States." Stinson's ties with Segal were very deep.

When National Guard troops were sent to Honduras to aid the Contras, Congressman Stinson offered to "help" the Contras, sending a man named Buddy Sayers and the Louisiana National Guard. They left "excess" weapons behind for the Contras. Ramsay further theorized this was done as cover for a drug deal involving the Contras or some other Central American organization.

State trooper L.D. White, Stinson's bodyguard, applied to the CIA. Stinson fixed his application regarding Nicaragua. White met a "CIA recruiter" in Dallas, who arranged a meeting with Barry Segal, who was cooperating with a task force. White joined Segal, flying M16s to Honduras. They returned with duffel bags. When White expressed concern to Stinson that he might be involved in illegalities, " 'Jim-boy' told him, 'Oh, you can handle it, don't sweat it,' " Ramsay quoted him. White eventually looked in the duffel bags on the next trip and found cocaine.

Ramsay's theory that the drug-running operation could have involved the CIA under a Republican President, which was why it was kept under wraps, "could explain why the Republicans did not go after Stinson harder," he wrote. "A CIA operation to bust the drug lords or to use them to aid the Contras may have involved Manuel Noriega of Panama. Either way, it may have eventually spun into something they did not want exposed."

Robert pled guilty to cocaine distribution and served a short prison sentence. Wayne Dupont allegedly raped a relative of Jim Stinson. He was then sexually assaulted and castrated by two masked men. A local sheriff was sentenced to 160 years for extortion and drug dealing. He kept a jar on his desk with Dupont's testicles in it, reading, "That's what happens to people who fool around in my county." A parole board eventually released Dupont when evidence revealed his innocence.

Stinson carried on a "romping, stomping fit," according to the editor of the New Orleans Times-Picayune. He blocked the release. Stinon had ordered the innocent Dupont's testicles to be castrated by sheriff's deputies, blocked the release of an innocent man, and was involved in extortion and drug dealing with the sheriff.

McDowell put Mrs. Stinson on a $2,000 a month retainer by Madson Guaranty to mollify her and keep her passing money to her husband. Jill later denied involvement in Madson, who she represented before the state securities department. When her lie was later exposed she exclaimed, "For goodness sakes, you can't be a lawyer if you don't represent banks."

The Louisiana Development Finance Authority was, according to a Stinson crony, "his own political piggy bank." Millions were funneled to Stinson's people, but records were usually not kept. LDFA was used to bring in business from out of the state. The hook under Stinson was that Louisiana kept union activity to a minimum. This was because the mob did not like to share with unions.

Dan Laster underwrote a $30 million bond deal for state police radios at the time that Robert was telling the U.S. about Laster's drug operations. Jim Stinson, through Southern Bank, was raiding the Louisiana state pension funds during this time, causing them to lose 15 percent of their value. Stinson's subsequent high risk, short-term investment caused a $52 million loss. Mochtar Riady bailed out Stinson. They covered the losses with a Southern Bank check written by Jack Stevenson in the middle of the night, an insurance policy, and the subsequent purchase over the next few months of 40 percent of the bank.

A Chinese native named John Huang became a Lippo executive in Louisiana. China Resources paid Lippo to "tour" Asia on behalf of Governor Stinson, according to the FBI. Mochtar and James Riady took over the First National Bank of Mena. It was alleged that they ran a Contra supply base in addition to the drug and money rackets.

Contra operative Terry Reid helped organize Operation Charity. The plan was to steal planes and boats needed for the Contras, and the owners claimed the insurance. Reid was a CIA asset of a man named Felix Fernandez. Park on Meter, a manufacturer of parking meters in rural Louisiana, was the recipient of an industrial loan from the Louisiana Development Finance Authority. Allegedly, this company was a federal front for the manufacture of chemical and biological weapons and devices to carry them on C-130s for the Contras. They denied it, but they admitted to having secret military contracts.

"A parking meter manufacturer that had secret military contracts?" Ramsay asked rhetorically. Web Howell was their attorney. Next to their land was an Army Reserve chemical warfare company.

Checks made out to Stinson and his campaign were endorsed and placed in Madson S&L. A cashier's check in the amount of $3,000 had the name of a 24-year-old college student named Ken Peabody on it. He refuted that claim. Blackwater did not file corporate tax returns. Police sources alleged that a Jill Stinson associate, Asa Hudgens, knew about the Mena operation but did not act. Mike Fitzpatrick, his successor, did not allow state investigator Russell Walsh and IRS agent William Dunston to present a money-laundering scheme to the grand jury. Jim McDowell created another land deal called Big Castle.

Ramsay discovered that Stinson's Louisiana was a "major point for the transshipment of drugs" and "perilously close to becoming a 'narco-republic' - a sort of mini-Columbia within the borders of the United States. Meyer Lansky would have been proud.

"An epidemic of cocaine, contaminating the political establishment from top to bottom," with parties "at which cocaine would be served like hors d'oeuvres and sex was rampant," was Ramsay's description of events attended by Stinson.

Madson was described by a bank audit as financially reckless and ready to break apart. It hoped to fold and be rescued by the feds, just like so many other S&Ls. The audit, however, indicated that Madson's records were even shoddier than most. It was obvious that the exact nature of their transactions was meant to be kept secret. Madson's records were so bad, Ramsay concluded, in order to hide the Stinson's participation.

David Hall's State Management Services Inc. received an SBA-approved $300,000 loan for Susan McDowell, who owned an advertising agency called Mister Marketing. The loan was never repaid.

Dan Laster pled guilty to cocaine distribution. Robert copped a plea and testified against him. Both did time. Laster's jail-time affairs were run by future Stinson aide Patsy Thomas.

Associates of Barry Segal had their money and drug racketeering case dropped despite investigators' and IRS objections. Segal was slated to testify at Jorge Pena's trial. Segal was murdered by three Colombian hit men in a gangland hit in Baton Rouge just before it started.

Months later, Segal's cargo plane was shot down over Nicaragua with supplies from Mena for the Contras. Crewmember Eugene Hagenfuis survived. Louisiana's Attorney General told the U.S. Attorney General that Barry Segal had smuggled $3-$5 billion worth of drugs into the States. It was done for, and with the cooperation of Jim Stinson.

Blackwater did not file corporate tax returns. James Riady resigned from Southern Bank. McDowell's Blackwater files were transferred to the Stinsons. They made no records of this.

Two boys, Kevin Ives and Don Henry, died when a train ran over them on a railroad track. It was ruled "accidental." Supposedly the kids smoked pot and fell asleep on the tracks, never hearing the oncoming train. Independent investigators, aware that they were close to Mena and that suspicious drug-related activity was rumored to be going on there, were completely stonewalled by law enforcement officials in their efforts to get to the heart of the matter.

After dogged work, they managed to exhume the bodies so an autopsy could be performed. That autopsy determined that Henry had been stabbed in the back while Ives was beaten with a rifle butt. Ramsay determined that the Mafia and the Stinson's political machine were behind the murders. Theories as to why they had to die included the possibility that they came across a drug drop. The drop could have been not of drugs but cash, gold and platinum, based on the concept that there was a series of drops in which federal intelligence agents were being reimbursed. Another version of events, theorized Duke Ramsay, said the Dixie mob and Stinson political boys had stolen the drops, using the boys as scapegoats.

"I firmly believe my son and Don Henry were killed because they witnessed a drug drop by an airplane connected to the Mena drug smuggling routes," Ives' mother told Duke Ramsay, stating that the entire investigation was a cover-up. By this time, Ramsay was quite sure there would an attempt on his life, but he was driven as if by the Holy Spirit to get to the bottom of this sordid story.

"I believe the law enforcement agents were connected to some very high political people because they have never been brought to justice and I don't think they ever will be," prosecutor Jean Dufficy said of the incident. "I think they are protected to avoid exposing the connection . . . There have been several murders of potential witnesses. Anyone who could have solved this murder many years ago has been systematically eliminated."

Nine people who had knowledge of events surrounding the Ives-Henry murders ended up dead. "The chance that this is coincidence is so far from being possible that it is that with which is impossible," Ramsay wrote.

That is what the meaning of is is.

Keith McCaskell told his parent's good-bye because of the "railroad track thing" that he knew involved Stinson's "octopus squad." An inmate said he was offered $4,000 to kill him. A suspect in the Ives-Henry murders was killed in a robbery set-up. Boonie Dierdorf disappeared from the face of the Earth after rumors floated around that he knew what had happened to the kids. James Milano was decapitated. Clinton's state medical examiner, Fahmy Mahar, called the Ives-Henry deaths accidental and Mahar was decapitated by natural causes. Jeff Rozier was shot, burned and his hands and feet were sawed off.

Terry Reid said that after his plane was returned he was told it would have to be "borrowed" again, so therefore he did not report it missing. Reid said he backed off the operation when he learned that drugs were involved. Reid felt state financial people were laundering drug money. He told Felix Fernandez he wanted out. Reid was charged with mail fraud for trying to collect on the insurance on a plane in a hanger. Captain Buddy Yuma, the head of Stinson's Swiss Guard, said he saw the Piper Turbo Arrow at the airport.

At the home of Pam Harrelson, Democrats met over 100 times to come up with a plan to revamp their party and take the White House away from the Republicans. Charging donors $1,000 to attend her soirees, Harrelson raked in $12 million and the cabal settled Jim Stinson as the man to lead them to the Promised Land. Polk County prosecutor Charles Dark asked to meet Governor Stinson to probe illegal activities in Mena.

"His response," Mr. Dark told CBS News, "was that he would get a man on it and get back to me. I never heard back."

Arkansas Representative Bill Alexis pressured the General Accounting Office to investigate Mena. The National Security Council shut his probe down within four months, according to the Wall Street Journal. Congressional inquiries never got anywhere.

Associates of Segal, who operated aircraft service businesses at the Mena, Arkansas airport, were also targets of grand jury probes into narcotics trafficking. Despite the availability of evidence sufficient for an indictment on money laundering charges and over the strong protests of state and federal law enforcement officials, the cases were dropped.

Madson S&L was closed by the feds, costing the taxpayers $47 million. The FDIC hired Webster Howell from Broussard and Galatoire to handle the Madson case. Broussard and Galatoire represented the FDIC and sued an accounting firm for $60 million, blaming their auditing practices on the S&L disaster. Broussard and Galatoire earned $400,000 in fees and expenses. The accounting firm paid $1 million to the government.

"The irony of Jill's law firm working for the government is almost too rich to stomach," Ramsay concluded. "Broussard and Galatoire might as well have been The Firm in John Grisham's novel, only in this version they were not the targets of the federal government, but lawyers for them."

A U.S. Senate subcommittee said they had insufficient evidence to issue indictments on Mena money laundering charges, ending a fruitless five-year investigation. Arkansas prosecutors asked Stinson to allow local investigators to pursue the case further, but he refused the request. A group of University of Arkansas students decided to look into Mena as part of a study of corruption in Arkansas-Louisiana politics. Dan Shorr was the president of Missouri Bank in Noel, Missouri. He told people that he was in trouble because he had become involved in a drug-laundering scheme. He was kidnapped, forced to take out $71,000 from his bank, and then killed.

James Riady took a branch of Lippo Bank in association with John Huang, who was based out of Hong Kong. China Resources Company Ltd. bought bank stock in Hong Kong Chinese Bank at a 15 percent undervalued price. According to intelligence sources, the firm was a front for Chinese military intelligence.

Warren Stevens provided $50,000 for Stinson's campaign commercials. The investigation shut down mysteriously. Something scared the heck out of Sharlene Willsey after she told her story about a coked-out Stinson collapsing into a garbage can. She went on the lamb when her ex-boyfriend, Stinson supporter Dan Harmonson, took charge of the case. Eventually she was located and sentenced to 31 years for a relatively minor charge.

Terry Reid's case was tossed out. The judge was disgusted at the various "holes" in the "chain of proof" necessary for conviction, a reference to the obstruction of justice led by Governor Stinson.

Stinson's security man, Buddy Yuma, was described as having a "reckless disregard for the truth." Yuma's main job was to use state troopers to do Stinson's dirty work, then keep them quiet. He was rewarded with a plumb job at the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

One of those troopers did not stay silent. Larry Peterson testified that there were "large quantities of drugs being flown into Mena airport, large quantities of money, large quantities of guns." Peterson told Ramsay Stinson was aware of all of it. A judge protected Stinson when he said no Mena evidence regarding Stinson would be permitted.

Governor Stinson pardoned Laster after six months in jail. A law enforcement official told Ramsay this was far from normal procedure in such cases. A new drug task force began looking into the deaths of the boys on the railroad tracks. Jean Dufficy told her boss told that her work was not to entail any public officials. This left Stinson out it, despite "witnesses telling us about low-flying aircraft and informants testifying about drug pick-ups" in a large-scale operation that could not have been conducted unless it had the approval of government agencies with state-federal connections.

An Indonesian-Arkansas-Louisiana connection began when the joint Louisiana/Arkansas Industrial Development Commission furthered deals involving Wal-Mart, Tyson's Foods, and JB Hunt. The Times-Picayune report "made reference to Stinson's ideal position as President . . . in helping to secure Arkansas/Louisiana-Indonesian deals." The U.S. Ambassador in Jakarta said that numerous Louisianans began to appear in Indonesia.

According to the IRS, the CIA was still operating out of the Mena airport. Arkansas State Police investigator Russell Walsh developed pneumonia-like symptoms after cooperating with the IRS. According to Ramsay, "Walsh met with IRS Investigator Bill Dunston to write a report on their investigation of Mena drug smuggling and money laundering. Returning to Mena, Walsh told his wife that he didn't feel too well. He thought he had gotten the flu . . . In Ft. Smith a team of doctors was waiting. The doctor had called them twice while Walsh was in transport and they had been in contact with the CDC. Later the doctor would tell Walsh's wife that he was on the edge of death. He would not have made it through the night had he not been in the hospital. He was having fever seizures by now. A couple of days after Walsh had been admitted to St. Edwards Mercy Hospital, his doctor was wheeling him to one of the labs for testing when she asked him if he was doing anything at work that was particularly dangerous. He told her that he had been a cop for about 15 years and that danger was probably inherent with the job description. She told Walsh that they believed he had anthrax. She said the anthrax was the military kind that is used as an agent of biological warfare and that it was induced. Somebody had deliberately infected him. She added that they had many more tests to run but they had already started treating him for anthrax."

Agent Dunston was arrested for possessing a service revolver that he had a permit for. He was beaten and chained in the basement of a D.C. police station. Taken off the Mena case, he was told to falsify testimony for a federal grand jury, refused, and was fired.

Ramsay determined there was "credible evidence of gunrunning, illegal drug smuggling, money laundering and the governmental cover-up and possibly a criminal conspiracy in connection with the Mena airport" by state Attorney General Winston Brian and Jim Stinson. The investigation was inexplicably closed.

"The feds dropped the ball and covered it up," wrote Ramsay, adding it was a "whitewash job."

Jack Stevenson and BCCI figure Mochtar Riady bought BCCI's former Hong Kong subsidiary. Dan Harmonson took over prosecution responsibilities in the train deaths' investigation. His drug investigator, Jean Dufficy, was smeared, threatened and left Arkansas in fear.

In the meanwhile, a D.C. fundraiser said that she was in a hotel room with Jim Stinson when he pinned her against the wall and felt up her dress. She screamed until a Louisiana state trooper knocked on the door. At that point Stinson let her go and she ran away. She told her boss.

When Stinson ran for the Senate, Meredith Oakmont of the Times-Picayune wrote, "His word is dirt. Not a statesman is he, but a common, run-of-the-mill, dime-a-dozen politician. A mere opportunist. A man whose word is fallow ground not because it is unwanted but because it is barren, bereft of the clean-smelling goodness that nurtures wholesome things. Those of us who cling to the precepts of another age, a time in which a man's word was his bond, and, morally, bailing out was not an option, cannot join the madding crowd in celebrating what is for some Jim Stinson's finest hour. We cannot rejoice in treachery. The bleaters who care more for celebrity than veracity are basking in a false and empty light. They trumpet the basest form of political expediency, for they revel amid the debris of a broken promise. Stinson will never accept that assessment of his actions or his following. He subscribes to the credo that the anointed must rule the empire, and he has anointed himself. In his ambition-blinded eyes, one released from a promise has not broken any promise. He ignores the fact that he granted his own pardon."

As more revelations leaked out, causing these kinds of incendiary editorials to increasingly come out against the Stinsons, Carlton Blackledge was made Stinson's security chief; Hanford MacArthur head of the state troopers. They had remained in the shadows up until now, but as Ramsay discovered, were part of the original Turks and Coalition formed when Stinson took out state senator Conick Henry and "Pickles" Weyford, dismantled the Weyford/Beaudreau group, thus strengthening the Turks into the Coalition, allowing Stinson to gather enough support to win the U.S. Senate (after the plane crash killing Senator Livingstone and Congressman Lefleur) a few years later. Their orders were to tighten up security and leaks in preparation for national exposure and a Presidential run.

The Southern Bank gave Stinson a $3.5 million line of credit. Stevens Inc. employees raised more than $100,000 for him. Soraya and Arief Wiriaddnata, the daughter and son-in-law of Lippo's co-founder, donated $450,000 to the DNC. Arief Wiriadinata came to the U.S. from Indonesia. She was supposed to study landscape architecture, although he was described as a gardener.

Metairie Worldwide Travel gave Stinson $1 million in deferred billing for campaigning. Stinson aide David Watson claimed they were responsible for him being able to make his run at the Governor's office.

Stinson's campaign staff created a patrol to stop "bimbo eruptions" by threatening them, buying them, and discrediting the numerous women who had sexual relations, often violent, illegal and misogynistic, with him. Private investigators were sent out in a wide-ranging blackmail, psychological and intimidation operation.

Stinson allowed the execution of a black man, Ricky Ray Proctor, even though he was not mentally competent. Money magazine reported that Stinson received yearly $1.4 million payments for admissions tickets to the state-regulated racetrack. Stinson would hand out tickets to contributors.

CNN reported that the state's greyhound track commission met several times a year, illegally paying for the commissioners' food and booze. Illegal deals were conducted there, on the behest of Jim Stinson.

Torch singer Gennifer Fairchild recorded her last conversation with Stinson. "If they ever ask if you've talked to me about it, you can say no," Stinson was recorded saying. He called the Governor of New York, a fellow Democrat, a "mean son of a bitch."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't have some Mafioso connections," Gennifer told him.

"Well, he acts like one," chuckled Stinson.

Regarding media inquiries, Stinson told her, "If they ever hit you with it, just say no and go on. There's nothing they can do. I expected them to look into it and come interview you. But if everybody is on record denying it, no problem."

The Washington Post and the New York Times had the tapes but decided that such a recording of a Democratic star was not fit to print. Fairchild told Ramsay she received death threats after the recordings were made public. She claimed that making her involvement public was protection from murder. Ramsay realized that was the only way he could stay alive, too; put some light on himself, even if it made him a political target. Better to be a political target than an assassin's target.

Fairchild was asked if Stinson was behind it.

"What I thought, after my home was ransacked, was that he was behind that - simply because I had called to tell him about it and it was his reaction it," she said. "I mean, he acted, he was aloof. He didn't act that concerned. He said, 'Well, why do you think they came in there?' And I said, 'Well, why the hell do you think?' He said, 'Well, do you think they were looking for something on us?' I said, 'Well, yes.' And at that moment I thought, well, maybe you're behind this because he would have as much interest to know what evidence I might have as anyone else would." Fairchild added, "One thing that Jim said on those tapes that I think has run true throughout his career. He told me, 'If we stick together and we continue to deny it, everything will be OK.' "

A survey of Democratic contenders showed "Jim-boy" in the lead for President. A supermarket tabloid, the Globe, said Stinson had fathered a bastard child after she attended orgies with him. She had moved to Australia. The elite media ignored the story. "The chances that they would have ignored it if it had been a Republican are so far from possible as to be simply impossible," wrote Ramsay.

Time whitewashed the Mena investigation as a smear job while smearing those making the allegations against Stinson.

"It's very difficult to catch Jim Stinson in a flat lie," one newspaper editorialized. "His specialty is a lengthy disingenuousness." Former Miss Arkansas Sally Pardue described her affair with Stinson to Ramsay.

"He saw my Steinway grand piano and went straight over to it and asked me to play . . ." Pardue recalled. "When I him now, Governor of Louisiana, Secretary of State, meeting world leaders, I can't believe it . . . I still have this picture of him wearing my black nightgown, playing the sax badly . . . this guy tiptoeing across the park and getting caught on the fence. How do you expect me to take him seriously?"

She said a Democratic Party goon approached her.

"He said there were people in high places who were anxious about me and they wanted me to know that keeping my mouth shut would be worthwhile . . ." she said. "If I was a good little girl, and didn't kill the messenger; I'd be set for life: a federal job, nothing fancy but a regular paycheck . . . I'd never have to worry again. But if I didn't take the offer, then they knew that I went jogging by myself and he couldn't guarantee what would happen to my 'pretty little legs.' "

"Fine party, the Democrats," Ramsay said to her.

Pardue said a shotgun cartridge was left on the driver's seat of her Jeep and the back window was shattered.

James Riady's family and employees gave Stinson $700,000. After his election, John Huang and Riady gave $100,000 to Stinson's gubernatorial inaugural fund. Arkansas Governor Jim Tom Carter came to Washington for the inauguration. He left Arkansas under the control of the president pro tem of the senate, Little Rock dentist Jerry Diamond. Diamond, as acting Governor, issued a number pardons, including one for convicted drug dealer Tommy McIntyre.

It was "a political payoff, offered in exchange for dirty tricks Mr. McIntyre played on Stinson political opponents during the gubernatorial campaign, or as a payoff for stopping his attacks on Mr. Stinson," reported Ramsay. "It seems that the elder McIntyre had worked for Stinson in his last state campaign and, according to McIntyre in a lawsuit, had agreed not only to pay him $25,000 but to help him market his recipe for sweet potato pie and to pardon his son."

Webster Howell told associates he could not "take any other position that involves Senate confirmation - perhaps to avoid fishing expeditions into the law firm's confidential business."

John Huang arranged for Mochtar Riady and Stinson to meet and discuss China's relaxation of economic sanctions. Stinson used his influence to get China's MFN status renewed. Ramsay discovered Riady was funneling Chinese Communist Party bribes to Stinson.

The Stinsons engaged in "foul-mouthed shouting matches and furniture-breaking sessions," according to two Louisiana state troopers. Jill Stinson and David Watson favored World Travel over the Louisiana state travel office. They had been the source of $1 million in "free" campaign trips. Seven long-term travel office employees were fired. The Stinsons trumped up mismanagement and kickback charges, while director Billy Hale was charged with bogus embezzlement allegations. A jury acquitted them in less than two hours on the false charges of kickbacks, bribery acceptances and payoffs.

Stinson arranged for eavesdropping on over 300 locations during the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation Conference. The operation was performed as part of a blackmail operation used to further Asian financial interests that were bribing Stinson.

Washington attorney Paul Wiltze was investigating various scandals ranging from the "October surprise" of 1980, drug and gun running through Mena and the Waco assault. His plan was to make a TV documentary detailing Stinson's crimes. After delivering an extensive affidavit to the attorney general, he was killed. The Stinson's attorney, Vince Forster, finally filed the missing Blackwater tax returns. The RTC and SBA investigated the $300,000 SBA-approved loan to Susan McDowell, provided by Capital-Management Services Inc., owned by David L. McHale.

A package contained a vial that Stinson said was allergy medicine. Stinson asked his physician to give him an allergy shot. He was told he could not do so without seeing his medical history, or what was in the serum that had been delivered, without supporting data. He in turn told him he had to check with Jill first. The doctor was immediately fired and told to leave right away. Stinson's medical records (which included his treatment for cocaine abuse, among other things) were not revealed. Others noted that after his "allergy shots" he became "punchy; he has trouble thinking coherently."

The FBI subpoenaed files that the Stinson's had on Blackwater and their various illegalities. "You can't give Jill those files, they've got my name all over them," Forster said.

The FBI raided David McHale's New Orleans office and took documents. A few hours after the search warrant was signed by a federal magistrate in New Orleans, Vince Forster "drove" to a nearby park without car keys, in a vehicle that changed color over the next few hours. He "walked" across 700 feet of park without getting dirt on his shoes or grass stains on his pants. He "shot himself" with a vanishing bullet. He left a tiny amount of blood. That was the "official account." Forster's death remained an unsolved mystery.

Jim and Jill Stinson's "octopus quad" murdered him.

A few hours after Forster was "discovered," Stinson's goons secretly searched his office. One of them was Jill's chief aide. A couple of days later, another search was conducted, for the record. Stinson used executive privilege to block the investigation hours after his death, Forster's "suicide note" was provided, torn in 27 pieces with pieces missing. Witness Patrick Knowles was in the park 70 minutes before the body was "discovered." His recollections did not fit the official version, even though he was pressured to change his story. He was subpoenaed and said that he was harassed and knew he was under surveillance, in an effort to intimidate him.

Jerry Park, who handled Stinson's security, kept a dossier on him. Two months after Forster's murder, Park was murdered sitting in his car near Baton Rouge. Park was shot through the rear window, then finished off with three more shots with a 9mm pistol. He had run U.S. Contract Services, supplying Stinson's bodyguards. He was still owed $81,000 by Stinson, and had begun a file that included photos and dates of Stinson's sex life. According to his widow, Stinson's people took his files and computer

She told Stinson her husband said, "I'm a dead man" after hearing of Forster's murder. He had made substantial cash transfers to Forster. Later, his house was trashed, with files, 130 telephone tapes and computer data stolen.

"Why did Miquel Valencia, the Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to reopen the investigation into Forster's death, resign?" wrote Ramsay. "Was it true, as some have alleged, that he was blocked from aggressively pursuing the case? Why was he denied the opportunity to bring in experts outside the FBI to deal with inconsistencies? In reopening the Forster case, they permitted FBI agents to review their own work in the previous investigation. There have been conflicting statements as to whether any x-rays were taken of Forster after his death. Were there or weren't there? If there were, where have they gone? If there weren't, why not? It is standard police procedure to investigate suicides as though they were murders. Why wasn't this done in the case of Vince Forster? Why did Bernard Nessen ask for the combination of Forster's safe immediately after his death? Why were manila envelopes in the safe addressed 'Eyes Only' to Jane Dean and Steve Kennedy never delivered to them? Where are these envelopes and what was in them? Whose bloodstained car was towed to the FBI garage the same night as Forster's death? How did Forster walk 750 feet through a park without gathering any physical evidence of the hike on his shoes? How did his glasses end up 19 feet from his body? What were the origins of numerous carpet fibers found all over Forster's clothing and underwear? How did it happen that all 35mm film of the scene was either overexposed or missing? How did it happen that most of the Polaroid shots have vanished? How did Forster manage to shoot himself yet die laid out in the careful manner of someone placed in a coffin? Why were there no fingerprints on the gun? Why did no one hear the shot? Where is Forster's appointment book? How did car keys, not found during the investigation in the park, turn up with Forster at the morgue? How was Forster's car opened at the park since officials claimed it was locked? Where is the bullet that killed Forster? Why did witnesses have their testimony changed and why was one witness subsequently harassed in a manner used by intelligence agents for intimidation? What did Forster do in the hours between lunchtime and when he supposedly was killed? What did Marsha Soto of the Governor's staff and Vince Forster talk about during the two-hour meeting they had the day before he died? Why can't Marsha Soto remember? What did Forster do on secret trips to Switzerland and other locations about which his wife knew nothing? Why have police and rescue workers been forbidden to discuss the case?"

"The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, but the real answer looks to be that decades apart, the Democrat party nominated got elected men who ordered the murder of others in the manner of a Mafia don," Ramsay told Fox News. "Stinson's heroes, the Kennedy's, had the president of South Vietnam assassinated in 1963, a year after Marilyn Monroe was killed in Los Angeles. As Joe DiMaggio said as soon as he heard of Marilyn's death, 'Those F-ing Kennedys.'

"The deaths of Forster and Park created a real quandary. Do Democrats literally let Democrats get away with things that Republicans cannot? Or is it just that Democrats are more pre-disposed to do the really heinous stuff? Is it easier to destroy a Republican President who was trying to find out what his opponents strategy might be than to get a Democrat ordering murders? Or to bring down a Republican President going against Democrat attempts to keep anti-Communist freedom fighters from overcoming their oppressors, just a few years after Democrats had succeeded in shutting down aid to people who died by the millions because of it? Are Democrats just more skilled and experienced at breaking these laws?

"Or do the Stinsons have dark forces working on their behalf? Did they make a supernatural deal that allowed them to improbably rise to power, all their crimes covered up and never solved? Is one of them a beast, over and above run-of-the-mill evil? If so, is it coincidence that such evil chose to be draped in the cloak of the Democrat Party? Is the Stinson's story the real tale of Damien and The Omen? Is it dangerous to broach this subject?

"The Truth will set you free."

After the Forster murder, it was practically impossible not to conclude the Stinson's ordered, routinely so in fact, the murder of others, whether they be enemies, friends, or allies.

The Stinson Body Count further examined the corruption endemic within Stinson circles. One investigator Ramsay found had asked, "Can you tell us why no fingerprints were found on (1) the external surface of the gun found in Mr. Forster's hand; (2) the cartridge casing of the bullet's found in the gun; (3) Mr. Forster's eyeglasses; (4) Mr. Forster's car; (5) any of the contents in his car; and (6) the torn 'suicide' note?"

The report on Mr. Forster's death, Ramsay noted, claimed there was a 1 ¼ x 1 inch, or half-dollar sized exit wound in the back of Mr. Forster's head caused by a .38 caliber gunshot with high velocity ammunition. "Why out of all the witnesses at the scene, not one reported or documented having seen this wound, or brain matter, or bone fragments or blood splatter on or around the body, head or vegetation, as would be expected," he wrote.

"Between the hours of 4:30 P.M. and 6:05 P.M., there was a record of six witnesses - Jennifer Walk, Judith Dowd, Mark West, Todd Hill, Patrick Knowles and George Rodriguez - having seen an older brown Honda within the parking lot, parked in the same spot as Mr. Forster's car was later found. Inasmuch as Mr. Forster's Honda was silver and much newer than the brown Honda described by the witnesses, and inasmuch as Mr. Forster was dead by 4:30, how is it that Mr. Forster's car arrived in the park after he was already dead?

"Mr. Forster's body was found at the park with his car but without any car keys. Later that evening Steve Kennedy and Craig Livermore showed up at the morgue and so did Mr. Forster's car keys. There are conflicting reports in the record about when Kennedy and Livermore and the police arrived at the morgue. Is there an explanation where Steve Kennedy and Craig Livermore were during the five-hour period when Vincent Forster was last seen and his body was discovered?"

The only "answer," Ramsay concluded, seemed to be that "the Stinsons got away with it. The Honda in the parking lot was said to be 'brownish' before Forster's body was found, 'gray' afterwards."

One day after Forster's murder, Buddy Yuma was sent to Texas to work for FEMA. When four former ATF agents were killed in a drug-sting operation that went bad, Ramsay noted that all of them had once been Stinson's bodyguards! All of them were killed in a mysterious manner. The nature of their entrance wounds made it appear that sharpshooters who had planned to kill them ahead of time could have killed them. When Ramsay dug further, he found that they were investigating the drug-smuggling operation in Mena!

Four more Stinson bodyguards died in a helicopter crash near Lake Charles. Reporters were not allowed near the site, which was guarded by "lots of state troopers with guns," according to the fire chief. A firefighter made videotape, which was seized by the state troopers.

China Resources Company Ltd. paid 50 percent above market value for Lippo's Hong Kong Chinese Bank. The Riadys made $163 million off the transaction. Tyler Foods gave illegal gifts to Stinson's trade commissioner when costly regulations were under consideration. Tyler's reduced fines cost them $6 million, but government contracts arranged by Stinson earned them $200 million.

The Stinson's viewed ATT's new tap-proof phone as a threat. Webster Howell was put on the case. Howell tapped into a fund of drug money, attempting to buy all the phones, planning to refit them with a chip called Clipper, an NSA invention allowing the government to bug phones with a special key. The DEA was given a supply of these. The plan was for government agencies to use the new public-key based cryptography method. Public outcry derailed Stinson's plan, which as Ramsay noted was interesting in light of the fact that he and his wife had worked against Nixon during Watergate, "because bugging people was such an awful thing to do. Amazingly, this time, Stinson did not get away with it." (In later years, President Valenzuela did make use of this technology, using it to bug Republicans, the Tea Party, and other patriots.)

Garry Baughman, an attorney for Dan Laster, "jumped" to his death. His law partner "killed himself" a month later. Danny Fergis was named a co-defendant in the Paula Johnson lawsuit. Five days later, his ex-wife, Kathy Fergis, was found dead. She left a "suicide note" next to bags she had neatly packed for a trip she was scheduled to take. Her fiancée, a state trooper, was shot at her gravesite next to a note reading, "I can't stand it any more." The local police chief was quoted saying, "It puts big questions in your mind."

During Christmas at the Governor's mansion, the Christmas tree featured ornaments with erections. Jill's other ornaments included drug paraphernalia such as syringes and roach clips, three French hens in a ménage a trois, two turtle doves fornicating, five golden rings attached to a gingerbread man's ear, nipple, belly button, nose, and male phallus.

Webster Howell was convicted of tax evasion and mail fraud after stealing almost half a million bucks from Broussard and Galatoire, and not paying $150,000 in taxes. He quit his job in the Louisiana Attorney General's office, then met with Jill, John Huang, James Riady, and Ng Lapseng. Riady and Huang went to the Governor's mansion for five straight days. The Hong Kong Chinese Bank, a Lippo/Chinese intelligence operation, paid Howell $100,000. Howell received $400,000 in additional payments for his work. Huang previously had worked for the Hong Kong Chinese Bank.

James Lea investigated Stinson. He found a Stinson private investigator checking out his house to intimidate him. Macao businessman Ng Lap Seng was associated with the Chinese. He arrived in the U.S. from China with $175,000, and met with Charlie True and Mark Middlebury. He sat at Stinson's table at a Democratic National Committee fundraiser. Middlebury regularly visited True's apartment, which was paid for by Ng. Few employees had security clearances. Huang did, and he used it to obtain top secret files on China before meeting with the Chinese ambassador.

Huang and the Riadys then met with Stinson, and Huang's new marching orders were to raise funds for the Democrats while staying on at Commerce as a $10,000 a month consultant. He raised $5 million for Stinson's campaign, but about one-third of that had to be returned to its illegal sources, including five Chinese nationals who gave $250,000 to the Democrats in exchange for a meeting with Stinson. Howell went to work for a Lippo affiliate before doing jail time.

"I guess the question is really this, it is whether, in connection with this representation, you received a large amount of money and that may have had an impact on the degree of your cooperation with the independent counsel or with us?" an investigator asked him.

"That's pretty rotten," Howell responded. Howell had represented Southern and James Riady. At Christmas time, the Stinsons invited a major drug dealer named Jorge Carerra to the Governor's mansion. Carerra, a Democrat, gave $20,000 to his party of choice. The Stinsons were happily photographed with the drug man at a Miami fund-raiser. Unbelievable. Stinson tried to hide the photo with the drug dealer, calling it a secret under the Privacy Act!

Carerra had done 54 months in prison for his continuing narcotics operation. Ramsay believed he was the man behind the Mena operation. He did more prison time after his visit with the Stinsons for transporting 6,000 pounds of cocaine into the U.S. His accomplice Jack Pacil had been convicted under the Organized Crime Control Act, sentenced to two years in prison, but the sentence was suspended. He was fined and put on probation. Pacil's arrest had been part of an FBI sting operation against illegal gambling in New Orleans

"His trial judge described Mr. Pacil as a professional gambler, part owner of an illegal casino and an illegal bookmaker for football and horse-racing bets," according to the Washington Times.

The FBI had "reached into New Orleans to put a stop to gambling that has existed here since the 1920s," U.S. District Judge Oren Hart noted. Pacil was the former owner of one of Al Capone's favorite hangouts. Stinson's mother wrote an autobiography describing the joint as a place where "gangsters were cool and the rules were meant to be bent." Ramsay discovered Pacil was one of the men she provided sexual services for.

"The Washington Post chose not to run with the Stinson-Mena drug smuggling story," Ramsay wrote. "A pattern was developing among Democrats and their willing accomplices in the media. It was similar to the way Joe McCarthy had been lied about and smeared after Alger Hiss, Harry Dexter White, Henry Wallace, the Rosenbergs and many other liberals were discovered to be Communists, Communist spies or fellow travelers in the 1940s and '50s. Their world depended upon it. The truth about Stinson was so horrible that to admit what he was could very well spell the end of the Democratic Party. Everything they stood for rested on this 'man's' narrow shoulders. A seminal moment in politics had occurred, and the result was that the Democrats were doomed to being the party of lies, crimes and murder. This is the simple, sorry fact of the matter."

As Ramsay dug further, he became further convinced the Mena operation, organized as a joint link between the Hot Springs, Arkansas and New Orleans crime syndicates, had been Stinson's "big fish," an inter-state drug smuggling pipeline given political cover. To their minds, Ramsay found, this was as much as the mob could hope. But both Stinsons did not merely give cover to Mena; they literally relished being drug overlords, kingpins of organized crime. It seemed to be something they were very good at, something they were born to do. It unleashed a taste for illicit activity, and the enormous profits that came with it, that could only be explained by recklessness, but Ramsay thought it was even more than that. He honestly felt some malevolent spirit helped the Stinsons. He continued to call it a form of evil long suppressed, which had unleashed itself on the clean shores of America, and that the Stinson's were its beneficiaries.

Mena started when Stinson was Mayor of New Orleans, then a Congressman from the area, and a remnant still existed later when he became a Senator. Ramsay felt the protection, originally due to Reagan/Bush Administration and Iran-Contra involvement, had created a shield that over time was expanded, allowing the Stinson's to carry on a wide array of crimes. To arrest and prosecute them would open up an investigation and discovery that had the potential of exposing Reagan/Bush involvement.

"We will probably never know the whole truth," he wrote. "However, the case against Stinson was so insidious that it is difficult to excuse his crimes as 'political,' or 'bi-partisan.' It appears that in an effort to fight Communism via a covert operation out of Mena, he may have hooked on to a proposal the Reagan people made in the 1980s. Knowing the whole thing was protected from prosecution and the public because it was a secret, national security operation, Stinson realized he had what he considered to be the carte blanche opportunity to engage in any activity he wanted. The devil works that way."

When Cleve Carter and the New Orleans Mafia men met with Molly Worre and Jim Stinson, proposing to sponsor the then 14-year old as their "guy" in corrupt Louisiana and Dixie Democrat politics, never in their wildest dreams could they have imagined it would work so well, be so lucrative, reach so high, and have such long "legs." But it had. The Washington Post said "allegedly dark deeds at Mena have helped foster the cult of conspiracy that has taken root among some of Stinson's more virulent opponents."

Just before Stinson lawyer Cheryl Miller testified on the Blackwater affair, her car was broken into and her notes on Vince Forster were stolen. IRS investigator Bill Dunston's computer was broken into and his 7,000-page file on Mena was tampered with.

L.D. Black, who had been a part of the Louisiana State Police security detail, said in American Spectator that he made secret flights from Mena, providing M-16 rifles to the Contra rebels in exchange for cocaine for Stinson's drug selling operation.

"That announcement spurred Lake Charles lawyer Asa Hudgens, chairman of the Louisiana Republican Party, to request yet another inquiry into long-standing allegations of money-laundering at Mena," wrote Mara Levin in the Arkansas Times. "Hudgens was the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Louisiana when investigators first presented evidence supporting those allegations. In an argument disputed by police investigators, Hudgens claims he left office before the evidence was well established. Since he harbors political ambitions, he has an interest in clearing his name."

Stinson spoke in Alexandria, saying the Blackwater investigators were "a cancer" that he will "cut out of American politics."

Barbara Weis, an associate of John Huang, was killed. Her body was discovered partially nude in a locked office at Bogalusa. Her murder was never solved. A grand jury began a probe of an Oklahoma gas company that allegedly diverted $500,000 to Stinson to gain influence. A man named Daniel Parsons was in charge of the investigation. Parsons said that the investigation was getting close to the Stinsons. Stinson managed to halt the investigation. Four days later his body was found. The corrupt head of the Democratic National Committee, Ron Braun, was said to be involved in the Oklahoma influence peddling scandal. Ramsay heard Braun was trying to blackmail Stinson into giving him a piece not only of the Oklahoma payoffs, but the lucrative Mena drug money, twice laundered. When investigators began to probe into the Braun-Stinson connection, a plane he was flying (along with over 30 Americans) crashed in Croatia

Inconsistencies dogged the crash investigation regarding the weather, the crash site, the black boxes, and the apparent suicide of an airport official in charge of navigational aids. The rescue team was delayed for more than four hours while Stinson's people prepared the site to eliminate evidence of foul play. Other reports indicated that the plane crash was arranged to kill another man who had the goods on Stinson, or simply heard about the plot in advance, and did not make the flight. He was killed eventually.

"At this point, the reader must examine the evidence and ask some more serious questions," wrote Ramsay. "Time after time, these reports are made, and there is never enough proof to get the Stinsons. Is it possible these events keep occurring, over and over, and they are just plain innocent? Deaths, murders, suicides, crashes, drugs, money laundering, espionage, foreign countries? At one point does circumstantial evidence, not mention mounds of real and actual proof, add up to an obvious conclusion?"

When Stinson attended Braun's funeral, a camera caught him yucking it up with cronies until he saw the camera. He suddenly feigned a fake tear, wiping it from his eye. Jill Stinson decided to write a book, and was given $120,000 of editorial help that she attempted to hide from the public. Jill's "an unusually good liar," Senator Bob Keray, chair of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, told Esquire.

Convicted cocaine distributor Dan Laster testified before Congress. The newspaper of record, the New York Times, chose not to report the story. Laster was a "friend of Jim"; Robert's drug supplier (paying off his debt to the cartel); a "friend" of Stinson's mother (who introduced them); and was recommended by Jim to political advisor Patsy Thomas, who became vice president of his bond company and had power of attorney for him when he was in jail. Thomas, who was responsible for drug testing among state employees, had hired Robert as a limo driver

At trial, Laster said he supplied coke on ashtrays on his corporate jet. He said he gave coke to minors. Laster had a back door pass to the Governor's mansion. A state trooper said he usually spent 45 minutes with Stinson. He was insulted when he was called a "drug dealer." The New York Times refused to print any of this.

Ex-CIA director William Colbert died while canoeing after leaving his home unlocked, his computer on, and dinner on the table. Colbert had begun an investigation into Forster's death for Strategic Investment. If Stinson could order the death of the former Director of Central Intelligence, and government agents carried it out, then "it is a chilling statement about America," wrote Ramsay. "It makes one think about the Kennedy assassination. It speaks to a 'shadow government' that makes the average American so small and insignificant as to wonder just how pervasive evil truly is. Will the Truth set us free? Is there an afterlife, and once he enters it, will Jim and Jill Stinson keep getting away with it?"

Jim McDowell told a reporter that he expected to die in prison. The Louisiana Development Financial Authority transferred $50 million to a bank in the Cayman Islands. The Associated Press reported that drug use was rampant among Stinson staffers.

Some of the Stinson staffers who were placed in a special drug testing program had used cocaine and hallucinogens and were originally denied security passes," Ramsay discovered. "The testing program was created as a compromise so the new administration's workers could keep their jobs, according to Arnold Kohl, who supervised the operations. 'Initially, our response was that we denied them passes,' Kohl said."

"I have seen cocaine usage," said Jeffrey Urbentraut, one of Stinson's people. "I have seen hallucinogenic usages, crack usages." 21 Stinson staffers had been placed in a special testing after their background checks indicated recent drug abuse.

Vince Forster's widow re-married. Neil Moder, the son of her new husband, was killed in a single-car crash against a brick wall after he talked to reporters. He said he found documents in his stepmother's private papers indicating that Forster may not have committed suicide. He threatened to make a splash of it just before the Democratic National Convention. Witnesses saw him arguing with a man in his car just before he sped off, right into the wall.

Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Jeremy Borgia allegedly killed himself after going home for lunch. Why? Some told Ramsay they believed that Stinson's people either killed him, or if he killed himself, it was because of the "Tailhook" scandal that feminist Democrats had used to hatefully make Naval aviators look bad. Tailhook had been a major boost for the party in the "Year of the Woman" campaign, and Jill Stinson was one of its leading feminist voices calling for the ouster of "dinosaurs" like Admiral Borgia.

TWA 800 crashed. "Police are investigating the possibility that insurance fraud by a Swiss resident listed among the 230 people killed in the TWA Flight 800 explosion might have been behind the disaster, Swiss television reported last night," wrote the Guardian of London. "Swiss authorities have been investigating Algerian-born Mohammed Samir Ferrat, for 18 months, the report said . . . A Geneva lawyer, Gerald Paus, alleged in an interview for the Swiss television report that Ferrat took out life insurance policies worth several million Swiss francs in the weeks before the plane crashed, half an hour after taking off from New York . . . A month after the crash, the local medical examiner in Suffolk County - in whose jurisdiction the disaster occurred - declared that Mohammed Ferrat had been positively identified as a dead passenger from TWA Flight 800. U.S. investigators counted him out as a suspect early . . . The report showed footage of the late DNC Ron Braun, at the Washington signing with Ferrat of a $62.5 million contract between Sofer and the U.S. construction firm Chadwick Inc., which was to build residences in the Ivory Coast."

According to CNN, Mohamed Samir Ferrat was scheduled to accompany Braun on the flight that crashed in Croatia. He did not make the trip for unexplained reasons, but did die on TWA Flight 800. Ramsay felt he was supposed to have died in the Braun plane crash; the Stinsons were taking care of unfinished business.

Shelly Keller was a flight attendant on Ron Braun's crashed flight. "Four hours and 20 minutes after the crash, the first Croatian Special Forces search party arrives on the scene and finds only Ms. Keller surviving," wrote Ramsay. "They call for a helicopter to evacuate her to the hospital. When it arrives, she is able to get aboard without assistance from the medics. But Keller never completes the short hop. She dies en route. According to multiple reports given to journalist/editor Joe L. Jares, an autopsy later reveals a neat three-inch incision over her main femoral artery. It also shows that the incision came at least three hours after her other cuts and bruises."

Chief Niko Jersi, technician in charge of the radio beacons used during the fatal Ron Braun flight, committed suicide. "Braun's plane was probably relying on Croatian ground beacons for navigation," wrote Ramsay. "In the minutes before Braun's plane crashed, five other planes landed at Dubrovnik without a difficulty, and none experienced problems with the beacons. But additional questions about the beacons and the crash will remain unanswered because, as the Air Force acknowledges, airport maintenance chief Niko Jursi died by gunshot just three days after the crash and before investigators could interview him. Within a day of his death, officials determined the death was a suicide."

The three major networks spent an average of one hour and twelve minutes each on the Stinson scandals. Jill Stinson said they were victims of "a vast Right-wing conspiracy."

"Yes, there is a conspiracy," Ramsay wrote. "It consists of millions of patriotic American citizens who register, vote, and know . . . things! Is it possible that the description of these events is just Republican ranting? Are they just scurrilous accusations? Can common sense discount these reports? The beatings go on."

Charles Urban, chairman of C.J. Construction Company in New York, received a phone call.

"The Governor is on the line," his secretary said.

"Governor of what?" Urban asked.

"The Governor of Louisiana," she replied. A series of "yes, sirs" and "no, sirs" followed.

"We need to raise $50,000 for the campaign," Urban told his colleagues. Louisiana Commerce Secretary Mickey Kanton said he was "stunned" to discover that companies joining him on trade missions were Democratic campaign contributors, despite a letter from Stinson stating that $10,000 donors would get an invite to "join party leadership as they travel abroad to examine current and developing issues."

Jill Stinson showed up at the pediatrics ward of the Tulane University Medical Center to have her photo taken reading to sick kids. The sick kids looked . . . sick. They were bald from cancer treatments, and some had tubes and catheters sticking into them. She ordered the sick kids replaced by the healthy children of the hospital staff, who had to be rounded up.

Former statehouse intern Mary Maloney was shot five times during the murder of three Starbucks employees in an execution-style slaying, but no money was stolen. A police informant on the case was murdered when sent by New Orleans police into a botched drug sting. There were 301 murders in New Orleans that year. The Starbucks murder was the only one handled by the state police.

Foutanga Dit Babani Sissoko, a West African multi-millionaire, was in jail for bribery and smuggling. He showed a judge a dinner invitation he received to dine with Jim Stinson. The judge figured if Sissoko was Stinson's friend, he must be a truly bad criminal, and set his bail at $20 million.

Former Arkansas state trooper L.D Black was approached on a bus in England and offered $100,000 to lie about Blackwater. A similar offer was made to him in Louisiana.

A $27,000 check was discovered in a car in Louisiana, along with McDowell's Madson Guaranty records. Shortly thereafter, a mysteriously sick McDowell was tossed into solitary confinement because he would not urinate for a drug test. He was on 12 medications at the time, four of which make it hard to urinate.

Gennifer Fairchild reported death threats and that her house was ransacked. Two Armed Forces medical examiners confirmed that Ron Braun had a perfectly circular hole in his head that looked like a gun wound. No autopsy or investigation followed. A federal grand jury found state prosecutor Dan Harmonson guilty of drug dealing and extortion, sentencing him to eight years in prison. Jim McDowell said of Web Howell, "Howell knows where the bodies are buried."

Independent prosecutor Dan Shmegma and the FBI questioned an ex-Tyler food pilot who claimed to have carried cash from Tyler to the Louisiana Governor's mansion.

"I nearly fell off my chair when I heard Joe make the allegation." Shmegma told Ramsay. "I took over the questions." Stinson's attorney general blocked Shmegma from pursuing the case.

Monica Jewell, who was discovered to have given blowjobs to Governor Stinson in his executive office, had the following conversation with her friend, Linda Rapp, which Rapp recorded.

Rapp: "Well, let me put it to you this way. By hanging up and saying you're telling your parents and then hanging up the phone, you're saying a whole hell of a lot more than you could ever do in a 20-minute conversation.

Jewell: "I know (tape skip) (inaudible) my mom will kill me if I don't tell him - make it clear at some point that I'm not going to hurt him, because - see, my mom's big fear is that he's going to send somebody out to kill me."

Rapp: "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

Jewell: "So -"

Rapp: "Shut up."

Jewell: "Well, that's what she thinks."

Rapp: "Oh, my God. Don't even say such an asinine thing. He's not that stupid. He's an arrogant . . . but he's not that stupid."

Jewell: "Well, you know, accidents happen."

Charlie True told a reporter who located him in China that he would not come back to the U.S. because, "I want to stay alive." Fox News reported that the FBI saw True's employees destroying fundraising evidence. Just before Senate campaign finance abuse hearings, Stinson's attorney general, Janet Reinsdorf, refused to grant the warrants to search True's office, leaving agents to simply observe the destruction of documents.

Aide Cheryl Miller told investigators that she and staff counsel Jack Winters withheld documents from investigators for 15 months, including a memo suggesting Stinson wanted the $1.7 million the White House Office Data Base shared with the DNC.

"[Your investigations will not] feed one person, give shelter to someone who is homeless, educate one child, provide health care for one family or offer justice to one African-American or Hispanic juvenile . . ." she said. "You could spend your time making the lives of the individuals you serve better, as opposed to tearing down the staff of a Governor with whose vision and policies you disagree."

She concluded that Stinson was a champion of civil rights

"Res ipsa loquiter," wrote Ramsay.

Stinson advisor George Andropoulos said Stinson has a "different, long-term strategy, which I think would be far more explosive. His allies are already starting to whisper about what I'll call the Ellen Rometsch strategy . . . She was a girlfriend of John F. Kennedy, who also happened to be an East German spy. And Robert Kennedy was charged with getting her out of the country and also getting J. Edgar Hoover to go up to the Congress and say, 'Don't you investigate this, because if you do, we're going to open up everybody's closets.' Stinson has dirt on everybody and anybody who stands in his way and will use it."

Jim McDowell said the Stinsons "move through people's lives like a tornado." He died in solitary confinement after being separated from his heart medication and put on Lasix, which is contraindicated for heart patients. After complaining of dizziness and becoming ill, no doctor was permitted to see him. He had been in isolation prior to his death. His autopsy found "a toxic but non-lethal amount" of Prozac in his body according to the New Orleans Times-Picayune. The medical examiner said the Prozac was unrelated despite being three times the normal dosage.

Shortly before he died, McDowell completed a book with Curtis Wilkerson of the Boston Globe. In the New York Times review, "Moments after Governor Stinson gave videotaped testimony for the criminal trial of James and Susan McDowell, his former Blackwater partners, he privately agreed to give Mrs. McDowell a pardon if she was convicted, a new book by James McDowell says. 'I'm willing to stick with it, but if it doesn't work out, or whatever, can you pardon Susan?' McDowell recalled asking Stinson shortly after the Governor had completed his testimony."

"You can depend on that," Stinson was said to have replied quietly in the private conversation, apparently out of earshot of others. McDowell then asked, "Like I say with all lawyers, I mean promptly?" The Governor grinned and nodded, by McDowell's account, and said, "If you hang with me, I'll do it."

"McDowell looks like the Frankie Pantangelo character in Godfather II, willing to die for Caesar," wrote Ramsay.

Still another Stinson witness died. Johnny Franklin Lawton, Jr., 29, was the owner of the auto transmission shop in Metairie, Louisiana, who discovered a $27,000 cashier's check made out to Jim Stinson in the trunk of a tornado-damaged car. Lawton hit a tree in the wee hours of March 30. He took off "like a shot" from a filling station, said a witness.

Linda Rapp had to be taken by the FBI to a safe house because of threats against her life. The FBI usually uses safe houses to protect people from the Mafia and other criminals. Their use of the safe house meant that they felt Stinson to be as much a threat as the Mafia or dangerous criminals.

The Louisiana Highway Police took $3.1 million from four suitcases in a tractor-trailer in a money-laundering scheme tied to Stinson's old Mena days. Jorge Carerra, dubbed by Ramsay the "official drug dealer of the Democrat Party," pled guilty to laundering $3.5 million in a 10-year span.

Monica Jewell told Linda Rapp to lie under oath, and "I would write you a check."

"I mean, telling the truth could get you in trouble," she added. "I don't know why you'd want to do that . . . I would not cross these - these people - for fear of my life."

Jewell thought she would be murdered by Stinson's "people" like former intern Mary Maloney, killed in the Starbucks execution-style murders.

The U.S. media ignored a story about Stinson selling the blood of Louisiana's prisoners. Canadian publishers did report the story.

Kathleen Wilkes came forward to report that Stinson sexually harassed her in his executive office. Before testifying, her tires were punctured with nails and her cat went missing.

"Then just days before she testified in the Paula Johnson lawsuit in early January, Wilkes was out jogging near her home when a stranger approached her . . ." reported Ramsay. "The man knew what had happened at her home and that he asked her if the tires had been fixed and if the cat had been found."

"Don't you get the message?" Stinson's man said before jogging off. Stinson then gave a speech.

"All of you know that I've been on a rather painful journey these last few weeks and I've had to ask for things that I was more in the habit of giving in my life than asking for in terms of understanding and forgiveness," said Stinson, "but it's also given me the chance to try to ask, as all of us do: what do you really care about? What do you want to think about in your last hours on this Earth? What really matters? . . . So I ask you for your understanding, for your forgiveness on this journey we're on. I hope this will be a time of reconciliation and healing, and I hope that millions of families all over this state are in a way growing stronger because of this."

Charles Wilbourne Myles, 63, did not "grow stronger because of this." He was murdered and thrown into a shallow grave in the Bayou. A .410 gauge shotgun and a Ruger .357-caliber revolver submerged in water were near him. The Ruger was supposed to have been used by Myles to kill himself. The weapon used by Myles to kill himself would then have had to be placed in the water by Myles after he killed himself. Two rounds in the handgun's cylinder were spent, meaning he shot himself, then put it to his head and shot again. Myles's connection to Stinson was that he had been the executive vice president and member of the board of directors for a company called Alred, the successor to Jack Stevenson's System Inc. This was the company that provided software for the Stinson's date base system and was behind Stinson's plan to bug every phone, fax and email transmission in the state, which he wanted to do in order to bug Republicans, law enforcement closing in on him, and political enemies.

Dr. Cyril Bach, a veteran of over 13,000 autopsies, said there is "more than enough" evidence to suggest that Ron Braun's death was murder before the plane went down. "It is not even arguable in the field of medical legal investigations whether an autopsy should have been conducted on Braun," said Dr. Bach.

Over 65 people invoked the Fifth Amendment or fled the country in the course of the FBI's investigation. One agent, asked if he had ever seen anything like it, told Ramsay, "I spent about 16 years doing organized crime cases in New York City and many people were frequently unavailable."

Larry Peterson testified in Paula Johnson's sexual harassment case:

Peterson: "[Governor Stinson] said, 'I've got someone I need to see.' I said 'Okay.' 'Where are you going?' He said 'To Brookside Elementary School' . . . So we went to Brookside Elementary School and he said, 'I've a friend waiting down here, Larry and I'd like to spend some time alone with her.' . . . This particular lady was driving a small red compact car. It was parked beside the school underneath a streetlight . . . I was out of the car smoking, could see the action going on. Two New Orleans city policemen pulled up, said, 'What are you doing here?' I I.D.'d myself. I said, 'I've a friend that's meeting a married lady down here, and they'd like some privacy. The New Orleans city policeman on the passenger side said, 'If the school gets burglarized, I hope you can cover this . . . I said, 'Yeah I can cover this. No problem.' "

Q: "You said that the woman's car was under a streetlight and you could see what was going on?"

Peterson: "Yes, Sir."

Q: "What was going on? What did you see?"

Peterson: "I saw Jim Stinson on the passenger side of the front seat. I saw the woman get into the driver's side. I saw her head disappear into what looked like his lap . . ."

"Stinson was getting blown in a public place near where kids were," Ramsay wrote. A "friendly" judge threw out criminal investigations into Stinson's scandals on technical grounds.

Webster Howell faced new charges. After pleading guilty to tax evasion and mail fraud involving the theft of nearly a half million dollars from Broussard and Galatoire and $143,000 in unpaid taxes, his plea was based on cooperating with the independent counsel, but he never did.

"Communist Party cadres should study the speeches of Jill Stinson because she offers a very good example of the skills of propaganda," wrote Yu Quanyu, director of the Chinese Academy of Social Studies in Ideological and Political Work Studies. "Her sentences are short and stimulating. That's why she gets a lot of applause. But Chinese people have a habit of giving long speeches in which the sentences are long and tedious."

Governor Stinson was deposed in the Paula Johnson case. Both Jim and Jill Stinson were deposed in the Blackwater investigation. Ramsay reported that their respective memories failed 267 times. The following is from the depositions:

I don't remember - 71

I don't know - 62

I'm not sure - 17

I have no idea - 10

I don't believe so - 9

I don't recall - 8

I don't think so - 8

I don't have any specific recollection - 6

I have no recollection - 4

Not to my knowledge - 4

I just don't remember - 4

I don't believe - 4

I have no specific recollection - 3

I might have - 3

I don't have any recollection of that - 2

I don't have a specific memory - 2

I don't have any memory of that - 2

I just can't say - 2

I have no direct knowledge of that - 2

I don't have any idea - 2

Not that I recall - 2

I don't believe I did - 2

I can't remember - 2

I can't say - 2

I do not remember doing so - 2

Not that I remember - 2

I'm not aware - 1

I honestly don't know - 1

I don't believe that I did - 1

I'm fairly sure - 1

I have no other recollection - 1

I'm not positive - 1

I certainly don't think so - 1

I don't really remember - 1

I would have no way of remembering that - 1

That's what I believe happened - 1

To my knowledge, no - 1

To the best of my knowledge - 1

To the best of my memory - 1

I honestly don't recall - 1

I honestly don't remember - 1

That's all I know - 1

I don't have an independent recollection of that - 1

I don't actually have an independent memory of that \- 1

As far as I know - 1

I don't believe I ever did that - 1

That's all I know about that - 1

I'm just not sure - 1

Nothing that I remember - 1

I simply don't know - 1

I would have no idea - 1

I don't know anything about that - 1

I don't have any direct knowledge of that - 1

I just don't know - 1

I really don't know - 1

I can't deny that, I just -- I have no memory of that at all – 1

I don't have any memory of that. – 5

"Jim and Jill Stinson have always been described as being a man and woman with 'steel trap minds,' " Ramsay wrote sardonically. "The 'smartest woman in the world's' stock answer to all questions regarding her illegal activities over the years is always, 'I don't have any memory of that.' "

Monica Jewell spoke to Linda Rapp about filing a false affidavit in the Paula Johnson case:

Rapp: "You - you are - are you positive in your heart that you want to do that? I mean -."

Jewell: "Uh-huh."

Rapp: "I'm only saying - I'm only saying that in case you should change your mind."

Rapp: "No. I - I - I - first of all, for fear of my life. I would not - I would not cross these - these people for fear of my life, number one. Wagging the dog."

The term "wag the dog" became a catchphrase of the Stinson administration, in which the Governor continually "made news," often faking some "crisis" in order to divert attention from his crimes and scandals.

An attempt was made to kill Johnny Chung. According to Neal Travers of the New York Post in a book on the Mossad, Israel blackmailed Governor Stinson with 30 hours of his phone sex talks with Monica Jewell.

Jewell testified about heavy petting and oral sex in Stinson's office. She said the Governor told her a foreign emissary was tapping her apartment. He gave her instructions on how to fool the buggers. 1,000 Canadian hemophiliacs filed a $660 million class action suit in Toronto after getting Stinson's "bad blood" from Louisiana.

A top mob capo told Ramsay that Stinson got away with things a Mafia boss would never have gotten away with. Of the tap in which Stinson and Gennifer Fairchild said former New York Governor Mario Cuozo acted like a Mafioso, he told his brother, "He's telling her, 'Why would you want to bring this out? If anybody investigates, you lie.' . . . If he had an Italian last name, they would've electrocuted him."

The American Bar Association, one of the biggest supporters of Democrats in the United States, featured felon Webster Howell at its national convention after he did jail time for overbilling clients, one of the most important ethical breaches in the law.

The ABA invited Stinson to speak the same week that a federal court judge imposed a $90,000 fine on him for having given "false, misleading and evasive answers that were designed to obstruct the judicial process." The judge took the action, "not only to redress the misconduct of the Governor in this case, but to deter others who might themselves consider emulating the Governor of an American state by engaging in misconduct that undermines the integrity of the judicial system." Stinson was also facing disbarment in Louisiana.

An ex-aide, Mark Middlebury, a New Orleans lawyer and confidant of Stinson, invoked the Fifth Amendment 28 times in campaign finance abuse testimony. Republicans wanted to know if he had conspired with government officials in China or elsewhere to illegally funnel contributions to the Democratic National Committee or the Stinson campaign. Georgia Republican Congressman Bob Barnett asked Middlebury if he was "a bag man" for the Chinese.

"I respectfully decline to answer the question," answered Middlebury.

Former Stinson counsel David Schoppers did an interview with Human Events excerpted below:

Human Events: "What is the most significant thing that happened during the process that the country doesn't know about but should?"

Schoppers: "I think the most important factor that the public should know that they don't know is that, before we ever appeared, the prosecutors and I were told that there was no way we could win."

Human Events: "Who told you that?"

Schoppers: "Six Republican Senators. Members of the leadership."

Human Events: "Members of the Republican leadership came over to you?"

Schoppers: "No, we were over there. We were discussing the kind of method by which we would try the case, and we, the managers and myself, were told, 'Look we're just trying to keep you from embarrassing yourselves.'

"In that same meeting one of the state senators - and because I do not know which one it was, I will not name any of the senators - turned to chairman Henry Howe and he said, 'Henry, I don't care. No way are you going to get 67 votes.' This was before anything had occurred on the floor of the legislature.

"And Henry Howe said, 'Well, you know Senator, we have other materials over there in that room that and I think that some of them may have to do with assaults or things like that. And the Senator said, 'Henry' - this is a direct quote - 'I don't care if you have proof that he raped a woman, stood up and shot her dead, you're still not going to get 67 votes.'

"At that point I raised my hand and I said, 'Senator, are you telling me I just watched a hundred Senators raise their right hand to God and swear to do equal and impartial justice and that they will ignore that oath too?' And the Senator said, 'You're darn right they are.'

"From that moment on I knew that we were in a rigged ball game. In Chicago we'd refer to it as a First Ward election . . . It was rigged to make it impossible for us to win. I don't know why they were so anxious to keep the American people from hearing the evidence. I just will never know."

Senator Alphonse Amado approached former Louisiana state trooper and Stinson bodyguard L.D. White and used strong-arm tactics to get him to "cooperate" on the Mena charges. Apparently, Amado was concerned that the case was tied into the Bush task force on drugs and the Contra operations. When Michael Epstein was appointed to the state Department of Energy, columnist Paul Greenhouse wrote, "He seems to have passed this administration's high ethical test: He's been acquitted."

Wayne Dupont was released after 12 years in prison for not raping Jim Stinson's cousin. The Tulsa County, Oklahoma Democrat's Jefferson-Jackson Dinner, proudly featured Blackwater criminal Susan McDowell.

A Democrat National Committee staffer wrote the following to DNC chair Don Fowlkes: "Johnny [Chung] committed to contribute $75,000 to the DNC reception in Los Angeles on September 21. Tell him if he does not complete his commitment ASAP bad things will happen."

Carlos Aliotto, 42, was discovered dead in his office near Washington. Aliotto was the thermal-imaging analyst hired by the government to review tape of a mass killing believed to be ordered by Stinson in order to eliminate witnesses. He had said that his examinations revealed that there were shots fired during the incident. The FBI had said that the light bursts on infrared footage were reflections of sunrays on shards of glass or other debris.

"I conclude this based on the ground view videotapes taken from several different angles simultaneously and based on the overhead thermal tape," Aliotto had told the Washington Post.

Governor Clinton declared, "Character Counts Week."

"The character of our citizens has enriched every aspect of our state's life and has set an example of civic responsibility for people around the world," said "Jim-boy."

Danno Wilson's father was not Jim Stinson, according to The Star. Stinson's liberal apologists used this single case of Stinson actually being proven innocent as example of the "vast Right-wing conspiracy" to get Stinson. A novel and Hollywood movie, produced by Stinson's good friends Hart Hadley and George Close, using characters based on Jim and Jill Stinson, used this as the single driving description of "all the lies" the Stinson's enemies used to discredit them!

"But wait, even this fairly unimportant event turned out to be false, or probably false," wrote Ramsay, who checked various medical labs and determined that the test used to determine if the baby was Stinson's was not sufficient to determine paternity. "At this point, is the reader ready to ask if Clinton has jackal's blood, or '666' imbedded under his hair?

"Some press have ignored the claims of Danno's family because Danno's mother, Bobbie-Anne Wilson, of Shreveport has a criminal record as a prostitute and drug addict. Williams has stated that Governor Clinton had encountered her at her home, near the Governor's mansion, while out on a morning jog. The two had sex on several occasions and had also used cocaine, she said."

Larry Peterson was ordered by Stinson to deliver Christmas gifts to the boy. Stinson did not buy the gifts. He stole them from among gifts friends of the Stinsons given him to give to his daughter.

"Peterson said that in addition to the gift giving, he became 'really suspicious' when the Williams' home was burglarized," wrote Ramsay. "The only items stolen were two photographs of the child, one of which had appeared in the Globe, a supermarket tabloid, alleging Stinson had fathered the child. 'This is a simple house burglary,' Peterson explained, yet it set off alarm bells in the Governor's mansion. Peterson learned the burglary received priority attention from Stinson because Carlton Blackledge, who headed the Governor's security detail, assisted the local police in their investigation of the case. Peterson said it was 'unheard of' for a member of the security detail to work with local police on 'a simple house burglary investigation.'

"If the story is true, and Stinson did father this black child with a prostitute, then stole his daughter's presents, is any commentary really necessary?"

Juanita Broadmoor accused Stinson of raping her. She found herself audited. Other "Stinson audits" and investigations, ordered after Fidel Valenzuela took office, include: Elizabeth Ward Graham; Billy Hale (fired in a travel office affair); Fox News critic Bill Reilly; Kent Masterson Broad (brought lawsuit compelling Jill's health care task force to reveal its members); and Paula Johnson. Also: National Review, American Spectator, Christian Coalition, Citizens for a Sound Economy, Freedom Alliance, Heritage Foundation, National Rifle Association, Western Journalism Center, National Center for Public Policy Research, Fortress America and Citizens Against Government Waste.

A former prosecutor testified that an investigation into Stinson's connection to a top Democratic fund-raiser involved in the sale of missile-related expertise to China was in order. The Association of Trial Lawyers, another fine organization that is virtually a fundraising wing of the Democratic National Committee, invited Stinson to speak.

Former counsel Charles Rude said "I don't know," "I don't remember," "I don't recall" or "I have no specific recollection . . ." 12 times in 30 minutes before a committee investigating missing statehouse e-mails.

Rude said that Watergate figures could have gotten off the hook if they had just said, " 'Gee, I just don't remember what happened back then,' and they won't be able to indict me for perjury and that, maybe, that's the principal thing that I've learned in four years . . . I just intend to rely on that failure of memory." Rude missed a major point.

"The Watergate figures were Republicans," Ramsay wrote. "The chances that Republicans will answer honestly are much greater than with Democrats."

Lieutenant Governor Al Gerber changed his answers at such time as his old answers were identified and exposed to be lies. He was shown documents from the fund-raising investigation, and said he may have missed an important discussion because he drank too much iced tea. 23 times Gerber said that he was unable to recall the parts of the meeting referring to his illegal fund-raising.

Arthur A. Cora, the former president of a labor union, raised millions of dollars for Jim Stinson and the Democrats. He pled guilty to defrauding taxpayers in Rhode Island of nearly $100,000 in taxes that were due on three Ferrari sports cars worth more than $1.7 million. Cora got two years probation and a $10,000 fine. The New Orleans police reported that they towed about 1,000 vehicles per year to secure the streets so Stinson could make speeches, have lunch or catch a basketball game.

Ramsay devoted two chapters to Vince Forster's murder. He interviewed about a dozen family and friends. One police officer reported, "One of the last things I got from Mrs. Forster - I asked her was he - did you see this coming? . . . Everyone said, no, no, no, no, he was fine . . . Nobody would say anything about depression or that they noticed some signs, they were worried."

Later, in answer to a question from a staff attorney, an investigator said, "I mentioned depression, did you see this coming, were there any signs, has he been taking any medications? No. All negative answers."

One day after death, Tony Beryl, Forster's brother-in-law, was asked if Forster had been depressed during the two weeks before his death. Beryl said, "There is not a damn thing to it. That's a bunch of crap."

Two days after the death, in an interview of Forster's secretaries, Beryl added "[number one] There was nothing unusual about his emotional state. In fact, over the past several weeks she did not notice any changes, either physically or emotionally . . . [number two] Mr. Forster's demeanor seemed normal to her. [Number three] She did not note any unusual behavior on by Mr. Forster on <the day he died>. She noticed no weight loss."

Although officials said they saw few if any signs of emotional problems from Forster, others who were his friends described themselves as worried over his depression and anxiety

"Certainly people who knew him well - he is reserved and hard to know, really - felt he was depressed, but not depressed in the sense of killing himself. I can tell you that thought did not enter people's minds," the friend said. Stinson addressed the mystery himself. "No one can ever know why this happened."

"There have been seven known government investigations concerning the death of former Stinson attorney Vincent W. Forster: the simultaneous one conducted by the FBI in parallel with the New Orleans Police, the separate FBI investigation into the discovery of the so-called Forster 'torn note' in Forster's briefcase six days after his death, the one performed by Robert Fike (the first 'Blackwater' Counsel), that conducted by Representative William Clingsdorfer (then ranking Republican on the Committee on Government Operations), and the one conducted by the Senate 'Blackwater' Committee," wrote Ramsay.

"Thousands of pages from the underlying government investigative record have been released as well (subsidiary reports of various kinds, testimony, depositions, FBI and park police witness interview reports, laboratory reports, investigators' memos and handwritten notes, etc.). It is critical to emphasize two points: the only source for the conclusions claimed for in the top-level reports is, of course, the underlying investigative record the government compiled and, at the time the underlying record was being created, the investigators involved had no idea the documents they were creating would ever have to withstand public scrutiny.

"Since the top-level reports reached the same conclusion - that Forster killed himself on the spot where his body was discovered, with the 1913 Army Colt .38 Special revolver found in his hand by firing a bullet into his mouth that exited the upper rear of his head - it is legitimate to ask why there is still any controversy remaining about Forster's death. If, on the other hand, numerous material discrepancies remain unexplained or unmentioned in the top-level reports after so many investigations and so much effort, it would be all the more appropriate to question the legitimacy of the government's claims about the death.

"In part, the Forster controversy survives due to the work of reporters and examinations of the death explaining why they continue to question the official conclusions. The controversy also survives due to document analysis and fieldwork done by others, including Reed Irving of AIM, who have also reported serious problems, if not more, with the official conclusions. Having evaluated that record with care, Reed Irving believes that Mr. Forster came to grief, be it suicide or be it murder, 1) the official death scene was materially altered and 2) Forster did not die in that park.

"Clearly, it would be astounding in an investigative record that spans many thousands of pages not to discover numerous discrepancies. That said, all material discrepancies should have been dealt with prior to the drafting stage of the top-level reports, either by reconciling the apparent discrepancies in a reasonable and innocuous manner or, if that could not be done legitimately, by shaping and qualifying the conclusions in the reports to reflect reality.

"If it can be shown that 'enough' high-quality material discrepancies exist within the government record of the Forster death, the American public should not be expected to be confident the government's conclusions about the Forster death are truthful.

"You, the reader, will be the judge as you evaluate the limited sample of discrepancies below from the wealth of disconnects and contradictions within the official record. As you pause now to slip into your judicial robes, I ask that you hark back to the familiar statue of 'Blind Justice.' You know her well: the blindfolded lady, holding high the scales of justice that enable her to weigh evidence intelligently and impartially.

"Much has been made in the official reports, newspaper stories, magazine accounts, and books regarding Forster's depressed mental state in the weeks before his death. The official consensus is that Forster was clinically depressed, but an examination of the underlying record severely challenges, if not utterly destroys, this claim.

"The existence of the torn note was not made public until about 30 hours after it was found - and not until after several discussions about it were held at the Governor's mansion (at least one with the widow and her attorney).

"Beginning the night of the death and for several days thereafter, those who knew Forster expressed nothing but shock and surprise.

"No family member or close friend initially voiced any concern about Forster's mental state, but around the time of the torn note's discovery, seemingly everyone who knew Forster began to describe how 'down' or 'depressed' he in fact had been in the weeks before his death.

"Rather than the cause of the radical flip-flop on Forster's mental state, at a minimum, the official reaction to the discovery of the note, if not the note itself, may have been a prudent tactical response to the death. Had Forster's death remained the unexplained 'bolt from the blue' that his family and close friends initially described, ongoing public interest in the 'mysterious' reason behind the death of this senior administration official and long-time confidante of the Stinsons would have been legitimized.

"On the other hand, if it could be successfully claimed that Forster had been clinically depressed for one or more of a laundry list of reasons (failed administration political appointment, 'Travelgate,' political infighting in the Governor's office, the Wall Street Journal's editorials, the Stinson's tax returns and blind trust, and Jill's Health Care Task Force litigation) the clinical depression claim alone would tend to forestall further inquiry by subjecting outside investigators in the media and elsewhere to charges of insensitivity and political partisanship ('scurrilous Right-wing kooks with cockamamie theories profiteering on the death of Vince Forster' being a typical composite allegation).

"There are gaping holes in the attempt to paint Forster as clinically depressed. Apparently casting about for a physical symptom of clinical depression, it was reported that Forster's weight loss was 'obvious to many' (media accounts shortly after the death placed the weight loss at 12-15 pounds), but Forster's medical records are consistent: Forster lost no weight, based on his weight just before starting his state job and his weight when he died.

"It was further reported that the Forster family doctor had prescribed an 'anti-depressant' the day before the death, but the doctor - a long-time family friend - told the FBI that he did not think Forster was significantly depressed and that he felt the prescription in question was merely to help Forster sleep better. The specific drug and the single daily 50-milligram dose said to have been prescribed for the six foot, four-inch, 200-pound Forster - the smallest tablet manufactured and about one-fifth the initial average daily dosage to treat depression - corroborates the doctor's insomnia explanation.
"The handwritten FBI interview notes of the widow state that Forster had been 'fighting' taking a 'prescription' for sleeping pills ('Restoril,' generic name 'tamazepam,' a benzodiazepine) dispensed several months earlier for this same insomnia (according to his widow, Forster was concerned the sleeping pills could be addictive), but the typed FD-302 report of the interview states in the equivalent location that Forster had been 'fighting depression,' a significant alteration in wording by the FBI, apparently made to buttress the official claims that Forster was depressed.

"What did the park police learn about Forster's recent mental state when they spoke to family members and close friends the night of the death? Despite contemporary media reports that the park police were denied entrance, two park police investigators each spent 70 minutes in the Forster home that night. The investigators' depositions provide significant information regarding the real-time perspective of Forster's family and friends immediately after they learned of the death and several days before those closest to the administration began to bruit about allegations of clinical depression.

"Based on the numerous statements that surfaced several days after the death that Forster had been struggling with clinical depression for several weeks, the numerous relatives and close friends who gathered at the Forster home the night of the death should have been describing to the investigators (and to each other) symptoms of clinical depression they had observed in Forster.

"This is emphatically not what the two investigators discovered in their 70 minutes spent asking questions at the Forster home that night. Presumably, the dozen or so friends and family who were present (many of them attorneys) realized that the investigators were not present to make idle social chit-chat, but were conducting a formal investigation into the death of a high-ranking Louisiana official, and took the questions they were asked seriously."

Ramsay published some quotes from the depositions and testimony about the interviews conducted that night:

"One of the last things I got from Mrs. Forster - I asked her was he - did you see this coming, was [sic] there any signs of this . . . everyone said no, no, no, no, he was fine. This is out of the blue... [Foster's sister, Sheila Antoine] was talking with us . . . I spoke with her, [the other park police investigator present in the Forster home] spoke with her. She was very cordial. I remember asking her, did you see any of this coming, and she stated, no. Nobody would say anything about depression or that they noticed some signs, they were worried. [We] asked, was there anything, did you see this forthcoming [sic], was there anything different about him, has he been depressed, and all the answers were no.'"

"The staff attorney also asked the investigator if he found out Forster was taking any medication, specifically any anti-depressant drug:

"Q: 'Did anyone at the notification, the death notification and initial interviews at the Forster home, 9:00 - 10:10 P.M. EDT on July 20, mention depression or anti-depressant medication that Forster might have been taking?'

"A: 'I mentioned depression, did you see this coming, were there any signs, has he been taking any medication? No. All negative answers.' "

Ramsay further noted of this information that the investigators at the Forster home that night wanted to find out about any drugs Forster was taking, but had been unable to do so. "Lab work done as a part of the autopsy tested Forster's blood, vitreous humor, and urine, and included specific tests (all performed by Louisiana's Division of Forensic Science) for the presence of anti-depressants, including particular tests for the presence of 'tricyclic anti-depressants' and 'benzodiazepines,' even though the park police investigators had been specifically told by family members and close friends that Forster was not taking any anti-depressant medication.

"The tests came up completely negative; all anti-depressant drugs screened, specifically excluding the presence of any 'tricyclic anti-depressants' or 'benzodiazepines.' It is not certain on the face of the report whether Trazodone [Desyrel] was specifically tested for by the Louisiana Division of Forensic Sciences or not.

"The first known official claim that Forster had been taking anti-depressant medication, came from Lisa Forster nine days after the death. She told the park police on July 29 that Forster had taken Trazodone [Desyrel] the night before his death."

The night of the death, when asked by the investigators if her husband had been taking any medication, specifically any anti-depressant medication, she said no, even though a few days later she told them Forster had taken anti-depressant medication just one day before his death and later told them that she had told her husband to take the anti-depressant and had watched him take it.

"The 'new' information first surfaced in the only other contact that the park police were permitted to have with the widow, a 50-minute session in her attorney's office that ended at 5:00 P.M. sharp, three days after the discovery of the torn note and two days after the widow and her attorney had attended a meeting to discuss the then still-secret torn note," continued Ramsay.

"This interview had at least one other unusual aspect. According to the deposition of the senior officer conducting the interview: 'You know, we didn't have to question her a whole lot.' The widow gave more of a verbal statement than an interview, he said. Indicating that he thought Mrs. Forster was 'happy to get some things off her chest,' the senior police officer also considered that 'she had gone over it with her lawyer so many times she had it down pat . . . I don't think we ever asked her a direct question . . . We did not interview any of the Forster children [the youngest of the three about to start his senior year of high school]. [The widow's attorney] would not make them accessible to us.'

"It was not until a re-test of the blood some months later by the FBI lab that, mirabile dictu, the presence of both Trazodone and a benzodiazepine (Valium) in Forster's blood was reported - in time to buttress the report claiming that Mr. Forster was clinically depressed.

"The completely contradictory Division of Forensic Science report that no such drugs were detected (the state report was, of course, based on recently drawn samples) was not made public until after the general report was released and few paid any attention to it any more than to the immediate post-death denials by the widow, other family members, and close friends that Forster was either 'down' or was taking any antidepressant medication.

"Of course, FBI whistle-blower Frederick Whitehurst was complaining internally during this period that the FBI lab was playing fast and loose with the truth in its analysis reports, claims that have since become public and, based on Whitehurst's recent sizable cash settlement with the FBI and still-outstanding legal actions, appear to have been well-founded."

Ramsay further considered the prior conflicting state lab report "curious," but insignificant, even though the original lab report that found no anti-depressant drugs, and in the context of the universal denials the night of the death that Forster was depressed or taking anti-depressant medication.

A forensic expert reported he found blood stains up to one millimeter in size on each side of each lens of Forster's glasses (in an attempt to prove the glasses, found 19 feet up-range from his head, were on Forster's face when shot), but both the police and the FBI report explicitly stated that there was no blood on the glasses.

An agent's memo to Carlton Blackledge described as having removed evidence from Forster's desk (officially, of course, that did not happen) and referred to the discovery of a letter or other writing written by Forster (apparently the night of the death) that was not the 'torn note' found six days later.

Forster's shirt and slacks showed no sign the body had been dragged (an attempt to refute arguments that the body was moved to or within the park), but the lead investigator at the body site, the medical examiner, and the investigator charged with taking notes all reported that the body slid down the berm and that they then dragged the body up the slope, a serious effort obviously required given the approximately 40-degree slope, stopping only when he body was higher up the slope than it was originally.

The sheer volume of criminality was so overwhelming, that it was only by encapsulating The Stinson Body Count in the final chapter that Ramsay was able to focus the book to a conclusion.

"A huge number of people connected to Jim and Jill Stinson have turned up dead," Ramsay wrote. "To date, Jim and Jill have gotten away with all of it! By publishing this information, I want to make it clear that I consider it entirely possible that the Stinsons would attempt to have me killed. I mailed a letter to my friend Kevin McDonald when I started investigating this book, warning that if something happened to me, to tell police or authorities or somebody I suspect it to be foul play by the Stinsons, and to save the post mark to prove when I mailed the letter. Whether they kill me or not, I cannot say. I can say it is something they would do if it can be done 'cleanly.' I want to plainly state that I am in perfect health, and if I should die suddenly after these allegations are published in this book, I want it known that I consider Jim and Jill Stinson to be suspects. I also want to state plainly that 'dark forces' of supernatural evil may be working on their behalf. As Shakespeare said, 'There are more things on Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than can be dreamt of in your philosophy.' These are some of the previous victims:

"James McDowell – Stinson's convicted Blackwater partner died of an apparent heart attack, while in solitary confinement. He was a key witness in the investigation. Was McDowell murdered in a federal prison to silence him?

"Ron Braun \- Former DNC Chairman. Reported to have died by impact in a plane crash. A pathologist close to the investigation reported that there was a hole in the top of Braun's skull resembling a gunshot wound. At the time of his death Braun was being investigated, and spoke publicly of his willingness to cut a deal with prosecutors. Did Stinson have him killed because he told him they would go down 'together' regarding revelations of Braun's many corruptions?

"Vince Forster \- Former Stinson counselor, and colleague of Jill Stinson at New Orleans' Broussard and Galatoire law firm. Died of a gunshot wound to the head, ruled a suicide.

"Mary Maloney \- A former intern was murdered at a Starbucks Coffee Shop. The murder happened just as she was to go public with her story of sexual harassment in the Governor's office.

"C. Victor Reiser II & Montgomery Reiser: Major players in the Stinson fund raising organization died in a private plane crash.

"Paul Talley \- Democratic National Committee political director found dead in a hotel room in Shreveport. Described by Stinson as a 'dear friend and trusted advisor.'

"Ed Willsey \- Stinson fund raiser, found dead deep in the woods in Virginia of a gunshot wound to the head. Ruled a suicide. Ed Willsey died on the same day his wife Sharleen Willey claimed Jim Stinson groped her in his office. Ed Willsey was involved in several Stinson fund-raising events.

"Jerry Park \- Head of Stinson's gubernatorial security team in Louisiana. Gunned down in his car at a deserted intersection outside New Orleans. Park's son said his father was building a dossier on Stinson and clashed with Carlton Blackledge. He allegedly threatened to reveal this information. After he died the files were mysteriously removed from his house.

"James Busch \- Died from a gunshot suicide. It was reported that he had a 'Black Book' of people containing names of influential people who visited prostitutes in Texas, New Orleans and Arkansas.

"James Wilcox \- Was found dead from an apparent hanging suicide. He was reported to have ties to Blackwater.

"Kathy Fergis \- Ex-wife of Arkansas trooper Danny Fergis; was found dead in her living room with a gunshot to her head. It was ruled a suicide even though there were several packed suitcases, as if she was going somewhere. Danny Fergis was a co-defendant along with Jim Stinson in the Paula Johnson sexual harassment lawsuit. Kathy Fergis was a possible corroborating witness for Paula Johnson.

"Bill Shelby \- Arkansas state trooper and fiancée of Kathy Fergis. Critical of the suicide ruling of his fiancée, he was found dead of a gunshot wound also ruled a suicide at the gravesite of his fiancée.

"Garry Baughman \- Attorney for Stinson friend Dan Laster died by jumping out a window of a tall building. His client was a convicted drug distributor.

"Florence Martini \- Accountant/sub-contractor for the CIA related to the Barry Segal Mena Airport drug smuggling case. Died of three gunshot wounds.

"Suzanne Cole \- Reportedly had an affair with Stinson. Died of a gunshot wound to the back of the head, ruled a suicide. Was pregnant at the time of her death.

"Paula Gruber \- Stinson's speech interpreter for the deaf until her death in a one-car accident.

"Danny Castolaro \- Investigative reporter. Investigating Mena airport and Arkansas Development Finance Authority. He slit his wrists, apparent suicide in the middle of his investigation.

"Paul Wiltze \- Attorney investigating corruption at Mena Airport with Castolaro was found dead in his Washington, D.C. apartment. Had delivered a report to Janet Reinsdorf three weeks before his death.

"Jon Parnell Walk \- Blackwater investigator for Resolution Trust Corporation. Jumped to his death from his apartment balcony. Was investigating Madson Guarantee scandal.

"Barbara Weis \- Commerce Department staffer. Worked closely with Ron Braun and John Huang. Cause of death unknown. Her bruised nude body was found locked in her office at the Department of Commerce.

"Charles Meister \- Assistant Secretary of Commerce who gave John Huang special security clearance, died shortly thereafter in a small plane crash.

"Dr. Stanley Head \- Chairman of the National Chiropractic Health Care Advisory Committee died with his attorney Steve Dickerson in a small plane crash. Dr. Head, in addition to serving on Stinson's advisory council personally treated Stinson's mother and brother.

"Barry Segal \- Drug running pilot out of Mena, Arkansas. Death was no accident.

"Johnny Lawson Jr. \- Mechanic, found a check made out to Stinson in the trunk of a car left in his repair shop. Died when his car hit a utility pole.

"Stanley Hutchinson \- Suicide. Investigated Madson Guarantee. His report was never released.

"Hershell Truesdale \- Attorney and Stinson fundraiser died when his plane exploded.

"Kevin Ives & Don Henry \- Known as 'the boys on the track' case. Reports say the boys may have stumbled upon the Mena, Arkansas Airport drug operation. Controversial case where initial report of death was due to falling asleep on railroad track. Later reports claim the two boys had been slain before being placed on the tracks. Many linked to the case died before their testimony could come before a grand jury.

"THE FOLLOWING SEVEN PERSONS HAD INFORMATION ON THE IVES / HENRY CASE:

"Keith Conway \- Died when his motorcycle slammed into the back of a truck.

"Keith McCaskle – 'Died' after being stabbed 113 times.

"Gregory Collinsworth \- Died from a gunshot wound, January of 1989.

"Jeff Roads \- He was shot, mutilated and found burned in a trash dump.

"James Milano \- Found decapitated. Coroner ruled death due to natural causes.

"Jordan Kettle \- Was found shot to death in the front seat of his pickup truck.

"Richard Winterset \- Was a suspect in the Ives/Henry deaths. Was killed in a set-up robbery.

"THE FOLLOWING STINSON BODYGUARDS ARE DEAD:

"Major William S. Barger Jr.

"Captain Scott J. Reynoso

"Sergeant Brian Hadley

"Sergeant Tim Sobel

"Major General William Roberts

"Colonel William Densberg

"Colonel Robert Keltner

"Specialist Gary Rondell

"Steve Willits

"Robert Williamson

"Conway LeBeau

"Todd McKleen."

In addition, Ramsay discovered Chinese journalists who investigated Riady and his Asian connections had been killed, probably murdered. All of these people had been connected with the Stinsons in some form or another. Not included were any deaths that could not be verified or connected to their scandals. Ramsay's list was considered the "smaller" list. More partisan, conservative lists included 61 names, but that included people whose deaths were not tied to the Stinsons and very likely died in other ways.

The smear

It took Duke Ramsay over three years to research, then write The Stinson Body Count, which came in at well over 1,000 pages. In terms of the sheer volume of investigative journalism accumulated within its pages, it may have been the greatest work of journalism ever produced. It put to shame All the President's Men by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein.

Written without a publisher or an advance, it set Ramsay back, about $10,000 in debt when he started, over $100,000 in the hole when he was done, since he worked for free, paid his own gas, his own air fare, his own meals, and often had to pay the people he was interviewing. Mainly he used credit cards and cash advances. There was no guarantee he would be published, would make his money back; much less make any sort of profit off it.

Aside from writing a note to his friend Kevin McDonald advising that if anything were to happen to him, please alert the police to look into the Stinsons, Ramsay also contacted Governor Stinson's office by phone, email, fax and by letter as soon as he decided to write the book. He wrote to them requesting an interview with both Jim and Jill, but more important plainly stated to them that he was contacting several newspapers and magazines, various news outlets, and the Republican Party, expressly informing them what he was doing, and that if anything untoward were to happen to him, he suspected them. He never heard from Stinson's office.

As he dug further and further into their sordid deeds, the Stinson's were indeed aware of who Duke Ramsay was and what he was up to. Jim Stinson ordered him to be killed. His "octopus squad," as Ramsay called them, attempted to poison him at a restaurant in the French Quarter. By pure luck, Ramsay's plans changed at the last minute. He never came to the restaurant and never learned of the assassination attempt.

Stinson ordered a second hit, but Jill Stinson interfered. She was concerned that Ramsay had contacted the media and friends, explicitly directing them to question the Stinsons if he should meet a bad end. Instead she used all the power and persuasion at their considerable behest to investigate Ramsay. Duke knew all along he was being investigated. Friends, family and associates informed him of numerous contacts from "media" people claiming to be looking into his background for "stories." He knew they would find embarrassing things about him. He did not care. He was convinced he was a modern day Christian martyr, willing to die as St. Peter and other Biblical figures had, in order to promote good over evil.

Finally when he completed his manuscript, Stinson presented it to publishers. He tried to get magazines and newspapers to print excerpts. He tried to get a literary agent. He was met by fierce resistance. Many were scared of the Stinsons, fearing violence and libel suits. Most had Democratic sympathies and refused to embarrass their heroes. Finally Regnery, a conservative publisher of books and Human Events magazine, located in Washington, agreed to publish. They wanted Ramsay to reduce the book from over 1,000 pages to a more manageable 500, but Ramsay insisted on printing everything. They finally agreed. Ramsay was paid $10,000 up front, a fraction of his expenses. He needed big royalties if he were to get out of debt.

As his editor read through the draft, he was amazed and constantly asked Ramsay, "Is this true?' or "Can you verify this?" It seemed impossible to believe, but Ramsay had dug deep into a bottomless pit and found crimes he called "incomprehensible."

"It's like Joseph Stalin or Hitler," he told his editor. "There comes a time in which criminal activity becomes too overwhelming for the human mind to absorb. Somehow, if the Stinsons had committed just a few ordinary crimes, crimes of corruption in office, that people could understand, they would believe it and they'd be held accountable more so than they have been or, frankly, they will be. This will be read but not believed. It is too terrible for average people to understand."

Jill Stinson certainly understood that. She knew that a thorough description of their activities would be too overwhelming, that it would seem cartoonish, a depiction of evil that humans could not relate to; that she could actually evince sympathy for she and her poor, falsely-accused husband.

"Jim and I have been accused of everything, including murder, by some of the very same people who are behind these allegations," "For anybody willing to find it, and write about it, and explain it, it is this 'vast Right-wing conspiracy' that has been conspiring against my husband since the day he became a Presidential contender," Jill Stinson said on The Today Show, repeating the "vast Ring-wing conspiracy" line.

Backstage after the program, an aide angered her over some failing or another.

"I want that lousy Jew bastard fired, and I mean today," she screamed at her aides. It was heard by dozens of NBC employees. It was not reported.

Jill was asked how she turned $1,000 into $100,000 almost over night.

"I was lucky," she replied.

Asked to address her husband's philandering, she said, "He ministers to troubled people all the time . . . If you knew his mother you would understand it." She repeated her accusations of a "Right-wing conspiracy with really nothing on the other end of the political spectrum." She even went so far as to call the Washington press corp "Right-wing," despite evidence presented that 89 percent of them voted Democrat.

She was asked how she could square her husband's activities since both she and Jim had worked to impeach Richard Nixon.

"The problem back then, you'll remember, is that documents were destroyed, tapes were missing, 18 and a half minutes," she said. "The White House was not cooperating . . . I think the contrast is so dramatic." The Nixon White House was "evil," she said, but the Clintons were "innocent."

The subject of her lesbianism came up "When I look at the man department, I'm surprised more women aren't gay," she told Ms. Magazine

She discussed the issue of all the "bimbos" Jim had sex with in discussion with Don Carver.

"Who is going to find out?" she said. "These women are all trash. Nobody's going to believe them."

When asked to address the Blackwater scandal she said, "Every document that we have obtained has been turned over to the special counsel." Ramsay responded, "That's true, with the exception of . . . documents not turned over to the special counsel or destroyed."

"He's a great human being," Jill said of the liar Don Carver. "We have to destroy her," was her strategy for dealing with Gennifer Fairchild, whose good looks and penchant for publicity, encouraged by a celebrity attorney, made her a TV sensation.

Asked about the crimes she and her husband committed, she turned the question around as it if had been a question about how to deal with criminals. "We will never build enough prisons to end our crime problem," she stated.

When a sympathetic TV interviewer asked how she dealt with Jim's sex addiction, she stated, "I just put it in a little box. That's how I deal with it. I put it in a box in my mind and I just don't think about it."

Word of The Stinson Body Count's contents began to spread through conservative circles. A man named Richard Marston Scarsdale decided to sponsor Ramsay. Scarsdale was the heir to a huge fortune. His great-grandfather had founded a famous university in the Northeast, and he oversaw a media empire of conservative newspapers, magazines, television and radio stations. He was a tremendous alcoholic and womanizer, a behind-the-scenes player in Republican politics, but his drunken bouts at fundraisers preceded him.

Scarsdale despised the Stinsons. He identified Jim as the likely Democratic nominee in the next Presidential election. He also knew Jill, who had remained behind the scenes for years, had huge ambitions of her own. He wanted to destroy them once and for all. He ran excerpts from Ramsay's book in his publications, and arranged for him to be interviewed on his media outlets. He also began a heavy duty mailing campaign, sending out incendiary descriptions from Duke's book describing the Stinson's "octopus squad" killing kids, running a drug operation in Mena, Arkansas, killing Vince Forster, and other details.

Ramsay had started it almost three years before the Democratic primaries, and it was published in January of the Presidential election year, just as the Iowa caucuses were getting underway, followed shortly by the pivotal New Hampshire primary. All of this built huge anticipation of the book, when Stinson was considered a shoo-in for the Democratic nomination. It quickly ascended to number one on the New York Times bestseller list, despite every effort by the Times to hide its success. It stayed number one on Amazon.com for months. Ramsay received tremendous media attention from conservatives. He was regularly interviewed on Fox News, on conservative talk radio, and within conservative print and Internet circles: Human Events, American Spectator, Newsmax, The Weekly Standard, National Review, the Washington Times, DrudgeReport.com, and others. The so-called "mainstream" media, however, either totally ignored him, or set out to destroy him. They were given more than enough ammunition from the Stinsons.

"I want you to go after him the way Stalin did," Jill Stinson told Hart Hadley, Gyorgy Szabo, other allies in the media, and her hatchet men. "If Stalin suspected somebody was a threat, he did not just kill the man. He killed his wife, his kids, his parents, his cousins, and then everybody who ever knew him or even heard of him."

" 'We're not inflicting pain on these people,' Jim Stinson said, softly at first," wrote ex-Stinson advisor George Andopoulos in Almost Human. " 'When people kill us, they should be killed in greater numbers.' Then, with his face reddening, his voice rising, and his fist pounding his thigh, he leaned into Anthony Rivera, one of his top aides, as if it was his fault. 'I believe in killing people who try to hurt you. And I can't believe we're being pushed around by this two-bit prick.' "

Hart Hadley took it upon himself to become the de facto public relations wing of the Democratic Party, digging up every possible piece of dirt not only about Duke, but his family, friends, associates; plus any outspoken Republicans and conservatives. The man who paid more than $1 million to induce PartyChicks of the Year, pro football cheerleaders, and other non-porn chicks to do private gangbangs for his personal DVD collection, was ready, willing and able to pay multiple millions more to anybody who had any sort of story, information, or embarrassing "facts" regarding Duke Ramsay, Christians and like-minded enemies of Hadley's cause.

He especially enjoyed "outing" social conservatives opposed to gay marriage as being gay themselves, or the their kids were gay, or any variation on the theme. He detailed dozens of stories of Republican political figures having affairs, cheating on their wives, paying for hookers, and the like. Most of what he put out were lies or unsubstantiated. Hadley knew they were lies. He disseminated it anyway. The Stinsons cheered him on. Hollywood and the liberal press promoted all of it with the zeal of the possessed.

The hatchet job done on Duke Ramsay was unlike any previously seen. It was beyond comprehension. Once Jill Stinson decided to cancel the second assassination attempt against him, it was decided to assassinate his character instead. Ramsay was a "super-partisan," she explained. They could discredit him, and in so doing make it look like Stinson was the victim of a McCarthyite "witch hunt."

Stinson used all the powers of his office and his police network to dig up everything Ramsay had ever done. Ramsay himself once enjoyed pornography, frequented strip clubs, and visited hookers. He was a believing Christian, but burdened by human weakness. His spirit was willing, his flesh simply weak. He was depicted as a porn addict who rented some five or 10 videos a week. Stinson's people got hold of all his porn rentals and purchases, which were detailed. It was reported that he watched it regularly on the Internet, read adult magazines, and was obsessed with gangbangs, "facial cumshots," and the most extreme acts of degradation against women, commonly known as bukkakes.

They did not stop there. While much of his porn obsession was true, they lied and created a huge stash of gay and child pornography they said he watched. Ramsay had subscribed to SluttyChicks.com, along with a number of other adult web sites owned by Hadley, who searched all the records and published descriptions of every movie, every scene and every photo Ramsay had viewed or downloaded. He printed every movie Ramsay had ever purchased, managing to list not just the porn movies Ramsay bought on SluttyChicks.com, but from other web sites like CDUniverse.com, or porn he rented from a site called BushDVD.com, plus others. He uncovered Ramsay's account at a site called CoverMyFace.com, which depicted girls taking on a so-called "Baker's Dozen" of 13 facial cumshots, obviously his greatest fascination. Stinson's security people managed to uncover every adult purchase Ramsay made at video stores and adult bookstores, including Hadley's SluttyChicks stores, publishing all of it. He once got a blowjob from one of Hadley's "hookers," paid to have occasional sex with guys in the store in order to increase traffic. It had been caught on tape and Hadley splashed it all over the Internet. The girl, married with kids by this point, was recognized and ruined.

It was obvious Ramsay had a particular predilection for depictions that portrayed women as complete sluts. They published not just the actual purchases and rentals, but added over a hundred gay and bi-sexual titles he had never made. They created fake accounts and established a "record" of Ramsay purchasing a plethora of child pornography. They created multiple "chat rooms" making it appear that he was constantly trying to score a "date" with underage boys and girls as young as 10. Stinson used his authority in Louisiana and his friends in federal law enforcement to investigate these illegal criminal activities. Hackers uncovered every web page, every search, and everything else on all his computers. His cell and phone records, his emails, much of his U.S. postal mail, were uncovered and exposed. Phone calls were illegally recorded and broadcast.

They said he was a bi-sexual. They found out his first wife left him because of his porn addiction and worries that their child would see adult material. This was enlarged in the media into child porn, with allegations, all investigated by the authorities, that he had molested his daughter. They uncovered the fact that his second wife had been a stripper and prostitute at a brothel in Nevada. She had managed to keep all of that hidden away, raising the son Ramsay fathered, now being raised by his ex married and a wealthy former "john" who was happy to keep it quiet. The entire family was utterly destroyed when Hadley and Stinson's media people uncovered it with the most salacious headlines, planting it in all the tabloids and many mainstream publications, plus Left-wing talk radio and TV.

The wealthy man now living with Ramsay's ex-wife was exposed as a regular visitor to Nevada brothels for years, along with explicit details of his likes, dislikes and frequency of visits. Hadley recognized Ramsay's ex-wife, and after an extensive search found that years earlier, before she married to Ramsay, she had sent some photos to PartyChicks magazine and even done some modeling for SluttyChicks, including several oral scenes. He printed it all. He discovered she had some photos, a few of them x-rated, taken at the brothel and managed to get hold of them for printing. He found out she had provided illegal sexual services while working as a stripper in L.A., and had done some escorting too. He printed all of that plus extensive lies adding untrue, very dirty details. He interviewed dozens of men who visited her at the brothel and got details of her oral skills, willingness to "get freaky," and the like. Many of her "johns" were exposed, their names printed, lives ruined, jobs lost, families broken up. Hadley doctored photos that made it appear Ramsay was having sex with his second wife, not unlike the video that Fidel Valenzuela's team doctored, making it look like Senate candidate Mitch Roberts engaged in an orgy at a fraternity party, when in fact he was trying to break it up.

Hadley discovered that Ramsay's second wife had an abortion from another man before she met Ramsay, but pinned it on him, naturally mentioning no word of Ramsay's begging and pleading her not to abort his son, a wish she adhered to. Both Ramsay's ex-wife and his son attempted suicide, but survived.

Stinson's media friends reported the outright lie that Ramsay's mother, a leading member of the community, had been a whore. She was embarrassed out of her leadership role in half a dozen civic organizations. They said his father was a gay man who paid for his drugs by giving blow jobs, all untrue, but they somehow found tapes, sold by a man with AIDS desperate for cash, of Ramsay's dad engaged in phone sex, a weird predilection he once had. They discovered phone sex tapes Duke engaged in, as well, but doctored them to make it sound like Duke and his father talked dirty to each other. Hadley further doctored photos making it look like Duke and his dad were gay lovers, as well, and planted this doozie in the National Enquirer: "Stinson accuser Ramsay in Ménage a Trois with Mom, Dad." Two people standing in line at the grocery store reading it recognized Ramsay when Duke bought food. Every conceivable lie was put forth into social media, the blogosphere, everywhere: Ramsay's friends were "exposed" as his gay lovers, all lies; "conversations" inserted with women and gay men to make it sound like he was planning liaisons with prostitutes and homosexuals. Ramsay's father, a respected teacher and coach, was forced to resign in disgrace.

They painted his friendship with Kevin McDonald, his drinking buddy and a guy who went looking for chicks with him, as his gay lover. They described Ramsay as a reprobate, a criminal, a terrible father who abandoned both his children. He could not hold a job, was in debt, declared bankruptcy, could not be trusted. He was a "loser" who lived in his parent's basement.

Hadley paid strippers, club patrons, workers, and prostitutes to spill the beans on Ramsay, and then added extra details, claiming Ramsay was bi-sexual "like his dad," even though he was not.

He had a couple of DUIs and had once been questioned in a so-called "kidnapping" case when he was 20. Ramsay picked up on a girl in a bar and was driving her to his apartment when the police lit him up for weaving in the road. The girl was freaked out by drugs, and bolted from the car, claiming to the cops Ramsay had not let her out of the car.

He spent a day in jail until the cops realized she was a nut case who had never been held against her will. The case disappeared, but Stinson's reach in Louisiana had long tentacles. It was resurrected, only in the re-telling by Hadley's PartyChicks magazine and PartyChicks.com web site, Ramsay had been convicted of rape and kidnapping. Jill Stinson continued to call Ramsay part of a "huge extremist conspiracy" against her husband, after the term "vast Ring-wing conspiracy" had been lambasted by the Right wing.

"Jill Wyndham's right about that," remarked talk host Randy Lebow, repeating what Ramsay said. "It's a huge conspiracy consisting of millions of patriotic American citizens . . . who register and vote."

"I am particularly horrified by the use of propaganda and the manipulation of the truth and the revision of history," remarked Jill.

But there was one small chink in the Hadley-Stinson armor.

"We could not find one thing one thing on him from the time he started researching his book," Hadley told Stinson. "He claims he became a born again Christian, and apparently walked the walk after that. No porn, no hookers, no strip clubs, no phone sex, no Internet stuff, nothin'. He hasn't had a girlfriend, no one-night stands, celibate city. It's like he purified himself, man. Church every Sunday. Bible study. Tapped his phone. Heard him doin' Bible study. Stopped drinkin', stopped goin' to bars, got his buddy McDonald to do the same.

"Before he started tryin' a tear you down, he was a reprobate, kind of. A loser, no income, bad alcoholic, porn addict, all that stuff. Not like we put it out there but this was no church deacon, but since then he's frickin' St. Francis of Assisi."

"That's okay, Hart," Stinson replied. "We're the Borgias."

Few men in American history were more terribly smeared than Duke Ramsay. The price he paid was terrible beyond contemplation. 99 percent of what was said about him was lies. They took the one percent of truth and, using Machiavellian logic, twisted that to support the lies.

Ramsay admitted he was an alcoholic, slept with prostitutes and strippers, and had a porn addiction. He also had entered Alcoholics Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous when he started researching the book. His sacred secrets revealed in those meetings were all revealed by the media, who paid members to tell what Hadley had said, but they also added he seemed to have put it all behind him. That part was left out.

"I knew I needed to purge myself of my sinful nature and be as pure as I could be if I were to tackle these people and withstand their lies," he told an interviewer. "I knew they would attack me. I think they would have killed me if I had not early and publicly come out and announced I was doing this, but then there was some light on me. I expected a killer to be at my front door, all the time. I inspected my car before turning on the ignition. I often ordered and tried different foods to make sure I was not being poisoned. I avoided friends and family because I did not want them to become collateral damage. I simply put my trust in God."

Christians and conservatives instinctively recognized that Ramsay was telling the truth, that while he had led a sinful life, he was repentant. The liberal press and Democrats knew what was being said of him was false; they propelled these fictions anyway. The Stinsons were the future of their party. Hardcore liberals wanted Jim in the White House, and then Jill to follow up. They called them "a two-fer." Ramsay was asked why the Left so vehemently defended the Stinsons.

"The Democrats have identified them as the hope of the party; a Southern man who can garner enough votes south of the Mason-Dixon Line to undo the longtime lock the GOP has had there," Ramsay replied. "They have invested their money, their hopes and their dreams in the Stinsons. The feminists love him as a protector of abortion, Jill as the archetype liberal hero of universal woman's suffrage. I always adhere to history when making my points. It's like Alger Hiss, a hero of the Democrats who was a paid Soviet spy working in President Roosevelt's administration. Along comes this guy, Whittaker Chambers, who was flawed and had much to hide in his personal life, but he knew and exposed Hiss and the Communist network in America that became the Red Scare, McCarthyism. The Democrats used all their considerable power in Hollywood, the government, the press, and within elite circles, to rally behind Hiss and destroy not just Chambers but McCarthy, to create a template they call 'witch hunting.' But Christians innately understood that Chambers had come to know the divine grace of Christ, and was willing to martyr himself in a cause greater than himself, to fight against a pernicious evil that has murdered some 100 million human beings in the 20th Century: Communism. Eventually, the Soviet Union was dissolved and the Venona Project was unearthed within Soviet archives. All Chambers had accused Hiss of being was proved true. Someday, probably after I am gone, buried by the Left in a blizzard of lies, the Truth shall make ye free."

Not everyone outside the conservative press called Ramsay a liar. "With an immense sense of sorrow, I have to say I believe that the stories of The Stinson Body Count are on the mark," wrote Tony Huggins, an iconoclastic Englishman, in the London newspaper The Telegraph. "It does appear, at least to this observer, that the man most likely to be the next occupant of the United States Presidency is a murderer."

"The President suffers from a syndrome characteristic of certain adult children of alcoholic parents," remarked Paul Fitch, Ph.D. "This gives him a strong tendency to lie, to be by nature indecisive, to create and thrive on chaos, to deny personal responsibility and indulge in self-destructive behavior. Ramsay's book describes in near-clinical terms this behavior taken to its extreme."

Ramsay made well over $1 million from book sales. He was not alone, either. He became a regular paid contributor on Fox News and a regular guest, sometimes a substitute, hosting for such radio stalwarts as Randy Lebow and other conservative mavens. Many evangelical Christian organizations rallied to him. Nobody actually believed all the allegations Hadley and the Stinson attack squad laid out. They had overplayed their hands and a lot of sympathy was expended to Ramsay, especially after reports that his ex-wife and son had tried to take their own lives. Even liberals realized most if not all of it were a lie.

Republican legal organizations raised money and offered services in his defense against numerous investigations of child abuse, child abandonment, lack of child support, child porn and child molestation, none of which could ultimately be proved since none of it ever existed, but he needed to defend himself until his name was cleared.

He was hired to write a regular column for Human Events magazine, a division of his publisher, Regnery. He moved to the Virginia suburbs, near D.C. With his book profits and steady employment he was able to buy a nice house for himself.

He resisted the temptation to use his fame and money to hire hookers. It was a hard, difficult struggle, but he prayed hard and managed to divest his lustful worst self. He still loved beautiful women, but also stayed away from porn. He managed to quit drinking and stayed sober.

But many of his friends and family turned from him. Many had their lives ruined or badly altered by association with him; lost jobs, families ruined, defamation. It was a hard road for Duke Ramsay. He was God's lonely man.

Both his ex-wives were mad at him. The Stinson smears had exposed intimate details of their lives, opening them up to public scrutiny. But they both understood that the smears were lies. They had their issues with him, but both knew he was inherently a decent man who tried to do the right thing. A loser, at least at one time; a flawed man, maybe, but not what they said about him. By no means a child molester or any of that.

But his book was a big success, albeit only with the hard Right it seemed, and grudging respect was due him for that effort. Ramsay had seen both his children over the years, but it was always a struggle. Neither lived near him. He did not have the money to fly them around the country or vice versa. Once or twice a year, maybe.

When the smears hit, and his second wife's secrets were revealed, it hit everybody like a ton of bricks. When both she and Ramsay's son tried to kill themselves, he flew to their sides, where he was rebuffed and told to leave, but he persevered and managed to see his son. Slowly but surely he rebuilt the relationship. Over the next few years, his second wife recovered and moved on with her life as best she could. Ramsay managed to see his daughter and his son more often, but it was far from ideal. He continued to be a loner, living by himself, no relationships, consumed only by his work, by Jim and Jill Stinson.

But one thing pushed, and gave strength, to Ramsay. He knew he was right. Early on in his investigation, a man named Alan Goodson contacted him. Goodson was a ramrod straight, six-foot, two-inch ruggedly macho ex-Marine. He was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He told Ramsay he could not directly aid his investigation into the Stinsons, but could like "Deep Throat," the FBI man who fed Bob Woodward inside information during Watergate, keep him steered in the right direction.

They met at secret locations in northern Virginia.

"I don't know how they get away with it," Goodson told Ramsay. "These people are murderers, and I don't just mean a few murders. These people are mass murderers, serial killers, and they've been doing it for close to two decades. They have to be the smartest people ever; they have somehow always managed to cover their tracks, have an alibi. We can't pin anything on them. They have blackmailed key Republicans and law enforcement people, but it's something larger than that."

"What do you mean?" asked Ramsay.

"I can't put my finger on it," Goodson replied. "I've been with the FBI over 10 years, but this is different. There's something . . . malevolent . . . that's helping them.

"I can't get enough to prosecute. Stinson has friends in the bureau who are protecting him. He has the perfect lawyer's mind; he's 10-15 steps ahead of every eventuality. All I can do is keep trying."

Throughout the struggle, Goodson continually encouraged Ramsay to keep going, too; that he was on the right track.

The "law of unintended consequences" found itself into the equation. When The Stinson Body Count was published, Jim Stinson was the hands down frontrunner for the Democratic Presidential nomination. Fidel Castro Valenzuela was barely on the horizon. Valenzuela was a young up-and-comer for sure, but his star would not really rise until the Stinsons had their day. For many, the Stinsons posed the possibility of a "dynasty": eight years of Jim followed by eight years of Jill. This of course was abhorrent to the GOP, but it remained a very real scenario.

Then Valenzuela threw his name into the ring. At first it seemed he was merely testing the waters, getting his name out there so that he would be more recognized in a future election. He was a lazy Senator, uninterested in legislation or the daily business of the Senate. All he cared about was his own advancement and glory. He was a picture of narcissism. Valenzuela figured if he won a few primaries, he might be able to finagle that into a cabinet post in the Stinson Administration.

But the Stinson's did not quite recognize the level of hatred they had engendered over the years. The Republicans despised them, of course, but they had made many enemies on the Left, as well. While many Democrats intrinsically believed much of what Ramsay wrote was true, partially true, or at least some of it was true, and were willing to overlook murder if it meant voting for a Democrat over a Republican, a Democratic primary was a horse of a different color. The Stinson Body Count's publication, spotlighted at least by the conservative media, brought to the surface some on the Left who did not like the Stinsons. Even some who had totally discredited the book and Ramsay suddenly cited it if it might help Valenzuela.

The Stinsons steamed and fumed. They got increasingly ugly, invoking much racial invective into the race. Conservative talk radio used its considerable influence. Randy Lebow's "Operation Chaos," asking Republicans to vote in Democratic primaries, swung the race from one side to the other without a clear winner. When it was all said and done, Ramsay's book had helped fulfill his purpose: to stop the election of Jim and Jill Stinson.

But Ramsay was aghast at Fidel Castro Valenzuela. He immediately recognized that he was a full-scale Socialist, and probably a Communist. He increasingly felt Valenzuela might be worse than Jim Stinson. Jill was the truly evil one, Ramsay felt. Jim seemed to be a more amiable figure. Jill was on the dark side. But events spun out of control. Suddenly Ramsay and the American Right found themselves staring at President-elect Fidel Castro Valenzuela. He managed to defeat the inept war hero Jack McLain and his running mate, the spunky Montana Governor Shelly Rider. Valenzuela's benefactor, the media magnate and billionaire Gyorgy Szabo, in cahoots with Massachusetts Congressman Bob Fink, somehow orchestrated a sub-prime mortgage crisis that hit the U.S. economy like a thunderbolt in mid-to-late September, just in time to swing the election from a five-point McLain-Rider lead to a substantial Valenzuela victory.

The hit campaign the Left and the media turned on Rider was almost as horrendous as what they had done to Ramsay. It was not like the election of Valenzuela had rid the world of the Stinsons, either. Valenzuela named Jim his Secretary of State, and helped arranged Jill to be named Secretary-General of the United Nations.

Ramsay despaired. He was sure that dark forces in the Universe were afoot. The United States, once an exceptional nation literally favored by God, was now immoral and corrupt on a grand scale, its greatness gone in the wake of homosexual glorification, and worse of all, an abortion holocaust of 60, going on 70 million babies. The election of Valenzuela, and the continued power of the Stinsons, was the last straw. Ramsay turned to the Lord Jesus Christ for solace, his faith in the U.S. gone.

Four years later, Rider seemed to have Valenzuela beaten just a few weeks before the election. After soundly beating a bored-looking Valenzuela in a debate, she led by seven points in the Gallup poll, but Gyorgy Szabo's French polling machines were rigged to discount every third or fourth Republican vote in the battleground states. Ramsay knew the election was stolen. He was of course disappointed, but it all seemed to fit a general pattern. By and large, all was lost.

Stinson had stepped down as Secretary of State after three years. His speech at the DNC was credited with elevating Valenzuela. Now he was off banging broads while his wife ascended to a position of great power at the U.N. But Ramsay never really believed Jim Stinson was through. He loved and needed power too much to just fade into the sunset, getting blowjobs from sluts at Hard Hadley's parties. He needed the spotlight.

So he was not surprised to discover that Stinson's name was suddenly all over the news. It appeared that he was getting ready to announce for the Democratic nomination. Ramsay himself had stayed at Human Events magazine for most of the Valenzuela years. He wrote scathing hit pieces and, like the Stinsons, investigated the man's background thoroughly. He wrote of Valenzuela's fake birth certificate; his years of anti-American indoctrination in an Egyptian madrassa; the influence of the Communist Frederick Manson Jones; Valenzuela's habits and rumors that he gave blow jobs to pay for cocaine. A former dean at Columbia personally told Ramsay that he had seen Valenzuela's sealed college records, and that he had been admitted as a foreign student on a special affirmative action dispensation for Muslims. He wrote of his Harvard years, the radical groups Valenzuela associated with; of the Communist Noah Silverstein, the terrorist Warren Wolfsheim, the "puppet master" Gyorgy Szabo, his radical "priest" (who Fidel and Missy Valenzuela, lying, said had "brought us to Christ"), who said after 9/11 America was damned to hell for having stolen the Southwest from Mexico. He wrote of the discreditation of Mitch Roberts in the Massachusetts Senate race; of the anti-American radicalism, even Communist leanings, of the modern Democratic Party.

In the end, he was John the Baptist crying in the wilderness, watching as if given a special seat to observe the slow speed train wreck that was now America. Valenzuela was elected then re-elected. The invective against Ramsay and Human Events reached epic proportions. Every lie and foul accusation continued to be made against Ramsay. Finally, after Valenzuela's re-election, Human Events told him they had enough. They asked Ramsay to leave the magazine.

Duke had for years lived stoically. He had fought back against a pornography addiction, and had not viewed anything x-rated or even soft core in many, many years. He had not touched alcohol. He had not had any relationships, not seen prostitutes, avoided strip clubs. He tried as best he could to have relationships with his children from two failed marriages, but it was strained. He seemed to be girded and given strength by a higher power telling him he had some purpose to serve, and needed to live as pure an existence as he could in order to meet the challenge.

Ramsay took a job at considerably less pay with WorldNetDaily.com, an ultra-conservative web site that constantly ran the drumbeat of Valenzuela's fake birth certificate even after the issue was, in the view of most Americans, seemingly resolved. Ramsay continued to pound on Valenzuela and his wife; Jim and Jill Stinson; and the corruption of the Left. He was by now marginalized and vilified, read and given credence only by the hardcore Right. He felt he had failed, not just his country but God. Try as he might, he had martyred himself for a losing cause. He began to drink again.

So it was that Duke Ramsay was hung over and did not make it to work. "What's the use?" he asked himself. He began to sense that WorldNetDaily.com was ready to fire him, too. His readership was greatly reduced. He no longer had any real influence. He felt defeated.

Then he decided to check his voicemail.

The crash

Duke stared at the bottle of Jim Beam sitting on his counter. He was badly hung over from the night before. He had no desire to call anybody, research anything, or write a darned word. He had never been a "hair of the dog" guy, preferring to hit the gym or take a jog to shake out the cobwebs after drinking. During his sober years, he worked out and stayed in great shape. But now he was approaching 60 and, having fallen off the wagon hard, he had begun to stop caring. He was ready to hit the Jim Beam again. Either that or go to SluttyChicks.com and pick up where his porn addiction had left off years ago.

From there he would just float down the abyss. Who cares?

He did not want any excuses to prevent him from this self-destruction. He was glad he had no wife, nobody in his life really. He was lonely and alone. He had sacrificed everything in his quest to destroy the Great White Whale, the Stinsons, and now as far as he was concerned he was Gregory Peck strapped to the side of the beast, drowning in an ocean of whiskey, and soon also hot chicks drunk on man juice.

For reasons he really did not fathom. Years ago he "saw something" that spurred him to write the note "Book. Stinsons." He was driven by an unspecified motivation then, and was again now, spurred to check his voicemail at the office before giving himself permission to drink heavily, or masturbate, or probably do both simultaneously.

That was when he heard Cheri at the front desk of WorldNetDaily.com tell him a woman was waiting for him. He had long since given up on leads and tips. It never led anywhere, just to more heartache and pain. The Stinsons, the Democrats, Valenzuela; they had beaten him. Nothing he wrote could bring them down.

Who cares?

Who was this broad who was there to see him? What great inside scoop did she have? He heard every kind of goofy story. This Congressman was seen at a gay bar. That Senator was drunk in public. Some woman had an affair with some politician.

Who cares?

"You gotta be kidding me," Ramsay declared to himself.

But for some reason, Ramsay called Cheri's number.

"Is that woman still there waiting for me?" he asked.

"Yes, she is. I think you should come here and see her."

"Why?"

Cheri paused, stifling a laugh.

"I think you'll know what I'm talking about when you get here."

When Cheri put Michelle on the phone, her voice immediately sunk a hook into him. Ramsay knew from the sexiest, softest, most sensuous voice he had ever heard that it belonged to the most beautiful girl he would ever see. It was instinctive, honed from years of practice as a "girl watcher." He had quit looking at porn, even "girlie" magazines, by the time Michelle was the PartyChick of the Year, and did not know who she was by name or appearance, but suddenly he felt like Philip Marlowe, the detective of Raymond Chandler's noir novels: the gruff veteran led down a dangerous path of adventure by a gorgeous dame.

"I can't be there for another hour. Can you wait?"

Ramsay needed to shave, shower and make himself half way presentable. He headed out the door, then turned and walked back in to grab the bottle of Jim Beam, pouring it down the sink. Then he picked up the Bible, dropped to a knee, and prayed, before making his way to the office. When he arrived, he walked in and saw Michelle Woodward, who was disheveled, without make-up, and half out of her mind; yet was, just as he expected, the most astoundingly beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon.

"Holy mother of God," Ramsay declared under his breath when he saw her. He walked up to her. "Hello. I'm Duke Ramsay. Are you here to see me?"

"Yes. My name's Michelle Woodward. Do you recognize me?"

"Are you a model or something?"

"Yes, I'm pretty well known, but I need your help."

Duke sized her up.

"Is this like a joke or something?" he asked her. "Did somebody put you up to this?" "No."

"C'mon, this is a set-up. Women don't look like you."

"Please, Mr. Ramsay -."

"You work for Stinson, don't you?"

She blanched.

"God no . . . but that's why I'm here."

"Sure you are, with 44 double-d . . . breasts. What's the plan; drug me and get some photos of you and me in the sack? Tell Stinson he won, the son of a bitch. I shouldn't a poured out that bottle of J.B."

"Dammit, listen to me," Michelle replied. "I'm in trouble and I've come a long way to see you. I am the former PartyChicks magazine PartyChick of the Year."

Ramsay stares at her, trying to avoid looking at her enormous breasts. "Of course you are."

"Mr. Ramsay, can we go somewhere and talk?" she implores him.

"Follow me." Ramsay leads Michelle to his office. Every eye still in the place follows Michelle Woodward, the former PartyChick of the Year, into Ramsay's office. Murmurs, snickers and laughter follow.

"Please sit down. Coffee?"

"Yes, please, I really could use some.

Ramsay pours some java.

"Cream, sugar?"

"Just cream."

He gives it to her.

"Thank you."

Michelle takes a long, slow sip, letting the caffeine rejuvenate her senses.

"Mr. Ramsay, my life is in danger and I was given your phone number."

"This is a set-up, isn't?"

"No, dammit, listen to me -."

"I have to ask you not to use that word."

"What?"

"Damn. I take eternal damnation seriously and do not like it used in vain."

"Okay, okay. I'm having an affair with Governor Jim Stinson of Louisiana -."

"Are you aware of the fact he's not Governor of Louisiana anymore? He was the Secretary of State and probably will be the next President."

"Well, I don't follow politics much, everybody calls him Governor, all his security people are from Louisiana -."

"Fair enough."

"I think somebody's trying to kill me. Now the news says he's running for President. A man called me and said he worked for Stinson and I had to leave immediately, and he gave me your phone number. It was at some other newspaper, Human . . ."

"Human Events. A magazine. I was let go and I'm probably about to be let go here. I'm also tired and not in the mood for practical jokes."

"Why would a man who works for Stinson give me your phone number?" she implored.

"Stinson's dangerous. I've investigated and written about him and said as much, but nobody who works for him would give you my number. What was his name?"

"Listen to me, Mr. Ramsay. I don't know any more than what I'm telling you. I don't know who the guy was except he had a Southern accent, I think, but he was using one of those voice machines to hide it, you know, like in the movies, mob guys; anyway he said he worked for Stinson. He said he could not give me his phone number and I guess was calling me from a number he was not connected to, and made me go to a coffee shop where he called me, I guess so it could not be traced to him, or me. He said he would not be able to reach me again, to throw my cell phone away so I could not be tracked by GPS, and to get in touch with you. I'm not pulling a gag on you and I don't know if somebody's pulling one on me, but I do know that less than two hours ago three men who looked like they had guns were at my motel in Houston. That happened and I'm scared, okay. I've flown from San Martin to some place I never heard of in the Caribbean, then to Houston, and now here. I haven't slept, hardly eaten. I'm being followed. I don't now what I've gotten myself into."

Ramsay says nothing. He takes a deep breath.

"Who's to say you don't work for Stinson and your being used to try and lure me into something?" Ramsay replied. "You're so typical; Stinson would find some bimbo with a huge rack. Then what? Shoot me? Drug me? Blackmail me with photos of me and you in bed?"

"I don't have time for a bunch of sexist crap, man. I need help."

Michelle starts to cry. She looks bone tired.

"When's the last time you've slept?" Ramsay asks her.

"A few days ago."

"Come on, I'm supposed to believe you." He stares at her. "Have I seen you before?"

"You probably jacked off to my picture in PartyChicks magazine."

"Jesus, this must be a practical joke. One of my pals put you up to this? Kevin McDonald maybe?"

"Look, I'm too tired to try to convince you. What kind of woman do you think Jim Stinson would get involved with? He likes porn chicks, strippers, hookers. Okay? I'm a slut. I screw powerful men."

"Fair enough."

"I'm too tired and scared to give a damn – darn - whether you approve or not. I was the PartyChick of the Year a few years ago, and Hart Hadley runs a kind of escort service for ex-PartyChicks, and through him I met Stinson."

"Let me get this straight. Are you a porn star, or a prostitute, or what?"

"Well, I guess all three. It's common for adult film actresses to 'moonlight' as high-class call girls, but I was never actually in porn. Not public porn. It's difficult to explain and pretty embarrassing."

"Of course."

"Anyway, I 'entertained' Stinson over several months. He fell in love with me, or so he said, and I fell for the whole line. He said he was getting out of politics to practice law, make real money, all that B.S. Stinson said he was gonna divorce his wife, and marry me."

"Jesus – pardon me Lord for taking your name in vain – that's rich," says Ramsay.

"We went to San Martin together. I overheard him talking to some guy about an assassination."

Ramsay's eyes perk up.

"An assassination of who?"

"I don't know, but it's supposed to happen in New York."

"Was the other guy Don Carver?"

"I don't know who it was?

"A scary bastard? Prince Machiavelli?"

"I didn't see him. I overheard everything."

"Really thick Southern accent?"

"Yes."

"Like so thick you could hardly understand the guy?"

"Yes. Not like Stinson, who's so articulate and slick."

"Tell me about it."

"Anyway, Stinson called me a stupid whore, and I knocked something over and I thing they heard me and knew I'd heard what they were discussing. I got out of there as fast as I could. Luckily I have money and I had my passport and wallet in a bag, but other than that I left wearing a bikini and a sarong. I bought some clothes and flew off the island on the first plane."

"Where?"

"Some island. Some republic?"

"The Dominican Republic?"

"Yes, that was it. Then to Houston, first plane I could get. I saw on the news Stinson may run for President. He told me he was through with politics, so that makes him a liar, right? Then my cell phone rings. The altered 'Southern voice.' Tells me to come here and find you."

Ramsay stares at Michelle a good long time She sits back in her chair, runs her fingers through her hair, and has a tired, exasperated look on her face.

"Christ o mighty, that is some story," he says. "Forgive me for taking the Lord's name in vain again."

"Maybe it's a story to you but to me it's very real and very scary." She points to Ramsay's computer.

"Here, check me out on the Internet. I threw my phone away."

Michelle sits at the desk and conjures her images on the computer. She goes to PartyChicks.com, where numerous photos and video of her nude, in lingerie, in a bikini, and in glamorous sexy clothes and poses, are quickly found.

"That's me, as you can see."

"I see."

"Well, I was the PartyChick of the Year, I'm this big successful model, what would I be in doing in Washington, D.C. with you if I was not serious?"

Ramsay continues to stare at the images of what is simply the most beautiful woman his eyes have ever seen.

"I think I've seen pictures of you, maybe on TV," Ramsay tells her. "I used to subscribe to PartyChicks and watch all of Hart Hadley's porn, but I quit that before you started posing, so no, I never jacked off to you."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ramsey, I don't mean to be bitchy," Michelle says. "I probably deserve whatever I get. I've made some mistakes and now I'm paying for them."

"Two things bother me," Ramsay replies. "First, I'm not convinced you're not a Stinson plant, trying to get on the inside because those bastards know I've got stuff on 'em. They might think I've got more since I wrote The Stinson Body Count. You can tell 'em I don't and I'm done and I give up. Second, why am I getting involved in this escapade?"

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe the mystery caller's setting me up and you're part of it. I'm tired and I don't know and I need to sleep."

"Lady, this is nuts."

He thinks it over. Michelle looks fragile.

"Christ, sorry . . . Lord, this is all I need. Okay, I'll play along. For now."

"I guess thanks are in order."

Ramsay glances at a particularly seductive photo of Michelle on his computer, her mouth slightly open and inviting.

"Don't thank me yet."

Duke Ramsay put Michelle into his car and drove her to his house. He had an extra room with a bed. She crashed immediately and slept until late the next morning. When Ramsay got home, he immediately regretted emptying that bottle of Jim Beam. For three hours he alternated between a trip to the liquor store, and going on to the PartyChicks.com web site to masturbate over images of the woman sleeping in his spare bedroom. These were the two great temptations of his life; alcohol and lust. He had conquered these addictions, or so he thought, some eight years or so before this. Then he had fallen completely off the wagon, drinking again, and now he was weak, ready to return to pornography. Oh how he had so loved those movies Hart Hadley's SluttyChicks Productions made. Hadley was an artist who had the sexiest women imaginable dolled up in lingerie to die for, then surrounded them with men sporting erections like something out of Greek mythology, until they ravaged these glamour sluts, finishing them off in "bukkake style," a single girl covered by the loads of 10, 15 men; sometimes even more than that. It was the most depraved, immoral image imaginable, and Duke Ramsay loved it more than life itself. He had asked God a thousand times to forgive him for loving these images more than he loved his savior. He had begged for the strength to resist, and finally his prayers had been answered.

But they were back again, and here he was battling unclean thoughts, begging Jesus Christ to forgive him, and strengthen him. He instinctively knew he was engaging in the hardest part of his journey. He thought that had been the research, writing and publication of The Stinson Body Count, followed by the terrible lies and falsehoods he and everybody associated with him had been forced to endure in a campaign of personal destruction rivaled by few in modern American politics.

Ramsay could not be absolutely sure Michelle was telling the truth. She could still be a plant of Jim and Jill Stinson, used to get to him, to destroy him in a pre-emptive strike before Stinson's next national campaign. That made sense to him. But he decided that if he was going down, it was in God's hands. He put his trust in the Lord, and made the decision to work with Michelle Woodward, to see her story through, and find out where it took them, no matter the consequences.

But now he felt like St. Peter, this time facing crucifixion at the hands of Rome. He spent half the night reading the New Testament. Ramsay never ventured to any adult web sites, and finally turned his lights off after praying the words, "Lead me not into temptation, but delivereth me from evil."

In the late morning, Michelle finally awoke. After some coffee and brunch, she showered, brushed her teeth, and was given some of Ramsay's daughter's clothes, which she had left behind.

"I feel like a new woman," she declared. "Tell me what you found out about the candidate."

"Are you prepared not to love him anymore?

"It was just infatuation, a search for respectability maybe. I'm only 24 years old. I have no idea what love is."

"I spent the morning making phone calls, researching Stinson and trying to piece this puzzle together. I've followed the son of a bitch – forgive me God - since he was 14 years old. We grew up near each other, he got the spot reserved for me in private school. We went to LSU together. He and Don Carver prostituted a girl and when she caused trouble the mob had her killed. You are in grave, grave danger if you go against the Stinsons. I'm alive only because I'm so public, but I paid a price you can't even begin to imagine.

"I've watched his political career since he first ran for Mayor of New Orleans. No way he's getting out of politics, like he told you. Stinson's a demagogue like Earl and Huey Long, only in a modern sort of way.

"Stinson clashed with a state senator named Conick Henry, a good ol' boy and part of a political machine in Orleans Parish called Weyford/Beaudreau, two bosses who controlled things in that town.

"Henry smoked and drank. Stinson laced a sandwich with poison and the machine covered up the medical investigation. Henry had a 'heart attack,' you know, and died. After that Stinson orchestrated the killing of 'Pickles' Weyford, 70 years old, drank, smoked – dies of a heart attack.

"The Weyford/Beaudreau machine loses a big wheel and Stinson becomes leader of a new group called the Turks. The Turks were the New Orleans Mafia. The mob had always been a powerful force in New Orleans. The state is corrupt going back to Napoleon and the Louisiana Purchase. They controlled the Democratic Party, but after the 1960s the Republicans started winning in Louisiana and throughout the South. The mob boys began to lose influence. They installed 'Jim-boy' Stinson as their guy, sponsored him since he was 14, and put his best friend growing up, Don Carver, in charge of handling him."

"Two men die in three years who stood in Stinson's way?" Michelle asked.

"That's just the start. None of the Turks were older than 40. They included Stinson, Jill Wyndham-Stinson, a fellow named Hanford MacArthur, Don Carver. Huey and Earl Long were their idols.

"The papers started a story about how Stinson was taking cash payoffs from a Baton Rouge businessman named Trevor Haskins. Fairly minor stuff for Stinson, but Haskins is implicated in a phony land deal and a bunch of shady stuff."

"Heart attack?"

"Suicide. Shotgun. Louisiana begins to trend to the GOP. Republican U.S. Senator, Alvin Livingstone. Part of the Reagan Revolution. Livingstone is very popular."

"If you tell me what I think you're about to tell me, I'm scared. I'm not a Senator. Are you telling me he can get a Senator?"

"Livingstone was a former Marine jet pilot who flew his own private plane. He and a Democratic Congressman from Lake Charles named Taylor Lefleur were up in the air one day, the controls went screwy, and they both died in the ensuing crash.

"I mean, Livingstone was a decorated fighter pilot. Avid flier. The man flew Cessnas at air shows. He crashed and died along with Congressman Lefleur, on their way from Louisiana to D.C. Lefleur was not considered an ally of Stinson. Same party but he was a conservative. There was a lot of talk of him switching to the GOP. After that Stinson was elected Senator in a wild, close election. Most people, even his allies, stipulate that he stole it."

"Oh God," Michelle exclaimed.

"There's more," Ramsay continued. "This group killed everybody who stood in the way of Jim and Jill Stinson's ambitions. I uncovered it, but there was too much light on me to kill me so you're friend Hart Hadley led a media campaign to destroy me beyond recognition, and came pretty close to succeeding. Maybe did succeed, depending on who you ask."

"I'm a scandal waiting to happen," said Michelle. "I overheard a conversation about an assassination, maybe they know I was there. So these people want me dead?"

Ramsay just looks at her. She is scared.

"You still don't know the half of it," Ramsay tells her. "Eight years or so ago I started researching Stinson. That's when I stopped looking at porn and quit drinking. I've uncovered and exposed his 'mobbed up' political connections. I realized he was gonna be elected President and felt the need to try and stop him. I wrote this book. You have to read it."

He gives her a copy of The Stinson Body Count.

"Oh my God. The Stinson Body Count? He's killed so many people there's a body count? I think I heard of this someplace."

"This book is one of the reasons Stinson lost to Valenzuela in the primaries five years ago, but he was never charged with a crime. I know people inside the FBI who tell me he's protected to the top and they can't pin it on him or his wife, who's equally guilty. I might have thought I'd at least saved the country from the Stinsons, but the joke was on me."

"What do you mean?" asks Michelle.

"Well, Valenzuela was elected, then re-elected," replies Ramsay. "He is even worse than the Stinsons, at least as bad. Awful, immoral, rotten SOB. Evil, he and that bitch wife of his – forgive me God – anyway, Stinson was Secretary of State, the Middle East's in flames because of him, his wife made Secretary-General of the U.N., and now Stinson's favored to win the White House, so it looks like I never saved anybody from anything.

"What I told you so far is just the beginning. He and his wife have murdered 80, 100 people. That's my best estimate. I am sure they would have killed me, but the publicity I got for writing this book made them afraid it would blow back on them. So they used their hatchet men in the party and the media to kill my reputation. What they did to my family and me; well, they ruined me. Even people who know it's all untrue are scared to be seen with me, that's how bad they destroyed me.

"These people did things I never would have thought could be done in a free country. Somehow Stinson ran a drug smuggling operation, and it wasn't even in his own state of Louisiana. It was in Mena, Arkansas. When some local kids saw what was going on and started running their mouths, they were killed. I can't prove it but I think the Stinsons got away with that because the airport was used to run supplies by the Reagan-Bush Administration, and raise money via drug smuggling, for the Nicaraguan Contras fighting Communism back in the late 1980s. Stinson was Mayor of New Orleans, then elected to Congress in those years.

"Stinson's attorney, a guy named Vince Forster, supposedly killed himself. He was supposed to be despondent. It was a murder all the way. I think Stinson had the former chairman of the Democratic National Committee, a guy named Ron Braun, killed, but he didn't just have him shot or poisoned. He had his plane go down in Eastern Europe. Another guy who had the goods on the Stinsons was supposed to be on that plane, but missed the flight. He turned up dead. Sometimes there was a lot of collateral damage."

"What's that?

"That's when you kill somebody and you kill a bunch of innocent civilians who happen to be too close by. Like, for instance, all the people on the same plane with the intended target. Anyway, those are just high-level political assassinations. There's more of them; there's a lot of drug dealers, money launderers, criminals who had the goods on them."

"What about women who had the goods on them?"

"Yes, there were several of those. A few beauty queens, some hookers, you know the type."

"Yeah, I know the type."

"A torch singer taped his love conversations. She probably would have gone down but she went public. That seems the best way to protect yourself. At some point that might be your best move."

"That sounds scary."

"Scarier than having hit men looking for you?"

She holds back tears.

"But how?" she asks. "How in America do people kill people and get away with it?"

"Ronald Reagan once made a speech and said every generation has to fight for the freedoms previous Americans fought and secured," replied Ramsay. "This generation is the first to cede those freedoms to the forces of tyranny, but I think it's more than that."

"What then?"

"I'm not prepared to tell you what my answer is to that question," Ramsay replied. "I don't think you are prepared for the answer I have for you. But maybe there will come a time when I can tell you and you can accept it. In the mean time, start reading this book."

While Michelle began reading The Stinson Body Count, Ramsay got back on the phones. He reached his top private investigator, Sam Vesco.

"That's right, Sam . . . yes, you got it. I want everything you can get on Stinson. Dirty stuff, girlfriends, scandals, whips and chains. New stuff. I don't give a . . . darn. I need it all . . . the latest stuff, as up to date as possible . . . I like your style, Sam. . . . Okay, I'll wait to hear back from you. Good luck."

Ramsay hangs up the phone and turns to Michelle.

"I just hired Sam Vesco, a private investigator. He's familiar with Louisiana."

"What do you expect him to find?"

"I don't know. Maybe something about the Governor's taste in porn stars."

"Duke, do you believe my story?"

"Hey, I reserve the right to suspect everyone."

"Would Stinson hire a nude model and PartyChick queen on his campaign?"

"Not to stuff envelopes and answer phones. Using beautiful women to spy is an old trick. On the other hand, this may be the story of the century. I've thrown in with you, Miss Woodward. For better or for worse."

"I don't care about the story of the century. I just want to stay alive. By the way, just call me Michelle. And one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm not a porn star."

She is miffed at Ramsay, her situation, and life in general. Ramsay has not 100 percent established that he can trust her, and he is all she has right now.

The next day, Ramsay drove Michelle to a party store, where he bought her a wig, sunglasses, and the other accoutrements of disguise. She put it on, unsuccessfully trying the best she could under a heavy sweatshirt to hide her incredible looks and dynamite body.

"I think you'd be beautiful if you wore chainmail," he told her.

"What's chainmail?

"It's what medieval knights templars wore during the Crusades."

They drove to Capitol Hill, where Ramsay made a surreptitious visit to an old ally, Democratic Congressman Ron Hodges of Illinois. Hodges, a dapper, middle-aged man, while in Stinson's party, remained an honest politician who was willing to work behind the scenes to derail him. Ramsay quietly made his way to the Congressman's office, careful to avoid recognition. Ramsay expressed surprise that the Congressman attended a fundraiser for Stinson.

"Just because I attended a fundraiser for Stinson didn't make me an avid supporter of the man," Hodges told Ramsay. "I went to the fundraiser and contributed money to Stinson because the head of the party asked me to. And I owe him favors. You know politics, Duke."

"What have you heard about Carver lately?"

"Are we off the record?"

"This is just a conservation between friends, Ron. Your deep cover anyway."

"Coming from the biggest crap disturber since Iago, or Drew Pearson -."

"I can't stand Drew Pearson."

"Oh I forgot, you hate everybody. Carver is bad news, a total hatchet man, but you know that like nobody's business. The Turks were a new kind of evil. The old mob boys had a kind honor code, but this group is . . . different."

"I know, I wrote the book on them. I mean, I'm investigating the Stinson campaign and I'm hearing he's up to his old tricks."

"Jesus Christ – sorry, I know you don't like people to talk like that . . ."

"Thank you."

"Okay, well I thought you were out of the game. Haven't you taken enough of a beating without this? What good did it do you, or the country? Maybe you're book helped get Valenzuela elected, now the Stinsons are poised to have more power than ever. What good did it do you? You're out at Human Events and now your at some nut job web site. Retire. Find a woman. Stop trying to be Jesus Christ."

Ramsay looks wistful.

"Ron, you have no idea how right you are, or how close I came to doing just that, or something like that. But something's come up and I can't turn my back on it. Not yet anyway. I'm taking a huge risk, it could backfire big time, but my gut tells me I have to keep going after Jim Stinson and that horrid wife of his."

"Well, Carver's not your typical chief of staff. Rumor has it he once slapped Jill Wyndham-Stinson in a staff meeting in front of Stinson, who just sat there.

" 'Nobody else runs your husband. I decide what bills he vetoes,' he said. 'I run him, not you.' You know the Orleans Parish machine, which is the New Orleans mob that has sponsored Stinson since his youth. He comes from money and is said to have chosen Stinson when he was just a kid. Thick as thieves. Shared women, did drugs together. I've heard Carville kills people for Stinson, he's done it right in front of his eyes. That wasn't in your book."

"No, it wasn't," replied Ramsay.

"When Weyford died Carville used his own money to replace the machine candidate and rise to party boss. The man was in his late 20s, early 30s, unseating a machine like that ain't easy. Not easy at all."

"Blackmail?" Ramsay asked.

"Down there you never know," replied Hodges. "Corruption and blackmail are sports. Murder is a political tool. Orleans Parish is as bad as Chicago or Boston ever was. But none of this is stuff you don't know. I mean, Stinson's gonna run and Carver's gonna run the campaign. But I have heard something you can use."

"Gimme," replied Ramsay.

"You know Carver's father, Cleve Carver."

"Sure. He ran the whole show, ran his son, ran Stinson."

"I heard he's got cancer."

"Really!"

"Care to add to that?"

"Well, if he's got cancer, if he's facing death; let's just say a man re-thinks his life, you know what I mean?"

"I do."

"Ya know, Cleve Carver was a deacon in the Baptist Church down there. Everybody in politics down there has to say he's Christian. Heck, Stinson runs around with a Bible with a cross so big he looks like Sir Lancelot, but he's not a believer. It's all show. But a believer, a man who knows there is a God, that he'll be judged, that there is a Judgment Day; man, a fellow like that might just want to confess some crimes to another human being instead of passing this mortal coil having left things undone."

"That's a very good point, Congressman Hodges. Reminds me of former Baseball Commissioner Happy Chandler of Kentucky. When asked why he allowed Jackie Robinson to break the color barrier, he said he'd have to face his Maker some day and was not prepared to answer that he failed to do so because the man's skin was black."

"There you go."

"Okay," Duke then said, "besides this theological discussion, have you heard anything about a girl Stinson's seeing?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"I mean, one girl. A porn star?"

"A porn star? He hangs out with Hart Hadley, who all knows? But nothing specific."

"Okay. Not a porn star, I guess. A former PartyChick of the Year."

"Oh, great. Didn't you name a couple beauty queens in your book who met a bad end after being with Stinson?"

"I guess I'm trying keep history from repeating itself."

"Care to join me at Blackie's?" Hodges asks him, changing the subject.

"Sorry, I have to meet someone," Ramsay replies.

"Between you and me and the pillars, Carver and the Stinson's got ugly souls," Hodges says. "But porn stars? We've been through all this. Stinson's women and the like, but this guy does bad things and I'm not talking about cheating on that dyke wife of his. I know Eliot Ness got Al Capone on tax evasion, but Stinson needs to be caught doing worse than banging porn stars."

"I cannot tell you, I've got a new lead, maybe I'll use it to get to the bottom of this thing, but who knows? Thanks, Congressman."

"Be careful," Hodges says.

"Be careful," Ramsay says to himself as he walks away. "If you only knew how uncareful I am right about now."

Ramsay starts walking down Constitution Avenue. As he turns a corner he is confronted by an attractive brunette, stylishly dressed and coiffed.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ramsay," she says.

"Yes."

"Mr. Ramsay, my name is Stefanie Eilers. I understand you've written about Jim Stinson."

"What's going on here?"

"Mr. Ramsay, I know a man who works for Governor, er Secretary of State Stinson. He told me I could contact you."

"This is becoming a habit."

Stefanie ignores this remark. She seems intent.

"My roommate was a woman named Stacy McClellan. She's dead now. I think she was killed by people associated with Stinson."

"What makes you say that?

"Stacy was beautiful, a young girl who had an affair with Stinson, but it was very 'hush, hush.' She wouldn't even tell me about it. I read her diary after she died and she wrote she was having an affair with Stinson. She wrote that she was surrounded by 'dangerous men' and that she felt, she wrote 'Carver knows about us.'

"She was supposed to have drowned, but that's B.S. Men came to investigate after, but I don't think they were the police. They intimidated me, they wanted her diary, they threatened me. I felt they'd kill me, but I don't think they were sure she had one and left.

"But there was a line in her diary that haunts me. She wrote: 'I felt these were the kind of men who could kill me.' That's how I felt about those 'investigators.' "

"Where's the diary now?"

She hands it to him.

"I want you to have it," she says.

Ramsay takes it, then produces a pen and notepad.

"Where did she die?" Ramsay asks her.

"She drowned at Myrtle Beach. She was All-SEC in swimming at LSU."

"I want you to come with me. You're not the first person who's told me these kinds of things."

"No, Mr. Ramsay," Stefanie replies. "No. I told you what I know and I suspect you'll investigate further. I'm not involved and I'm scared, and I don't want those men coming after me."

"Who do you think they are?"

She is already walking way. She turns back.

"I'm sorry. I have to go." She disappears. Duke continues walking until he sees Michelle at the National Mall. She is still in disguise, but has been at the Library of Congress. She walks towards him and waves.

"Find anything?" Ramsay asks her.

They start walking towards the car.

"I went over the Louisiana papers," Michelle says. "People died. I read a lot of your book, too."

"You're on to something or Stinson's going to a lot of trouble to get inside my head," Ramsay says. "I just spoke to a gal who said her roommate had an affair with Stinson before drowning in the Atlantic."

"Jesus," Michelle exclaims, then glances at Ramsay, aware he does not like taking the Lord's name in vain.

"I also spoke to Congressman Hodges," Ramsay says. "He's less than laudatory with regards to Carver."

"He was the state chair of the Louisiana Democratic Party," she says.

"You did do your research. He built Stinson himself. What else did you learn?"

"He's a millionaire. He's been doing this since he was young. His father's name is Cleve and he's rich, another political behind-the-scenes guy in his day." She pauses. "What did this woman say?"

"Not much except she's scared and thinks people who work for the Governor, the Secretary of State, whatever you want to call him . . . they killed her roommate. Come across Stacy McClellan in your research?"

"No, I don't think so."

"This is their pattern. I found all this years ago, when I published The Stinson Body Count, but these guys are scared of you, of this girl Stacy McClellan, of me? I'd given up trying to stop 'em, but maybe there's a reason I met you."

They arrive at the car. Ramsay opens the passenger door and Michelle gets in, then he gets in and starts the ignition.

"Carver's the key," Ramsay says. "Ever heard of Prince Machiavelli?"

"An Italian advisor or something," she says. "Some kind of bad guy, a long time ago, I think. He plotted things."

"Very good," Ramsay says. "I'm impressed.

"I made straight A's in high school and I went to USC for a year."

"USC? University of South Carolina?"
"University of Southern California, only UCLA called us the 'University of Spoiled Children.' I wasn't spoiled, though. My dad lost his job and couldn't afford the tuition so I dropped out. I posed for PartyChicks to earn tuition, and got completely caught up in that. If I'd just stayed in school none of this would be happening."

"Wow, you're a Trojan," Ramsay says. "You guys shared the national title in football with my alma mater, LSU, in 2003."

"I heard about that. Didn't the BCS screw that up?"

"The BCS got it right," says Ramsay. "It was the Associated Press who split the vote and gave it to SC."

As the car picks up steam, heading through city traffic towards the Washington Beltway, unbeknownst to either of its passengers, the brake lines leak profusely.

"Do you think Stinson is just a stooge for Carver?" Michelle asks.

"Carver handles the important stuff: murder, blackmail, dirty laundry. They have a group of Louisiana state troopers and state police who are still part of Stinson's security detail. A tidy arrangement.

"These are the people you've dealt with so far. The 'Southern voice' you speak of, he could be a state trooper with a conscience, or he could be setting you up for a trap that I'm driving right into as I speak."

The car eases onto the beltway and builds up some speed. The traffic slows ahead. Ramsay sees the brake lights on the back of cars in front of them. He applies pressure to the brakes, pumps once, twice, nothing.

"Slow down, Duke."

"Hold on. No breaks."

Michelle shrieks when she sees cars slowing up ahead. The car is traveling at 60 miles per hour, but Duke manages to swerve past the first one. Horns honk as they fly past, then seemingly up the back of a car in front, only Ramsay swerves out of the way at the last instant, in between a school bus and a Porsche. The sides of his car scrape on each side between the bus and the Porsche. Horns honk furiously. The Porsche driver waves his fist crazily at Ramsay's car.

He slams the brake, no luck. He tries to put the car in neutral, then in reverse, but the gearshift is stuck. Ramsay pumps the emergency brakes, but they are useless. A Cadillac ahead gets closer. They approach it at high speed.

Ramsay swerves again to avoid the Caddy, and heads onto the left shoulder of the beltway. It is narrow. The car's side scrapes the guardrail, but it still picks up speed on the shoulder.

Michelle screams. Ramsay sweats bullets, desperate to control the car while the other cars honk. There are more cars in front, their drivers seeing in their rear view mirror's the mad car from hell approaching. They try to veer right in order to make room. Ramsay begins edging his car against the guardrail. Sparks fly. No luck. Looking for an out, he thinks about running into another car, but at this speed it is not a good option.

Michelle's face is contorted in horror. "Look out!" Ahead a highway patrol car is parked on the left, directly in front of them. It is stopped and a patrolman walks behind his vehicle, ready to walk on the beltway side of the road toward a stopped vehicle in front of his. He cannot walk on the guardrail side because there is not enough room. His lights flash.

Ramsay approaches, seemingly picking up speed, bearing down on the patrol car. Closer, closer, closer . . . then suddenly at the last second Ramsay flings his vehicle back into the fast lane, where for a split second there is an opening, just to the left of the patrol car and the stopped vehicle. He whizzes past the unsuspecting patrolman, so close it practically grazes him, spinning him around and making his cap fly high into the air, but by some miracle he is not injured.

The gap in traffic closes just as quickly. Ramsay swerves back onto the shoulder past the patrolman and the stopped vehicle. By the grace of God with nary inches to spare, Ramsay's car continues to explode down the beltway. Suddenly, he sees a slight opening in traffic, up ahead and to his right. He turns the steering wheel with all his might.

The car blasts at a sideways angle back into traffic. Skidding on the left wheels, the right side of the car off the ground, the left side of the car skids, scrapes against the back fenders of one, two, three cars, but the torque of the sideways angle causes the vehicle to lift into the air, flying 10 yards, and landing with a thud on the hood of a moving car in the far right lane.

By further miracle, Ramsay's car has not flipped over and the scraping, sideways, bumpy ride at an angle into the traffic has provided enough resistance to bring the car to a flying halt on the hood of a car.

Horns honk amid an incredible pile up of cars crashing into each other. Ramsay's car is a twisted wreck, smoking and belching. All the cars are stopped, smoking, with hoods open. The beltway looks like the aftermath of a battle scene.

Inside, Ramsay and Michelle are bloody, thrust against the dashboard, but the seatbelts saved their lives. Their breathing is labored and their eyes are fluttering. Their arms slowly reach out. They are both injured but not seriously. Sirens blare in the background.

The safe house

On Bourbon Street in New Orleans, sirens also blare. A rented car is being driven by a tough looking man with grey sideburns wearing a hat. He listens to Credence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Risin' " on the radio.

Sam Vesco is a private investigator from Tennessee. He is friends with Duke Ramsay, and has done P.I. work on his behalf for years. He sings along with the song until he hears the sound of the siren behind him. A Louisiana state police vehicle lights him up. Vesco stares into the rearview mirror and delivers an invective.

As soon as Vesco sees the burly state trooper in black shades and a Smoky the Bear hat approach his car, he knows he is in deep trouble. This is confirmed when he is not even asked his name or identification; just to step out of the car. He is handcuffed and thrown in the back of the patrol car.

"What are you doin'?" Vesco demands.

"Shut up and get in the back of the patrol car."

From there, the trooper's call in back up to remove Vesco's rented car from the road. Vesco is resigned to the worst. He has ventured into Jim Stinson's territory and will pay as he knows so many others have paid before him. The patrol vehicle begins to move.

"Yeah, we got him," the second state trooper, an equally ominous figure in his black shades and hat, says into the radio.

"What in the hell is goin' on here?" Vesco asks, but he knows the answer. This is confirmed by a hand viciously and swiftly striking his face. His lip is bloodied; he is dazed and mesmerized.

"We ask the questions in these parts boy," the second trooper says. "Are you a P.I?"

"I want a lawyer."

The same hand strikes his face. Vesco is momentarily stunned.

"You best answer quick and fast lest you want some mo' justice," the first state trooper barks at him. "Listen close to the officer and answer his damn question."

"Yes I'm a private investigator."

"Who hired you and what are you doin' in New Orleans?"

"I suppose if I were to tell you that's privileged information you'd just apply some mo' justice."

The second state trooper glares at him. Vesco is resigned to the fact he is with bad guys and the rules do not apply to them.

"I was hired by Duke Ramsay to look into the background of your fine former Governor."

Vesco looks out the window. They are on the highway headed towards rural land.

"Does the girl know you're here?" the second state trooper asks him.

"I don't know what girl you're talkin' about."

"What did Ramsay tell you?"

"That he was doing a big hit piece on Stinson now that he's gonna declare for the nomination."

"We don' like outsiders comin' to our turf an' sniffin' 'round abut the Guvnor, Vesco."

"I'm startin' to get that impression."

Vesco silently recites the Lord's Prayer, making special dispensation in his private mediation to forgive these troopers as well as the Stinson's for "their trespasses against me."

"Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do," he whispers.

"What's that?" the second state trooper asks him.

"Just prayin'," replies Vesco.

"That won't do you no good now."

"Oh yes it will," he says, closing his eyes.

The vehicle makes its way out to a rural area. First they beat the heck out of him to get everything they can from him. Convinced he has told them all he knows, they move him into a clearing near a remote country road. Vesco is a bloody mess. The state troopers stand behind him, their souls as dark as their sunglasses. They take a few more turns beating him with billy clubs

"We know about the girl, Vesco. Save yourself and tell us."

"I swear to you, he never mentioned any girl. I swear."

Swap. A billy club to his stomach. Vesco gasps for breath.

"I don't think he knows about Woodward," the first state trooper says.

"I don't think he does either."

"What about the Coalition?"

"For God's sake, I don't know about anything called the Coalition. Why can't you believe me?"

"We do believe you."

With that, the second state trooper quickly produces his gun and blows Vesco's brains out. A large flock of birds squawk and fly into the air at the sound of the explosion.

****

"Okay, Leslie, are you ready?"

A television cameraman adjusts his camera. Leslie Abrams, an attractive, heavily bundled brunette, stands in the snows of New Hampshire. She fixes her hair, trying to hide the pained expression on her face. She brightens with the TV lights and speaks into her microphone.

"The snows are falling lightly but steadily here in Manchester," she intones. "This is the same weather that promises to fall on the state of New Hampshire in two years, when the first primary of the Democratic Presidential election is held. The odds-on favorite to win that primary will be former Louisiana Governor and Secretary of State Jim Stinson. Stinson is in the state speaking to special interest groups, political supporters, and raising funds. His declaration is said to be a fait accompli, expected within weeks."

Abram's visage is seen on a television. That television is located in a cabin located in rural Virginia. It is a safe house where Duke Ramsay and Michelle Woodward have been in hiding since narrowly escaping a car crash on the D.C. Beltway, caused no doubt by Jim Stinson's "octopus squad," who disabled the brakes of his car.

The world knows that Ramsay and Michelle are missing. Ramsay's colleagues at WorldNetDaily.com told the police that an unknown woman "with an extremely full figure" who "looked like she was a sex worker of some kind" had met him at their offices, and they left together.

The disappearance of the former PartyChicks PartyChick of the Year has also hit the news, but nobody has connected her to Stinson. After several months, however, Fox News began to ask the question: is the disappearance of Michelle Woodward and Duke Ramsay connected? The people who saw Michelle at the WorldNetDaily.com offices could not confirm that the woman they saw was she. Her full figure was similar, but Michelle had been disheveled, dirty and roughed up from a perilous escape off the island of San Martin, then airplane trips to the Dominican Republic, Houston, and Washington. Shown photos of a glamorous model, tanned and nude, or in skimpy lingerie, they could not tell if it was she.

WorldNetDaily.com did begin to regularly connect Michelle Woodward and Duke Ramsay, but after a few brief news items, Fox decided unless they had something concrete, to suggest the likely next President of the United States had killed a nude model and the reporter best known for going after them was a perilous risk. Aside from that, there was little else. The Internet regularly engaged in its usual gossip.

WorldNetDaily.com was known as the ultra-conservative site that insisted Fidel Valenzuela's birth certificate was faked. They were called "birthers" and "nut jobs," the usual description the Left gave the Right. It appeared that Jim Stinson had again gotten away with it. Again.

"It is incredible how easy it is to escape judgment on this Earth," Ramsay told Michelle. "The next life, that's another story. It's like the guy who said, 'Kill 10 people, you're a murderer. Kill a million people, you're a conqueror.' "

"Wasn't that in Cliffhanger with Sylvester Stallone?" she asked him.

"Well, if that's your form of reference, I suppose."

Ramsay and Michelle had pulled themselves out of the wreckage of their car on the D.C. Beltway and gone running off without waiting for the highway patrol. Duke figured, correctly, that Stinson's people were trailing and that if they ended being questioned by the authorities, they would soon enough meet the same fate as Sam Vesco. Vesco had of course gone missing, which Ramsay eventually discovered. He knew he was dead and felt responsible.

The police knew the car belonged to Ramsay, and wanted to question him about fleeing the scene of a traffic accident. That was the least of his concerns. Ramsay knew he must somehow prove the allegations he made in The Stinson Body Count have merit, and are related to what has happened to he and Michelle.

The situation Duke Ramsay finds himself in is one he has anticipated for years, but his involvement with Michelle Woodward has changed the dynamic. He knows if they come forward, they will be discredited. Michelle's story about overhearing the plans to assassinate somebody will not be believed. In order to get some kind of resolution, Ramsay figures they must uncover this mystery. It is the key to their freedom and to justice for the Stinsons. Beyond that, both are sure that if they come forward, they will be killed.

So far, there have been no political assassinations. Ramsay is unsure whether the assassination has been called off, in the wake of Michelle's discovery, but he knows he is dealing with people who have killed many people in the past and are not likely to be dissuaded from such a drastic measure, if they consider it vital to their success, just because of an alcoholic reporter and a prostitute. He counts on their arrogance.

All these years, Duke Ramsay held one ace in the hole. That was Alan Goodson, the FBI agent who acted as his "Deep Throat" during the investigation of The Stinson Body Count. But unlike the original "Deep Throat," who remained unidentified by all except Bob Woodward for decades, Goodson was exposed. The Stinsons insisted he be fired. With the election of a Democratic administration under Fidel Valenzuela, that order was acted on. A promising career was ruined.

But Goodson had allies at the bureau. He was not the only one who knew the Stinsons killed people. He also knew that Fidel Valenzuela's birth certificate had been faked; that he probably had been under the control of the KGB and the Muslim Brotherhood since his youth; that he was inducted into Marxism by a card-carrying Communist at the age of 10; that his private school education was paid for from high school to Harvard Law School by the Soviet Union, his sealed college records containing information of his foreign status and quasi-Muslim religious affiliation; that his closest political alliances were enemies of America: a former Weather Underground terrorist (Warren Wolfsheim), a Communist traitor under the guise of a college professor (Noah Silverstein), and a billionaire manipulating and outright stealing elections (Gyorgy Szabo).

"The America I swore to protect, the Constitution I pledged to uphold, when I joined the Marines and then the FBI; that's where my loyalty lies," he told Ramsay when let go by the bureau. "The guys at Army intelligence who uncovered the Communist spy ring under Franklin Roosevelt in the Venona Project; they were loyal to America, not FDR. If they failed to act, their lives were in danger, their country could lose World War II. The same with MacArthur after Inchon; giving North Korea back to the Communists, launching a Cold War that risked the lives of millions of Americans instead of defeating Communism then and there.

"Now Valenzuela's negotiating a nuclear treaty with Iran that leaves Israel and the West vulnerable. Stinson's not going to reverse that. He got it started when he was Secretary of State. I owe it to America to protect her, and the only way I know how to do that is to help you."

Goodson had friends at the FBI who agreed with him. Through that connection, he was able to secure the safe house in rural Virginia where he, Michelle Woodward and Duke Ramsay now sat, strategizing over how best to solve this most dangerous of all circumstances. He knew that if he were caught, he could and most likely would be tried by either the Valenzuela or Stinson justice departments as a traitor. Or worse.

Michelle was going crazy. She could not contact her parents or friends. Most people assumed she was dead, the victim of a wild lifestyle of drugs and porn, courtesy of Hart Hadley. But her presence posed particular difficulty for Duke Ramsay, the former – at SAA they are never "former" - porn addict. Ramsay fought the temptation to drown himself in alcohol, but when Michelle offered to service him sexually, it took all the strength he could muster to turn her down. He read the Bible and girded himself for battle, using characters in the Old and New Testaments as his heroic inspiration.

Michelle had always been a sexual girl, going back to high school, but Hart Hadley had effectively, as with so many other beautiful girls who came into his orbit, made her into what he wanted her to be. Now she was deprived of this lifestyle and it was driving her crazy.

Goodson made it to the safe house when he could, provisioning them with supplies. They could not use any form of communication, especially not cell phones. The house did not have the Internet, which could be hacked and traced to them, but it did have pirated cable TV, allowing Ramsay to follow the news. He would write out a list of news additional items and searches for Goodson to make on his computer, and wait until he came back to deliver the information.

Months passed. Ramsay wracked his brain trying to figure out what their best option was. Then Goodson came back after being gone for three weeks. He had a stack of newspapers articles and printouts from the Internet.

"Read this first," he said, handing Ramsay a printout of an item from the Florida Times-Union. The headline read, "Jacksonville girl found dead in New Orleans." It contained the photo of a pretty college coed. Ramsay recognized her.

"Stefanie Eilers," he pronounced. "This is the girl who approached me on the street in Washington. Stinson's 'octopus squad' got her. She died in a car accident."

"Staged, no doubt," Goodson stated.

"That would have been me had we not come here," Michelle said, wistfully.

"I asked my old colleagues at the FBI to look into this," Goodson told them. "I told them they missed the boat on Valenzuela; let a traitor into the White House. Do they want to let murderers in next?"

"What was the response? Michelle asked.

"After six years of Valenzuela, you'd be amazed how much he's changed the culture of the FBI," responded Goodson. "He's politicized the bureau, the Secret Service, the military brass. Institutions once thought of as leaning to the Republicans are now liberal organs of the Valenzuela Administration. This country can't take much more of the Democrat Party; not what's it become."

"Alan, they've been this way since Vietnam," Ramsay said. "Only now, they've managed to grab power they never quite had before, and hold it long enough to change the very institutions that make America great. And you know what that means, don't you?"

"What?" asked Michelle.

"That means we're not just fighting four our personal freedom, to get out of this mess. It means we're fighting for the greatest country that ever was. It's hanging in the balance. It can fall that quickly unless someone stops 'em. The Republican Party doesn't have the spine to do it. It's just us, I guess."

"How can we possibly expect to do something that big?" Michelle asks, despondent.

Ramsay pulls a chain out from under his shirt with a cross on it.

"We can't," he says. "We're just vessels."

"Okay, here's another thing you need to see," Goodson says, handing Michelle a copy of the National Enquirer. Her photo, from a PartyChicks photo spread, her enormous breasts busting out of a bikini top, possibly even photo-shopped to make them even larger than 44 double-Ds, adorns the cover next to a headline: "Where is Michelle Woodward?" Below that is an insert photo of Duke Ramsay, with the sub-headline, "Is her disappearance tied with Stinson investigator Duke Ramsay's?"

Michelle reads the story, which is filled with more lurid photos of her. The article is filled with insinuations of her relationship with Stinson, and whether that relationship somehow is tied in with Duke Ramsay's well-known investigations and antipathy towards the Stinsons.

"Oh my God," she declares. " 'Michelle had a bad drug problem,' says PartyChicks magazine publisher Hart Hadley. 'I'd not be surprised she just OD'd somewhere and her body was never found. She could have drowned somewhere and her body swept out to sea, or eaten by sharks.' "

"That's the narrative on you," Goodson declared.

" 'As for Duke Ramsay, after his personal life was exposed, he was known to be despondent and addicted to alcohol,' " reads Michelle. " 'Did he commit suicide? . . . Meanwhile, some conspiracy theorists think the Stinsons are involved. There are rumors that Michelle Woodward spent time in the company of Jim Stinson but this could not be verified."

She continued to read the rest of the article, then handed it to Ramsay.

"So the story the Stinsons want to plant and develop is: Michelle Woodward, drug overdose, body swept out to sea; Duke Ramsay, suicide, body never found," says Goodson. "But wait, there's more. The FBI has an anonymous tip line. They started getting calls from an unidentified man with a Southern drawl who said he needed to reach Alan Goodson."

Michelle and Ramsay perk up.

"The Southern voice!?" Michelle says.

"I get a call from the FBI informing me of this," Goodson continues. "He leaves a phone number with a voicemail I.D. I call and it tells me to call another one, same thing. Maybe five different phone calls to five or six different voicemails, all with different I.D.'s for me to access the voicemail messages. The first few are just telling me to call another number. The third voicemail he says he cannot identify his name, who he works for, or actual phone number, but then the next few calls begin to reveal more information. I guess he needed to stay one step ahead of the Stinsons. Finally after six or seven of these calls he directs me to a location in Falls Church. A park. There's a package, and inside a note directing me to another location. I guess I moved around three or four different times, finally this."

Goodson pulls out an envelope and reads from a sheet of paper with computer-printed words on it.

" 'I cannot say my name or what I do, but the big event is coming soon,' " reads Goodson. " 'I am being looked at and there is not much time left. They are closing in. Trail of D.B. Byzantine network. P.A. Must take action. Remember the power of the free press."

"What's D.B.?" asks Michelle. "What's P.A.?"

"I analyzed this and I think D.B. means 'dead bodies,' as in 'trail of dead bodies,' " says Goodson. "I think P.A. means 'political assassinations.' I think this is the Southern man who called Michelle and warned her. I think he is under suspicion. 'They are closing in.' I think he wants to uncover Stinson, he has some reason, maybe just conscience. 'Byzantine network' is obvious, a conspiracy. 'Must take action' is harder for me to figure. Does he mean he must take action?"

"I don't really think so," says Ramsay. "If the action was for him to take, he'd just do that, take action. No, I think he's warning us, telling us they are getting closer and this safe house, or wherever we're hiding, can't last forever. He's telling us about a 'big event coming soon.' The only reason to tell us is for us to try and do something about it. The assassination attempt in New York that Michelle overheard in San Martin! Maybe he can't, or he's afraid to try and stop it from his end. Finally he tells us to 'remember the power of the free press.' Man, that's me. That's me, I'm the free press. Just me, apparently. John the Baptist crying in the wilderness, literally 'in the wilderness.' But he's telling us to uncover this assassination attempt and use it to expose the Stinsons as the one thing so terrible that they just cannot get away with it!"

"Why can't you tell you're friends at the FBI to look into this?" Michelle says to Goodson.

"I can't trust them," he replies. "I don't know who to trust, that's more to the point. This goes up to the top, to the ex-Secretary of State, probably the next President; to his wife the Secretary-General of the U.N.; and the current occupant of the White House, whether in on the conspiracy or not. He cannot afford to have the next big star of his party exposed as a serial killer. I have to assume this is into all the levers of power, and this Southern voice has assumed, or more likely knows, the same thing. That's why he didn't just tell me on the voicemail, moved me around, I think to keep one step ahead of whoever is listening in. Finally, packages in parks, and then this envelope. But we all have to assume that the people who want us dead are onto us sooner rather than later."

"You said 'us,' " says Michelle.

"I mean us, not just you two," replies Goodson. "I think I'm a target now, too. That's why I got rid of my cell phone and my computer and my GPS and packed a bag, got a vehicle that can't be traced to me, and why we have to all leave here now."

"Can I listen to that voicemail and try and recognize the Southern voice?" Michelle asks.

"Negative," replies Goodson. "If I used my cell phone it would trace to me. When we find a pay phone, maybe, but even then it could tell them where we are."

"This is a pretty desperate situation," Ramsay intones. "Where do you suggest we go from here?"

The father

The car ambles along on a lonely rural road on the edge of the Louisiana Bayou. Alan Goodson drives it. His passengers are Michelle Woodward and Duke Ramsay. None of them are recognizable. All wear wigs with elaborate "face mask"; fake noses, the two men with fake beards, their mouths, cheeks and lips altered. Ramsay looks like the former Grateful Dead rock star Jerry Garcia. Goodson resembles a street pimp. Michelle is a tall, busty version of Janis Joplin.

"How do I look, Alan?" Michelle asks Goodson.

"Freaked out, Michelle."

"How long were you with the FBI"

"Over 10 years."

"You don't know how much I appreciate all your help," she says. "Without the safe house, the disguises, the alias papers and everything, I think I'd be dead."

"Duke's an old friend and I owed him one," he replies. "Plus, too many people have died already. There's some things I'm privy to and some things I'm not, but I agree with Duke, this nation hangs in the balance. At some point we'll lose it forever unless somebody has the courage to do something about it."

"Desperation makes for courageous men . . . and women," Ramsay says.

"Who said that?" Goodson asks.

"I just did, Alan. I just did. And this plan is about as desperate as it gets."

"I can't think of any other way," Goodson says.

"Cleve Carver has cancer and is dying," says Ramsay. "I have heard he's a Christian. It is my experience that this combination is the surest way to find justice and truth."

"I wish I could believe you," Michelle adds. "Do you honestly think Cleve will cooperate with us?"

"My guess is he's got a helluva guilty conscience," says Goodson. "From the information we've pieced together his son is the string puller behind a political assassination squad and he knows about it, maybe even started it, ran it once upon a time. But I think when he ran it, it was small time, just used locally, a mob thing. Now it's practically in the White House, a monster out of control. The problem is we're asking him to rat out his son. People will rat out business partners, lovers, wives, husbands . . . but blood is thicker than water."

"Maybe Don Carver threatened him," says Ramsay. "But maybe Don can't see fit to kill his own father. Maybe that's the only reason he's alive and maybe can tell us. But maybe the house will be surrounded and he'll have us apprehended as soon as we get there and nobody will ever hear from us again. I'd like to offer a prayer."

Ramsay recites the Lord's Prayer.

After the prayer is finished, the group settles into silent reflection as they drive towards their destiny. Finally, a large home appears on the horizon.

"That's Cleve's house," says Goodson. He parks the vehicle some 100 yards away. Using binoculars, he looks for any sign of security.

"I don't see anything," he says.

"Nothing?" asks Ramsay.

"Maybe, just maybe we've come across something they hadn't planned on us doing," says Goodson.

"From your mouth to God's ears," says Ramsay.

Warily, slowly, the group gets out of the car and walks toward the home, an ornate, white-columned structure with a pillared front porch resembling the Parthenon.

"It's ironic that this guy lives in a house built in the style of the Greeks who tried to give us freedom and truth," says Ramsay.

"The question is whether this is Greek tragedy or Democracy?" asks Goodson.

"Creon has decided that Eteocles will be honored and Plyneices will be in public shame," replies Ramsay.

"Whose Creon and Eet – ee – oclees . . . ?" asks Michelle.

"Think of yourself as Antigone," says Ramsay. "Bury us with honor if you survive. I'll explain later."

They get closer and closer, half expecting to be apprehended.

"Looks like the coast is clear," says Ramsay.

Tentatively they walk toward the house. Goodson has his gun hidden but holstered, ready to use it if he must. He looks warily for signs of a sharpshooter, but is resigned that if there is one they have a clear shot and that will be that. The house is in the country, and there no others in sight. If they are shot, there will be no neighbors to witness it.

They ascend up the steps to the porch.

"Here goes nothin'," says Ramsay, ringing the front doorbell.

For interminable seconds they wait, hearing the sound of footsteps from inside, until finally the door is opened by an elderly black butler named Leon.

"May I help you?" Leon asks.

"We're her to see Mr. Cleve Carver," says Ramsay.

"Is he expecting you?" Leon asks.

"No, he's not. We need to speak to him about a very serious matter," replies Ramsay

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carver isn't available to see visitors at this time."

"Please, sir, we must see him," Michelle admonishes him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but –."

"It's alright, Leon. Let 'em in." Cleve Carver stands in the hall. He is elderly, in his 80s, very gray hair, frail and sickly. He smokes a pipe and wears a smoking jacket. Using a cane, Cleve approaches the group and extends his hand to Duke Ramsay. He is the picture of Southern hospitality.

"Please excuse Leon, he's protective of me in my old age," he says in a deep drawl. "I'm Cleve Carver, and to what do I owe this visit?"

"I'm Duke Ramsay. I used to write for Human Events and WorldNetDaily." Ramsay cautiously looks for a reaction. "I wrote a book some years ago you undoubtedly heard of and did not like."

"Yes, sir, I know who you are," says Carver, but without the animosity Ramsay expected of him. Goodson eyes him warily, however, to see if there is any sign of him warning anybody of their presence. He fingers his holster.

"This is Michelle Woodward, and Alan Goodson, formerly of the FBI," Ramsay continues.

"Sir, I need to inform you that I have a weapon holstered," Goodson informs the old man.

"The FBI?" Carver exclaims. "Oh my. That was 50 years ago. I was young and stupid."

"What was 50 years ago, Mr. Carver?" Goodson asks him.

"The Kluckers, of course. Isn't that what this is all about?"

"What's Kluckers?" asks Michelle.

"The Ku Klux Klan," Goodson tells her.

Michelle's eyes get wide. She has never met anybody in the KKK before.

"I attended a Klan meetin' in the 1960s. I didn't wear a sheet and I was disgusted with 'em then and now." The old man turns to Leon.

"Leon, please make coffee for our guests."

Carver motions, and leads them into his den, where he sits and lights his pipe.

"We're not here investigating the Klan, sir," says Ramsay.

"Mr. Carver, we're all wearing disguises and traveling with alias papers I arranged through my contacts at the bureau," says Goodson. "Their – our \- lives are in danger and we believe you can help us. If I'm wrong about that, being here will put us in grave danger."

"God, I wish I could hep." He pronounces "help" in the Southern vernacular "hep."

"Why do you say 'wish?' " Ramsay asks him.

"This involves my son, don't it?"

"Yes, sir, it does," replies Ramsay.

Leon enters with coffee, which he pours and dispenses to the guests.

"My son is still my son and I can't – I . . . You must unnerstan'."

"Yes, sir we understand," offers Ramsay. "We discussed what we thought would be your reluctance to talk about what you know. We know you have a guilty conscience, and want to do the right thing."

Carver looks pained and places his head in his hands.

"I s'pose y'all know I'm dyin a cancer," he says.

"We're sorry about that, sir," says Ramsay.

Old Cleve Carver looks up into the eyes of the three people looking at him, all dressed ridiculously in wild wigs and strange garb, imploring him to vent his knowledge of the terrible things that have happened to so many for so long.

"I guess it just had to come to this, didn't it?" Carver says. "Sooner or later the chicken's 'd come home to roost. How could such corruption happen?"

"Corruption and betrayal are as old as Mankind, Mr. Carver," Ramsay says. " 'For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the laws delay -.' "

" 'O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth; o God, to whom vengeance shew thyself,' " replies Carver.

" 'Lift up thyself, thou judge of the Earth; render a reward to the proud.

" 'Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?

" 'How long shall they utter and speak hard things? And all the workers of iniquity boast themselves?

" 'They break in pieces thy people, O Lord, and afflict thine heritage.' "

"Psalm 94, Shakespeare's Hamlet, Christ asking Pontius Pilate, 'What is truth?': we are born into sin, sir; are corrupt and broken of it, but through repentance we can find redemption," says Ramsay. "It's not too late. 'Though those that betray'd, Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe.' "

"Betrayal? Won't I be betraying my only son? I know all about you, Mr. Ramsay – I just can't."

"I believe your son betrayed things you believe in, Mr. Carver," says Goodson. "I know you didn't raise him to achieve power through blackmail and murder."

"Mr. Carver, you say you know me," says Ramsay. "My guess is you read my book, or part of it, or at least heard the accusations I made in it. Sir, look me in the eye, was I wrong?"

Carver stares at him, hard.

"Yessir, I read it," he replies. He thinks long and hard. "You made a few errors here 'n' there, but how you discovered all that I don' know. I just don' know."

"What's really a miracle, sir, is how I'm still alive, but I think there was enough light on me that they couldn't kill me, but oh what a price I paid. What a price I did pay."

"My life is changed forever because of Jim Stinson and I think you're son," Michelle interjects herself. "I'm no angel. If you knew how I became involved in this you wouldn't think much of me. But there've been attempts on my life, and attempts on Duke's. That's not right. We're lucky, we're still alive. If Jim Stinson is President, how much longer can we hide? Everybody who steps in the way of Stinson and your son dies. Innocent people. My God, you know all about it. I beg of you, please help us."

Cleve is distraught, yet has a resigned look on his face.

"My son grew up with Hanford MacArthur, the chief of the Louisiana state troopers."

Goodson and Ramsay realize the old man is starting to tell his story. They look at each other and take notes. Cleve vents and tells them a story of how bribery and corruption involving the New Orleans Mafia, the unions, and the Democratic Party, slowly built and got out of hand.

"The mob boys bribed MacArthur, and the troopers became an arm of the Turks," he says.

Michelle is rapt with attention. Up until now it has not seemed real to her; she has almost been waiting for somebody to show up and tell her she is being filmed for some new reality show, but it was all a hoax. Now this old man is painting a picture of evil, and she shivers as she realizes how close she has brushed up against evil.

Carver talks for some 15 minutes, describing how 14-year old Jim Stinson was spotted by the mob boys, and was brought to his attention; how he befriended his son, who was made his handler of a sort; and how the mob sponsored his career.

"We expected Stinson to be elected to the legislature," Carver says. "When he was elected Mayor, still in his 20s, that seemed all we could hope for. But when he moved on to the U.S. Senate, the tentacles were widened and it got outta control.

"The troopers are now a small spy organization, and a damn killing machine. I know how they arranged for Conick Henry to die. It wasn't no heart attack. They put something in his food. They gave a black capsule to Stinson, who did it personally. Hell, it was written up a heart attack. My son blackmailed the medical examiner; his son was facing manslaughter for a DUI. Don made it disappear. He told him if he didn't do as he was told his boy'd be 'some nigger's wet dream.'

"He bribed doctors, blackmailed investigators, politicians. This goes back years, Southern-style corruption tied to the New Orleans mob. Hell, his mother was sleeping with all the mob boys

"Fella named Skip Boudreau was a politician and a lawyer. He was gonna expose 'em. They set him up with a hooker and had a photographer take pictures of all of it. Skip Boudreau was a powerful man. The Turks got control of the Weyford/Beaudreau machine. They did it the way gangster's always do it: they murdered people. A little sexual congress fer good measure."  
"I would never have guessed that," Michelle says sarcastically.

"God knows how many innocent people had to die to cover Stinson's messy tracks," Carver continues. "He got so powerful, and he and his wife wanted more, more, more. Any corrupt organization needs to know its limits, but these Stinsons got a taste a power and couldn't stop. But Stinson's weakness for women; I always felt that was what could bring him down."

"Stinson's a cad and Don has to deal with it," Michelle says. "Now, if he's to be brought down now, it will be because of a woman."

"Don's focused on politics and can' understand why others get sidetracked by 'lesser pursuits,' " Cleve says. "But I must say, I know you wearin' some kinda disguise 'n' all, but even these ol' eyes kin tell you some kinda looker, Miss – I sorry, what is your name?"

"My name's Michelle Woodward, and I was the PartyChick magazine PartyChick of the Year not long ago," she announces proudly.

"Oh my goodness, I know of that," says Cleve. "Why, that's the group run by this scoundrel Hart Hadley. Oh my, the depravity that man presides over is devilish. He organized snuff films for some actor. Some fella won a couple Academy Awards named Close, I think. Oh God these people."

He reflects for a second.

"I guess I'm one a them."

"Why does Mrs. Stinson stay with him?" Michelle asks, changing the subject.

"HA!" Cleve has contempt in his voice that startles everybody, as it is so far removed from the gentle Southern drawl he has displayed thus far. His dog and cat perk their heads up.

Leon, fixing lunch, is startled.

"Is everything all right, sir?" Leon asks, poking his around the corner.

"I'm fine, Leon. But thank you for askin'," replies Carver. Then . . . "Jill Stinson is evil. She had an affair with her law partner, Cruz Fontenot, but she's really a lesbian. Fontenot handles Stinson's personal business after they killed Vincent Forster, and knows everything, all hid behind attorney/client privilege."

"What was Fontenot's role in the Trevor Haskins payoff?" Ramsay asks.

"Haskins got the Stinson's to invest in a hotel in Baton Rouge," Cleve says. "Between you and me 'n' the trees there was never gonna be no hotel built there. The land's toxic and it'd cost millions to clean it up. But I got some friends in Chicago, see. Eye-talian friends, if you unnerstan' my meanin', and they could turn your li'l ol' 10,000 into a lot more'n that?"

"They made some hundred thousand over night, 48 hours?" Ramsay asks. "This was one I missed. But what value is there in a toxic landfill.

"None unless you control the EPA," replies Carver. "EPA's as corrupt an organization as can be found in the Western hemisphere.

"Anyway, 'Pickles' Weyford wouldn't give in to blackmail like Boudreau. They rigged that to look like another heart attack. Another woman, Natalie Dreyford I think it was, they threw her out a four-story building. There are others. Does it really matter?"

Michelle is in tears, but her face reflects shock, horror and anger.

"Does Stinson know everything?" Goodson asks. "He's not kept in the dark?"

"Yes. Don has his henchman do the dirty work, though," Cleve replies.

"You weren't kept in the dark, either, were you sir?" Goodson asks him.

Cleve lights up his pipe, takes a big puff, and settles back, looking squarely at Goodson.

"I know where the bodies are buried," Cleve replies. "I just know."

"They're planning an assassination in New York? What do you know about that?" Michelle asks the old man.

"I don't know nothin' about that," says Cleve.

"Mr. Carver, sir, so far you've mainly confirmed what we suspected," says Ramsay. "As I'm sure you know, I've written about a lot of this. How do we expose this racket?"

Cleve puffs thoughtfully, but offers no answer.

"Will you testify?" Goodson asks him.

"No," Cleve replies.

"How are we going to expose them?" Michelle asks.

"RICO," Ramsay says.

"Yes, maybe," adds Goodson.

"Who's Rico?" asks Michelle.

"Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organization Act," Goodson replies. "RICO for short. That's how Rudy Giuliani got the mob in New York."

"Now you're talkin'," Michelle says.

Ramsay has a determined look on his face. "These bastards are too slippery for that."

Everyone in the room ponders his words.

"There's more, isn't there?" Goodson says to Carver. "Something you're not telling us."

Everybody looks at the old man, who is very troubled.

"You have to unnerstan'," Carver says.

"Do you really know everything?" Ramsay asks.

"I can't say any more," Carver says. "Please. I'm an old man." He gets up. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he adds.

"Please, sir," Michelle pleads with him. "What more is there?"

"God help me, I've betrayed my son. What more can you ask of an old man?"

"Mr. Carver, you've not betrayed your son," says Michelle. "He betrayed you a long time ago."

"I've betrayed God," Cleve says, head in hands. "May he have mercy on my soul."

The old man, sick and worn out, has nothing left. The three realize they have gotten all they could out of him. Finally Ramsay walks up to him.

"Leon," Ramsay asks the butler, "do you have a Bible around?"

"Yessir."

"Please bring it."

Leon brings a Bible, and Ramsay puts his arm around Carver.

"I forgive you your trespasses, Cleve Carver," says Ramsay, placing the old man's hands on the Good Book.

"Thank you," Carver replies, barely audible.

They then leave.

"It's best we get out of here quick," Goodson says. "Who knows if somebody didn't make a call from in that house and alerted Stinson's 'octopus squad'?"

"I'd like to get the old guy to stand in front of the camera, or better yet a judge, and testify to all he knows, but honestly, it'd take more time than we have to build a criminal case out of something this vast, and I exposed all this stuff years ago. It didn't get anywhere."

"Probably gave us Valenzuela," says Goodson. "He's no better, just different, and now it's just more of the Stinsons, maybe 16 years worth, who only knows? It won't end. But the old man says he didn't know about an assassination in New York. That's got to be up to us."

"But how do we find out?" asks Michelle.

"My contact, the Southern voice, he said he'd check periodically a spot we designated for a drop," says Goodson. "I'll leave a package there saying we need more information to get to this. We gotta get back to Virginia, but we gotta lay low still. More disguises."

The announcement

"It is with profound humility, combined with great God-given faith in the essential and vital greatness of America, that I have decided to offer myself as a candidate for President of the United States of America. The challenges faced by this nation have never been greater. A tremendous restoration project must be undertaken; to restore faith in government, to address the debilitating nature of our national debt, to once again elevate the United States to a place of respect and stature in the family of nations."

In the White House, Fidel and Missy Valenzuela watch former Governor Jim Stinson announce his long anticipated candidacy for President on TV, as he stands with his wife Jill and their daughter in front of the state house in Louisiana.

"I hate this son of a bitch," Valenzuela said

"He won't say a good word about Valuecare," said Missy. "He'll pretend it doesn't exist. He'll run against it. He's running against you, not the Republicans. He'll come off as a conservative."

"He's got the nomination sewed up; he can run a general election beginning in the primaries," says Valenzuela. "By the time he's elected my approval ratings will be in the low 20s."

"Below that," Missy exhorts. "This no good bastard will repudiate everything you've done, everything you stand for."

"Under a Stinson Presidency, I promise that our embassies will be safe," Stinson intones on the tube. "There will be accountability, and if attacked by Muslim extremists, they will pay a price. I promise that no longer will the IRS be used for political 'witch hunts.' I promise to roll back the Affordable Care Act. It was a noble idea that could not survive the bureaucracies it spawned. The era of Big Government must come to an end, once and for all. In the history of this nation, often great achievements have been accomplished when partisanship was put aside, as when a conservative President Nixon reached out to Red China. Only a Democrat can husband our party back into the mainstream of political thought, and therefore work with the other side of the aisle to cut spending, to reduce debt, to make government accountable once again."

"This guy's killing Valenzuela," says Duke Ramsay, watching Stinson's speech on television. He, Michelle and Goodson are located in a house located in the desert east of Los Angeles. "He's going to be the anti-Valenzuela. He's going to convince the nation he'll roll back everything Valenzuela's done. He's running to the Right. My God, the lies and false works that drip out of this man's mouth are breathtaking."

"In order to win the Democratic nomination, I must overcome many obstacles in the primaries," Stinson continues. "My first plan of action is to campaign in New Hampshire beginning two weeks from today."

A fourth person sits in the corner, smoking a cigarette. His name is Carmine Fiorello. He is a Mafia hit man, credited with the contract killing of over 30 people until he testified against the mob, resulting in the convictions of five high level capos. This is his safe house, where he lives by himself in the Witness Protection Program.

This is the third safe house Ramsay, Michelle and Goodson have stayed in since meeting with Cleve Carver. That meeting exposed and forced them out of the Virginia location, to a house in Alabama, then Montana, and now in a remote part of California where the temperatures reach 120 degrees. Goodson's FBI associates believe Valenzuela to be a Muslim Brotherhood plant and Stinson a murderer, but cannot prove it, have at great risk to themselves and their careers arranged for their protection, but always they are just one step ahead of Stinson's reach, as he has his people inside the FBI, the Secret Service, the CIA, and every place else.

It is a race against time that Ramsay and his group are losing. They must find out who is to be assassinated, if indeed that assassination is still in the works. If it has been canceled, they will have nothing to prove, nothing but old allegations in a discredited "Right-wing book" that is 10 years old.

Goodson has maintained contact with the "Southern voice" through drops at the Virginia location, but travel has proven perilous. Since the Cleve Carver meeting, no new information has been acquired, and the "Southern voice" must operate very carefully to avoid detection. Goodson must stay in disguise, as they all do whenever they venture in public, but for the most part they stay holed up in safe houses, without phones or computers; they are off the grid. Through his FBI colleagues, Goodson has managed to acquire money from his bank and from Ramsay's bank, enough to keep them solvent for now. Michelle, who was once paid $1.5 million by Hart Hadley to make a private porn video, has had her money confiscated by nefarious forces working for Jim Stinson and Hadley. She has nothing. Her family is sure she is dead. She is helpless, and at the mercy of fate.

As for Carmine Fiorello, he is a surprisingly cheerful fellow, happy to have some company. He asks no questions.

After the Stinson announcement, Goodson says it is time to make one more drop in Virginia. Disguised to look like a 300-pound fat man with a long beard, his head shaved bald, he pays cash to fly to Virginia, where he ventures to the spot in the park where he leaves a package for the "Southern voice." In it is a single printed question: "What next?"

Goodson disappears to a cheap motel in Maryland, where he pays cash and waits for a week before returning. The package remains, untouched. He waits five more days, then returns. This time, there is a package waiting for him. When he opens it, he realizes the situation has gotten more dangerous. Previous communication has been very obscure, meant to be clues without specifics, but this time it is clear.

"More dangerous than ever, time running out. Kathy Riordan in Los Angeles having affair with Carlton Blackledge. Some times ménage. Get his briefcase. The plans are inside."

Jon Strickland is a gay, flamboyant, colorfully dressed make-up artist who works in the adult film industry of the San Fernando Valley, otherwise known as L.A.'s "porn valley." His studio is adorned with mannequins, wigs, mirrors, and photos of beautiful porn stars, male and female.

He works a great deal for Hart Hadley, dolling up adult film stars for SluttyChicks magazine and the hardcore shoots for SluttyChicks Productions and SluttyChicks.com. His specialty is applying make-up that will withstand extreme scenes in which girls engage in blowbangs. Normally, such a thing results in eyelashes dripping off, make-up and lipstick smudged beyond repair, but Hadley wants his girls to continue to look glamorous and beautiful, happily taking all the men can dish out on them. It is his specialty: hot porn sluts smiling in wide-eyed depravity into the camera, their faces smeared from chin to forehead, while a world of wankers masturbates furiously at these images. It has made him a billionaire.

When Michelle filmed a private gangbang for Hadley, paid $1.5 million to take on a small army of hung men, it was Strickland who handled her make-up, her hairstyle, and her lingerie. He spent days working with her, getting her tanned just right, shaving her private parts to perfection, and creating an image of glamorous sluttiness.

Now Michelle, dressed in an outrageous disguise, a heavy coat hiding her huge breasts, with a frizzy wig and dark shades, walks into Strickland's studio. It is a huge risk. She will reveal herself to Strickland, but will ask that he not tell anybody he has seen her.

"Hi Join," she approaches him.

"Do I know you?" he asks.

"It's me, Michelle Woodward."

"Michelle, is that you?" asks Strickland.

"Hi, Jon."

"I thought you were dead," says Strickland.

"I need you to do me a favor or I might be, Jon," Michelle replies. "I can't tell you more than that, but I need a disguise only you can do, but you can't tell anybody, not anybody you saw me. If you do, I will die."

"Holy cow," Strickland says.

"Can I trust you?"

"Yes, Michelle. What do you need?"

Duke Ramsay sits in a cheap Motel 6 in Baldwin Park, a non-descript part of Los Angeles far removed from any action, political or otherwise. He is working the phone, holding a pen and pad of paper. It is a risk, but he is using the phone in the room. He is disguised. In the background the television plays. A TV reporter talks about the South Carolina Democratic primary.

"With just four days to go before the crucial Super Tuesday Democratic primary, former Louisiana Governor and Secretary of State Jim Stinson's campaign has turned up the heat. After winning in Iowa and New Hampshire, Stinson then overcame the challenge of Martin Cousy, who ran as a Favorite Son in his native New York. Stinson is favored to take all the Super Tuesday primaries and, if so, the nomination is his. He then must concentrate on his most likely challenger, the surprise star of the Republican Party, Congressman and former Lt. Col. Paul North of Florida.

"So confident in locking up the Democratic nomination is Stinson that much of his campaign staff has been re-directed to the money-rich state of California. This is a two-tiered strategy. Hollywood and San Francisco environment special interest money will fuel Stinson's coffers, above all other donors, but Col. North has spent a considerable amount of time in the Golden State, as well. Polls indicate the Republican front-runner is competitive in several 'blue states' thought impregnable just a few weeks ago, but if he can pick off some of these electoral juggernauts, he could see the way to a remarkable upset in a Presidential campaign many felt was a foregone conclusion, a coronation of Jim Stinson."

Ramsay works the phone.

"Yes, hello, this is Charlie Mason with the Courant . . . Fine, thank you . . . I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me? . . . Yes, with regards to Governor Stinson's campaign . . . Yes, the Courant . . . That's right . . . Can you tell me whether Mr. Carver is expected in South Carolina? . . . Yes, but it's my understanding he's handling the particulars of the campaign in South Carolina."  
A veteran investigator, Ramsay stays with it for several more hours.

"Right . . . I'd like an opportunity to interview the chief of staff . . . Okay, could you tell me if and when Kathy Riordan could be available for commentary on the election? . . . Yes, of course. . . Have you heard the name Natalie Dreyford? . . . Dreyford! . . . Well, there are some issues I would like Ms. Riordan to address as it pertains to campaign irregularities . . . Yes, I can . . . Charlie Mason, the Courant . . . You can reach me at (626) 960-5101, extension 202 . . . Okay, thank you."

He has a long list of names written down, the first half crossed out. He crosses off another, picks up the phone, and starts dialing.

"Yes, this is Vernon Henderson with the Sentinel . . . May I speak to Albert Scranton, please? . . . Yes . . ."

Ramsay finally gets some shuteye until 9:15 P.M. Copious notes, articles, newspapers, and reference materials are scattered all around the bed and the desk he sits at. Then the phone rings. It is from Ron Rondeaux, a stringer for one of the newspapers.

"Mr. Leyritz?"

"Speaking," replies Ramsay.

"I have the information you need," says Rondeaux. "Governor Stinson is meeting Martin Cousy in upstate New York. Nobody is supposed to know. The word is that the meeting is going to result in some of kind of deal on how the Democratic nomination plays out, I really don't know."

On TV, New York Governor Martin Cousy makes a speech. Ramsay is trying to piece all of this together, but the image of the New York Governor somehow stirs something inside him; something similar to the message that seemed to implant itself in his mind many years earlier when, in a drunken stupor, he saw Jim Stinson make a speech on TV and was stirred to write a note that read, "Book. Stinsons." That note had changed his life, and had changed a political campaign, but had it changed anything for the better?

He looks down at his notes, thinking, thinking, thinking. Then he looks up and catches the last second of a scrawl on the bottom of the news feed: " . . . rally in New York."

"Rally in New York?" he thinks to himself. "Rally in New York!"

"How do I look?"

He looks up. Michelle is completely disguised and cannot be recognized, courtesy of a half day spent with the make-up artist Jon Strickland. She wears a long, black wig that makes her appear to have silky black hair all the way to her buttocks, like a pornographic Rapunzel, all accentuated by a black body suit.

"You look too good to be true but by no means inconspicuous," he says.

"I've never looked inconspicuous in my life," she replies.

"You really think you can pull this off?"

"I'm tired of running, hiding, of being scared."

"Let's go."

Duke escorts Michelle to a car Goodson provided for them, and they make the 35-minute drive from blue collar Baldwin Hills to the swank Crowne Plaza Century City Hotel, located in between Beverly Hills and Westwood. She studies two photos. One is a woman, mid-30s, attractive. The other a man, about 40, handsome with dark, penetrating eyes.

"You got it?" he asks her.

"I'm ready," she says.

Michelle exits the car and heads into the hotel lobby. Every eye follows her. She finds her way to the bar and sits down by herself at a table, where she orders a drink. Two businessmen sitting nearby almost fall out of their chairs staring at her. The first one approaches her.

"Excuse me, can I buy you a drink?" he asks her.

"No thank you."

"Do you mind if I join you?"

"I'd rather you not."

He sits down anyway.

"My friends and I couldn't help notice you. You're really very beautiful."

"Thank you but I'm waiting for somebody."

"Well, I'd be happy to keep you company until your friend arrives."

Just then a woman enters at the bar. She is Kathy Riordan, about 35 years old, red hair, thin and not bad looking, wearing a business suit, and looking tired from the long campaign day. She is Jim Stinson's West Coast coordinator. She passes a group at the table and waves at them on her way to the bar.

"Hi Harry," she waves to one of them. "Good job today."

"You too, Kathy," Harry responds.

Michelle excuses herself from the table, leaving the businessman sitting there. The man slowly gets up and returns to his friend. Kathy Riordan sits at the bar, alone. Michelle goes to the bar and sits down two stools away from her.

"Scotch 'n' soda," Kathy tells the bartender.

"Sure thing." The bartender turns to Michelle. "What can I get you?"

"Greyhound, please. Tall" She turns to Riordan. "Aren't you Kathy Riordan?"

"Yes, I am."

"I thought I recognized you. My name is Ann Caruso. I volunteered on the Governor's campaign in San Diego until I had to go back to school."

"That's terrific. Do you know Larry Sparks?"

"Well, yes, but not very well."

"Where are you going to school?

"UCLA. Poli sci. It's a coincidence I saw you, I'd like to volunteer here."

Riordan pulls a card out of her purse and hands it to Michelle.

"Here's the campaign number here at the Crowne Plaza. It's all get out the vote, but right now we're gearing for the national election. But we have a huge presence here, it's our biggest fundraising operation. There's a lot of work and opportunity."

Just then a man in a business suit approaches the bar. He is the same man who was in Jim Stinson's room the first day Michelle went to see the Governor after having first met him at the PartyChicks mansion. He is the man whose photo Michelle studied in the car driving to the hotel. Michelle freezes momentarily, knowing that if this man recognizes her she is in trouble. Her fate is in the hands of Jon Strickland's artistry and her own cunning.

He is Carlton Blackledge, Stinson's security chief. He sits on a stool between Michelle and Riordan. His appearance is professional, but he has a small scar under his right eye. He speaks in a cultured Southern accent. He places his briefcase next to the stool.

"Hey Kathy, how'd it go today?" he asks Riordan.

"I think we lined up Cecil Hawkins with the black churches."

Blackledge chuckles. "The more darkies the better."

"Carlton, that's not funny." Riordan's objection seems more for Michelle's benefit. Blackledge ignores her.

"Bourbon 'n' water," he directs the bartender. "Town branch." Then he shifts his glance to Michelle, who looks deeply into his eyes, her tongue slowly circling her lips seductively. He is momentarily taken aback, recovers his balance, and gives her a wink. The drink is delivered to him.

"Carlton, this – I'm sorry, I'm not as good as I should be with names," says Riordan.

"Ann. Ann Caruso."

"Well, Ann Caruso, you're about the best thing this ol' boy's seen in a mule's day. My name's Carlton Blackledge and I coordinate security for Governor Stinson."

Michelle pretends to be impressed.

"The next President of the United States, I hope. Carlton, a girl around these parts doesn't have a chance to meet enough Southern gentlemen."

Riordan observes the tête-à-tête between Blackledge and Michelle with a mildly irritated look on her face. "A gentlemen?" she says.

"Oh honey, let's not quarrel," says Blackledge without taking his eyes off Michelle. He puts his left arm around Riordan and gives here a kiss on the lips. As he is doing this, Michelle reaches with her hand and places it deftly on Blackledge's crotch. As Blackledge is kissing Riordan, his eyes light up at Michelle's touch.

"I don't mean to intrude or anything, but what does a girl do for fun around here?" Michelle asks with the innocence of a supermodel.

Riordan and Blackledge look at her with puzzled expressions. Blackledge smiles. Michelle smiles. Riordan continues to look puzzled.

Michelle has made her move.

****

The bedside clocks reads 5:30 A.M. Riordan sleeps on the left side of the bed, Blackledge sleeps in the middle, and Michelle, with her eyes wide open, is on the right side. She glances at the two sleeping people, then slowly and intricately extricates herself from Blackledge's arm.

She carefully gets out of bed, and the two sleepers move slightly, taking breaths. They are sound asleep. Michelle quickly throws her black cat suit on, keeps her high heels in her hands, then softly moves to the table. She grabs Blackledge's briefcase, and on tiptoes moves to the door, opens it and leaves.

From there she moves swiftly down the hall, half expecting Blackledge to be on to her, until she gets in the elevator, goes downstairs, walks out of the lobby, and to Duke Ramsay waiting in the car where he has been since dropping her off the night before. They speed off back to the safe house in the desert, two hours east of Los Angeles.

Safely back at the house, Michelle and Ramsay show the brief case to Goodson. Sitting in the corner, drinking a beer and watching the History Channel, is Carmine Fiorello. He sees Michelle in her cat suit; a form-fitting type of outfit he had not seen her wear before.

"Holy Mary, mother of Christ," he says, getting a full load of the former PartyChick of the Year.

"Bet'cha they didn't teach you those investigation techniques at the SC School of Journalism," Ramsay says to her. She smiles coyly.

"We could use you at the bureau," Goodson exclaims.

"What would J. Edgar Hoover have said?" asks Ramsay.

"Hey, J. Edgar was a swinger," replies Goodson.

"It was absolutely the scariest thing I've ever done," says Michelle. "It was also the first sex I've had in I don't know how long."

Ramsay and Goodson eye each other.

"You 'n' me both, honey," remarks Fiorello from his chair. He is watching How Sex Changed the World on the tube; a depiction of the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra.

"Maybe they'll air an episode about what you did some day," Goodson says to Michelle.

The brief case is locked, but Goodson has a special tool that he uses to pry it open. It is filled with documents and photos. He rifles through some and produces a single sheet of paper.

"This is from Carver to Blackledge," says Goodson. "This was Blackledge's briefcase, right."

"Yes," says Michelle.

"It's dated one month ago," continues Goodson. "It reads: 'To date the fugitives are still at large, and they represent a severe threat to our efforts because their missing person status no doubt shows they are avoiding us all costs.' "

"Well, that's a relief," says Ramsay.

"What do you mean?" asks Michelle.

"At least that confirms we haven't been hiding out all this time for no reason."

The two others ponder this for a few seconds. Goodson reads some more, then looks at Michelle

"You're 'Wildlower.' " Then to Ramsay. "And you, of course, are 'Muckraker.' I'm 'Soldier.'

" 'Elimination of the fugitives is essential,' " Goodson continues to read. " 'No half measures.' That's from Carver. Then this: Accomplish mission BF RK/NY."

"We need to take bold steps," says Ramsay

"We know enough to expose these people, don't we?" asks Michelle. "I want to go home. I want to see my mom and dad. I want to go back to school."

"I don't know, I just don't know," says Goodson. "It's still too dangerous. These people are out to kill us."

"Do we have a life now?" she asks him, sobbing. "If he's elected will we have a life then?"

"Michelle's right," says Ramsay. "We need to strike at this corrupt man and his organization. Let's think. Alan, read that memo again, about 'BF and RK.' "

"Accomplish mission BF RK/NY."

" 'Accomplish the mission,' that means to kill us 'BF RK/NY,' repeats Ramsay. "Okay, 'NY' sure sounds like New York. Remember what Michelle said from the San Martin conversation: 'Rallykiller.' Man, that's 'RK.' Then you have 'BF.' "

" 'Before,' " says Goodson. " 'Accomplish the mission' - kill us – 'before 'Rallykiller/New York.' "

"Doesn't Jim Stinson think he can just win an election on his own?" asks Michelle. "I mean, he's never lost an election, he's got all the money in the world?"

"He lost a primary to Fidel Valenzuela," says Ramsay. "He probably blames me for that, and Randy Lebow, too. I think our disappearance has him thinking, and I think he's vulnerable to make a mistake he might not otherwise make, as long as we're wildcards, or as they call us 'Wildflower' and 'Muckraker' and . . ."

" 'Soldier,' " says Goodson.

" 'Soldier,' huh. Okay, Soldier, we've got 'em scared. Michelle overhears Carver and Stinson talking about a New York assassination. This memo refers to it. We know there was a secret meeting between Martin Cousy and Jim Stinson in upstate New York."

"So is that it? Stinson wants Cousy dead? He kills him?"

"Just what the Founding Father's had in mind," says Michelle.

****

A light snow falls on Apalachin, New York. Smoke drifts out of a chimney. Security guards roam the compound. Official vehicles are parked out front. There is something ominous, almost a recreation of a famed Mafia meeting held here in 1957 in which the future of organized crime was mapped out.

Inside, the cabin has all the comforts, including a roaring fire. Sitting around on couches are New York Governor Martin Cousy, a dark-haired, dark-browed Irishman; along with both Jim and Jill Stinson. Don Carver, Hanford MacArthur, Carlton Blackledge, along with various officials from both the Cousy and Stinson campaigns. Drinks are in evidence along with cigarettes and cigars. Cousy made a quixotic run at the Democratic nomination, but Stinson defeated him early and often. He has no chance.

"Governor Cousy, here's the deal," Carver addresses Cousy. "You endorse Governor Stinson, we agree to have you (a) Make the keynote speech at the convention; and (b) You will be President Stinson's first nominee to the Supreme Court."

"What if I told you I thought Roe v. Wade is bad law," Cousy replies. "It doesn't hold up under the privacy clause of the Constitution."

"Of course it's bad law," interjects Jill Stinson. "But it's the cornerstone of our support; the support of the Democratic Party that you are still a member of."

"What if I told you my Irish Catholicism does not allow me to uphold abortion?" Cousy asks, defiance in his voice.

"Gov'ner, you have an independent streak," says Stinson, his voice smooth and even. "It's long been the source of your popularity. I can respect that, understand where yer comin' from. You can be against Roe, you can voice that stance at your hearings, but Roe won't come up in my Presidency and if it did, it'd be voted down. The conservatives don't have the votes anyway. There's at least two Republican appointees who'd vote to uphold it. They like their social standing in D.C. too much to rock that boat."

"You people have it all worked out," replies Cousy. "Use me to shore up the Catholic vote. Jim Stinson, the good ol' boy from Louisiana, and his wife, the Marxist. I've seen the FBI files."

"Congratulations," says Jill. "You're in with the in crowd and you know what the in crowd knows. And you stick with us and you have a nice long career. You're family will be the toast of Manhattan. I know your son wants to be Governor in his own right some day."

"But of course if I don't go along it's a whole different scenario, isn't it?" says Cousy, barely containing his visceral dislike of the Stinsons and all they stand for. "You know, I actually got into politics to help people. Do you believe that? It was actually what motivated me. I've crawled into bed with the worst scum there is, walked through a mile of sewage. There's still just a little bit of me left with some integrity, but I've been in this game a long time and you people are the worst thing I've ever seen. I don't even think I know the half of it, a quarter of it, and I'm 'in with the in crowd,' as you so eloquently put it, Mrs. Stinson."

"Guv'ner, is there more you want, because I can be a generous man?" Stinson asks him.

"Governor, I knew I'd not beat you," replies Governor Cousy. "I knew it. I got in it and never had a chance. But I'm tired. I really am. I really don't know if there's anything more I want in politics. I have money. I can practice law. I enjoy the law, I really like it, but I don't know if I need the Supreme Court. I really don't want to give the keynote address in Los Angeles. Let me think about it. I'm tired and I need to talk to my family. Maybe I can get out while I still have a soul."

With that, Governor Martin Cousy, who fought the good fight and like so many before fell to Jim Stinson, excuses himself, shakes hands all around, and makes a gracious exit.

" 'Maybe I can get out while I still have a soul'?" Carver lets out a bellicose laugh at what he perceives to have been an absurd statement. "Whadda ya wanna do with him?"

"He's not greedy," says Stinson. "He doesn't have much ambition left in him. That's a hard man to negotiate with. I think we can write him off."

"He knows too much and he's independent," says Jill, matter-of-factly and all business. "He knows where the bodies are buried. If he ever got cancer and was dying, or decided on something drastic, if he told all he knows, well it would be one helluva story."

"You wanna go ahead with plan A?" asks MacArthur. "I have contingencies in place."

"No," says Stinson. "Not for now. But son of a bitch, how have these three nobodies eluded us?"

"Goodson's unquestionably getting help from the FBI," replies MacArthur. "There's an element within the bureau that knows the whole story – the Turks, the Coalition, Mena - I mean they know it all, sir, and there's some self-righteous types who think they can bring us down after all these years. Their aiding Goodson, the writer and the girl."

"This is something out of Shakespeare," says Carver. "The uncrowned King approaches the throne, but these knaves, these peasants . . . Christ, Jim, I warned you about that chick. You have this weakness, you've had it since high school -."

"Stick to the task at hand, Carver," says Jill. "Hanford, you have to get these pricks and eliminate them. 'Rallykiller' is almost here."

"This is one helluva move," says Stinson. "Jesus Jill, that is so drastic."

"Have I ever been wrong before?" she asks him.

"No," he replies.

"If you want to be President, then 'Operation Rallykiller' has to be put into place."

"Man, we shoulda eliminated Valenzuela eight years ago when we had the chance," says Stinson.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch," she says, and everybody in the room perks up. "I stopped that for a reason. You'd be on your way out right now, ready for the rubber chicken circuit instead of ascending at just the right moment in history to achieve your destiny."

"And what is my destiny?" Stinson asks her. "You've never really given me an answer to that question."

"Think of it as a 'need to know' basis, my dear," Jill replies. "You just do as I say and we will all be in the White House together, and we will have power greater than Alexander's Greece, Caesar's Rome, the British Empire and Dwight Eisenhower's Army combined."

She stops and looks around the room; all eyes are on her.

"But first, kill that whore Michelle Woodward, that lousy muckraker writer and that self-righteous FBI prick."

"You heard the lady," says MacArthur. "She's the boss."

The Rallykiller

Cleve Carver lies dying in a hospital bed at the Ochsner Medical Center in New Orleans. His inoperable cancer has spread, and he is taking his last breaths on Earth. Outside his door is a security man, assigned by his son, who has learned that somehow a disguised Duke Ramsay, Michelle Woodward and Alan Goodson had managed to visit his father and speak to him, an audacious breach of security. If there is any sign of them at the hospital, they are to be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

A hospital chaplain approaches Carver's room. He is actually an old friend of Alan Goodson's, an FBI operative named Richard Tomak. He is doing a huge favor for his friend at the possible expense of his career, maybe his life. But he, like many at the bureau, believe the Stinsons are mass criminals who need to be stopped. His mission is to get Cleve Carver to make a dying confession, and in so doing, maybe provide the last link to a chain of events that Ramsay, Goodson and Michelle have been trying to piece together for three years now.

He wears chaplain's garb and carries a Bible. He has hospital identification, which he shows the man guarding the door. He enters the sanctuary.

"Hello Cleve," he says to the old man, who stares up at him. "I'm hear to provide spiritual comfort if you care to have me spend time with you."

"Please do."

Tomak leans over and gets close to Carver. He puts a Bible in his hands, and they hold it together. "Sir, my name is Richard Tomak. I am a Christian. I have training in theological studies, but I am not an accredited pastor."

"You are my Christian brother," says Carver.

"Yes, I am, and I am not going to lie to you. I need to say this to you and you need to listen carefully, and if you choose not to help me then friends of mine may be killed. I am with the FBI but not in an official capacity. I am here as friends of Alan Goodson, who came to see you at your home in Louisiana.

"Alan, the girl Michelle and the writer Ramsay; their lives are in danger. They are in hiding. Your son is trying to have them killed. I know as a Christian you want to make a last confession, a final act before you meet your Maker in which you have performed a service on behalf of the Lord Jesus Christ, not the enemy. I ask you, sir, is there an event you are aware of, some big planned event in which somebody is to be killed?"

Carver stares at the man, then looks at the edge of the bed. There he sees the outline of Jesus Christ. Christ appears not as a ghost or apparition, nor a flesh-and-blood person, but rather as an outline in Carver's mind. It is a spiritual witnessing, and as real to Cleve Carver as the rest of the surroundings in the room. But Christ sits at the edge of the bed, not looking straight at Cleve. Instead, his head is cocked and he observes the old man over his shoulder.

Christ conveys to Cleve a message: "You are my vessel. I save, but I am using you to do my works."

"I am a vessel," Carver says to Tomak. "What I do, Christ does. He merely uses me."

"And he is pleased with you," Tomak says.

"Yes, he has made this known to me," Carver says. "He makes this known to me by using the words of the Gospel through you. He is pleased with me, as God is well pleased of his son."

"And what final work will he have you perform?" Tomak asks him.

"I have heard something," says Carver. "The Congressman from Florida at the Statue of Liberty. Beyond that I don't know, but I hope this helps."

Carver then stares at the outline of Christ, which is not seen by Tomak. Carver seems to be absorbing knowledge of some kind, then turns back to Tomak.

"You and I have had the privilege of witnessing God's saving grace," Carver says to Tomak. "And I have the privilege of telling you there is no greater joy in this world or the next than to please the Good Lord."

With that, Tomak and Carver recite the Lord's Prayer. Tomak leaves. Carver fell into a coma about an hour later. He never recovered, and was pronounced dead two days later. Tomak leaves the Ochsner Medical Center and drives to a pre-designated location, a Starbucks on South Claiborne Avenue. There he meets a disguised Alan Goodson, Duke Ramsay and Michelle Woodward.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he tells Goodson. "The old man says the big event involves the 'Congressman from Florida at the Statue of Liberty.' "

"My God," exhorts Goodson. "He's going to kill Paul North."

Born in Atlanta, Georgia, Paul North's father, an African-American, served in the segregated American Army during World War II, but rose to officer rank after the military was desegregated. He saw heavy action in Vietnam. North's mother, also an African-American, was a civilian employee of the Marine Corps. His older brother was an Army officer, as well. Both his parents were conservative Republicans. When a teenage Paul asked his parents why, their father responded, "the entire KKK, the Jim Crow laws, the whole structure of political corruption in the South, was Democrat. The Democrats were the party of the Confederacy. They let the Communists try to usurp the Civil Rights Movement. The Republicans are the party of Lincoln, and they are in the process of successfully husbanding the South into the mainstream of American politics through a kind of rabid, attractive anti-Communism embodied by two Californians, Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. That's why we vote Republican!"

For the rest of his life, Paul North told that story, always adding that it was the most cogent, heartfelt, and logical explanation of conservative appeal he ever heard. While North was an "Army brat" who moved around a lot, the family was centered in Atlanta, where both his father's and his mother's families were from. His mother and grandparents on both sides often raised him, since his dad was employed, often over seas, much of the time. It was a loving, nurturing environment filled with church, Sunday school, Bible reading; a happy family that loved each other deeply, always stressing education. It was also still the South in the 1960s and 1970s; segregated, prejudiced, and often dangerous.

When Paul was a child his father, then a colonel in the National Guard, was made a liaison to a unit in Birmingham, Alabama, where protests and riots had marked the decade. He brought his two sons to Birmingham as a kind of history lesson, to show them what they were fighting for and were still fighting for. While in Birmingham, the University of Southern California Trojans integrated football team came to play the segregated University of Alabama Crimson Tide at Legion Field. Because he was an officer, Colonel North was able to secure three tickets to the game. Dressed in his uniform, with his sons in tow, the three of them drew many stares from the white fans that sat around them that night.

Sam "Bam" Cunningham, a black running back from USC, had a huge game and the Trojans defeated Alabama handily. Paul looked in awe as the Trojans ran over the Tide, the white fans around him shocked into abject silence, until his father tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Listen to that."

At first Paul only heard the shouts of USC's players and coaches, until he began to hear scattered cheers of black fans sitting high in the end zone. They were rooting for USC. Then Paul heard something else. He began to hear Christian hymns that seemed to come from outside the stadium.

"What's that, Daddy?" he asked his father.

"That's freedom ringing," Colonel North told him.

When the game ended, the Colonel brought both his sons outside the stadium where the USC bus was waiting to take the team back to the airport and the flight to Los Angeles. They were stunned to see a huge crowd of local African-Americans from the surrounding Birmingham neighborhoods gathered, many holding Bibles and lit candles, singing Christian praises. When the Trojan players came out, the blacks approached both white and black athletes, thanking them for deliverance, as if they were modern Moses's. That game is credited with truly integrating the South once and for all.

"What you saw today was truth, witnessed in American arena, and it's never misunderstood," Colonel North told his son. "It came courtesy not of a protest, a march, a speech, a riot, or a law. It came about as a change of heart and will be felt for years. Such things happen only when God wants them to."

Paul North never forgot the experience.

Paul was a tremendous high school football and track star in Atlanta, but an injury in his senior year ended his hopes of a football scholarship. While several of Paul's older relatives, including his brother, attended traditional black colleges, Paul attended the University of Tennessee on an ROTC scholarship. He was a brilliant student and natural leader who grew to a burly six-foot, three inches, 235 pounds, with a rock solid jaw, a kind of black Kirk Douglas. He had a deep, baritone voice, and was a movie star version of the perfect American soldier. His leaders in the UT ROTC program recommended him for a fast track up the military ladder. Paul was immediately concerned that he was being singled out for special treatment because of the color of his skin. One officer told him indeed the fact that he was black could work in his favor, "but only if you outhustle everybody else and earn it. The opportunity will present itself, but an opportunity is only that; it does not guarantee an outcome." It was the Reagan years. The military was growing and opportunities abounded. The young officers were infused with a messianic fervor to defeat the Communist menace, which had been denied Douglas MacArthur in Korea and their predecessors in Vietnam, once and for all.

North had a long list of tickets to punch, all laid out for him: airborne training at Ft. Benning, instruction at the Army War College, a master's degree, then some senior leadership to prepare him for any war on the horizon. Finally after all that, a top slot at the Pentagon.

But just before he was ready to start jump school, war broke out in Grenada. North was in a position to avoid the conflict; his acceptance to airborne training was an easy out. Instead he delayed it and volunteered to lead a platoon as a green second lieutenant. He comported himself well and received commendations. The enlisted men loved him. Some said they would do anything for him. He was a natural.

North then made it through airborne training and joined the 82nd Airborne. From there he earned a master's degree in political science from Kansas State, then was the star of his class at the Army War College. He was employed in various high level training exchanges with the Marine Corps and the British paratroopers, was put in charge of a division, served in Panama, then in the first Persian Gulf War. After that he came to the Pentagon, where he moved up the ladder as a senior military advisor during the administration of George H.W. Bush. His medals included the Bronze Star, the Meritorious Service Medal (with two Oak Leaf Clusters), just to name a few.

When 9/11 hit, Lieutenant Colonel North was approaching 20 years of service. He considered retirement from the military, but the United States first invaded Afghanistan, then Iraq. By this time, Lieutenant Colonel North was a professor of political science at West Point. He was considered one of the most well read men in the military, and regularly used Homer, Plato, Julius Caesar, Jesus Christ, Sun Tzu, Niccolo Machiavelli, William Shakespeare, Carl von Clausewitz, Napoleon Bonaparte, Klemens von Metternich, Theodore Roosevelt, and many other writers, political figures and military men of history to extol points to his students. He was a legend at the Point; a man loved, admired and respected above others in a world of extraordinary men and women. He was approached by the Republican Party in Florida, where he established his residence and voted, as a candidate for Congress, but put off those plans to lead a battalion in Iraq. He was out of the loop as a field officer, having been "put to pasture" at the Pentagon and West Point. The assignment was considered a comedown of sorts, but he was told that "things are getting hairy" in Iraq, and he was needed. He answered the call.

While serving in Tajiq, North received intelligence that his unit was about to be ambushed. An Iraqi police officer had turned and was working with Al Qaeda. Fearing an imminent attack, Lieutenant Colonel North oversaw "enhanced interrogation" of the police officer, who refused to provide details of the attack. Finally North produced his revolver, which he pointed at the police officer, telling him he would blow his brains out if he did not provide the information. Terrified, the police officer gave the necessary information, and the ambush was thwarted, resulting in over 20 captured Al Qaeda, including two senior level men, along with a large cache of ordnance, some of it WMD. North's men revered him, convinced his action had saved many lives, not to mention limbs.

The liberal press got hold of the incident, however, and forced the Army into court-martialing Lieutenant Colonel North. Eventually he was fined $5,000 and allowed to retire from the Army with full benefits. Conservative talk radio and the Right loved him, elevating him to heroic status.

He moved to Florida, ran for the U.S. Congress, and was elected. He immediately became a lightning rod, a regular on Fox News, where he tore into the liberal establishment with everything he had. The Left went after him, calling him a "war criminal," but when his supporters heard details of the gun incident, plus testimony from the grateful men who served under him, sure he had saved their lives in combat, they recognized it was just another Democrat lie.

Right-wing politicians and political activists criticizing liberalism was certainly nothing new. Nobody more pointedly and heatedly tore the Left into pieces any more than talk host Randy Lebow. A host of other Right-wing radiomen followed suit, continuing to do so for years. Many an incendiary conservative political figure ascended to the stage, ripping to shreds Fidel Valenzuela, Jim and Jill Stinson, and other Democrat heroes.

But Paul North was different. For one thing, he was black. This was the province of the Left, who routinely received an unwavering 90 percent of the African-American vote, plus a very high percentage of the Latino vote. Valenzuela was half-Mexican. Nobody really knew who his father was. The fact that he was a soldier of the Muslim Brotherhood named Obama al Mustafa, an Egyptian with skin as black as coal, sent to America to impregnate Maria Valenzuela and produce a plant in a joint operation of the Brotherhood and the U.S.S.R. called "Operation Anchor Baby," was not known by the electorate, but the dark color of Valenzuela's skin made it quite obvious he was at least half-black. Not only did he receive 95 percent of the black vote and 90 percent of the Latino vote in two Presidential elections, the turnout of these two racial groups, traditionally low, was now among the highest in the country. Liberals pundits gleefully declared it was the "end of conservatism," and the new racial politics had produced a Democratic lock.

As the Presidential election year approached, it became plainly obvious that Jim Stinson would win the Democratic primary and become the odds-on favorite to succeed Valenzuela in the White House. As late as December, with the Iowa caucuses and New Hampshire primary looming just a month or so away, Congressman North had no intention of running. Stinson had amassed the most impressive campaign team ever; its tentacles in every nook and cranny of every state in the union, having learned from Valenzuela they were now masters of social media. They featured a fundraising juggernaut with enough cash to win a mid-sized war.

Congressman North had a small political action committee and a modest war chest with enough money to mount a solid race for Congress, but little more. He had no organization, no field office in any state outside his Florida district, and no endorsements.

But the Republican field was woeful. Governor Rider was shell-shocked from her loss four years earlier. She stayed on the sidelines, taking potshots at Valenzuela. Her campaign team informed her that according to their best information, she had actually won the Presidency, but the French vote tabulation machines owned by Gyorgy Szabo had intentionally failed to count every third or fourth GOP vote in Florida, Ohio, and other battleground states. Proving it was a Herculean task. She gave up trying.

The rest of the Republican field was a hodgepodge of lackluster Senators, the Governor of a mountain state, a Christian TV evangelist, a businessman, a 300-pound liberal Governor from the Northeast, and other non-entities. The debates leading up to Iowa and New Hampshire were a disaster. The party was totally divided between the moderates and the Tea Party. Conservative radio pundits lit into candidates they felt were too accommodating to Valenzuela and the Democrats. Different radio hosts had their own little quarrels with each other, often spending more time and effort tearing each other apart than the Stinsons. Occasionally somebody mentioned The Stinson Body Count, but the general logic held that they had survived that and moved beyond it.

In the mean time, America's destruction was beyond an accomplished task, courtesy of President Valenzuela signing a stimulus bill his first year in office, now grown to a $20 trillion national debt. Valuecare was the "law of the land." Republicans "vowed" to rescind it, but this seemed a hopeless task. Many argued that it was here to stay, like Roe v. Wade, and "we just have to live with it," even if it meant millions of babies would continue to die because of it. It was the status quo, business as usual, "go along to get along." Nobody inspired anybody. All was lost, the United States of America a defeated shell of its once great self.

Ultimately, a group of Christian leaders decided that the greatest causes are lost causes, and if their savior had not given up they would not give up, either. They looked around for a political savior, and cast their eyes, as the GOP had done in 1952 after two decades of the New Deal, for a military hero. They approached Congressman North, whose greatest hero, other than Jesus Christ and his own father, was General Dwight Eisenhower. They put it in no uncertain words: they believed Valenzuela was the anti-Christ, that Jim Stinson was a mass murderer, that Jill Stinson probably had done a deal with Satan to grab power in this life; that the Communism they thought had been defeated in the Cold War had simply re-emerged under new guises called global warming, gay marriage and immigration reform; and that after aborting 65 million babies, the United States was no longer favored by God, no longer exceptional, and no longer the world's greatest nation. While the overall view of these religious leaders was that it was too late, all was probably lost and only God could save their souls individually, they were still alive on this Earth and had an obligation to stand up and be counted.

Faced with such an argument, Congressman North felt it was his duty as a Christian to engage in a holy war, a lost cause on the side of righteousness. He told the religious men, and the political leaders who followed them, that he would enter the campaign on one condition.

"I say exactly what I want to say and nobody holds me back," he stated. "There will be no political correctness, no barriers. I have controversial beliefs. They are not typical D.C. beliefs. I am a radical, as my savior Jesus Christ was a radical, and I will enter the temple and upset the tables of the moneychangers. If I am crucified for my acts, so be it. The Truth shall make ye free."

"Congressman North," the leader of the group told him, "that is precisely why we have asked you to do this!"

What followed was above and beyond anything ever heard of in political history. Congressmen North went to Iowa and New Hampshire, campaigned there, and he did enter some debates, but his travel schedule was random and had little to do with upcoming primaries. He made no attempt to raise money, asking people to contribute on his web page or by other means, but he had no time for fundraising. His bully pulpit was Fox News, conservative talk radio, the Internet, YouTube.com, social media, and speeches to crowds that quickly grew. Entire stadiums; sellouts of 50,000, 60,000 men, women and children, would come to hear him. Entire cities were bottlenecked with masses of people come to get near him. After eight years of Valenzuela's lies, followed by milquetoast Republicans afraid to touch him lest they be called racist, Paul North was a kind of black messiah of the Christian Right, tapping into something the Left always feared; the greatest political force on Earth, if properly motivated. Paul North motivated them by the masses of millions just as he once motivated his loyal troops.

He won the Iowa caucus and the New Hampshire primary by landslides. He won every primary after that by wide margins, often without appearing or hardly appearing in the state where the election was held. He broke every rule of politics and re-wrote them, but the pundits quickly determined that those rules were meant only for him; nobody else could re-produce such a phenomenon. He was a force of nature.

Congressman North never said a word about any of his Republican primary opponents, but he did not merely aim his rhetoric at former Louisiana Governor and Secretary of State Jim Stinson. Oh, no. He had some tacit advisors who told him that the GOP nomination was his, now he needed to moderate and be less partisan, to appeal to the center, the independents, the "Reagan Democrats."

"B.S.," Congressman North replied. "I'm gonna double down, triple down and tell it like it really is. That is the only way this country, this sleeping giant, has any chance of regaining its stature. If I lose I go down in flames, but it'll be a blaze of glory."

So it was that the former West Point political science professor, said to be the most well read man on the political scene, perhaps ever, went deep into the literary and historical archives, providing long, detailed history lessons going back to the Peloponnesian War; Alexander the Great's opening of the mysterious East; the role of Christian women in converting their men from orgies and child molestation, thus ending the Roman Empire and giving rise to the Vatican; the economic miracles of Great Britain after the Battle of Trafalgar; how Darwinism gave rise to the eugenics movement, the racism of Margaret Sanger, liberal enthusiasm for euthanasia, and how all this led to Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Mao Tse-tung . . . and an equally devastating killer, Roe v. Wade. School teachers reported that suddenly, inspired by Paul North, young kids – many of them black - came to school asking questions, wanting to learn about the subject of his speeches. Google searches of George Bernard Shaw, described by Congressman North as "an avid fan of putting to death the feeble and the lame in the 1930s, a decade before Hitler put his ideas into practice," just to give one example, were off the charts.

He had few policy advisors and openly stated he did not have specific answers to many specific policy questions. History, common sense, and Christianity would be his guide. The elites tried to put him away. The public accepted him. Women fell for his rugged, movie star good looks, throwing themselves at him, but he was happily married with a large family and rejected their advances . . . with a smile on his face.

Sometimes his speeches went long. Nobody cared. People became enraptured, thirsting for knowledge and truth. Congressman North said he was a tried-and-true conservative who only broke from Right-wing orthodoxy on one issue.

"My Savior Jesus Christ was killed by an overreaching Big Government apparatus, drunk with power," he said. "I have seen war. I have seen most of the ways a man can die. I have seen evil. I do not wish to endorse the killing of any man via the death penalty, for once the bloodlust of death inflames the passions, evil wins. Love thy enemy."

Congressman North told audiences that man has pursued truth for thousands of years, "That Plato spoke of an absolute truth, which he interpreted as God," and that just because 1 million people say something is true and one man says the opposite is true, that does not mean " 'God's lonely man,' as Thomas Wolfe called him, cannot be the one who has found real truth."

Congressman North adored the Founding Fathers, who he said planned to abolish slavery by ending the importation of slaves in 1808, but slaveholders allowed their slaves to marry and have families, ensuring their continued existence, forcing the Civil War.

"In 1860, if any person were to state that within 1,000 years, hundreds of thousands of white citizens would fight and die so that hundreds of thousands of black men and women could be free, he would have been called daft, a lunatic, out of his mind," said Congressman North, often to black audiences who came out in droves to hear his message. "Yet within months, that very thing happened and continued to happen for four years. When it was over, no foreign military, having defeated us in battle, now occupying our shores and tasked with making us a civil society worthy of joining the family of nations once again, forced us at the end of a gun to end the sin of slavery. No, Americans using laws written by Americans, having freely chosen to fight on American soil in order to make it possible, of their own free will, thus chose to end slavery, in America. A thriving institution that had existed as a legitimate form of trade and commerce between nations, armies and empires as long as man trod the Earth, had come to an end. It came to an end in America courtesy of Americans ending it. It came to an end courtesy of a Constitution written by Americans, the very 'dead white males,' many of whom owned slaves when they signed it. Men the Left wants you to believe were mere racists whose archaic laws and notions must be replaced by the progressivism of Fidel Castro Valenzuela and the Stinsons. They ended it.

"America is where slavery came to die, ladies and gentleman, and its death was not merely an accident of history. No, it died here because God involves Himself in the affairs of man, and God chose this nation as the single nation, as Israel once had been, a new Promised Land that He would make exceptional, that He would make so powerful, so moral, so righteous, and so courageous, that when the time came, it would make the world safe for Democracy. It would defeat Adolf Hitler and Tojo's Japan. It would defeat Communism. It would be a place where blacks and Jews could find peace and freedom after centuries of intolerance. It would call Islamo-Fascism what it is and take a stand against it. It would make a capitalism system that created a society of comfort and wealth for average human beings that for all the existence of man previously was reserved for Kings and nobles. It would offer a virgin territory of free soil in which ordinary citizens without titles, could own private property with civil laws protecting them from an intrusive government that for centuries felt people were mere serfs, chattel of the state. That land would have gold in its hills and streams, and men defeated by life on the East Coast could re-invent themselves, sometimes two or three times over, in the West.

"It would create out of this capitalistic freedom a health care system second to none. Through the travail of ages, health care essentially meant human beings were born, at some point they contracted a disease, and shortly thereafter they died. Their only comfort were the prayers of the Church. Then along came America, and spurred by the profit motive combined with a benevolent desire to help our fellow man, medicine advanced to the point where diseases and injuries suffered by people are no longer death sentences.

"In America, the talent of its citizenry unleashed by the profit motive, created technologies that reach to the darkest corners of the Earth, and among the messages never before heard by people who have lived in darkness for an eternity, is the saving word of the Lord of Jesus Christ. Yes, courtesy of America, more people hear God's saving grace than could ever have been imagined.

"So, yes good people, when asked if I believe God involves Himself in the affairs of man, I say yes, of course he does. All you need to do in order witness and know this truth is to open your eyes, look at what is in front of you, and accept what the devil does not want you to see. Each of you – you, me, all of us – are vessels. I speak to you not as a man running for President, but as a vessel doing God's work."

Bible sales exploded. Church attendance soared. Public schools began to allow prayer. Millions of African-Americans, raised all their lives on public school recitations of American racism and bigotry, seemed to open their eyes to this new truth, which hit them like a revelation courtesy of Paul North. His crowds were thoroughly mixed. Suburban whites traveled to inner city locations to listen to the Congressman together with blacks, often holding hands. Blacks and Latinos made the trip to otherwise conservative white locations, sharing in what came to be revival of sorts.

Oh, how Congressman North went after the liberals! He held nothing back. He did not care what their responses were, what their Left-wing friends in the media said about him, whether it was to call him an "Uncle Tom" or a "house nigger." He just pursued truth at 200 miles per hour.

"The Democrat Party was the party of the Confederacy during the Civil War," he told adoring throngs, recalling the story his father told he and his brother as children. "Every member of the Ku Klux Klan, every elected official who enslaved men and women who looked like me in the South through Jim Crow laws, was a Democrat.

"Then two California Republicans of the late 1960s, Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan offered what I call the 'Orange Countification' of American conservatism," Congressman North told people, repeating it in speeches and in interviews. He explained that in 1964 Barry Goldwater had received the support of Orange County, a large populated suburb just south of Los Angeles, that offered "a kind of attractive extremism that was rabidly anti-Communist, but seemed to come wrapped in the pleasantly symbolic package of endless strands of beach seemingly sculpted by God Himself, populated by the magnificent tanned blondes of Beach Boys mythology; a new Eden that resembled a combination of the Bible . . . and Playboy magazine."

People roared with laughter as North delivered this and like commentary with a huge, winning smile. He went on to say that this pleasant combination of anti-Communism, business growth, and sexy beach girls "meant racism was not, to use a '60s term, 'the with it' thing to be. This combined with a few California college football teams featuring happy black and white warriors who ran like the wind, going to and winning big in Dixie, helping to enlighten the good citizens of the South, already inculcated by Christianity and therefore prepared to change in ways no protest, no federal law, no speech or protest or riot could make them change. Their hearts and minds changed. I am here to tell you that the American South – where I grew up - changed better, faster and for the good, more rapidly and more completely, than any region of any country on this planet has ever changed in all the years man has walked on this planet. No conquering army occupied and told them to change. It just happened, and if you believe this was the work of man, the devil is smiling."

College professors, TV pundits and Democrats howled, offering lengthy dissertations on the Civil Rights Act, the effect of federal troops, the marches in Selma and Montgomery, and of course Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s role.

"I was there and saw it with my own eyes," Congressman North responded.

On the stump and in interviews he enjoyed educating America on the truth about the Red Scare. He started out telling audiences that V.I. Lenin once said it did not matter if three-quarters of the world died in a world war, so long as the remaining one-quarter were Communists. He said Lenin identified film as "the most important" of the arts, and immediately targeted Hollywood in a propaganda campaign. He loved to speak of "one of my heroes, Whittaker Chambers," a Communist spy who became a Christian and then decided to tell the FBI what he knew of the Soviet network.

He described the Venona Project, when military intelligence began to suspect that the Soviets and Nazis were prepared to end their war and join forces against the U.S., in monitoring Soviet cable traffic, then learning that many high-ranking Democrats in President Franklin Roosevelt's administration, were paid spies. Chambers's accusations were not immediately acted upon, North said, because FBI director J. Edgar Hoover did not want to let the Communists know how much we knew, but he told Congressman Richard Nixon, pursuing Chambers's accusations against a smooth-talking Democrat hero, Alger Hiss, that he was on the right track.

"Then the levers of the liberal machine ground into action," Congressman North said. "The New York Times, Hollywood, academics; all accused Senator Joseph McCarthy of a 'witch hunt.' Hiss was declared innocent by the New York Times for decades. Then when the United States won the Cold War the Soviet archives revealed the Venona Project. Hiss was a paid spy. Many of FDR's top advisors were Soviet agents, including key shapers of the United Nations. Many spies and fellow travelers in the government, the universities, and Hollywood were revealed. McCarthy's 'witch hunt' had been more accurate than he realized at the time, but what is most disconcerting is that while all liberal Democrats were not Communist spies, all Communist spies were liberal Democrats! There was not a Republican in the lot of 'em, hundreds over the years. Republican Nazis? None existed upon the face of the Earth.

"Reagan as president of SAG was asked about Communist infiltration of the motion picture industry. He told HUAC that yes, show biz was crawling with the SOBs, but 'as long as there's people like us they'll never get a foothold on it.' Hmmm, 'people like us.' Are there are still people like Reagan in Hollywood, and if there are not, does this explain what has happened to a once great American art form?"

He said his hero Jackie Robinson told HUAC Communists tried to infiltrate the African-American community, then described how the black Communist singer Paul Robeson indoctrinated a young Harry Belafonte into the party in the 1940s and 1950s. "Sidney Poitier was part of the group, but decided to dissolve himself from politics for the sake of his career," North said.

Congressman North went on to explain that Communists were behind the 1960s Vietnam anti-war protest movement and the Iraq War protests. He said that liberal media accusations made it unpopular to go after traitors as they had in the heyday of HUAC, but they continued to exist. Then he said something that aroused great anxiety in both President Fidel Castro Valenzuela and former Governor Jim Stinson.

"People think just because Reagan won the Cold War and the Soviet Union dissolved, that was the end of Communism," Congressman North stated. "It wasn't. Maybe they got rid of their hammers and sickles and Little Red Books, but they remained atheistic, and America, not just a country that includes 50 states, but the idea of an exceptional America, remains their enemy. Their new causes: global warning, gay marriage, destruction of the family, socialized medicine, division through false accusations of racism, illegal immigration; eventually through the crushing weight of bureaucracy, the end of private property, and with it, the end of capitalism. They are playing a long game and the aims of Communism, while they have changed phrases and racial identities, are the same.

"Furthermore, the spy networks still exist. Yes, good people, there are still Communist spies, fellow travelers, even plants. They are moles hidden in our societies, enemies within, like the Yuri character played by Kevin Costner in No Way Out. Many joined forces with radical Islam. The Showtime thriller Homeland depicting Islamic terror burrowing into our government is not based on fantasy, but on reality. I get intelligence briefings and have friends in the FBI and CIA. I know these people are operating today, and at the highest levels of government, levels that would shock you out of your lethargy, your video games and your reality shows. The truth is stranger than fiction, and so incredible as to literally be beyond belief, but it is all true and if elected President I will root these people out and oversee long prison sentences of hard labor for these traitors, these enemies of an America that you and I love so deeply."

"That lousy nigger's revealing all our secrets, the whole operation," President Valenzuela stated when he heard Congressman North's speech. "He's describing everything; the KGB, the Muslim Brotherhood, the whole plan of operation. He must be stopped."

But for once Valenzuela was not able to so easily get his way. His first inclination was to order Congressman North's assassination, but the people best equipped to carry out such a task, namely the CIA and the FBI, were manned in large measure by patriotic citizens who felt they owed allegiance to the Constitution more than a temporary occupant of the White House (with only a few months left to go), and not willing to carry out such an illegal and immoral crime. Valenzuela's friends in the Muslim Brotherhood, Al Qaeda and Hezbollah, were happy to kill Congressman North, but now that he was a Presidential contender he had Secret Service protection. Perhaps once the KGB had the capacity to pull off the high-level political assassination of an American target, but no more. Now they were in Hollywood, the media, and the propaganda machines. It was a strange conundrum; they had the President in their hip pocket, but not all the levers of power.

"Jesus Christ, the son of bitch has no idea how right he is," was Governor Stinson's reaction to North. "It's like McCarthy. He's got us nailed. Hell, maybe he does know but he's just not letting on."

But Stinson had something even President Valenzuela did not have: a private army that was loyal to him. He had moles within the Secret Service and the FBI, and was willing to use them, no matter how extreme the measures. The Presidency had been denied him once before, and he would ruthlessly stop at nothing to attain his rightful ascension to power this time around!

The Democrats unleashed the media to try and dismantle Congressman North's "absurd" accusation that some form of international Communism, outside of an increasingly capitalist China and a few rogues like North Korea, Cuba and Vietnam, had survived the Berlin Wall. Learned professors and "victims" of McCarthyism were trotted out to describe the evils of the Red Scare; how there were no Communists in Hollywood; and the innocence of the "falsely accused."

Congressman North laughingly described minute details of the Venona Project, unearthed in 1993. "This is the Damocles Sword the Right holds over the historical Left," Congressman North told Fox News. "If the tables were turned, if in fact hundreds of Republicans had been Nazi, Communist or Muslim Brotherhood spies, as Democrats have been the over decades, all proven by official records, Hollywood would have made countless movies about it, awarding themselves with Oscars, the modern version of the pagan idol of the Old Testament, the Golden Calf. Schools would teach it ad infinitum. Universities would turn the subject into entire academic disciplines.

"But notice when Hollywood does touch this subject, they usually fictionalize it, creating some poor innocent screenwriter railroaded by mean conservative HUAC 'witch hunters.' The reason they have to fictionalize it is if they made movies about what really happened, they would have to describe how the Hollywood Ten really were Communists, several paid by Moscow to make propaganda films favoring the Soviet angle, how they really tried to throw acid in Ronald Reagan's face, and tried to kill John 'Duke' Wayne not once, but four times. If you don't believe me, as Casey Stengel once said, 'You can look it up.' The information you need in order to know what I know is freely available right here in America. Go forth and acquire this knowledge."

When one professional victim of the Blacklist told his tale of woe, Congressman North went on TV and described how, after being denied work in Hollywood for a few years, he made films with a French New Wave director, the Communist Jean Luc Goddard, who influenced " 'Hanoi Jane' Fonda to go sit on a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft weapon," Congressman North said with disdain. Of life on the French Riviera, the poor victim of American tyranny called it in his memoirs "among the happiest years of my life." He then, North continued, "returned to America, was paid to write screenplays under a pseudonym for a year or so, before returning to work under his real name, working regularly into the 1970s.

"Ah, the gulags of Tinseltown," Congressman North scoffed.

There was a charisma, a humor to the way the Congressman was able to weave his stories, using history and anecdotes, that was a special gift that cannot be taught. It was utterly disarming and could not be overcome. Others tried to do the same, without the same result. He quickly swept to an insurmountable lead in the Republican primaries, and polls showed him catching up to, then leading Jim Stinson by increasingly large margins. He was the greatest phenomenon in American history. He was immediately made the absolute leader of the Tea Party movement, which had been nascent, lacking energy, largely de-funded because President Valenzuela had used the IRS to illegally go after them, killing their finances, locking them up in bureaucratic court proceedings. But energized by Congressman North, contributions poured in. Within a short time, the Tea Party, the Republican National Committee, and the North for President campaign had caught up with the Stinson juggernaut, which had taken years of extortion and manipulation, largely through a bogus "philanthropic" organization called the Stinson Global Initiative, to get where they now were.

Paul North held nothing back when it came to the Valenzuelas and the Stinsons. He correctly lumped Missy Valenzuela in with her husband, as well as making Jill Stinson a co-conspirator in all that Jim had been involved in for years. Some of the pundits thought it was a mistake to go after President Valenzuela, and especially a mistake to go after his wife. But North intuitively sensed a pent-up disgust with the Valenzuelas, held under wraps for years by white conservatives deathly afraid of being called racist for going after a half-Mexican, half-black President and his black wife. There was added fear of being called "anti-woman," which the Left tried to call a "war on women," but Congresman North knew what he was saying was true, and used it like Moses's staff leading the Israelites to freedom. For conservatives, this black Republican Presidential hopeful was nothing short of liberating. He said everything they had for so many years been afraid to say.

He was all over Valenzuela, starting with his murky birth records. Some old hospital administrators signed an affidavit saying they had worked at the hospital he supposedly was born at, but no Fidel Castro Valenzuela had been born there. They would have recalled a baby named after the Cuban Communist revolutionary, for starters.

North questioned Valenzuela's radical Islamic childhood, then Frederick Manson Jones, his Communist mentor. He openly asked whether the KGB had sponsored Valenzuela. Who paid for him to go to school? An administrator from Columbia secretly sent Congressman North his records, showing that Valenzuela had been admitted as a "foreign born Muslim" in order to benefit from an affirmative action dispensation reserved for . . . foreign-born Muslims. His grades were barely C+, hardly Harvard Law School material. Congressman North put the birth certificate affidavit and the Columbia transcripts on his web site, all next to his own birth certificate in Atlanta and his practically all-A grades at the University of Tennessee, the Kansas State master's program, and sterling marks in various military educational academies.

The liberal media totally and completely discredited all of the anti-Valenzuela material. It did not matter. It was true and somehow a new sense of truth was sweeping the nation. Congressman North particularly enjoyed talking about Valenzuela's attempt to become a novelist, when his would-be agent created a pamphlet describing his client as "a Muslim man born in Egypt."

"Ha," exclaimed Congressman North. "This is great stuff. Okay, so he's not born in Egypt. Whether he's a Muslim or not, who knows? But what strikes me about this apparent lie are the choices this 'man' makes; does he represent himself as a patriotic American citizen? No, he is a self-described 'other,' a 'revolutionary,' a victim of an oppressive, illegitimate America, the very state of Texas he says he was born in not legally belonging to America, but to the country of his Communist mother, infused by the Socialist writer Frida Kahlo into hating the U.S., passing this hatred on to her son."

From there Congressman North described how Valenzuela was mentored by Sol Brudzinski, a Communist agitator of the 1960s, then ushered into Massachusetts politics by Warren Wolfsheim, the former Weather Underground terrorist.

"Now, let's just say that at the beginning of my political career, I get a call saying that an influential man wants to help launch my first run at elective office," Congressman North mused. "I am thinking, 'Okay, I can use some help, meet some people who can help me, raise some dough.

" 'Whose the guy helping me?' I ask.

" 'Warren Wolfsheim,' I'm told.

" 'Whose that?' I ask.

" 'Oh, he tried to blow up the Pentagon and a few police stations when he was in the Weather Underground.'

"Let me think for about, oh I don't know, a nano-second," Congressman North would say to laughter and growing cheers from audiences. "Uh, gee whizz, I think all events that mark the progress of Mankind shall occur . . . with the single, sole exception of my being mentored by Warren Wolfsheim.

"But of course, 'He's just a guuuuuuuuy who lives in my neighborhood,' " North would go on, mocking Valenzuela. "If you believe that I have some swamp land in Florida."

From there, North picked Walnut apart, brick by brick.

"While I was defending this great nation from Communism and Islamo-Fascism, this nobody from no where with no resume who never worked a job, each promotion handed to him because he was Mexican or black or whatever he is, becomes a 'community organizer' at Walnut," he would tell rapt crowds filling huge sports palaces. "Allow me to inform you what Walnut did. First, they were race extortionists, meaning they threatened legitimate American companies that, via excellence in the free market, produce goods and services you want, need and are willing to pay for, with racism, until said companies paid off Valenzuela to call off the dogs. But that's not all. They served as a so-called 'social justice' wing of the Democrat Party.

"Interpretation: poor women, usually black and Latino, come in, often pregnant, and are advised how best to kill their babies. Courtesy: the Democrat Party. Michelle Woodward? They paid her a hefty sum to help promote abortions. Then Planned Parenthood paid her $175,000 a year to sit on their board. 'Sit on their board' means to sit on her bee-hind, but the abortion mills kept right on a rollin'."

From there, Congressman North moved on to Valenzuela's "liberation theology" priest.

"Hmm, so I'm sitting in the pews, and he starts saying that America is an illegitimate country, that the Southwest really belongs to Mexico, but then he starts saying that the United States is 'damned to hell,' " Congressman North would intone.

"Hmm, let me see, I wonder if I stick in those pews. I wonder if maybe I don't say right then and there, 'If you believe this stuff, you are really not doing the work of Jesus Christ.' President Valenzuela and his wife profess to be Christians who arrived out of nowhere like angels of light. A lot of people on my side of the aisle say, 'Well, I take 'em at their word . . . He's a nice guy, I just disagree with his policies.' Not me. I can't see how you support making it as easy as possible to abort 65 million kids and call yourself a Christian."

The Left went nuts. The Christian Right began to ask whether Congressman North was the Second Coming.

"No, I'm just a sinner who swears and drinks beer and loves hot girls in skintight little dresses," Congressman North would say, to great laughter and applause. The feminists despised him. Then reports started coming in that abortions at Planned Parenthood were down 25 percent.

As for Gyorgy Szabo, Congressman North made no bones of his belief that he manipulated Valenzuela's first election by working with the gay Massachusetts Congressman Bob Fink to orchestrate the sub-prime housing crisis, destroying the economy just in time to swing millions away from the Republicans. He excoriated the French polling machines that swung Valenzuela from seven down in mid-October to a four-point win over Governor Rider. He actively spoke of Szabo's helping the Nazis send his fellow Jews to the gas chambers.

"I see something like that, and I ask myself, 'Did this guy make a deal with the devil?' " Congressman North would say. "Did he tell Satan he would do his false works in return for the great glory and power he holds in society today, which he has principally used to help Fidel Castro Valenzuela to the Presidency, to control of all the powers of this great nation. A nation in which so many sacrificed so much, for so many years, for what? To hand it over to Fidel Valenzuela?"

Asked if he believed a man could "conjure Satan" and be given Earthly powers in return for his human soul, he said, "Absolutely. I see some of the immoralists in Hollywood, actors who never seem to age, whose movies are always hits, always with fabulous women on their arms, honoring themselves with the 21st Century version of the golden calf, enthusiastically supporting liberal causes like abortion, and it seems a very real possibility to me."

Asked whom he was referring to, Congressman North smiled and said, "Use your own common sense. Look around and if you allow righteousness to enter your heart, you can see what I see."

"Are you talking about George Close?" one interviewer asked him, even though North had never made any mention of Close's name.

"As Jesus said to Pontius Pilate, 'As you say,' " replied North.

Sales of Bibles continued to go up dramatically. Prayer groups reported that interest in the Book of Revelation increased. Netflix rentals of The Omen, Damien: Omen II and Omen III: The Final Conflict went up as well, while Americans sought to discover whether in fact the anti-Christ would emerge from "the world of politics." Asked if he had some special insight into such things, North just said, "I'm a sinner who likes pretty girls and cold beer too much to see such truths. Only the truly righteous can see the demons that walk the Earth. But I do know the Truth, and the Truth shall make ye free."

Nothing was off-limits with Congressman North. He was must-see TV. Any appearance by him created ratings like no television executive had ever seen. He hammered Valenzuela over reports that he doled out blowjobs for cocaine during his college years, that he was naked with the rap star J-C when brave Navy SEALS were killed in Libya, and that he was a Socialist. North suspected, and was fed information from his friends at the FBI, leading him to suspect that Valenzuela was a plant of some kind; a spy for Islam maybe? North started calling him Yuri, the character played by Kevin Costner in No Way Out, who was trained from childhood to grow up a spy in America, ascending to political heights.

Congressman North could skew Fidel Valenzuela like nobody. Randy Lebow had him on the air and told him even he could not get to the heart of Valenzuela like Paul North.

"But you know, Randy," Congressman North told him. "You said you hoped Valenzuela would fail. He did not fail. He succeeded. He succeeded in 'fundamentally transforming America' from the most powerful nation or empire in all of world history, into a second-rate mediocrity, begging China for loans, mired in a Satanic debt that 100 years of Ronald Reagans could never hope to pay back. He's signed into law thousands of executive orders, and my fear is when the time is right, those orders, which nobody really knows what they say, will be used to arrest you, to arrest me, to silence opposition. Some EPA law you and I broke without knowing it. Something they heard us say via NSA wiretapping. When the time is right, your door, my door, will be kicked in by somebody, on something called a 'security force,' an armed wing of the EPA Valenzuela created but we have little knowledge of, and they will arrest us for violating some law or another we did not know we broke. Maybe by this time they're working for Jim Stinson, or Jill Stinson, or some protégé of theirs down the road. A bureaucratic leviathan with a stranglehold on all our lives, the greatest health care system ever designed in tatters, the races hating each other, the military turned into a gay lobby, morals in tatters. I fear a sleeper of some kind, some form of anti-American evil, the form of which I cannot fully envision, waiting until the time is ripe to strike, to use all these laws, all this groundwork that's been laid carefully over decades, to destroy this nation once and for all, beyond all recognition. I could go on and on, that's just for starters."

"Here's the scary part," Lebow replied.

"What's that?"

"All this you describe, it's illegal and un-Constitutional, but unless somebody stops them from doing it, it will happen," Lebow said. "Nobody on their side will stop them. Those people just switched to our side."

"Reagan warned us every generation has to fight to keep its freedoms," said North.

When Congressman North went on Face the Nation, he was asked why, since President Valenzuela was not on the ballot and he was running against Jim Stinson, he spent so much time going after Valenzuela.

"I'll tell you why," he replied. "Because I'm not just running against a person. I'm running against a philosophy called liberalism, which since Alger Hiss, McCarthyism and Vietnam, has slowly eroded this nation. It effectively destroyed America with the New Deal, but World War II saved us. Had we not fought World War II, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged would have been America's reality by 1970. So this inevitable slouching of America was put off, but after Reagan and the winning of the Cold War, it metastasized into this 'thing,' this kind of 'beast,' tearing us down. Liberalism is a lie. To be a liberal is to live a lie, to be a lie, to tell lies. This is not just Valenzuela. Valenzuela is a creature of liberalism, but both Jim and Jill Stinson are part of this same lie, just dressed up to look like good ol' Louisianans. Stinson comes from the New Orleans mob, he's been a manufactured creature of immorality since he was a child, his mentors being Mafia capos and corrupt Democrat Party bosses since he was 14; just as morally rotten as the Islamic madrassa and the Communist mentor who taught Valenzuela to hate America since his early youth."

"It sounds like you read and believe The Stinson Body Count by Duke Ramsay," the interviewer remarked.

"You bet. I read it, cover to cover. By the way, where is Duke Ramsay? Has he been offed by the Stinsons?"

The Statue of Liberty

The first time Jill Wyndham-Stinson saw Paul North, he was on Fox News running for the U.S. House of Representatives in Florida. After a minute or so, she declared, "We're going to have to kill that nigger."

Jim Stinson and Don Carver dismissed him. Jill had an instinct for politics like none other and seemed to possess an uncanny ability to literally see far into the future. As far as she was concerned, Paul North's fate was sealed. But the killing of a political rival was different now. In Louisiana, protected by corrupt state troopers, mobsters and Democrat bosses, they could get away with anything. The killings of Ron Braun and Vince Forster had made national headlines, but now, running for the Presidency, to assassinate their rival was a far more difficult proposition. There were wildcards, too. First, there was Ramsay, Goodson and the girl. They were still at-large, and posed unpredictable problems. On top of that, there was an element within the intelligence community who knew what the Stinsons had done. How much could they prove? Would they present their findings at the worst time, a possible "October surprise"? This element was working with both Alan Goodson and Paul North. Was there coordination between them?

Jim Stinson had wanted to kill Fidel Valenzuela, but he seemed to creep up on them out of nowhere so fast there was no time for it. By the time he was winning primaries, it was too late and the next thing Stinson knew, he was watching the guy "who a few years ago would have been servin' us coffee" ascend to the White House. But oddly, the woman behind the throne, Jill Wyndham-Stinson, had remained passive about Valenzuela. It seemed to fit a plan of some kind only she could understand. Now Jim Stinson began to see what it was. He had given up on the Presidency. The pressures of politics were a heavy burden. He had all the money in the world and enjoyed the prospect of just hanging out, getting drunk with Hart Hadley and all those sexy PartyChicks of his in L.A. He could make an occasional speech, presenting himself as the friend of the black man and the oppressed and the victims of globalization and all that rotgut, all at half a million or a million a pop. Or more.

But what Jill wants, Jill gets. She had ordered him to run again and he obeyed her. Then the old adrenaline kicked backed in. He realized he could not just hang out on a beach with some silicone sister the rest of his days; he wanted the power, the prestige, he wanted back in the game.

At first the path seemed ridiculously easy. President Valenzuela's popularity was in the low 20s, but that was easily overcome. Stinson had gotten out of the Valenzuela Administration after three years, and was not associated with the terrible foreign policy failures that followed: ascent of China to number one superpower status, turmoil and civil war all over the Middle East, Israel alone and undefended, American embassies overrun while Valenzuela satisfied his lust for the taste of a rapper's semen.

The GOP field was woeful beyond comprehension. When Shelly Rider bowed out, disgusted with politics and the way her beautiful family was forced to suffer indignity after indignity at the hands of immoralists, the rest were pitiful nobodies, not even worthy of Saturday Night Live mocking.

But there was always Congressman Paul North. Fox News, those SOBs, gave him a platform and he was constantly browbeating the Democrats from this perch. Conservative talk radio featured the Congressman regularly. He just killed the Left. Jill Stinson decided he had to die.

The Veterans of Foreign Wars decided to hold a huge event at the Statue of Liberty, celebrating the re-building of the World Trade Center, honoring the military for destroying the Taliban in Afghanistan, taking Baghdad in one of the great military sweeps since Inchon, and capturing Saddam Hussein. They invited Congressman North to be their featured speaker. No doubt North would repeat his signature line, that President Valenzuela had somehow managed to "grab defeat from the jaws of victory in the Middle East."

The plan was to use a recruited hit man from New York to shoot North while he spoke. Blame for the assassination would be on Islamic radicals. North was code named "Rallykiller." This was the plan Michelle Woodward overheard in the hotel room in San Martin. But Fidel Valenzuela and his Attorney General, a Left-wing black buffoon named Aaron Dumaz, hated the idea of a bunch of Right-wing military heroes invading their turf, New York City, for a big Right-wing celebration of American military victories. The Valenzuela Administration identified these people – the VFW, the American Legion, the NRA, retired military – as the "enemy." They even wrote memorandums placing forth the fiction that the biggest future terrorist threats were not radical Islamists, but "disgruntled white Iraq war vets." Over the next years, Islamic radicals committed all terrorist acts. Acts of terror by disgruntled white Iraq war veterans did not manifest itself as events on Earth.

When Valenzuela shut down the VFW rally, it meant that Congressman North would not speak to them, and therefore it eliminated - for now – the Stinson's plans to kill him. The VFW, meanwhile, was extremely displeased that their plans to exercise their rights of free speech, which so many of them had paid so dearly for, had been denied them, ostensibly by what most of them felt was an illegitimate Communist and his radical, unqualified Attorney General. Their leaders put on a full court press on Fox News and conservative talk radio, managing to create enough pressure to re-schedule the rally. As fate would have it, the man they wanted to make the closing speech, Congressman Paul North, was now the de facto Republican nominee for President. Suddenly, it was not just a VFW rally; it was a North for President extravaganza.

The event had nothing to do with the New York primary, which had already been held, won by North. North had the nomination sewed up and could campaign wherever he wanted to. This was a perfect storm. His campaign aligned it with maximum New York media exposure, which meant other major speeches in New York leading up to and after the big event; all the major news programs and stations; plus a huge fundraiser. New York, one of the bluest of blue states, considered a given that it would go to Stinson, was no longer just trending to Congressman North. He led in the RealClearPolitics.com poll by an average of 11 points in the Empire state, and eight points in neighboring New Jersey. If Paul North could pick off states like New York and New Jersey – he was already a total lock in the South, the mountain west, and favored in most of the battleground states - he would not merely defeat Jim Stinson, he would humiliate him.

That was not the half of it. The Republicans were completely energized by North. Suddenly it looked like they would ride his coattails to enormous, Tea Party-inspired victories in the House of Representatives and United States Senate. If North were elected with such support, he could unquestionably overturn Valuecare, the signature legislation of historical liberalism. The very nature of liberalism itself would be badly threatened if America decided to truly return to its patriotic, Constitutional roots. Such a thing, thought utterly preposterous just a few short years, even months ago, suddenly appeared to be divine destiny. Many Americans, convinced that the debt and socialized medicine had ruined the country irreparably, had prayed to God, believing that He and He alone could do what no mere human beings could do: restore the luster of this modern Promised Land.

Was it possible that this prayer was being answered, using as His vessel Congressman Paul North? Not if Jill Wyndham-Stinson was to have anything to do with it. When North emerged as the Republican frontrunner, Jill decided to resurrect the "Rallykiller" assassination plot.

"Look, I want that nigger dead as much as you do," Jim told her, "but if we have him killed it's gonna reflect right back on us. How can the nominee of one party kill the nominee of the opposing party? Christ, a few years ago when we originally planned it; he was just a loudmouth Congressman. Now he's like a living god. He's gonna destroy the Democratic Party, take our black base. I'm hearing he's got 50 percent of the blacks, and that's just so far."

"You make my argument for me, Jim," Jill replied. "We can't afford to have that happen. Not just to us, but the party, the very philosophy of the Left. This is a once-in-a-lifetime situation and we have no choice.

"But we have a few aces up our sleeve. Valenzuela and that negroid doofus Attorney General of his, the appropriately named Dumaz, will not investigate this. They'll go through the motions like they did with the embassy attack, the IRS targeting of the Tea Party, Violent 'n' Powerful, all of it. Their just as happy to see this pompous black son of a bitch gone as we are. Their whole legacy would be wiped out if he wins the way it looks like he will.

"Next, with him dead, their movement dies. There will be much call for the spirit of the great Paul North to continue on, but no human being will emerge from the ether of the Republican Party. A decade after JFK's death, Nixon won with 62 percent of the vote. We will win, no matter how many accusations are lobbed against us. Without Valenzuela investigating or prosecuting us, we will succeed. Who cares what the Right, what the Christians, what the Republicans think? I'll turn their accusations into sympathy for us. I've done it before, I know exactly how to do it. Trust me on this.

"Once we're in office, we control the Justice Department. Need I say any more?"

"You know what I like about you, Jill," Stinson said admiringly. "You have the greatest legal mind in world history. You are eight steps ahead of the game every single time. You just see it: this'll happen, then this, then this, then this, then this'll happen, then this, that and this, and voila, at some point four, five years down the road, all is exactly as you planned it and ain't nobody's the wiser for it. Machiavelli ain't got nothin' on you."

"Who do you think was sucking on Machiavelli's shriveled pecker and whispering in his ear?" replied Jill.

Jim Stinson just stares at her.

"Sometimes you scare me just a little bit," he told her. She smiled the smile of the wicked.

The entire time that Michelle, Duke and Goodson were on the run, they were unable to do anything about the "Rallykiller" plan. They did not know who or what or when, and were not in a position to do much anyway. But suddenly, things were coming together. Cleve Carver had somehow managed to hear about the plans to kill Paul North. Determined not to die without confessing, on his deathbed he revealed to Richard Tomak "that Congressman from Florida" was the target.

Now, finally, the group had a goal. Light at the end of a long tunnel. That was the new situation after Richard Tomak walked into Starbucks around the corner from the hospital, informing them of Cleve's deathbed confession.

"Excuse me," Michelle said. She stood up and the men all stood up too. Michelle headed to the bathroom. She looked at her disguised face in the mirror and began to think about redemption; about seeing her parents again; about maybe even returning to college. About finding a decent guy, not some porn gigolo or sleazy friend of Hart Hadley. After a few minutes, she departed the bathroom. Then she saw that the others were not at the table. She immediately panicked. Considering what they were up against, she suspected the worst: Stinson's "octopus squad" had entered Starbucks and captured Ramsay and Goodson. Probably poor Richard Tomak, who had just done a favor for his friend Alan Goodson.

They would be looking for her. She ran out the back door.

Michelle suddenly faced the most terrifying aspect of this terrible nightmare. She felt a modicum of safety with Duke Ramsay and Alan Goodson, but now they had probably been captured, or worse. Based on what she knew about the Stinsons, she held little hope that either man, or Tomak, would be alive much longer. They were all she had left. Her old life was completely over. She could not go to her parents or friends for help; surely the Stinsons had their eye on anybody like that.

But now she had no safe house, no protection, and no plan. Goodson's capture was perhaps most harmful. He had rogue contacts within the FBI who had steered him in the right direction, just as Richard Nixon had when in the late 1940s J. Edgar Hoover told him he could not officially help him identify Alger Hiss and other Communist spies in government, but that he was heading in the right direction.

But now that was done. Michelle knew none of the rogue agents, or how to get hold of them. She did not know where Goodson's drops were. She did not who Stinson's state trooper mole was, the mysterious "Southern voice" who had originally called to warn that her life was in danger. It was too dangerous for him to call her any more and she had no idea who he was or how to reach him. She had not had use of a cell phone or computer in several years. She did, however, still have $5,000 in cash. Duke always made sure that he, Goodson and Michelle kept ready cash on their persons in case of just such an emergency.

Michelle managed to make her way to a Motel 6, where she paid in cash. For two days she stayed in her room, deathly afraid that at any minute the "octopus squad" would barge through her door. She kept the television on the news channels until finally she got a break.

"NORTH TO SPEAK AT STATUE OF LIBERTY" scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed.

A correspondent standing in front of New York Harbor, the iconic Statue of Liberty in the background, went on to say that the Veteran's of Foreign Wars had invited Congressman Paul North, "the controversial Right-wing black conservative from Florida," to speak at a huge VFW rally several years earlier. That speech had been had cancelled because the Valenzuela Administration "felt it was too jingoistic a declaration of victory over the forces of Islamic terror, and used what at the time was their political capitol to squelch it.

"But the political atmosphere has changed dramatically. Valenzuela is now a 'lame duck' President whose policies are in tatters, whose approval rating is in the low 20s, and the Right is engaged in a full offensive against his policies in the Middle East, in which all gains and victories made by the previous administration have been lost, much blood and treasure wasted.

"This speech is expected to be a hard-hitting indictment by Congressman North, an Iraq War hero to the Right, called a war criminal by the Valenzuela-Stinson forces, in which he re-asserts his vision of America as a world power once again."

"They're gonna kill him at the Statue of Liberty," Michelle exclaimed out loud. Her first reaction was: call the police, call the FBI, call the Secret Service. Perhaps only now did the full extent of the evil and corruption she, a young girl from Lake Tahoe, a college drop-out who had made immoral life choices she had paid dearly for, was now up against.

The Stinsons were the enemy within; their tentacles reaching no doubt beyond just the corrupted state troopers and mob hit men who did their biding, but into the levers of the federal government, the intelligence community and the security structure, domestic and foreign. Paul North was "Rallykiller," and she surmised that the Stinsons wanted him dead several years earlier, before he even emerged as a contender for the White House. Now, he was the frontrunner, not just a threat, but also a genuine favorite to upend all their plans, so carefully laid out over decades. Even Jim Stinson had come to realize that Jill's plan had included Valenzuela's victory and two term-Presidency. But now . . . now their time had come, and Michelle Woodward was faced with the terrifying reality that only she stood in their way.

"The first political killing in New York since McKinley," she recalled hearing Stinson state to Carver in San Martin.

She still had disguises, and changed her appearance as much as possible. Afraid of airports, and without a credit card to rent a car, she took a taxi to Metairie, in order to make her travel from New Orleans less conspicuous. From there she arranged for a bus to New York City.

It was a long, arduous journey. The entire time, Michelle was deathly afraid that a car would pull up and stop the bus, finding her and dragging her off. Each stop was fraught with peril. But finally she could see the light and the skyline of Manhattan. It was almost midnight when she got off at the Port Authority. The Stinsons did have two men at the bus terminal, but they were both getting a sandwich and taking a leak when the bus arrived. It was one tiny break for a girl desperately in need of one, although she did not know how lucky she was.

The North speech was scheduled for the next night. Michelle managed to find the cheapest motel she could find; at $275 a night, cheap by Manhattan standards. She listened to news coverage of Paul North, who was getting praise even from the liberals in the media. People were interviewed calling him "the hope of the country," and "out last chance at restoring greatness."

Now Michelle had to figure out what she was going to do next. It was not an open rally to the public; it was a VFW rally, and required pre-registered passes, many doled out by the Republican National Committee and the North campaign, who wanted it as loud, wild and pro-North as possible.

Michelle weighed her options. What was her best asset? Her best asset was her stunning good looks. It had opened door after door, until she overheard Jim Stinson and Don Carver discuss the killing of Congressman Paul North. But now it might be her best way in.

She fixed herself up in her best mini-dress, dolled herself up with make-up, and was amazed that after all this hardship she had not missed a beat; she was still as sexy as the girl named PartyChick of the Year.

Her one disguise was a black wig, but otherwise she had a body that belonged to only a few women walking the Earth. She knew no better angle. From there, she made her way towards New York Harbor. She could see Secret Service agents in dark suits and dark glasses, milling about with walkie-talkies. She debated with herself: do I tell a Secret Service agent about the assassination plot? What if he is "one of them"?

As she gets closer, workers are busy, TV crews set up equipment, and the crowd is so thick, the excitement so great, it works to her advantage. She mixes in with the people. Many pour into the area from the nearby subway.

While all of this is happening, CNN's Don Armando, a longtime political reporter, checks his notes, his hair, and his equipment.

"Where you gonna cover from, Don?" one of his crew asks him.

"Over here, so's I got North talking in the background while I give my report," he replies.

"Good enough," the crewmember says, then tells the others, "Set 'em up to angle this way."

Meanwhile, a limousine makes its way through Manhattan. In the back seat sits Ken Hawke, 65, rugged and confident, a Vietnam War veteran, a former Marine. He is the national commander of the VFW, as hardcore a Right-wing conservative as can be found.

He sits next to Congressman Paul North.

"You know, Congressman," Hawke says. "Of all the profound thing's I've heard you say, perhaps the most profound is when you speak of the great sacrifices so many Americans have made for centuries, only to hand this great nation to Fidel Castro Valenzuela, and unless we stop 'em, Jim and Jill Stinson."

"Breaks your heart, doesn't it?" says North.

"Freedom can be lost in a very short period of time," says Hawke.

"We let the country down, Ken," replies North. "We dropped the ball."

"When I see that pizzant and that rotten wife of his treated like royalty on luxury vacations, or Valenzuela surrounded by all that glory at the Army-Navy game, it makes me vomit," says Hawke.

"I personally know many officers who tell me they despise Valenzuela, they can barely salute him, he has zero respect in the military," says North. "But he's purged the ranks and now after eight years he's promoted whatever flunkies he can find who either agree with him or, since few actually agree, are willing to pretend they do in order to curry favor."

"That's how the military becomes a social experiment," replies Hawke. "Instead of helping defend America and the Constitution, we're just a place promoting gay marriage and abortion and bull crap."

"I just hope I'm not too late," says the Congressman. "I fear it's too late. Valenzuela and the Democrats have destroyed us and not I or anybody can fix what they've broken."

"I agree except for one thing," says Hawke. "I believe in a righteous God. If God decides to restore us, He will restore us."

"Hallelujah," says North.

Michelle stares at ferry boats taking rally goers to the event on Governor's Island. Time is of the essence. She must act quickly, to take the initiative and also before she is caught. She sees that each rally goer has a special pass, which they arrive with. She must get this pass. But how? She strolls about; her presence is increasingly distracting. A girl who looks like her simply cannot just blend in anywhere. She maintains her calm demeanor as best she can. Finally she sees a man talking on a cell phone. He is about 45, relatively attractive, in a business suit. She leans in to try and hear what he is saying.

"Oh for God's sake, Michael. That's the most irresponsible thing I've ever heard. Do you know the trouble I went through to get you a pass to see the Presidential nominee; how much I've contributed to the party? . . .

"Now you tell me you're going to the, uh, to the . . . right, to the Goo . . . the Goo Goo Dolls concert instead . . . Well, alright then. Bye."

The man holds two passes. Michelle moves in for the kill.

"Excuse me, but I see you have two passes. I just adore Congressman North so. Could I possibly buy one from you?"

"Well, I don't know . . ." the man says.

"It would mean so much to me," says Michelle, slithering closer to him.

"This was for my son. Besides, they have security precautions."

She gets closer, her ample breasts touching him. Her hand works its way down his thigh. "I'll do anything."

"Well, young lady, wait just now, I'm a married man . . ."

Michelle then parrots the words scripted to her when she looked into the camera making a private gangbang movie for Hart Hadley. It is a seductive description of just what she plans to do in the movie, and it is graphic.

The man has his first erection in a decade.

"I have Viagra in my purse," Michelle adds. "Although I doubt you'll need it."

Indeed, the man is as hard as blue tungsten steel.

"What're we waiting for?" he says, giving Michelle a pass.

The two make their way on to the ferry, where they are frisked for weapons, and then get off at Governor's Island. His seats are near the front row. By the time they find them, Ken Hawke is addressing the crowd.

"The man I bring to you tonight is an American hero, a savior at a time in which indecency and immorality plague our land," he admonishes. "Perhaps he is our last, best hope, to save us from Socialism, from mediocrity, from the forces of unrighteousness. This is a man, a unique man who possesses those rare qualities of charisma and leadership, a man who can do what the current occupant of the White House promised to do, coming into office so full of good feeling, yet failing so miserably to do: bring the nation together, black and white, young and old, male and female."

"Excuse me, but I've got to find a ladies room," Michelle tells the man. She gets up. All eyes follow her. She sees an usher named Craig wearing a yellow jacket that says "event staff" on the back. He is in his early 20s, has pimples, and is no threat to be the next Casanova. She flashes her pass at him.

"Excuse me, I'm here for the backstage," she tells him.

"That's just a pass for the rally."

"Oh, no, I must have forgot my pass in the rush."

Craig looks off, but then glances at Michelle's chest. Michelle sizes him up, and strategically places her hand somewhere down his leg.

"I'm here for the Congressman, sweetie," she says.

Craig recognizes her.

"I know you."

"Yeah?"

"You're Michelle . . .Woodward, the PartyChicks PartyChick of the Year. I have your issue, all your layouts, your videos."

He shakes his hand in the traditional "jack off" motion and whispers.

"You are smoking."

"The Congressman is a man of the people, dear, but he's still a man and he likes my videos, too. What's your name?"

"Craig."

"I'm here for him but let's keep that our little secret."

"I can't believe Congressman North does stuff like that. Stinson maybe, but not North."'

"I'm his first high-class escort, Craig, to be honest. You know what they say: power is the ultimate aphrodisiac."

"I just can't believe that about Congressman North."

"Well, believe it, Craig. Now listen. I forget my security pass for backstage but I'm expected, okay. I'll make you a deal. If you let me back there, I'll give you a blow job."

Craig's eyes get as wide as saucers.

"You mean like in porn videos?" he asks.

Michelle licks the back of his neck. People look at then curiously.

"Really sloppy, lots of spit. Really nasty and messy, just the way you like it."

Michelle licks her lips. Craig's erection seems as big as the Statue of Liberty they stand underneath. He has zero resolve right now.

"Alright then," he says. "Wait. Where?"

"The Carlisle Hotel, room 538. My date with the Congressman is just for the limo ride and I'll be there by midnight. Don't be late."

"Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. It's like those letters in PartyChicks."

During this exchange, Hawke has wrapped up his remarks and is introducing Paul North. Michelle is let past a cordon and begins heading towards the backstage area. Her point of view is behind Hawke talking, Congressman North sitting behind him, and just behind them the CNN camera crew, with Don Armando fiddling with his microphone.

"It is with the most profound gratitude, offered by a grateful nation to a hero of war and peace, that I introduce to you my fellow Americans, the next President of the United States of America, the right Honorable Congressman from the great state of Florida, Paul North."

The crowd goes wild. Armando speaks into his camera.

"VFW national commander Ken Hawke finishes his remarks and introduces Congressman Paul North to this adoring throng. His theme is patriotism, free market enterprise, entrepreneurial capitalism, and the general attitude of the North campaign: 'a rising tide lifts all boats.' "

Michelle moves cautiously past people. She is next to the CNN crew, Armando in the background, when she is stopped by a Secret Service agent.

"Thank you, Ken, for that warm introduction," Congressman North says as he takes center stage amid loud applause.

"Excuse me, ma'am, no admittance beyond this point," the Secret Service man says to her.

"I thought I could – I lost my pass," Michelle says.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You need a special pass to be here. What is your name?"

From Michelle's point of view, Armando is doing something with his microphone. It not a microphone. It has a barrel of some kind, and he is removing the top of the microphone. It is a gun.

Michelle looks around. Armando's actions catch her eye.

"Ma'am, what is your name?" the Secret Service agents asks a second time.

"Umm, yes. You don't understand," Michelle says, but she is staring at Armando. "What is that man doing?"

The Secret Service agent looks around, but does not focus on Armando

"What man?" he asks.

"That man," replies Michelle. "The reporter."

The Secret Service agent looks at Armando, who appears to just be working on his hand-held microphone.

"He's a reporter from CNN," the Secret Service agent says. "Now ma'am, please don't make me ask a fourth time. What is your name?"

Armando works the gun/microphone. Michelle sees this.

"Ma'am, we're going to have to bring you in for questioning," the Secret Service man says. " 'Blue light' this is 'Vigilance,' '' he says into his handless receiver. "We have a code two. Over."

" 'Vigilance,' we read," a Secret Service man replies to him. "We'll be right down." The whole time this conversation takes place, Armando is turning his microphone into a lethal weapon and only Michelle sees it.

"Ma'am, please come with me."

Armando is not really Don Armando. Don Armando has been murdered about eight hours ago, his body tossed into the East River. Don Scoma, a soldier in the Gambini crime family of Chicago, an expert assassin and legendary quick-change artist, has no intention of being caught for his assassination of Congressman Paul North. The microphone has a silencer and in the confusion after the shooting, he is going to throw it in the harbor. He will go to a second microphone source and describe it all as Don Armando of CNN. He will be questioned, but as Don Armando, eye witness. Only later will he take his disguise off, and people will discover Armando is missing.

He wears special skin-tight gloves so his fingerprints won't be found anywhere, and besides, he's been a "wise guy" since age six with no identity, no Social Security number, no driver's license, no tax returns and a million aliases.

For Michelle, the noise of the crowd, the excitement of her surroundings, fade into the single beating of her heart. She looks at Scoma/Armando.

"Thank you, Ken," says Paul North on stage. "And thank you New York."

The crowd goes nuts, but Michelle sees only Scoma/Armando. Scoma/Armando points his microphone/gun right at North. Michelle observes this with a mixture of horror and resolve.

"We'll have to take you in for questioning, ma'am," the Secret Service agent repeats.

Scoma has almost dead aim, but he is doing it from inside his heavy coat, which he wears to ward off the chilly bay breezes. The first video of the killing will not readily reveal where the shot has come from, and the special weapon he has devised is designed not to have a muzzle flash. Michelle's face reflects the realization of the situation.

"Noooooo," she screams towards Scoma/Armando.

Suddenly she lunges past the agent and towards Scoma/Armando. The agent reacts with surprise. Scoma/Armando looks at Michelle, his attention distracted for a split second. North's speech is disrupted for a second by a commotion near the CNN crew.

Michelle rushes Scoma, chased by the Secret Service agent. Most people observing this have not yet reacted to what is happening. Their expressions are still happy, listening to North. It is all occurring too fast. Michelle approaches Scoma/Armando, who turns to see her. She has distracted the killer just enough, and he now tries to get his shot off, but Michelle has moved in front of him and his aim is slightly off.

The weapon discharges but their is no sound. It clips North in the shoulder. Michelle has caused his shot to be deflected just enough to miss with his intended headshot. Then a shot is heard. It comes from another Secret Service agent who has seen Scoma/Armando aim his weapon. He shoots Scoma/Armando dead. Michelle stops in her tracks, astounded. Then the Secret Service agent who had been questioning her falls on top of her.

On the stage, there is total confusion. More Secret Service agents tackle Congressman North and Ken Hawke. People are screaming, it is a madhouse. Secret Service agents emerge throughout the crowd, talking into their headsets.

This has happened before, on a Grassy Knoll, but this time the target has not been killed. There is a continuation of noise, the crowd gasping, yelling and stomping. Seven Secret Service agents are now on top of Michelle and Scoma/Armando. All of it is captured by the CNN camera as well as all the other networks. Finally, the bodies are sorted out. Michelle lies upright. Her eyes are open, she is alive. Scoma lies, dead, his weapon at his side. It is gingerly picked up and put in a bag by the Secret Service agent who questioned Michelle.

On stage, North sits up, blood in his shoulder. He is wounded, but alive.

"Jesus, it's a gun," one Secret Service agent says when he sees the "microphone." Then he turns to Michelle. "You saved the Congressman's life."

"Maybe the future President's life," says the agent who questioned her. "You're a hero, lady."

Somehow, against all odds, Craig has managed to push his way into the melee. He stares at Michelle. She looks peaceful, serene.

"Does this mean that blow job is out of the question?" he asks her.

The press conference

An FBI agent speaks quietly into a walkie-talkie. There are several other agents with him. In the distance is a cabin in the Bayou swamps of Louisiana.

"Ready," the first agent says into his walkie-talkie. "Alright, let's move." He looks at the others. "Let's do it."

In the living room Duke Ramsay, Alan Goodson and Richard Tomak are being guarded by the two state troopers, who grabbed them at Starbucks after Tomak heard Cleve Carver's "confession" at the Ochsner Medical Center in New Orleans. Michelle escaped only because she was in the rest room at the time, and managed to leave through a back exit. Hanford MacArthur stares at them.

"I been waitin' a long time to get ahold a you," he says with malice.

Suddenly the door bursts open and the room is filled with FBI agents.

****

"There is really only one way to tell this story, and that's to start from the beginning," Duke Ramsay tells an assembled press conference at the North for President headquarters in Washington, D.C. The room is teaming with reporters and media of every type from every country. It is the biggest piece of news since 9/11.

Duke stands on the lectern. Sitting on chairs, each waiting to tell their story and answer questions, are Michelle Ramsay, Alan Goodson, Richard Tomak, and seven "rogue" FBI agents who helped him when they were all in hiding. Also sitting is a man named Don Rainer, dressed in a business suit. He is the "state trooper," referred to as the mysterious "Southern voice" who warned Michelle by phone and stayed in touch with Goodson throughout, mainly through the use of drops in rural Virginia. He is not really a state trooper. He is an undercover FBI agent. Also sitting is Congressman Paul North, wearing a shoulder sling. Among the assembled are Craig and Allison Woodward, Michelle's parents, and her old friend Tiffany.

"The story I am about to tell you is more bizarre than a Ken Follett novel, a political thriller lifted from the pages of the most noir of magazines, beyond belief except that it is all true," Ramsay says. "I lived it. The people behind me lived it. There is only one reason we are here to tell our story: God granted us a miracle. There is no other explanation."

While the media stare, mouths agape in amazement, an entire nation glued to their televisions and radios, regular programming canceled from one end of the Fruited Plain to another; in Mexico, in Canada, in Europe, in Australia, and in Asia, Duke Ramsay meticulously details the events leading to this day.

He told of how he was convinced that he was denied a spot in a prestigious private high school when his slot went to "a precocious mob-run 14-year old genius named Jim Stinson." From there, he became obsessed with him, to the point where it practically ruined his life, until "a revelation" revealed to him that he must investigate what he was sure to be a criminal enterprise masquerading itself as a political career in the form of "two characters straight out of Machiavelli's The Prince, Mr. and Mrs. Jim and Jill Stinson." As he embarked on this quest, Ramsay told the assembled, he girded his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and in so doing ended a lifelong addiction to pornography, to alcohol, and to dissolute living. The result, he said, was The Stinson Body Count, which was believed by conservative Republicans, completely obliterated by the Stinson media empire.

"I was vilified," Ramsay continues. "Every vile, foul lie was disseminated about me and my family. I was said to be homosexual, my father also. I was called a child molester, accused of abandoning my son and daughter. My addiction to pornography, my relationships with strippers and prostitutes, which was true, was used to destroy my reputation. All who knew me were destroyed. It was a campaign straight out of Stalin's purges, and I am hear to tell you the accusers and liars were not merely the Stinson character assassination squad: it was NBC, ABC, CBS, MSNBC, CNN, the Atlantic Cable Network, TuneIn.org, NewsMedia.com, MediaMatters, Time, Newsweek, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, AOL, Facebook, Twitter, Google; just for starters. The fact that all these organizations knowingly lied, printed and aired false accusations they knew to be false, manifests itself as the thing known about them! As a Christian, I forgive each of you for your trespasses against my family and me. I do not forget.

"Only Fox News, Randy Lebow and a hardy group of conservative talk radio hosts, the Washington Times, Human Events, the Wall Street Journal to some extent, WorldNetDaily, Newsmax, National Review, TownHall, RedState, a few Right-wing bloggers, some Republican politicians, and people who believe that Jesus Christ is the Truth, believed me."

Ramsay stated that his book might have been enough to knock Stinson out of the Democratic primaries, giving the nomination, and ultimately the Presidency, to Fidel Valenzuela. Ironically, he stated, Valenzuela may have been worse than Stinson, but the "deal was done. The law of unintended consequences was in play. Events would play out. Today Valenzuela is finishing his second term. I intend to use my skills to get to the bottom of who he is some day, even if it is too late to save the world from what he did to it."

He went to work for Human Events, then WorldNetDaily.com, but was not as influential as he had hoped to be, Ramsay said. "I was John the Baptist crying in the wilderness." Then one day he was contacted by "a busty, magnificently beautiful former nude model named Michelle Woodward, who sits behind me today." Michelle gives a short wave. She is dressed in a conservative business suit, but her assets are impossible to hide.

"Michelle Woodward is a vessel of God," Ramsay continues. "To those of you skeptics who discount the possibility that a former PartyChick of the Year, a wayward lass who had fallen into a life of sin, as I had, could do God's work, let me remind you that Christ came for sinners. He used tax collectors and prostitutes."

From there, Ramsay said he was in part skeptical of Michelle's story, which detailed an affair with Stinson, at the time seemingly retired from politics, possibly forever. Her main accusation centered around a conversation she overheard between Stinson and Don Carver on the vacation island of San Martin, in which she heard plans to kill somebody code-named "Rally killer" in New York City.

"My first fear was that she was a Stinson plant, out to destroy me once and for all before the Stinsons made their big push for the White House," Ramsay says. "But when the brake lines to my vehicle were bled, leading to our almost dying in a car crash on the D.C. Beltway, I became convinced Michelle was in danger, and now so was I. I later discovered a private investigator I hired, Sam Vesco, had been murdered at the Stinson's behest. A woman named Stefanie Eilers had come to me, afraid her friend Stacy McLellan had been killed after she, like Michelle Woodward, had an affair with Jim Stinson. Then Eilers was killed."

From there Ramsay said he contacted his old friend, FBI special agent Alan Goodson, "sitting behind me," who had provided so much of the material used in The Stinson Body Count. "Alan was frustrated that the material he gave me had not led to convictions or even real investigation by the FBI," Ramsay stated. "Instead, the Stinsons curried favor with the liberal media, who accused me and their detractors of what Jill Wyndham-Stinson called a 'vast Right-wing conspiracy.' "

Goodson, Ramsay said, had been booted out of the FBI under pressure from Democrats in the Valenzuela Administration, but he still stayed in contact with a small cadre of men who believed the Stinsons ran a drug smuggling operation in Mena, Arkansas; had killed numerous political associates; and many others who posed potential embarrassment over Jim's infidelities, the couple's drug use, their "illegal, corrupt and immoral business and political deals spanning many years."

Afraid of being caught and eliminated by what he called Stinson's "octopus squad," Ramsay said that he, Michelle and Goodson went into hiding at a safe house in Virginia provided courtesy of one of Goodson's FBI friends.

"From there, we were frustrated," Ramsay continued. "We needed to find out who 'Rally killer' was, when and where this person was to be assassinated. We now know 'Rally killer' was Congressman Paul North of Florida, who sits behind me.

"He had been identified by the Stinsons as a possible future Republican candidate, and most certainly as a conservative voice that would 'rally' the cause of the Right against them in a way no other political figure could. We also know now that what saved the Congressman from the first assassination attempt was dumb luck in the form of total irony. President Valenzuela and his Attorney General Aaron Dumaz, did not want a gathering of heroes to celebrate American military successes, those that occurred before Valenzuela was elected, and have not occurred since, to be celebrated in the New York/New Jersey corridor, considered their liberal stomping grounds.

"Their cancelation of a VFW rally at the Statue of Liberty a few years ago is the irony, in that the assassination of Congressman North planned for this event did not come off, yet it allowed us, while still in hiding, moving from safe house to safe house, some courtesy of the Witness Protection Program, from Virginia to Montana to California, to slowly build a case and discover, piece by piece, what this puzzle was and how we could, against all odds, solve it. We were aided by another man sitting with us now, Don Rainer, an undercover FBI agent and part of a secret detail of federal agents who believed the Stinsons were corrupt to the point of massive criminality.

"Agent Rainer posed at great risk to himself as a Louisiana state trooper on the Stinson security detailed, a corrupt and criminal organization. Agent Rainer could not simply come forward and tell what he knew of the Stinson crimes over many years; he would be destroyed and maybe killed. Like the 'Deep Throat' character from All the President's Men, he helped us even though he could not use the phone or the Internet, which were tools for the most part denied us as well. But after first warning Miss Woodward her life was in danger, and to contact me, he aided us slowly but surely through a series of drops in rural Virginian with Alan Goodson. A case needed to be established, and it would take time."

Ramsay went on to describe how the three donned disguises, making a dangerous trip to Louisiana to speak to Cleve Carver, father of Stinson's closest political advisor Don Carver. Cleve ran the Democratic Party wing of the New Orleans Mafia, and with his son groomed Stinson since age 14 to ascend to a position of political influence.

"Cleve confirmed we were on the right track, but could not betray his son with all the detail we needed. From there we escaped detection and made a cross-country journey to California, where we lived in a house used by the Witness Protection Program to house a man who has to remain nameless for his own protection, and who I assure you, has since moved to another location."

Then, Duke said, "Michelle did an incredibly brave thing. She posed as a campaign volunteer and made a rendezvous with two of Stinson's campaign operatives, Kathy Riordan, his California coordinator, and her lover Carlton Blackledge, his head of security."

"Does 'rendezvous' mean a sexual liaison?" one reporter asked.

"Yes, it does," said Michelle. "A ménage a trois in a hotel suite, to be precise, in which I stole Blackledge's briefcase, which contained information about the assassination plans." That elicits whistles and gasps from the reporters.

"This story has all angles covered," Ramsay continued with a smile, then describing how the briefcase contained code words and plans, but still did not reveal enough for them to know exactly who "Rally killer" was and when he would be targeted. The people stare at him, rapt with attention, hearing the most incredible tale they have ever listened to; a tale of political corruption, murder, intrigue, espionage, and sex.

"We knew we had to go back and see Cleve Carver one more time," Ramsay continued. "I was armed with one arrow in my quill, and that arrow is the Lord Jesus Christ. I knew Cleve to be a Christian, filled with guilt over a long career of corruption and even murder as head of the mob-run New Orleans Democrat political machine that spawned his son and the Stinsons. I had forgiven him for his role in destroying my reputation after I wrote The Stinson Body Count. He was dying and I suspected he wanted to make a last confession, one he knew he needed in order to save our lives, to keep a serial killer out of the White House, and to save his mortal soul.

"We discovered he was on his death bed at the Ochsner Medical Center in New Orleans, guarded by Stinson's security detail on the lookout for us, especially after having been fooled by Michelle, disguised when she stole Carlton Blackledge's briefcase in Los Angeles.

"Alan Goodson engaged his friend, FBI special agent Richard Tomak, sitting right behind me, to enter Mr. Carver's hospital room posing as a chaplain. At great risk, Agent Tomak was able to find out from Cleve that 'Rally killer' was a 'Congressman from Florida.' He met us at a Starbucks a few blocks from the hospital, where we deduced that to be Paul North. Michelle went to the restroom when Stinson's security people, having finally tracked us down, apprehended Agent Tomak, Alan Goodson and myself. Michelle escaped by pure luck through the back door.

"They took us to a location in the Bayous, but Michelle, now on her own, had $5,000 in cash and learned that Congressman North was speaking at the Statue of Liberty, the VFW having managed to re-schedule the rally canceled by President Valenzuela a few years earlier.

"Disguised, she traveled on bus first by way of Metairie, Louisiana, in order to throw her pursuers off track, to Manhattan. What happened next is pure James Bond: disguised, she talked her way into the Veterans of Foreign Wars rally held at the Statue of Liberty, featuring as their main attraction the Republican Presidential candidate Congressman Paul North. Her tools: seduction and beauty.

"Once inside, she continued to make use of her allure in talking her way past an event staffer near the backstage area. While being questioned by a Secret Service agent, she saw Don Armando, a reporter for CNN, produce a gun that had been masked as a microphone; then point it at Congressman North as he began his speech. She screamed, waved and approached

"Armando as we know was distracted just enough so his shot caught the Congressman in the shoulder, wounding but not killing him. Armando, as we also know, had been killed earlier, and the real would-be assassin, disguised as him, was Don Scoma, a Gambini syndicate 'hit man' from Chicago known as a 'quick change artist.' Having used a silencer, he felt he could escape detection in the confusion, under the cover of Don Armando, throwing the weapon into New York Harbor. He would depart the panicked scene, and only later would Armando's disappearance raise suspicion. But Michelle distracted him enough to make him miss Paul North, while alerting the Secret Service to what was happening. Scoma was then shot dead by a Secret Service agent."

From there, Ramsay continued, Armando's body was found in the East River. Michelle told the Secret Service most of the story he was now telling; they contacted the "rogue" FBI men who were helping Goodson; and the federal agents were able to locate the cabin in the Bayou where they rescued he, Goodson, and Tomak, while arresting two state troopers, plus Hanford MacArthur, longtime head of the Louisiana state troopers.

Now, free to tell their story, Goodson, Tomak, the rogue agents, and the undercover state trooper (Don Rainer) were on hand to discuss how they always believed the Stinson's were involved in a massive criminal enterprise, only they could not prove it until now.

Goodson spoke of the Venona Project, in which military intelligence had learned of traitors in President Roosevelt's administration during World War II.

"These men, sworn to a Constitution, not to a man as the German people were sworn to Hitler, realized that if the operation were allowed to proceed, their own lives, the lives of their fellow soldiers, of many people, would be endangered," he stated. "As with this case, no man or woman is above the law, above the Constitution. The people we have uncovered are traitors, enemies of America."

"How," one reporter from Fox News asked, "did the Stinsons intend to divert attention from themselves, since the target of the assassination was so obviously their opponent in the campaign?"

"The assassination was to be blamed on Hezbollah, the terrorist organization sponsored by Iran," Don Rainer told them. "President Valenzuela is in the process of negotiating an agreement lifting major sanctions from the Iranian regime, in return for their supposedly ending their nuclear weapons program. These negotiations began under the auspices of Jim Stinson when he served as Secretary of State. A ruse was concocted, in which the Iranians would supposedly uncover the Hezbollah connection, and expose them as an act of faith towards the United States, a contrived act of friendship toward a statesman they could 'trust,' now a Presidential candidate, Jim Stinson."

"Holy cow," one CNN reporter whistled.

Congressman North, his election to the Presidency now a foregone conclusion, was here to discuss the politics of it, which in essence broke down to simple terms: America, don't ever vote Democrat again. The party was dead, not just for this election, but for a generation if not forever.

"Obviously, the Stinson's plan to blame the assassination on Hezbollah leaves us with the obvious conclusion, which is that the agreement President Valenzuela is negotiating with Iran is completely corrupt," he said in no uncertain terms. "We must never let Iran have nuclear weapons. The agreement being negotiated now could lead to the destruction of Israel, and possibly war with the United States. A war with nuclear with capabilities between Iran, Israel and the U.S., with its obvious implications for dominance of the Middle East, and the world oil market, reaches beyond those shores and could become World War III."

The rogue FBI men who believed in and helped Alan Goodson discussed their role. One of them, Richard Tomak, had put his life on the line to get the final piece of the "Rally killer" puzzle in a deathbed confession from Cleve Carver.

Then there was Michelle Woodward, re-united with her parents, the sexy young California girl who had an affair with a powerful political figure, inadvertently starting a series of wild events that brought down one of the most powerful men in the world. After years in which the law, the conservative media, and the Republican Party had fruitlessly tried, all in vain, to destroy Jim and Jill Stinson, it was ultimately this former nude model who triggered their destruction. Of such things are Shakespearean irony built of.

While the sensational story would have been Earth-shattering no matter what, the presence of a stunning, six-foot platinum blonde model with double-D silicone-injected breasts, complete with a huge portfolio of nude photos from her PartyChicks spreads and videos, made this a bonanza perhaps unseen in the history of media. What a conundrum for Hart Hadley, Jim Stinson's great friend and benefactor, who remained silent along with dozens of Hollywood celebrities who loved the Stinsons, only to see their heroes fall in the most spectacular manner possible. The conundrum for Hadley, however, was that sales for PartyChicks magazine, and PartyChicks.com, exceeded all previous records. The world could not get enough of Michelle Woodward. Her PartyChick of the Month and also her PartyChick of the Year issues were re-released. Hadley had never sold any issue at greater numbers.

"Do you think it's realistic for us to believe a sensationalistic story from a known nude model?" asked a crusty English reporter from The Economist.

"I wouldn't believe it myself, except it's happened to me," she replied. "The attempt on the Congressman's life would be hard to concoct, though."

For Ramsay and Goodson, mainly it was vindication. Goodson, the dedicated FBI agent, booted out of his dream job because he got too close to powerful forces he opposed; Ramsay, the muckraking journalist, now able to tell a worldwide audience, "I told you so."

It was all too perfect.

Shortly thereafter, Fox News began like this: "In the wake of the incredible story coming out of New Orleans, New York and Washington, Florida Congressman Paul North has taken a commanding lead over former Louisiana Governor Jim Stinson in the latest Gallup poll. Prior to the story, North led by 10 points, but that has changed. At this point it appears Stinson will have to drop out of the race and face federal indictments. Experts at Fox News predict that in polling being conducted overnight, Congressman North's lead in the poll will increase to as much as 30 points, with enormous coattail effect promising to make this the greatest electoral, popular, and Congressional landslide by one party over another, in American history."

After the press conference, which took up most of the day, the entire group went to lunch at Blackie's, the venerable D.C. hangout and scene of many a smoke-filled bit of political intrigue over the years; none approaching what had just been exposed. It was there that Alan Goodson shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Woodward.

"You're daughter is the bravest person I've ever met," he told them. "No matter how dangerous things got, no matter how much trouble we were in or how dark it appeared, she never relented or gave in. That's why I want to ask something of you."

"Sure thing," replied Craig Woodward.

"Before I do, I want you to know that the whole time I was in a safe house with Michelle and Duke, nothing untoward ever happened," Goodson said. "Duke read his Bible. I looked at your daughter for hours on end, dreaming of one thing. Then I read biographies of Patton and MacArthur and Washington, men this nation does not seem to produce any more . . . maybe Paul North will prove me wrong. But I never touched her. I never kissed her. But I dreamt of this day, and determined to wait until I could finally do what I am about to do now."

"Yes?" responded Craig Woodward.

"Sir, I'd like to ask your daughter's hand in marriage," he said.

"What?" said Michelle.

Goodson then produced a wedding ring, and presented it to her. "Will you marry me, Michelle?"

They had never been intimate, but a connection had developed between the agent and the model. She looked at him, astonished, then suddenly beamed.

"Yes, I will marry you," she declared. They kissed and everybody cheered.

"Duke, would you be my best man?" Goodson asked him.

"I will on one condition," Ramsay told him.

A couple of hours later, in a private room away from the others, Ramsay let Goodson and Michelle know what that condition was.

"Michelle," he said to her, "you have shown bravery and courage, real grace under pressure. You have overcome evil. But you have a past. You have posed nude, and I am led to understand that you have done more than that. You have used your sexuality twice to help bring down Jim Stinson. This was God's gift to you, beauty. But in Ephesians, chapter four, Paul says, in reference to your former manner of life, 'you lay aside the old self, which is being corrupted in accordance with the lusts of deceit, and that you be renewed in the spirit of your mind, and put on the new self, which in the likeness of God has been created in righteousness and holiness of the truth.'

"You must turn from your old life and accept Jesus Christ, who died on the cross that you may be saved, who has blessed you and kept you; and who desires a relationship with you as your savior, who desires that you become a child of God."

Then he turned to Goodson. "You have some religious instruction and never shown me any indication that you reject the immutable truths of Christ, Alan. But if you are to marry this beautiful women, perhaps to have children with her and raise a family with her, then you will be entrusted with her spiritual education and continued instruction. If you desire me to be the best man at a wedding sanctioned by God, a wedding that no man may put asunder, you Alan must promise me to be Michelle's Christian husband, my Christian friend; and you Michelle must take steps to reject the lies and false works of Satan, which led you into the calamity that God extricated you from.

"I have lived this sinful life. I was addicted to pornographic images, in which I would look at a woman such as yourself and objectify her only as a sexual being, whose only purpose was to satisfy my cravings and lusts. Now I can see beyond that and love you for your soul, as a Christian sister; you Alan as a Christian brother, and the three of us bound for eternity by our shared experience, leading us to His glory.

"Will the two of you accept my conditions, and therefore accept Jesus Christ, the Son of the most high, as your personal Lord and Savior?"

"Yes, I do," said Michelle without hesitation. "Yes, yes, yes, I freely choose to do so. Thank you."

"Yes," Alan said, "it is an honor to share a Christian friendship with you Duke, my brother, and I will help to teach and lead my bride on a Christian path that we can walk together."

With that, Duke produced a Holy Bible, and recited the Lord's Prayer. This, combined with Paul North's runaway victory, the Stinson's fall from grace, a sure Pulitzer Prize for Duke Ramsay, and redemption all the way around, made this a happy ending of Capra-esque proportions, or perhaps more fitting, a John Wayne Western, with the "cowboy" hero Alan Goodson riding into the proverbial sunset, in this case a new life in California with his beautiful new wife, who would resume her studies at USC; would again have a relationship with her parents, who would in turn dote over a flock of grandchildren Alan and Michelle would surely bring to them.

The truth would make everybody free.

But as he ministered the word of God to Michelle and Alan, Duke Ramsay told Michelle, "Part of your new Christian life is to forgive, as I forgave Cleve Carver, as I forgave those who lied about me in the press."

"I am to forgive Jim Stinson?" Michelle asked.

"Yes," says Duke.

"I can forgive these people, for the lies, the murders, the corruptions," she says. "But there is something that still bothers me. Something that goes even beyond any of that."

"What's that?" asks Duke.

"There's something insidious about them, something more than just human," she says. "And if they are what I think they are, they are not merely people who trespassed against me, but rather enemies of God Himself, and if this is who they really are, they cannot be forgiven; not by me, or by God."

The Big Lie

Geb Ali was the most careful of spymasters. He was the latest of Fidel Castro Valenzuela's Muslim masters, tasked with the most delicate part of a long game. Indeed, it had been a delicate operation since the beginning: the Muslim Brotherhood first coordinated with the Soviet KGB, identifying a Mexican girl named Maria Valenzuela; recruited and paired her with Obama al Mustafa, producing little Fidel in "Operation Anchor Baby," complete with a fake birth certificate. They oversaw his anti-Americanism via an Egyptian madrassa, then the Marxist teachings, complete with homosexual indoctrination and drug use, introduced to Fidel by the black Communist Frederick Manson Jones.

From there, Valenzuela was considered a major asset, having passed every test. The Muslim Brotherhood were masters at this kind of operation. Al-Qaeda, for instance, was not as thorough. The CIA noted some Muslims tasked with carrying out terror plots on American soil who, over time, attended American schools, had American friends, sometimes married American girls and, Allah forbid, actually came to love the United States! Some became assets. Others they stopped spying on once they were no longer viable threats.

But Fidel's five years in a madrassa had helped dissuade him from any natural American tendencies. He never played little league baseball or CYO basketball. He never affiliated with the Dallas Cowboys or the USC Trojans or the Boston Celtics, all traits of typical American youth. After his embarrassing performance at the All-Star Game, when he threw out the first ball like a girl, could not recall any Texas or Massachusetts sports heroes even though the likes of Troy Aikman and Larry Bird plied their trades in the states he lived, then Communized, as Randy Lebow pointed out, the name of Comiskey Park, seemingly re-naming it in honor of Sol Brudzinski, the Muslim Brotherhood gave him explicit orders: no more All-Star Games, coin tosses, first pitches, sports booth interviews, or any other attempts at Americana. He was not good at it, and his natural base disdained such John Wayne jingoism anyway

He had been given elite private educations at liberal academies, emerging on the American scene just as racial identity politics were becoming a dominant force of the Left. Introduced to a series of radicals, each helping young Valenzuela every step of the way – an angry black wife, a Weather Underground terrorist, a Communist professor, a liberation theology priest, a billionaire puppet master – when he rose from a nobody "community organizer" to the U.S. Senate from Massachusetts, it seemed it was all his masters could reasonably ask for.

But the atmosphere was significantly different that it had been in the 1960s. Back then, the Soviet Union just wanted to even the playing field, to have friends in high places like Jim Stinson, who they could turn to and "keep the wars small." The Muslim Brotherhood was a decidedly junior partner, a Soviet client taking orders from Moscow.

But irony builds upon irony, a Shakespeare trait, and what could have been more ironic than Ronald Reagan winning the Cold War, thus unleashing unforeseen backlash?

The fall of the Berlin Wall took the KGB out of the Fidel Castro Valenzuela scenario, leaving as his only handlers the Muslim Brotherhood. Now they oversaw his greatest rise, in the years after 9/11, when the entire East-West dynamic had changed significantly. Now a new, Apocalyptic mindset inculcated Islamic jihad, making victory over the corrupt and sinful West, over the hated Jews and the Christianity that illegitimately took what was rightfully theirs - world empire – a priority.

Now, Fidel Valenzuela's Senate seat was not enough. He needed to ascend to the White House. He had to be elected, not just because his radical associations meant he could never be confirmed for a cabinet position, or head the CIA, or hold any posting of that sort, but also as a symbol, to the radicalists worldwide, that he was one of them, they had beaten the bastards, and this was the ultimate thumb in their eye.

Every lie, every manipulation, every act of corruption, every way an election can be stolen, power usurped, had been undertaken to get Valenzuela into the White House, then re-elected. To the amazement of his masters, who had never done this before and really had not known they could pull it off until they had, the most incredible part was that their enemies had let it happen, and despite all of it plainly occurring right in front of their eyes, a strange myopia had overtaken the world. Some odd psychosis, a syndrome preventing the righteous from stopping evil in their midst.

But in nearly eight years, Ali had made little contact with the President. It was too risky. If it became known that the President of the United States was a plant of the Muslim Brotherhood, it could be the end of the Brotherhood, which had been a thriving terrorist operation fighting the British, the French, the Americans, the West, the Israelis, and Egyptian Democracy, since 1928. They had killed Anwar al-Sadat and were ruthless, but far less prone to "big events" like those orchestrated by Al-Qaeda. Ali knew that enormous shocks like 9/11 only fired up the conservative Right, the only real element in the world willing to stand up to them. When the Right was stirred into patriotic fervor, the jihadists were in deep trouble. After 9/11, the American armies knocked off the Taliban, took Kabul, took Baghdad, captured Saddam Hussein, took Al Qaeda leaders out one after the other, and in a final "Surge," achieved victory in Iraq.

But the conservatives needed a leader. Absent a Ronald Reagan or a Dwight Eisenhower, they were a sleeping giant. Tired of war, they became complacent, allowing Valenzuela to take the country away from them, then to systematically capture, as Shelly Rider called it, "defeat from the jaws of victory" in the Middle East. Those had been Geb Ali's marching orders to Valenzuela when he took office, along with his "apology tour" and a series of disheartening political acts meant to weaken the very American soul. Besides, Valenzuela needed little handling. He and his wife freely betrayed America of their own free will. They needed no inducements, no prodding or pushing to do it.

But there had been no "big events." If a nuclear bomb were exploded, a suitcase bomb, a chemical/biological event, something that drastic would be reacted to, and it would get out of Valenzuela's control fast. The next thing they knew, their cherished Holy Lands would be re-occupied by the Marines and the 101st Airborne and a host of superhuman fighting machines, their Islamic operations shattered like so much glass. Some Republican yahoo would replace the Democrats, riding war fever to 90 percent approval ratings. Then it would be a long, hard slog to again get all their friends in the liberal media and in politics to affect a counter-attack. What they could achieve in a few months in France, Spain, or any of those weak-kneed pagan countries, filled with sluts and unimpressives who eschewed tradition and Christianity in favor of ease, comfort; there were so darn many Christians in America, and it took years to break their will. The Brotherhood preferred to work quietly behind the scenes, instead

But now, this latest incident with the Stinson's hit man and the Congressman at the Statue of Liberty created the kind of crisis the Chinese call opportunity. The usual caution would not be observed. The Islamists determined this was their moment to strike big, the sort of blow that would cripple the West; far more deadly than 9/11, which served only to wake the sleeping giant. The now-seemingly sure election of Paul North to the White House, along with huge GOP majorities, was the worst possible thing that could happen to radical Islam. They needed to go big, and do it quickly, before North and his party returned America to its prior status as a super empire. The appropriate calls were made, plans hatched, and then Geb Ali reached out to President Valenzuela.

Valenzuela was not very happy to hear from Ali. His Presidency practically over, his approval rating lower than any previous President including Richard Nixon, his party facing debacle in the fall, he was tired of this lifetime of subservience to a cause, whether it be Communism, Socialism or Islam. He was not even a Muslim, although he certainly favored it as a political ideology over Christianity, which he had hated but pretended to believe in for public consumption.

After all he had done, all the chances he took, the sacrifices he made, a life of commitment, what had been accomplished? Through this weird fluke, because of this silicone-packed pseudo-porn star somehow undoing Jim Stinson, now the conservative Right was on an ascendancy that would take decades to break apart. The man who tormented him in the media, Paul North, was ready to take his place. He would undo every . . . single . . . thing he had done!

Valenzuela had wanted Congress to undo the Constitution, allowing him to run for a third term. It would require stealing the election, but he had done that before and with Gyorgy Szabo's French polling machines could do it again. But for reason he had not understood, Missy Valenzuela told him under no uncertain terms, no. He and Missy's personal wealth was $500,000 when he first took office. That was all handed him by the Muslim Brotherhood, a Walnut slush fund, and the Democrat National Committee buying all his autobiographies to hand out at precincts.

He had stolen so much money from the American public, which was typical of most Democrats (except for the honest Jimmy Carter) going back to Lyndon Johnson's manipulation of radio stations in his wife's name in the 1960s, that now he was worth some $500 million. He and Missy could sit on a beach. His bi-sexual rapper friend J-C could swing around every so often for some blow job action. Left-wing think tanks would pay him a million bucks a pop to prattle on about "social justice."

So now, here comes Geb Ali, and he has some kind of big, new plan for him. Valenzuela had to make special arrangements, under the guise of a meeting with fundraisers, of which Ali was disguised as. Finally, he was alone with him in an anteroom, where Ali would not appear on the President's daily schedule, to be questioned later by the media or some Republican investigating committee, and which he knew had been set up free of listening devises.

"Fidel, the Hezbollah will take credit for the assassination attempt of Paul North," he told the President.

"Why?"

"It is part of a larger plan," Ali told him. "Trust me, we know what we are doing. You will accept this as an official verdict. Then you will assign Jim Stinson to negotiate the final phase of the nuclear agreement with Iran."

"That's madness," Valenzuela told him.

"Do not be a dumb negro," Ali replied. "Your big ears make you look like a cartoon Dumbo, and now you sound dumb. Stinson secretly negotiated the deal in his first three years as Secretary of State. He will negotiate a final agreement that is satisfactory to us. His wife will enter the negotiations on behalf of the U.N. They will be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize."

"Great," replied Valenzuela. "You arranged for me to get the Nobel Peace Prize and all I got out of it was ridicule for never having achieved it. North will win and undo the deal with Iran."

"Leave that to me," replied Ali. "You and Attorney General Dumaz will see to it the Stinsons are not prosecuted. Stinson will remain the Democratic nominee."

"Do you know something I don't know?"

"Your work is almost done. It is time for the next phase of the plan, but in the end Israel will be destroyed."

That perks up Valenzuela's big ears.

"I hate Israel," Valenzuela told Ali. "My birth father was an Egyptian and Israel must pay for stealing our lands in 1967 and 1973. But the destruction of Israel will lead to tremendous reactionary forces on the Right. I can't control the politics of it."

"You have served us well," Ali tells him, "but your service is nearly complete. You will appoint Stinson as the negotiator of the Iran agreement, and the inevitable results will happen after you are out of office. It will all be revealed in due time."

Ali speaks with the certainty of a prophet. There is a mystery to his words. He knows more than Valenzuela but is not prepared to reveal all to the President.

****

Randy Lebow was the first to throw some cold water on the "Stinsons are dead" parade.

"Listen to this, folks," he told his audience of 20 million. "Jim Stinson is in freefall in the polls. I've never seen a political turnaround like this, but you people mark my words. I'm the Mayor of 'Realville,' and I've been watching 'Jim-Boy' Stinson and that corrupt wife of his for years, and I am here to tell you, this one's not over yet."

It certainly had looked to be over after the "press conference heard around the world," as the press dubbed the Ramsay-Goodson-Woodward revelations.

When Don Carver saw that press conference, all his years of lying and damage control seemed to have gone out the window. This time, he was up against it; an inexorable force that could not be overcome. He picked the phone, his face pale and ashen. "Get me the Governor right now!" he barked.

From his hotel suite on the campaign trail, Stinson's face was also pale and ashen as he stared at what was not a press conference to him, but an obituary.

"Hot damn I know," he barked at Carver when told how serious this was. "Let me think, Don . . . I can't think right now."

"Look pal, you could be facing prison time," Carver said. "Hoss, maybe the death penalty."

"You're in this a hunnerd percent, Carver, so you'd better think of something fast, and don't think you can turn state's evidence on me. I know too much about you."

"Are you gonna deny this?"

"OF COURSE WE DENY EVERY LOUSY WORD OF IT, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK WE DO?" screamed Stinson.

FBI special agents Hector Villalobos, Mickey O'Brien and Joe Arnaud question special agent Don Rainer, the undercover state trooper and mysterious "Southern voice" that helped Goodson and the others all along.

"You did a great job as an undercover state trooper, but this is coming from upstairs," says Villalobos.

"Upstairs?" exclaims Rainer. "You gotta be kiddin' me. I risk my life to infiltrate the most corrupt political organization in the history of this country, and now you're telling me there's no case?"

"We understand how you feel, Agent Rainer," says O'Brien.

"B.S.," replies Rainer. "The director was appointed by Valenzuela. Attorney General Dumaz is as corrupt as Stinson. If Justice would indict it'd assure North's election. What the hell is goin' on? Since when did the Federal Bureau of Investigation become a Left-wing partisan organization? J. Edgar Hoover would be going crazy. What aren't you telling me?"

"MacArthur and the troopers will be prosecuted, thanks to you," Villalobos tell him.

"MacArthur and the troopers!?" Rainer bursts out. "Christ, Hector, they're small potatoes. What about Carver? What about Stinson? What about both Stinsons?"

Villalobos, O'Brien and Arnaud just look at each other, then at Rainer. They look guilty.

"Don't worry about it, Agent Rainer," says Arnaud. "It's too political. Nothing's gonna happen until after the Presidential election."

Rainer looks at Aranaud's cold, steely blue eyes. Something is up. Something big.

Cruz Fontenot is the attorney who took over as the Stinson's personal lawyer after Vince Forster's murder. He gets up from behind his desk at Broussard and Galatoire in New Orleans. Behind him are his diplomas from Tulane and Yale, pictures of him with powerful people, including both Stinsons. In the photo, everybody is smiling. The office has all the trappings of wealth, power and success.

It is late and he is the only on left in the office. It has been a long day, a difficult slog. The fall of the Stinsons will mean his meal tickets are no longer feeding him. He puts his coat on and leaves.
A man dressed in black, wearing a black leather jacket and black gloves, surreptitiously watches Fontenot leave. He goes to his office, using a special key given him, to enter. From there he rifles through Fontenot's files until he comes across a thick folder titled, "STINSON FAMILY. INVESTMENTS." He grabs it and leaves.

"The first thing is that you have to show the moral courage you didn't show in the first place," says Don Carver.

He addresses both Stinsons. They sit in their headquarters office in New Orleans. "I can't have hysterics when a crisis occurs."

"How can you talk about moral courage, Don?" Jill says.

"Mrs. Stinson, Hanford MacArthur was sacrificed. I don't give a crap if you liked the bastard or not."

Carver ominously eyes both Stinsons, who listen.

" I will let nothing stand in the way of my goals," Carver continues. "Nothing!"

"Jim's 20 or 30 points behind," Jill says. "Whaddaya gonna do about that?"

"Leave that to me," replies Carver.

It is a beautiful morning. The view from their new home overlooking the Pacific Ocean is even more spectacular than usual. Newlyweds Alan and Michelle Goodson woke up confident that their future was secure. Michelle is scheduled later in the day to meet with a counselor at USC to discuss her return to school. Already, book and film offers are pouring in. Every media outlet in the world, it seems, wants to pay them for their story.

Then the phone rings. It is Michelle's mother.

"Have you heard?" she says, her voice filled with dread.

"Heard what, Mom?" Michelle replies.

"Oh God, you haven't," Mrs. Woodward says. "Turn on the news."

Michelle turns on the television and there it was: her photo from her PartyChick of the Year spread, and underneath it these words: "STINSON ACCUSER IN EXTREME HARDCORE PORN FILM."

"Oh my God no," Michelle yells. Alan enters the room and sees the story.

"What's this?" he says.

"It's not over," she replies. "It'll never be over."

Hart Hadley - misogynist, snuff filmmaker, pornographer, liberal Democrat – did not even need to get the phone call from Don Carver. When Carver did call to ask him to use his considerable power and reach to discredit Michelle Woodward, Hadley happily told him he was already on it.

He of course had the Michelle Woodward gangbang movie she had made a few years earlier. He had paid Michelle $1.5 million to make a private porn movie for him, although most of her money had been stolen when Stinson's people confiscated her assets while she was on the run.

Hadley called himself "the slut collector," which in a moment of brainstorming became the title of a popular series he produced, all to massive profits. He enjoyed getting the world's most beautiful women to do the sluttiest possible things. Of course, he had his porn empire, and the movies made for his Slutty Chicks Productions and SluttyChicks.com were the most extreme in the business. They were also the most popular.

But the girls who did those movies were usually damaged before they ever did them. The typical porn chick was a nymphomaniac to some extent or another. They all had differing motivations. Some were total sluts who wanted to get it on as much as possible with stud men sporting massive hard-ons. Others were willing to put up with some shame for the money. But the kind of girls who did porn were generally the kind of girls who would work in strip clubs and give blow jobs for the right price. Or work as escorts, or hookers at a Nevada brothel. They might be smokin' hot, but they were sexaholics to some extent or another.

The girls who did his most extreme movies, such The Slut Collector series, were not ambivalent about their sexuality. The things Hadley required of them were so nasty and degrading that only a true slut would do them. Hadley loved those girls, and his fans worshipped them, but his real pleasure was getting the girls who did not do public porn, to do porn just for him, a real life "slut collector." He had his orgy parties, in which the PartyChicks, cheerleaders, and supermodels engaged in acts so depraved as to be almost beyond imagination. He particularly liked to take some luscious young girl – somebody's daughter, of course – and surround her with hard men who would have their way with her.

He kept his stable of well-paid studs, the chosen best from the Glazemasters male strip revue, at the PartyChicks mansion, fed and juiced and maintained like modern sexual gladiators, whose job was to ravage the girls up, down and sideways. He particularly enjoyed getting some of the most exquisite women to do private porn movies for him, paying them handsomely from his unlimited money supply. When he saw Michelle Woodward, he immediately made her a special project.

She had not fallen off the turnip truck, but she was quite innocent by PartyChicks standards. Here was a girl from Lake Tahoe who attended USC, an expensive, elite private school whose students came from well to do families with images to protect. Most of his PartyChicks were uneducated. Many had dreamt of posing for PartyChicks since they were 15. But Michelle wanted to be a legitimate actress, and was studying at the University of Southern California School of Dramatic Arts, some of the best training in the world. She was planning to try for the role of Desdemona, the iconic wife of the lead in Shakespeare's Othello, scheduled for the Christmas production in her sophomore year.

Instead, when her father lost his job amidst an economic downturn, in a desperate effort to earn the tuition USC required, she had posed for PartyChicks magazine. All would have gone as planned if she had stayed the course. She made good money for her PartyChick of the Month spread, and better money for being named PartyChick of the Year. If she had simply put the money away and led a disciplined life, she could have returned to USC after taking a year off, no big deal, having made enough dough to pay at least a couple years of tuition, then been on her way to an acting career. The combination of a degree from the USC drama school and PartyChick of the Year imprimatur may well have led to the big break in Hollywood she dreamt of.

But unbeknownst to her, when Hart Hadley saw her photographs for the first time, he simply knew she was the one that would not get away! Hadley had seen a million girls, each more gorgeous than the last one, but Michelle Woodward was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on. His readers agreed; no PartyChick of the Month had ever been more popular. She would not leave his clutches, return to college, get married, have a family, be a respectable member of society. He was the slut collector, and he was going to turn Michelle Woodward into a slut. He had all the tools at his disposal, all the advantage.

She moved into his mansion, which was all it really took. Once a girl fell into that lifestyle, there was no turning back. Sex would quickly become an addiction that needed to be fed like heroin. He manipulated and brought her along carefully. A studly Glazemaster here, an NFL quarterback there, then a Hollywood movie star. Fun times for Michelle. George Close was introduced to her, and she swooned over him, even after his sexual predilections were revealed to be on the kinky side.

Then came the "big date" with Hart himself, which turned out to be with Hart, his sleazebag brother, and a few of their party friends, mansion hangers-on forever. She was damaged by then, and introduced to the wild Glazemaster parties. After she saw several smoking girls, who were not porn stars either, take the infamous coup de gras group endings, she was ready to try it herself. Once that happened a couple of times, she was no longer Michelle Woodward, USC Trojan, daughter of Craig and Allison, aspiring actress. She was the slut.

The porn girls were making good dough doing what they were doing, but after collecting her money for being named PartyChick of the Year, she still collected a salary from Hart, ostensibly to make herself sexually available to anybody he wanted her to be available for, to travel around with his wealthy friends, and the like, but she heard the stories. Many a PartyChick of the Month had gone down this road, but eventually there came a day when they were asked to leave the mansion, go off the payroll, and try to make it in the real world. A few had done porn, but that was a big public leap. Many had become escorts.

So she was primed to perfection by Hart Hadley to accept his $1.5 million to do a private gangbang video that only she and Hadley, "the slut collector," would have copies of. Hadley showed her his most extreme gangbang DVDs ahead of time, telling her this was what she would be required to do. It was daunting, but Michelle had not realized just how degrading it was until she endured the all-day shoot. By the time she did it, she had pumped up from her natural 40 double-Ds to a silicone-powered 44s, complete with some collagen injections in her lips, a few other nips and tucks here and there. She was still gorgeous, but not the "girl next door" who had first appeared in PartyChicks magazine at age 19.

After that, she was a completely fallen woman, just the kind Jim Stinson liked. She had taken up with him, and her life had changed forever after the San Martin conversation. Now, she had survived the ordeal, coming out of it with a fine husband she loved, faith in the Good Lord forged after a trial by fire, and redemptive grace.

But there was the DVD. Michelle had lost everything, including her three copies of the movie. She of course knew Hadley had a copy. She knew Hadley was a friend of Jim Stinson's. She also had signed a contract with Hadley. He could not show it publicly. It was strictly his private property.

Of course, when she went on the run, her room at the mansion and her condominium in Beverly Hills had been raked over by Stinson's people. They had taken her computer, her papers, and of course the contract with Hadley. There was no evidence of its existence. Even if there had been, Hadley was required to pay Michelle $2 million if it ever materialized in public, although if she produced it, the contract was nullified. Hadley was a billionaire. $2 million was pocket change.

So Hart Hadley released the video. It was called Cum One, Call: A PartyChick of the Year's Gangbang Adventure starring Michelle Woodward. The cover of the DVD featured Michelle, surrounded by huge erections, her face totally slathered. The back of the DVD featured photos of her taking double penetration, wearing hot lingerie, blowing endless men, covered in effluence, engaged in acts of mind-blowing depravity, with Hadley's most popular porn actress licking everything off Michelle face, after which they spit it in each other's mouths before swallowing as much as they could.

The movie's description read: "Who knew the world's most beautiful girl is also the sluttiest? Former PartyChick of the Year and infamous political ingénue Michelle Woodward now unleashes her innermost desires to take on a veritable army of hard studs, who give it to her up one side, down the other, side ways, and in every hole. The hottest slut in the world can't get enough." It went on to graphically describe her as a girl who needs "gallons" of male semen on her face, and along with photos told how Michelle relished "salad tossing," which was to lick the buttholes of the men; to tongue and lick their testicles; and to "deep throat" them, along with other vile descriptions. It also implied that she had made it recently, not several years ago, and certainly not as a private tape for only Hart Hadley's "slut collection."

The DVD immediately went on sale and was all over the Internet, complete with stunning glossy photos, trailers and "behind the scenes" footage, making sure that even if somebody did not buy the video, they knew precisely what Michelle Woodward did in the video, complete with photos of her in the sexiest lingerie, g-string the width of dental floss, and strappy high heels. She wore a little necklace that said, "SLUTTYCHICK." It became the hottest topic on the news, even drowning out the news of the Stinson scandals.

The liberal media immediately pounced on it, stating as fact that Michelle had made the video in order to capitalize on her newfound notoriety as Jim Stinson's "girlfriend." She was called every name under the sun: a "gold digging whore . . . a money-grubbing slut . . . a depraved attention seeker . . . capitalizing on a scandal of her own creation."

Hadley marketed the DVD with the zeal of a Hollywood ad man promoting a film for the Academy Award. It rose to become the biggest selling adult film in all of history, and one of the 30 highest grossing movies ever made, including mainstream blockbusters. The sale of DVDs was matched equally by Internet streaming video sales, downloads, free viewings, pirate tapes, and every other kind of attention. It was shown on adult cable channels. Most anybody staying in major hotels worldwide could watch it on television. People watched it on their computers, tablets, smart sphones, in the cloud, on the web. .

It was shown everyplace. Hadley could care less if anybody stole his product. He made more off Cum One, Cum All than anything he had ever done, but that was not what motivated him. He did it to destroy Michelle Woodward and give life to the Stinson campaign, just as he had destroyed Duke Ramsay's life eight years earlier after publication of The Stinson Body Count. A pornographer had emerged as the greatest public relations guru in the history of the Democratic Party.

The effect of the movie was not just the embarrassment of Michelle Woodward and her family, including of course her newlywed husband; it had the corrosive effect of literally degrading society, which was always Hart Hadley's ultimate goal. Hadley hated Christianity and morals. He used sex as the ultimate temptation to lead humanity away from decency and self-restraint. Never had he succeeded as thoroughly as he did now.

"Michelle Woodward parties" began to happen all over the world, not unlike the infamous "key parties" of the 1960s and 1970s, when swingers would go to a private house and put their keys in big bowl. People would pull keys from out of the bowl, and whoever's key they had, they then had sex with. But this dwarfed that.

Girls wanted to get gangbanged "just like Michelle." If a hot girl like Michelle Woodward was into gangbangs, why not them? Morals went out the window. Every fraternity and sorority in America, except those at conservative, mostly Christian colleges – and even some of them – featured "Michelle Woodward parties." Girls would walk into bars and leave with 10 men for a night of group sex, "Michelle style." To "get Michelle'd" was to get gangbanged.

Of course Hadley did not stop there. He used his media empire to create articles, videos, and advertisements describing Michelle in the most unflattering possible terms; untrustworthy, a liar, a terrible human being whose word was not to be believed. Why believe Jim Stinson had targeted her? Why would Stinson care about a whore, a porn chick? Maybe he had an affair with her, but according to the Left-wing template that built into a firestorm, she had seen this opportunity, a short affair with a potential President, and used it to make a name for herself.

Hadley never really told people when the video was made, intimating until people believed it, that she had made it after the scandalous revelations, an act of pure self-promotion, a way to make money. Michelle's defenders tried to ask, why did she go in hiding so long? Why did she need to make a porn film when big-money book and legitimate film deals were being presented to her?

But the damage was done. Michelle Woodward was ruined, and with her ruination, her new husband was tainted. Jim Stinson found just enough support to think he might be able to weather this storm and win.

With a little more help from his friends, that might be forthcoming.

****

Captain Mark White served in Iraq with Lieutenant Colonel Paul North. He idolized North. A second generation West Point graduate, Captain White was a hero in his own right, having earned the Bronze Star for meritorious action on Anbar Province.

White had married his high school sweetheart from Mississippi, a lovely blonde girl named Monica, after his first year at West Point. She quickly delivered to him a daughter named Rebecca. Rebecca was incredibly beautiful; shapely, long blonde hair, mellifluous eyes, a vision. Captain White and his wife always worried about her. A girl that beautiful drew constant attention from the boys. They were devout Christians, and raised their daughter to respect herself. She graduated from high school still a virgin, but her parents were worried when she chose to attend UCLA instead of Ole Miss.

Los Angeles was a fallen town, a place where temptation could lure their sweet child away from them. Then they found out that she had moved into Hart Hadley's mansion. One of her friends, a UCLA cheerleader, had decided to model for Hadley. She started attending parties at the mansion, and one day invited Rebecca to one of them. Hadley took one look at Rebecca; still beautiful, still innocent, still a virgin, and set his sights on corrupting her.

She was introduced to George Close, who took her virginity. She started to drink, to party, to try coke. She attended a Glazemaster party, and then agreed to have sex with Hadley himself. She became his "girlfriend," and even agreed to be in a reality TV show called Party Chicks, featuring Hadley and his three "live-in girlfriends," one of whom was Rebecca White.

Captain White and his wife desperately tried to get her out of it, but she had turned away from them. She seemed lost forever. She changed her cell phone number and stopped talking to her "puritanical" parents. When her folks saw the reality TV show PartyChicks, with their beautiful daughter kissing the reptilian Hadley, they knew they had to act. They tried to talk to Hadley, to reason with him, but he refused to take their calls. They asked the police if they could help. She was a grown woman, they were told, free to live as she pleased. They paid a private investigator, but all he could do was verify some of the more sordid sex acts Hadley put her through, with him and his sleazy pals. They flew to Los Angeles, showing up at the mansion, but were turned away by security, their daughter unwilling to see them.

Then they heard about Cum One, Cum All. Neither Captain White or his wife had ever seen pornography, but they watched Michelle Woodward get ravaged by an army of Glazemasters. This had either happened to Rebecca, or soon would, they reasoned. Action needed to be taken. That was when Captain White approached his old commander, Lieutenant Colonel, now Congressman Paul North, at a campaign event in Oxford, Mississippi. Congressman North invited his old Army mate and his wife to a private meeting afterward, expecting to catch up and engage in good cheer.

"So how's that beautiful daughter of yours," North asked them.

Monica began to cry, and the captain tried to hold back tears, too. He told North she was "in the clutches" of Hart Hadley. Congressman North had never heard of the PartyChicks reality show, which was airing on the E! Entertainment channel to huge ratings. Captain White asked if Congressman North could do anything. North thought long and hard; legal action, political influence, a speech, a personal favor. None of that would work. Hadley was his enemy. He had destroyed the very woman who saved his life at the Statue of Liberty, and was the loyal ally of the man he was trying to defeat, and destroy, in a Presidential campaign. North understood clear action was needed, that it was literally a matter of good vs. evil.

"There's only one course of action," Congressman North told Captain White and his wife.

Even though he was in the middle of a Presidential campaign, former Lieutenant Colonel Paul North lept into action. He made himself the commander of a military operation operating out of his house in Florida. He recruited a team, made up mostly of Navy SEALs and Green Berets, men he had worked with in Iraq. He discovered that two other girls were living at Hadley's mansion, both of whom had parents who, like the Whites, were trying to get them out of there, but had been denied contact.

He organized a "commando raid" in which the SEALs and the Green Berets literally scaled the walls of the PartyChicks mansion, made their way into the house in the dead of night, managed to locate Rebecca and the other two girls, drugged them, and without having been detected, actually got them off the premises. Captain White was waiting in a getaway vehicle outside the mansion's wall, and the team drove away to a nearby location, where a Navy doctor helped revive the girls.

Captain White was there to see his daughter open her eyes, and burst out crying when her first words to him were, "Daddy! I love you." The parents of the other girls were also there. They had similar experiences. The girls, suddenly released from Hart Hadley's influence, seemed to realize they had been mesmerized, drugged, somehow lured beyond their ability to resist, by a man who meant them no good. Now, they were saved, back with their families.

North and his team tried to keep it quiet, but the press got hold of it. The conservative media hailed Paul North as a hero for saving three girls from a life of depravity. The liberal media called for his arrest on federal kidnapping charges. Attorney General Dumaz quickly announced he was going forward with an indictment.

"Bring it on," Congressman North told the media. Then he resumed his campaign

****

Hadley already had destroyed Duke Ramsay eight years earlier. It was easy to do that again. All of the resurrected material and lies about homosexuality, child abandonment, alcoholism, porn addiction, whore-mongering and strip clubs were trotted out, only now it was with 10 times the impact, because they had the added "attraction" of Michelle Woodward. Of course Ramsay had taken up with a porn star, the narrative concluded. He was addicted to them, to whores, to fallen women.

Wild stories were trotted out, repeated as truth, by the so-called mainstream media, and by the surrogates of the Left: Hollywood, the talk shows, the Internet, the tabloids, the rumor whirls. Michelle serviced Ramsay and Goodson. It was a ménage a trois. They prostituted Michelle. They ran a sex trafficking ring. A child molestation ring. They were Satanists performing sex rituals for the devil. Film was doctored making it look like Ramsay and Goodson having sex with Michelle. The press went wild. It was too juicy, too crazy, filled with too many elements, to ignore. It made the O.J. Simpson murder case look like child's play.

Mysteriously, Goodson's personnel files from the FBI were provided to liberal-friendly journalists, who poured over it. What they could not find, they invented or insinuated. He had been fired from the bureau. He had embezzled money. Even if something was untrue, they said it anyway. He was a "disgruntled employee . . . a Right-wing axe-grinder."

The rogue agents were dissected, too, their motivations impugned. They just did not like Stinson. They were Republicans, like most law enforcement. Of course they would do anything to destroy Stinson, anything to stop the Democrats from winning again after eight long years of President Valenzuela.

Valenzuela ordered indictments of Goodson, of the rogue agents, halted the investigations of the Stinsons, slowing them down so that true revelations would not come out until after the November election, by then papered over and covered up enough to negate as much harm to the Stinsons and the Democratic Party as possible. Don Rainer was ordered kept under wraps, directly told by his superiors not to say anything to the media. The indictments of Jim and Jill Stinson were put on ice.

George Close, working closely with his friend – and fellow snuff filmmaker – Hart Hadley, went into overdrive, raising money for Jim Stinson, and making advertisements about "the American Way," advocating that "in our system, you are innocent until proven guilty, no matter how zealous the 'witch hunters.' " He and Hadley worked with an Academy Award-winning director to make a documentary about Jim and Jill Stinson, called Man of Hope, describing them as "great Americans" and "true patriots" who had given up "lucrative careers in the private sector to serve their country." The cause of "social justice," the bulwark of Valenzuela's campaign, could only be advanced if Jim Stinson were elected.

"The American electorate has a funny way of tearing down candidates, then elevating them because they have 'battle scars,' " Ramsay told a friendly conservative radio host when asked how Stinson, seemingly dead after the Statue of Liberty event, still showed life.

"Who is Duke Ramsay anyway?" one liberal commentator asked on the air. "He's not even washed up because he never was anybody in the first place, writing junk columns for Right-wing publications. He's got an axe to grind?"

"Ramsay's got no credibility in the first place," one well-respected journalist said on Meet the Press. "When I was part of the White House press corps we used to see the guy and laugh at him. His corroborating witness? Oh yeah, a porn queen. Right! None of it washes."

The talking points poured from out of the Stinson campaign, distributed to their friends in the liberal media. At first Paul North's campaign just laughed it off. They were so far ahead, so in control, their cause so just; nothing could stop them. Yet slowly but surely they began to see just a little erosion. A point here, a point there. Was it possible the Stinsons could get away with it? The fall out from the military-style intervention at the Hadley mansion further took oxygen from the North campaign. The people who supported the rescue were voting for him, anyway, but media mavens and liberal veterans of the Dumaz Justice Department said it was a clear violation of the law. Pressure was put on the military by the Valenzuela Administration to re-open the case against Lieutenant Colonel North in Iraq: "enhanced interrogation," the threats to blow the Iraqi terrorist's brains out unless he revealed the ambush plans against his men, all now routinely called "torture."

The press continued unabated. Nobody could go to the store or turn on their computer without seeing a photo of "Stinson's accuser," always referred to as a "gangbang queen," a term that suddenly made its way into the lexicon of everyday conversation; grandmothers and religious people talking about "gangbangs" and "blowbangs."

Don Carver was in overdrive, his confidence back. This was his specialty. When publishers and news producers would demur, Carver would use a term reserved for men who blew other men, reiterating "I paid" for such and such newspaper, or TV program, "and I want the editorial printed exactly like I wrote it."

Shortly thereafter editorials started to come out, typically reading something like, "Stinson was framed for political reasons."

"Amazingly, Governor Jim Stinson picked up seven points in the latest Atlantic Cable News poll," the lead anchor on Gyorgy Szabo's network informed his audience. It was, of course, a cooked poll. Stinson had not gained seven points, he had picked up about two, but Szabo wanted it reported that he picked up seven, and he wanted to increase that amount in subsequent polling over increments of time he laid out, all to create the illusion that Stinson was "the creeping terror," slowly but inexorably getting closer to Paul North. "Left for dead and abandoned by many in the Democratic Party, Stinson's team has put out a 'damage control spin operation' that will be studied by political scientists for years," one ACN "talking head" intoned.

A longtime Republican political figure appearing on CNN's Crossfire said, "I have to admit that this could be the greatest turnaround since . . . I don't know when. Americans like their politicians tested by fire."

A popular yet liberal Fox News host held a panel discussion asking, "So you think the story is bogus?"

"She's a porn star," one woman in the audience shouted. "Get real. She made it up for the publicity and money."

Carver ordered the Los Angeles Times, once the most conservative newspaper in America under the ownership of the Chandler family, but now a reliable Left-wing mouthpiece struggling to stay afloat, to insert a headline reading, "Woodward was paid $50,000 for sex" when a disgraced Major League baseball star and Stinson fan, drummed out of the league for rampant steroid use, told them of his trysts with Michelle. The prince Hadley threw a number of his friends under the bus, telling of a full complement of "dates" Michelle went on with corporate executives, Hollywood stars, and other powerful men. He did not let on that he paid Michelle a regular salary out of his own pocket, ostensibly because, as he had told Jim Stinson years ago, he wanted to "turn a nice college girl into a depraved slut." The press ate it up: Michelle was a high-priced prostitute.

"We've cast enough doubt on their story to make you a sympathetic character," Carver told Stinson.

"You really do remind me of Prince Machiavelli, Don," Jill told him.

"Why thank you, Mrs. Stinson," said Carver.

Carver was relentless. He was also in his element. He was the master of lies and deceit. It made him proud. He took pride in his ability to take the truth and manipulate it to his advantage. If some editor or other news "professional" expressed reservations, Carver would bark, "How do you feel about wearing lead shoes in the Gulf of Mexico"? He ordered the "sons of bitches" to provide favorable commentary . . . or else.

Stinson began to venture back onto the campaign trail. There were chants, protests and signs reading, "INDICT STINSON," but they were forced well away from the main events and TV cameras, all carefully crafted by Carver and Jill Stinson, using Democratic Party workers and campaign operatives to fill out the crowds, the cameras ordered to restrict their focus to narrow shots making it look like the candidate was speaking to sold out auditoriums and stadiums.

"We will advance the causes we believe in," Stinson told the crowds. "We will prevail over the forces opposed to our work. With God's help we will gain the greatest victory in American history. Like Harry Truman in 1948, I am taking my case to the people, and you are responding with your support." The cheers from the crowd were augmented by the sound of cheers pumped surreptitiously through the sound system by Stinson operatives.

One respected media figure took to the camera one night and stated, "I have reached the conclusion that journalist Duke Ramsay and the adult film star Michelle Woodward, along with Ms. Woodward's disgraced, fired FBI agent husband Alan Goodson, have concocted this story out of whole cloth, strictly to inflict public damage on a dedicated public servant."

A female reporter for PBS said, "As far as I'm concerned, I'd give Jim Stinson a blow job just for keeping abortion safe and legal. Paul North is a Christian zealot who will overturn Roe v. Wade."

Instead of basking in the glow of the greatest journalistic coup in history, Duke Ramsay found himself sitting around thinking about drinking Bourbon, and worse perhaps, the desire to buy Cum One, Cum All. One night, contemplating right and wrong, good and evil, his phone rang.

"He got away with it, didn't he?"

It was Michelle.

"Yes."

"It's just not fair."

"Fairness has nothing to do with it." After a long pause, "How are you holding up?"

"It's not good," replied Michelle. "I can't leave the house. I'm the 'gangbang queen.' "

"Listen to me, Michelle," Duke told her. "I want to remind you Christ came for sinners. Remember I told you he used tax collectors and prostitutes? He uses football players and plumbers and people from all walks of life. You are worthy of salvation, and as likely to be a vessel of His good works as any preacher or Pope. You're life has meaning, purpose. He also told his disciples, whether they lived 2,000 years ago or carry on His work today, that in His name we will persecuted."

"Thank you."

"What about Alan?"

"He's a wonderful man and loyal to me, but the strain is getting to him. I never told either of you I made that awful video. It seems a million years, another lifetime ago. I pretended it didn't exist. My parents are in shock. They never had any idea what went on over at Hadley's mansion."

"Remember one thing," Duke says to her, "and let this be the one thing you carry away from this. Put not your trust not in man, but in God."

Michelle sighs, ponders this. "Am I still not to hate my enemies? Am I to love Jim Stinson and Hart Hadley? This horrible man Don Carver, who calls me 'trailer trash'? This horrible wife, who calls me 'just another throwaway bimbo'? Am I supposed to love them?"

"The Christian path is never an easy one to walk, Michelle," Ramsay says. There is a long silence on the other side of the line

"Amen." Michelle says nothing for few seconds, then added the famed phrase of her one-time school, USC. "Fight on, Duke."

"Fight on, Michelle."

When Paul North approached high-ranking intelligence officials from the FBI and CIA of previous Republican administrations, he wondered just how it was that "Jim-boy" Stinson and his horrendous wife could have gotten away with so much.

The former head of the CIA informed the Congressman that while most of it was slicksterism, trickery, good lawyering and politics, mixed with a compliant media that supported the Democrats by up to 90 percent and "found no good alliance with the truth," much of it was because of the Mena operation.

"Stinson used his influence to run guns, drugs and contraband out of Mena, Arkansas," the old spook told him.

"Why did the Stinson's have control of an airport that was not even in his state?" asked Congressman North.

"Because of his mob ties," the former CIA head replied. "It was a combined operation of the Hot Springs and New Orleans Mafia, and if that shocks you, I'm sorry to report this sort of thing's been going on for decades. The War Department worked closely with the racquets during World War II, in order to get the unions to cooperate at the New York docks where we were loading ammo for the EuropeanTheatre. The Kennedys worked closely with Sam Giancana. You know that whole story.

"The Governor of Arkansas at the time was a Republican and could not be corrupted so easily, so they used Stinson, who was a young Congressman with friends under every rock. But it was a Reagan-Bush operation, to run supplies to the Contras at the end of the Cold War. Stinson was so smart. Not only did he tie himself in with this operation, which allowed him to make millions in drug money without any chance of repercussions because it would uncover an operation run by Reagan, then Bush, but he did deals with every intelligence official to kick back profits.

"The result is that there are very few in the intelligence and law enforcement community willing to go all the way after the Stinsons. We'll give 'lip service' of our disgust over this guy, but we won't actively prosecute. It's not just Valenzuela, it's former Republican high-ranking officials. Stinson has too much on all of us."

"You've used the word 'we' and 'us' a few times," said Congressman North. "Jesus, does that mean what I think it means?"

"I'm afraid so, Paul," the CIA man said. "I'm part of it. I want you to win, but I could be destroyed like Stinson destroys so many others if I were to tell what I know, or at least openly tell it in public. I'm sorry. Keep doing what you're doing, but I can't come forward."

"That's how the devil works," replied Congressman North.

"Yes, it is," said the CIA man, "but let me say this. People like me, we have a lot to lose, so we protect ourselves. But people like this fellow Duke Ramsay and this poor girl they destroyed with this horrible sex tape, in many ways this is our only hope. They don't have anything to lose. Only people like that represent a real threat to men like Jim Stinson. Stinson and his wife built their empire on this premise, that people had vested interests, and would pay to stay silent to protect those interests. But people who have lost everything represent a danger to them. They can kill those in the shadows, who stay in the shadows, but Ramsay, the girl and this FBI agent Goodson, they have light on them. This is a wild card that, for all their calculations, they can't control."

The stealing of America

aLDEYE CALLAED HIMSELF "TH SLUTT COLL;ECTOR

By the time the Stinson scandal hit, both Stinson and Congressman North had won enough primary votes to wrap up their respective party's nomination. At first, it seemed a sure thing that the Democrats would force Stinson out of the race, but instead he and his team put together a damage control effort above and beyond all previous spin.

The Right went after them with everything they had, of course. Fox News, Randy Lebow, conservative radio and media; they lambasted the Stinson's morning, noon and night. But after a few weeks of what at first looked like a collective "come to Jesus" moment, in which the Left, and their friends in the media, apparently realized all they had stood for, all they had believed in their whole lives – in the whole lives of many of their parents and grandparents – was a lie, a small, imperceptible shift began.

Slowly but surely, liberals began to apologize for and come up with excuses for the Stinsons, and then they began to openly state that the accusations against them were lies, it was a set-up, it was as Jill so famously called it "a vast Right-wing conspiracy." Eventually, the template became "McCarthyism . . . a Right-wing witch hunt."

"What is happening," Congressman North said, "is a strange dynamic of the human, or at least liberal, psychology. It reminds me of the Alger Hiss affair. The Left placed all their hopes and dreams in this man. He embodied what they thought of as their best selves; smooth, Ivy League, the liberal man of the people. They backed him with all they had, and would not see truth. At some point they went past a point of no return; a point in which they had expended all they had in him, and could not turn back. I see the same parallel with the Stinsons, who are both too smart for their own good, or at least the country's good. They are both great lawyers who see everything with a lawyer's mind. They are way ahead of everybody else, until at some point in the future everything is so confused, so lawyered up, so murky, that they get away with it."

A conservative talk host said Congressman North's assessment was far too convoluted. "The answer is simple," he stated. "Liberalism is a mental disorder."

When the Valenzuela Administration, led by Attorney General Dumaz, announced they were delaying the investigation-prosecution of the Stinsons until after the election, it caused an uproar like few in American history. Oddly, the official Republican Party, while feigning outrage, seemed strangely moderate on this issue. Congressman North knew, although he could not publicly state it, why this was. The old head of the CIA had outlined it for him; the Mena operation had put the Reagan-Bush intelligence community in bed with the Stinsons. If they really went after them, their ox's would be gored, too. Washington is a small town with a lot of secrets, and a lot of potential blowback if somebody stuck a stick into the wrong pile of manure.

Only those desperate souls with nothing to lose, like Ramsay and Michelle, were "free" to reveal what they knew. But Paul North had seen too many of his friends die in Iraq. He had seen too many good Iraqis, who desired only freedom, rounded up, tortured and killed by Al-Qaeda. He had entered the campaign under the proviso that he could say and do anything he wanted. He was not about to back down. He also knew his support came not from the Republican Party, but from the American people, who formed the growing Tea Party movement that swelled his campaign coffers, while staffing his statewide campaigns.

An odd twist of fate, which puzzled North, was the fact that he seemed to have the election fairly well in hand before the Stinson scandal materialized. By dint of his honesty, his charisma, and his political skill, with no real backing, little money, no staff, and no organization, he had managed to win the early Republican primaries and rocket to a large lead over Stinson.

Logically, the scandal would seem to have been a Godsend for North; the nail in the Stinson's coffin. At first that seemed the case, but now, as weeks passed into months, there was something not quite right. Stinson wrapped himself in Hollywood glamour at the Democratic National Convention. The Satan-worshipper George Close exalted him as if he was the messiah, rolling out his fawning documentary, A Man of Hope. A host of slinky actresses, who had slept their way to the top via a thousand sweaty studio execs, worshipped him at the altar of abortion. A host of gay studio execs, who had slept their way to the to top via a thousand older gay studio execs, said it was time for progressive America, that to turn back to the rigid Christianity of a Paul North would "disenfranchise the minority of this nation," as if somehow they had never achieved the millions or the accolades or the acclaim they had in this "rigid" country in the first place. North was particularly disappointed in the blacks, who at first fled to him, threatening to change the landscape of American politics. If he could get the black vote in numbers similar to the pre-1960 Nixon-Kennedy campaign that would virtually lock the Presidency up. But a large number of inner city blacks, enslaved by entitlements, began to swing back to Stinson.

North tried to convince himself it was all just politics, but something else troubled him. What if it was not just politics? He was prepared to face the worst form of political corruption imaginable. The Democrats would lie, cheat, and steal the election from him, if they could, but they had always done that. He began to sense a darkness, a swelling discontent that literally was in the air, something that only the righteous, perhaps, could sense.

North had seen a movie some years earlier in which the truly righteous were the only ones who could see demons, Satan's soldiers, roaming the Earth. A face in a moving bus, a clerk at the store, a baseball player in uniform; his or her face would transform, eyes mad, demonic saucers, with ears pointed, teeth fanged and sharp.

North himself freely admitted he himself was not righteousness enough to see evil in its clearest form. As a soldier in war, he had seen too much death to remain innocent. He had experienced bloodlust, asking God to forgive him for it. He was faithful to his wife, but as he joked, "I like to drink beer and swear and I like hot girls in tight dresses."

The Left and the feminists tried to make that out to be the worst possible thing said about women in the history of man, but most laughed at North's honesty. His own wife said yes, sometimes Paul just liked to "veg out on the couch with a few tall ones and a Vols game on TV," and that "sure, sometimes he sees a pretty girl and stares at her a few seconds too long, but he's just a man, you know what I mean?" The Left tried to make the statement out to be that North cheated on his wife, but he had not and they could not make the charges stick.

Naturally, they called North a homophobe, to which he responded with perhaps the greatest explanation of Christian love in the face of sin ever given. He gave as his first example a

football coach who tells a player he lacks the desire and work ethic to make it to the next level.

The player, motivated to show the coach he is wrong, re-doubles his effort and does make it to

the next level, "showing" the coach, who knew all along that if properly motivated, he could do

it.

"Who has shown love?" asked North. "If the coach just coddled the player and he stayed

the same, would that have been love? So this brings me to the question of homosexual sin. Let me first say, when I drink too much, I commit sin. When I lust after a pretty girl on my TV set, I commit sin. Before I was married, I was with women outside the bonds of matrimony, and not for the purposes of re-production. I sinned. As a Christian, I am compelled to admit I have sinned, and to ask Christ's forgiveness.

"So the gay man engages in homosexual sex with another gay man. He says, 'I have not sinned. It is love.' As an act of so-called 'love,' I agree with him and tell him he is free to live this way, that he is not a sinner. But Christ came for sinners. He came for those who freely repent of their sins. To deny one is a sinner, which every single human being who has ever lived is, to choose instead to live the way you want to live, not by God's rules and commandments, is the sin of pride and vanity. This is the greater sin.

"Damnation is the destiny not of the sinner, whether the sinner be a pornographer, a drunk, a criminal, a swindler, a thief, or a homosexual. Each of these people can bow before God, admit of his sin, ask that he be forgiven, and God will graciously forgive.

"But God does not like the stiff-necked man who will not bow before his Maker and instead says, 'My actions are not sin.' If I have directed the man to see his sin, leading him to ask God to forgive him, which he does, as opposed to telling the sinner he really is not a sinner, and thereby he never asks for forgiveness for that with which he says need not be forgiven, and on Judgment Day he is not forgiven; is instead cast out, fodder for the devil, is this love?

"Christians are called 'judgmental.' Is it judgmental to tell the sinner there is judgment, and how to avoid the wrath of judgment? To tell him, 'I am not your judge, but I have knowledge that you have a judge, and He does not want to judge you. He sent his only begotten son to be judged in your place.' All men sin. Your sins will not lead you to hell, failure to admit them, to be prideful and vainglorious, this is to temp God and risk the flames. Is it not true love to tell my fellow man this eternal soul-saving truth, or to lie to him and tell him, 'Worry not, friend, you do not sin'?"

One reporter said he heard the rumors that President Valenzuela had given blow jobs to pay for his cocaine, and that he been with his bi-sexual lover, the rapper J-C, when Navy SEALs were killed defending an American Embassy in Libya. Asked if this was what he was referring to, Paul North just smiled and, seeing a fastball lobbed right down the middle of the plate said, "I just want to know, who were all the men Valenzuela blew to pay for his cocaine?" The National Inquirer ran photos of Valenzuela and J-C, who promoted a misogynistic, macho rapper image, with the headline: "The blow job heard 'round the world."

Unlike Ramsay and Michelle Woodward, who actually had some personal issues in their lives that could be exploited and overblown by Don Carver's spinmeisters, Paul North had almost none. His penchant for cold beer and hot women actually were about the closest things anybody could pin on him, other than the incident with the gun in Iraq. His fellow soldiers loved him for protecting him, and defended him to a man, so that issue did not have legs.

North was not St. Francis of Assisi, and therefore he, being just a man, knew there was something he could not quite see. An insidious evil of some kind; nameless, faceless perhaps, but it was a darkness covering the Earth and it seemed only a matter of time before it would cover him.

He openly wondered if America could be salvaged. 65 million abortions and counting were an abomination that God could not countenance, he thought. He saw all the immorality, the pornography, the child predators on the Internet, not just gay marriage but Hollywood glorification of homosexuality, the entitlement state, and the rise of Fidel Castro Valenzuela, as signs that the country, and perhaps the world, had passed a point of no return. If so, nothing he or anybody else could do would make a difference. It would be, as Ken Hawke told him in the limousine on the way to the Statue of Liberty, between God and the devil. But he was trained to fight, to survive, as the Army called it to "carry on." So he did.

When Stinson was glorified as a living god at the DNC, a point seemed to turn. Stinson still trailed in the polls, but North did not feel safe. The Tea Party and the hardcore Right of America became enraged. Huge riots sprang up in Washington and in major cities all across the country, with Americans demanding that the Stinsons be arrested and indicted. Valenzuela's refusal to do so had launched what promised to be the greatest Constitutional crisis of all time. His favorability sank down close to 10 percent, and he would have been impeached if he were not about to leave office in a few months anyway.

As his Muslim master Geb Ali had told him, he had performed the service on behalf of America's enemies that they required of him, and was leaving the country in a state of disarray and weakened condition just as they planned. This was not a completed act yet. There were still more events to break the will of the American spirit.

Conservatives despised Valenzuela perhaps even more than Stinson. North spoke openly of his fake birth certificate, his radical madrassa experience, his Marxist mentor, his homosexual proclivities, possibly ties to the KGB and Muslim Brotherhood, of course his radical associations, stolen elections, and what by this point quite apparently, at least to Republicans, was the worst Presidency in history.

But of course that was the plan. North and Randy Lebow both admitted as much. "He succeeded," they both exclaimed, saying Valenzuela had intentionally destroyed the economy, the health care system, and enslaved the nation to debt that, like Satan, would wrap its tentacles around her in ways she could never escape from.

With North so openly saying these things, and so openly accepting that The Stinson Body Count and the recent Stinson scandal was all true, it opened the door for a virulent strain of conservative aggressiveness that had been kept under wraps for decades. The Republican Party always thought of themselves as genteel, country club business executives, Christian family men and women. It was the Left that burned down buildings, engaged in eco-terror, tried to blow up the Pentagon, torched universities, and spewed hatred.

But the recent events opened a vein, and now all that frustration, heaped upon them by years and decades of liberal news media, lies, a public education system that had stolen their kids, corrupt elected officials, anti-American indoctrination, glorification of the unrighteous, and having their nation literally stolen, brick by brick from under them, was brewing to the surface.

Congressman North filled a hole that conservatives only now realized had been there all along. Ronald Reagan was their greatest leader, but he and like Republicans had always had Communism to fight. When young Paul North first joined the Army, he wanted to destroy Godless Communism. It was his raison d'être. This was the great boogeyman, murderer of 120 million human beings since 1917, yet when Reagan won the Cold War, at least in its Soviet form, with its hammer and sickle, it's monolithic Red Army, its proxy wars throughout the Third World, it took away from the Right their greatest enemy, the driving force of their rhetoric and motivation, and their best fundraising tool.

For over two decades, the GOP was unable to put their finger on the pulse of America. What they were only now realizing was that Communists no longer carried Mao Tse-tung's Little Red Book or flew North Vietnamese flags on college campuses. Instead they were now the college professors on those campuses, wrote the public school text books indoctrinating their kids with horse manure, were in charge of Hollywood, the New York Times, CBS News, were given voice by foul mouthed comics tearing down the last shred of decency, and were the sewer-swillers turning their precious little girls into sluts. Their gods were global warming, gay marriage, abortion, and illegal Mexican amnesty. They had turned a once great nation into a shell of itself, and it all happened so gradually, the conservatives felt like the crab placed in a pot full of water, unaware the heat had been slowly turned up until they fainted and then died, too late to save themselves. But the assassination attempt against Paul North, followed by the Left-wing protection of the Stinsons, roused in the conservative movement a rising anger and resentment that had been pent up for over 20 years, and now was unleashed with full fury.

For years, lame GOP strategists had said the party had no future unless they pandered to Hispanics, but this unique set of circumstances revealed a wholly undeniable truth, which was that if they could appeal to white Christians, they would generate a movement more unstoppable than any political force in the history of civilization. North did not pick off a large percentage of the hard Left; they were lost forever, it seemed. But he did get the old "Reagan Democrats," long thought a myth, now re-emerged, but this black man had engendered a coalition of, call them what you will - white Americans, Christians, conservatives, nationalists, jingoists, patriots, flag wavers - unlike any before seen.

These people, stirred by the final straw that had broken the camel's back, a last indignity courtesy of such undeniable unrighteousness in the form of Jim and Jill Stinson, faced with having the country stolen from them, began a series of violent confrontations. Racial epithets were unfurled. The Left course used these episodes as "proof" that the Right was motivated only by racism, but of course this was a lie. North himself, a black man, was their hero. But Valenzuela, half-Mexican, half-black, was caricatured and despised so much that it became impossible to divest race from the vitriol extolled against him. A civil war was in the making.

While all of this was going on, rumors began to circulate around the nation that the November election was rigged in favor of Stinson. The main root of this rumor was the fact that Gyorgy Szabo's French vote-counting company ran the machines that would count the votes. America had been stunned when four years early Shelly Rider entered the election with a seemingly comfortable lead, only to lose by four points.

The fact that Szabo's machines had been calculated ahead of time to disregard every third or fourth GOP vote in battleground states had remained a secret, but it was a hard secret to maintain. It was the kind of thing the Democrats did not want to resort to, a desperate move only done when no alternative existed, but the Republicans were not stupid and could not be kept in the dark forever. The truth was seeping out and now conservatives were outraged that the election would be stolen from North in like manner.

Sporadic violence continued in a series of ugly confrontations in which the old civility of America seemed to have been tossed to the wayside. North certainly did not do anything to dissuade his supporters or even their occasional violent frustration. But the Left did not sit idly by. Blacks and Mexicans began to band together, roaming white suburbs and chopping people up. The liberal media tried to excuse them for acting on their "historical impulses," but the threat of wider violent battle increased. Then North made his speech.

"I see pockets of violence spreading across America," Congressman North told a national television audience. "I do not condone this violence, whether it by my supporters on the Right, or by those who oppose me on the Left. But I will say this. I see unrighteousness and I will stand against it. I have heard the rumors, that the Democrats have rigged the vote-counting machines, as they may well have done four years ago. I have heard of an 'October surprise' meant to confuse and dissuade the country from the truth. I believe my opponent and his wife are criminals, mass criminals. I cannot state it more plainly than that and do not care what their friends in the media say about me for stating this truth.

"In past elections I have seen milquetoast and moderate candidates of my party, slandered, libeled, lied about and cheated on by the opposition, act as if to express actual knowledge they were being slandered, libeled, lied about and cheated on, to be some sort of thing that would anger the country if they spoke it out loud. I have seen them pretend not to know what they know, to lie and call the liars and deceiver a 'a nice guy,' somebody 'we just disagree with.' Well my opponent is not 'a nice guy.' He is a murderer who tried to murder me, and those who apologize for him are immoralists who, of their own free will, choose to live a monstrous lie.

"Now, I urge the nation to come together. I urge peace and reconciliation, and I urge a fair election, but if after this election is over, my fellow Americans, if at that time, after a thorough and fair analysis and investigation, I discover that the election was stolen at the ballot box; that criminal activity on a scale that makes Watergate and JFK's 'tombstone vote' look like campus politics; well, I will not sit back and take it! I will contest it, and if my efforts are stonewalled, I will not 'fade into that good night.' It will not be business as usual, the status quo.

"No, my fellow Americans, I will not be returning to Congress. I will be a free agent. I am a military commander by experience and inclination. As Doug MacArthur once said, "Nobody detests war more than I,' but I will not give my country up to the illegitimate Fidel Castro Valenzuelas and criminal Stinsons of the Democratic Party. I will fight, and if I have to take up arms and lead men in order to restore to this nation what was fought for at Valley Forge; at Gettysburg; at Bealleau Wood and Iwo and Inchon and Danang and in Tajiq, Iraq; I will do so."

Oh, the calamity. The Left went after Paul North like they have never gone after any man. Racial sensitivity went out the window. He was a "violent black militant . . . an angry nigger inciting hatred" and a hundred other horribles. His supporters went ballistic, loving him with a passion not seen since MacArthur and Dwight Eisenhower. The Democrats pulled out every stop.

Schools were divided, with Republican parents pulling their kids out so they would not be subject to kids of Democrats taunting and attacking them. The armed gangs of blacks and Mexicans increased, with violent skirmishes everywhere. Conservative militias fought back. In at least two instances, they heard of "black attacks" ahead of time, one in Detroit, the other in Trenton, New Jersey. They ambushed and killed most of the black and Mexican gang members.

Ugliness spread.

"Let me state some true facts about the Left," Congressman North aid in his incendiary speeches, which by this time lacked any pretense of non-partisanship; he and the nation were in a pitched battle between the forces of the Right and the Left, with those calling for moderation called enemies by both sides. "The only time the Democrats 'achieve' anything is when Republicans stop them from passing some law they would pass if there were no Republicans around to stop them from passing it."

That always brought laughter. Then North would get serious.

"Let me tell you people something about human nature. Those who do not remember the past are condemned to re-live it. Human beings are essentially the same today as during the Roman Empire, not to mention the Cultural Revolution. The history of man is a tale of despotism and Totalitarianism, in which Kings, emperors and dictators ran roughshod over the rights of average men. As a black man, I am personally more aware of this tragedy than most.

"Then along came America. So miraculous and so good has this nation been, that we have lulled each other into believing it has always been this way, but we are exceptional, and as Reagan pointed out, if freedom dies here, the last, best hope of man, it dies all the world over, because we will not be there to defend freedom as we so nobly have in the past.

"Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Chairman Mao, Pol Pot; any number of dictators and mass murderers throughout history did not wake up when they were 14 or 19 or 25 years old and say, 'I want to murder half the population.' Each started out as an idealist of a sort, thinking politics would win the day.

"Pol Pot was a mild-mannered school teacher and intellectual who went off to Paris to study philosophy. He came under the sway of French Communists, and decided this was the salvation of his native Cambodia. He returned determined to institute this philosophy and free his people from starvation, poverty and disease. How did he end up killing 1.5 million people? Well, I can tell you there were no conservatives like me around in any large numbers to stop him.

"Ho Chi Minh was a freedom fighter alongside the Americans, an admirer of the Constitution, who wanted to model Vietnam after it. Rebuffed by Truman, he turned to the Soviets. Again, there were no conservatives like me around to stop him in North Vietnam. 1 million Vietnamese died over the next two decades plus.

"Mao Tse-tung was an intellectual who wanted to institute agrarian reforms. He built a cult of personality around himself on the 'Long March." Once the conservative elements, in the form of the corrupt Chiang Kai-shek, were eliminated, there were no conservatives like me around to stop him. 70 million died in Red China.

"Why do I bore you with these history lessons? People, it is because history does not repeat itself, for God's sake it rhymes, and I am telling you as sure as I stand here, Jim and Jill Stinson and this modern Democrat Party has perverted their original ideals to the point where they do not want a loyal opposition, they do not want a two-party system. They want total control. If they can't get it at the ballot, they will get it through the judiciary, through the bureaucracy, through executive orders, and through outright corruption.

"They will murder and kill, as they have in the past, and I am here to tell you Jim and Jill Stinson are human beings, no more immune from human impulses than Mao or Hitler, and if given total control, unopposed, they will be corrupted by the temptations of power, and if they could do it, they would put conservatives in re-education camps, or worse.

"Unless somebody like me is there to stop them."

The press continued to try and destroy North. They moved from the usual character assassinations and accusations of racism (?), homophobia, judgmentalism, militarism, and reactionary jingoism, to outright desperate lies about he and his family. The more they attacked, the angrier his supporters got. Small, violent skirmishes and confrontations continued to mar the landscape.

Then President Valenzuela unleashed his "October surprise," in the form of a two-fer. As Geb Ali had told him they would, Hezbollah publicly took "credit" for the assassination attempt against Congressman North at the Statue of Liberty. He was, they said, an enemy of Allah, a  
"Zionist," all the usual claptrap. Then Valenzuela announced that his own Central Intelligence Agency had confirmed that Hezbollah indeed had contracted the Gambini family hit man to murder North. All credit for saving the Congressman's life belonged to the CIA and the Secret Service who saved the day "just in the nick of time." No credit or even mention was given Michelle Woodward, Duke Ramsay, Alan Goodson, Richard Tomak, Don Rainer, or the rogue FBI agents. Cleve Carver was said to have been a senile old man who did not understand what he was saying on his deathbed.

If Hezbollah had been behind the assassination, of course, then it could not have been Jim Stinson or the "octopus squad" Duke Ramsay kept referring to. If Stinson was innocent of this charge, then it seemed possible all wild accusations against him remained just that, wild accusations.

Then came the kicker. Iran announced that they wanted to rejoin the "family of nations" once again. They publicly disavowed Hezbollah, long their terrorist arm, after they "admitted" to the North assassination attempt. Jim Stinson, President Valenzuela informed the country, would be meeting with an Iranian delegation coming to Washington to negotiate the final points of a long-sought nuclear arms deal. It was revealed that both Stinsons, the former Secretary of State and the current Secretary-General of the U.N., had engaged in top secret negotiations with the Iranians since Valenzuela's first year in office. After Jim Stinson left the administration, the deal had not advanced much beyond where he left it.

But now, the Iranians felt that the only chance for world peace was a Stinson Presidency. They would renounce terror, Hezbollah, and their nuclear arms, with both Stinsons the main cog in the wheels of global diplomacy. At last, peace in the Middle East, a dream long held since Lawrence of Arabia led the Arabs in revolt against the Ottoman Empire. Iran announced they would recognize Israel, the main culprit since 1947, and act as a diplomatic conduit in resolving various civil wars and revolutions amongst their Arab neighbors. If Stinson were elected, they would live by the accords and inspectors would be allowed in, to see to it that they no longer had nuclear arms.

If, on the other hand, Paul North were elected, all bets were off. The deal would be rescinded and the Iranians would return to belligerency and a nuclear arms build-up. North was a "cowboy" and "warmonger." To the liberal media, it was not a question. North had to be defeated not just for the sake of partisan politics, but to literally save the world from nuclear holocaust. This was behind all of the Left's "ends justify the means" tactics, in which no amount of treachery, thievery or corruption was bigger than saving the world for liberalism, at all costs.

Naturally, Randy Lebow and the Right picked the announcement apart, and after a few days reading it over, former Republican intelligence officials and diplomats pointed out huge flaws in it that would allow the Iranians to continue to build weapons regardless of the language of the accords.

But the Valenzuela-Stinson template was set. The Iranian delegation came to Washington and, amid worldwide hoopla, Stinson was called off the campaign trail, his wife brought in from Manhattan, each elevated to heroic diplomatic heights as the only two Americans who could be trusted, who could make this historic deal that would end nuclear confrontation once an for all. Amid great fanfare, the deal was signed.

Valenzuela actually said, "We have peace in our time," apparently ill advised, incompetent or too ignorant of history to know that he had said the same thing Neville Chamberlain said when he signed a similar agreement with Adolf Hitler in 1938.

The Right went out of their minds. The riots in American cities were greater than those of Vietnam in the 1960s. The American Right, long dormant, long so proud of their self-restraint, the people who did not riot, who did not protest, who did not carry signs, now were on the verge of going beyond that. The nation was a tinderbox, a civil war ready to happen.

Conservatives were convinced the deal was a sham, intended only to seed the destruction

first of Israel, then maybe an American city. It was treason, through and through, and they

reacted the way patriots react to treason.

At the Democratic National Convention, Gyorgy Szabo arrived by secret and was ushered without anybody knowing it, to Jim Stinson's hotel suite. Szabo was the behind-the-scenes powerbroker in the Democratic Party, but he was more than behind the scenes; he was a shadow. He was far too controversial to actually be seen with major political figures. Everybody knew he was Fidel Valenzuela's big backer, ran a media empire promoting Left-wing causes and, along with Hart Hadley, had systematically destroyed Duke Ramsay, Michelle Woodward, and all Stinson's accusers.

But he was unknown. He had done a few interviews in Europe, but nobody really knew where he lived. He apparently was not even an American citizen. His Nazi associations made that problematic. The rumors about him flew: he collaborated with the Nazis, he was a Communist, behind the 1987 stock market crash, brought down the British pound, manipulated the sub-prime housing crisis, and it was whispered that his voting machines created a "Democrat lock." Some in the FBI said he would be arrested if he set foot on American soil, but he had his protectors and now here he was, in a room with Jim and Jill Stinson, and President Valenzuela.

When conservatives like North accused him of being in Szabo's pocket, Valenzuela would blithely say, "I never met the man," which was a lie, but there was no record of it.

It was not unlike Warren Wolfsheim, the former Weather Underground terrorist who ushered Valenzuela into Massachusetts politics, helping to move him from Ted Kennedy's staff and a half-ass position as something called a "community organizer" for a criminal organization called Walnut, and on the strength of his money and connections, launched him towards the Senate. When asked about this, Valenzuela just said, "He's a guuuy who lives in my neighborhood." Just as Frederick Manson Jones, his Communist mentor who introduced him to Marxism, cocaine and gay mouth sex, was "a fellow my mother was married to for a few years in Texas." He always added that he learned "real racism from the way the Texans treated them; a Mexican mother and a black step-father."

He had been, of course, dispossessed by a racist society, but never addressed how such a

poor Mexican-black kid was able to get 12 years of the most elite education this nation has to offer without paying for it, having a job, or having parents who had a "job."

"I always wondered about that," North would joke, "but that's just me."

The Szabo visit was, of course, off the books, but vital. It was called at the request of Jill Wyndham-Stinson. Jim Stinson and Valenzuela despised each other. Valenzuela wanted Stinson to win – he hated North the way Joseph Mengele hated Jews – but Stinson was not his cup of tea, especially after word came out that Stinson had once said he was worthy only of serving he and his wife coffee.

But the Democratic Party was in desperate straits. Despite Stinson's damage control, the hit campaign on Duke Ramsay and Michelle Woodward, Stinson trailed North by 25 points. Normally, it was an insurmountable deficit that could not be overcome, but America knew they were dealing with the Stinsons, and if anybody could pull off such a stunt it was old "Jim-boy" himself.

After the initial hellos and offers of coffee and small talk, Jill Stinson got down to business.

"We need you to coordinate the algorithms on your vote-counting machines enough to give us the victory," she said, plain as day.

Szabo stared at her.

"I like Fidel," he said. I don't like you."

"But you like liberalism and the Democratic Party," said Jill. "If North wins, he could mobilize the Right like never before. This is a crossroads of history. What Fidel has started, only we can finish. We need you, Gyorgy."

Szabo looked at Valenzuela.

"Please do it," Valenzuela. "Do it for me. For my legacy."

Szabo sighed.

"There will be hell to pay," he said. "The Right knows we stole it from them and to do it again could trigger a civil war. The nation is rioting worse than during Vietnam."

"Leave that to me," said Jim Stinson. "I'll use that to my advantage. They will be portrayed as Right-wing militarists, reactionary racist whites, the usual stuff, and with the media we'll marginalize them. When it's over we can haul those guys in, use martial law, and take control of this country once and for all."

Szabo stares at him.

"Do you have the balls to do this?" he says to Stinson. "This is not a task for a politician, it is a task for a visionary of history, a Mao, a Lenin."

"We have the balls," says Jill Stinson, sternly.

"Gyorgy, we have to do this," Valenzuela says soothingly.

"Look, Fidel, you trailed by seven on October 18 four years ago, and were picking up points in the next two weeks," Szabo says. "I only had to disregard every second or third, every fourth Republican vote – the computers determined the ratio – in key battleground states. We won by almost four. I swing about three, four percentage points off the electorate. It was workable.

"But now, you people trail by double digits, 20 pounts, 21 points. 25? North is on the verge of picking off most of the blue states. He is ahead in Massachusetts, Fidel's home state; in California, in New York, New Jersey, in Washington state. He could win a landslide; 44, 45 states.

"It was one thing to manipulate Ohio, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania. It was very difficult to swing Florida. But if North wins California, New York and Massachusetts, he wins, period. The South is incorruptible, I can't get to them. The battleground states like Ohio, even if I swung the voting machines to give Stinson the win there, it won't matter if you win in California, New York; big blue states."

"Look you old son of a bitch," Jill Stinson interjects, suddenly mean and serious. "I don't want to hear excuses. If we could win it fair and square, that's how we'd do it. Jim and I've been winning in Louisiana for years, a red state, filled with evangelicals. We know how to run campaigns, how to win. But this bitch porn slut and this muckraker - they'll get theirs, oh yes they will – but they've upended all the plans my husband and I have laid out for decades, and we will not be stopped now. We have sacrificed too much and come too far to give the ripest apple on the tree to some nigger Congressman who quotes from the Bible."

"Jill's right, Gyorgy," says Valenzuela. "Look, if he wins, he'll control the media and the Justice Department. He'll go after me on the Libyan embassy, using the IRS to crush the Tea Party, you know what I've done. These two will be in jail for decades, maybe face the death penalty. You'll be prosecuted if they can get to you, anti-trust cases pending, election fraud, do I need to go on?

"If Jim wins, you'll be safe, I'll be safe. What more can the Right say about you, anyway? They already call you the anti-Christ, as if such a thing exists."

Szabo thinks long and hard.

"It won't be easy but we can do it. We'll have to discount every second Republican vote in key GOP precincts in battleground states; and we'll have to discount every third Republican vote in certain swing precincts in blue states. But it can be done. I've been planning this contingency for many years, I just never knew I'd have to use it."

"I know you have, Gyorgy," says President Valenzuela. "You are doing a service to humanity."

Paul North led by 19 points on Election Day in a composite of the RealClearPolitics.com polls. He led by wide margins in every battleground state, which included Michigan, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Wisconsin, Florida, Nevada, and a number of others, by double digits. He had comfortable leads in California, New York and Massachusetts. He led by 30 points in Stinson's home state of Louisiana, which consisted of course of the people who knew his history the most.

On Election Day, the Congressman from Florida was elected President of the United States with 57 percent of the popular. He won 44 states, including California, New York, Massachusetts and New Jersey, all electoral rich blue states. The United States of America thoroughly repudiated Jim and Jill Stinson; Fidel and Missy Valenzuela; the Democratic Party; and liberalism.

This is what happened in God's eyes. It is not what happened in the America of Valenzuela, Szabo and the Stinsons.

Millions of conservatives turned on their televisions to watch the returns. Most had a strange, queasy feeling that despite every indication of a landslide for their side, some malevolent force would steal it from them. Despite it, most simply dismissed this. No, it can't happen here. Not in America, home of the free, land of the brave. But early on in the evening reports from Florida reported North and Stinson were running dead even in North's home state. After 10 percent of the vote, nobody paid too much attention. It must be some liberal counties. Then after 20 percent of the vote was counted, it was still even. Then Stinson pulled ahead by a single digit.

Then some people in Tallahassee walked out of their homes and started gathering in the streets. An hour later, with Stinson still leading, their numbers grew. There were shouts, a few punches grown, some storefront windows broken. Then came news from New Jersey, where a big North upset had been predicted, yet Stinson led by three. More people took to the streets around the country. Frustration ebbed.

Was the election being stolen from them?

While God and many members of the Tea Party knew Congressman Paul North won the Presidency with 57 percent of the vote, Gyorgy Szabo's French vote-counting machines, having been manipulated and fine-tuned by the best technical minds Szabo's money could buy, arrived at a different "conclusion."

Their reality was that Stinson, while losing the popular vote, 49-48, won a bare majority in the Electoral College. It came down to Massachusetts, one of the bluest states in America, and Fidel Valenzuela's old stomping grounds. Between Szabo's machines, Valenzuela's team in the field, and a big help from the Kennedy machine, still a major power in Democratic politics even after the death of Senator Ted Kennedy, Stinson was able to claim "victory." By that time, major American cities from coast to coast were in full riot mode. Paul North never conceded, immediately claiming fraud.

"From 1972 to 1974, the Washington Post moved Heaven and Earth to uncover Watergate and remove Richard Nixon," Congressman North began his first post-election press conference. "But I ask, where was the Post, where was Ben Bradlee, Katharine Graham and Carl Bernstein when just 12 years earlier the greatest political crime in this nation's history, the stealing of the 1960 Presidential election, by John Kennedy's father Joe and Texas Senator Lyndon Johnson from Nixon, occurred? Well, I say to you good journalists out there, here is a greater political crime. Go forth, oh ye giants of the free press, ye knights of the keyboard, and discover just how the Stinsons stole America from you."

The reports of fraud, of abuse, of every kind of chicanery, were rampant and widespread. Reports of Szabo's vote-counting machines freezing up on Republican voters came in from states as disparate as Florida and Alaska. Even Democrats admitted Stinson had stolen it, but many added he did it "fair and square."

Appearing on Fox News, Duke Ramsay said, "What a tragedy. What a murderous

campaign."

The stealing of the election might have been the last straw, the final insult to an American Right-wing that was not about to take it any more, but they had no idea; it had only just begun. They continued to riot, the violence more and more taking on the form of small race wars, with vigilante whites now going into black and Latino gang territory to take out entire sects of Bloods, Crips, La Nuestra, and other groups. The black and Latino gangs more and more went into white suburbs to take out women, children; anybody in their paths. White military members armed themselves and blew them up with bazookas and other heavy ordnance. By year's end, more than 2,000 people had died, and many more were injured.

Sympathy and understanding for the "other side" began to cease. As sides were taken, attitudes hardened. Congressman North indeed did begin the process of recruiting a military. He believed the time had come to take America back, just as the Founding Fathers once believed.

"Thomas Jefferson once said, 'When governments fear the people there is liberty. When

the people fear the government there is tyranny,' " North stated

But Valenzuela accepted the election result, of course, as did the Stinsons, and despite much protest, violence, legal action, a re-count demand, and every other form of displeasure, James Madison Stinson was certified as President of the United States, and on January 20 of the following year made his Inaugural speech. He announced that Valuecare, which by this time had resulted in 60 percent of the American public losing their health insurance, would not be repealed, after promising he would repeal it. Half the hospitals that had existed in America just four years earlier were now out of business or under government "control," which meant they were out of business.

At that speech, however, more than half of the United States Congress – every elected Republican in the House and Senate – did not attend. They were on strike. The GOP refused to be sworn in. Stinson declared they had all forsworn their duties and, over the next months Democratic Governors appointed various Democrats to the Senate. A flurry of special elections were held. No prominent Republicans ran in them. The U.S. was under one party Democratic rule.

Jim Stinson had what he wanted: a dictatorship. There was no opposition party, just Democrats, drunk with power, facing no Republican kickback. They swung to the Left of Che Guevara within a matter of months. Soon there were revolutionary calls for "re-education camps" and other punishments of the Republicans for "crimes against the people."

North, in the mean time, led a growing insurrection of men and women bound and determined never to let their beloved America fall into the hands of the enemy. More violence continued. America now resembled a Middle East hellhole, Syria or Libya. God no longer "shed His grace on thee." The Democrats discovered that anarchy and hopelessness were great recipes for their way of thinking. Only Big Government had the solution to such despair and chaos. A Keynesian answer to problems so big the private sector could not possibly tackle it. Large companies were nationalized. Most Republican businessmen quit, inspired by the hero John Galt of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.

Such were the conditions that gave rise to a Hitler, a Lenin, a Mao.

Absent Republican opposition, Stinson was able to get his cabinet approved with ease. It was incredible, he said; all the trouble caused by that porn bitch and the muckraking writer had resulted in the perfect situation. He had total power now. There was nobody, as Congressman North had once said, "like me to stop him." At least not in the Congress. The Right was rendered more and more mute, militias fighting skirmishes in the back woods of Michigan or street battles in Gary, Indiana. They were completely marginalized by the media, who worshipped Stinson and liberalism. Without anybody to fight it, the FCC instituted the "fairness doctrine," putting into effect "equal time" in which radical liberals were allowed to spout their propaganda on major radio stations during the "drive time" hour (regardless of ratings or advertising demand), although traffic was light. Many stations were now government-controlled. Few people went to work any more. The blacks, almost all on welfare now, their relief checks and food stamp allowances greatly increased, called Stinson the "first black President," a snide back-handed criticism of the half-black Valenzuela, who apparently was like his wife a snooty elitist, never "down with the struggle" after a lifetime of being handed everything, courtesy of the KGB and the Muslim Brotherhood and Walnut and the Democratic Party.

After a while, Randy Lebow, the other conservative radio hosts, and Fox News were all shut down, in some cases at gunpoint by police. The excuse given was that they were inciting violence against the government. Most of the Right-wing media was silenced or marginalized to the point where almost nobody heard them. There were howls on Facebook and Twitter, graffiti scratched on walls, but America suddenly looked like Atlas Shrugged, the desperate scratching on the sides of city buildings, "Who is John Galt?" and "My God, my God, why have you forsaken us?"

So it was that Jim Stinson was able to get his wife, Jill Wyndham-Stinson, confirmed as Secretary of State. This was completely unexpected. Stinson had a short list of prominent liberals lined up. With Republican opposition, he could not have gotten Jill appointed dogcatcher, but they were gone and she was in. The New York Times heralded her "brilliant mind, her feminine grace, who great education, her years of service, her . . ."

But Jill's insistence that she be made Secretary of State puzzled Jim. Every once in a while she just told him she wanted something, with no real explanation why. Some time later, after circumstances had played its way out and her "vision" proven to be a stroke of genius, it made sense, but this did not yet compute to President Stinson. She was the Secretary-General of the United Nations, one of the most prestigious positions imaginable. She and her husband were lined up to win the Nobel Peace Prize for their "brilliant" handling of the Iranian peace accords. Stinson liked the arrangement. She was in New York, living in their Chappaqua mansion, and he was in D.C., away from her meddling and prying, able to bang the occasional bimbo, but with Jill in Washington it would crimp his style.

When a reporter was bold enough to inquire of the scandals of the past couple of years, Jill responded, "I'm not going to have some reporters pawing through our papers. We are the President." She then added, "I'm having a great time being the Pres - I mean Secretary of State."

Secretary of State Jill Stinson's first move was to broker a special deal with China. Prior to this deal, China did not have the technological missile capability to launch rockets from Mainland China to the United States. In return for campaign contributions, some personal graft, and money borrowed to finance endless debt, Jill Stinson sold to the Chinese the technology needed to boost the "throw weights" on their missiles, so that now, for the first time, they could reach American shores. It was, quite simply, an act of treason.

Absent Republicans taking office, there was no chance that Jim Stinson would be Impeached, but there were still some calls for it.

"To confine Impeachable conduct to indictable offenses may well be to set a standard so restrictive as not to reach conduct that might adversely affect the system of government," responded Jill. "Some of the most grievous offenses against our Constitutional form of government may not entail violations of the criminal law...It limits Impeachable conduct to criminal offenses would be incompatible with the evidence . . . and would frustrate the purpose that the framers intended . . . Impeachment was evolved . . . to cope with both the inadequacy of the criminal standards and the impotence of the courts to deal with the conduct of great public figures. It would be anomalous if the framers, having barred criminal sanctions from the Impeachment remedy . . . intended to restrict the grounds for Impeachment to conduct that was criminal."

To this, one of the most convoluted statements ever, most just added, "Huh."

Jim and Jill Stinson did win the Nobel Peace Prize. Asked to comment, Paul North said, "I lost all respect for the Nobel Peace Prize when they gave it to the terrorist Yasser Arafat. The subsequent recipients are little better if not worse."

They traveled to Stockholm and bathed themselves in glory. For a year, the Iranians had behaved. There was no sign of nuclear proliferation. Inspectors gleefully reported that the Iranians had come around. George Close produced another glitzy documentary called Man of Peace, detailing first how Fidel Castro Valenzuela, then the great Jim and Jill Stinson, along with Fidel and Missy the greatest "two-fers" in political history, had skillfully overcome conservative opposition to achieve world peace, at last. It was awarded an Oscar. The liberal media – that was all really left by now – completely departed from the template of Stinson's "stolen" election. Many started saying whether he stole it or not was immaterial; it was an act of service on behalf of Mankind, proof that liberalism is the only valid ideology.

The atheist Stinson brought his Bible to Stockholm, the one with a giant cross on it so every camera would capture what it was. At the ceremony he quoted from Isaiah: "And he shall judge among the nations, and shall free up many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more."

"We must stop thinking of the individual and start thinking about what is best for society," Secretary of State Stinson told the assembled, sounding exactly like V.I. Lenin. The media had long come around to Stinson, convinced that he was "wicked smart," a man for his times, the ultimate peace maker, and without those pesky Republicans, America and the world could finally move on to the business of peace.

Stinson finally managed to extricate himself from his wife at the end of a long day of parties, awards and fete, meeting up with Hart Hadley, who unbeknownst to Jill - or so Jim thought - was waiting in his hotel room with the latest PartyChick of the Year, from the Swedish version of PartyChicks magazine. A bottle of Champagne was opened, the girl stripped to her lingerie, she began to perform oral sex on Stinson, while Hadley sniffed lines of cocaine off her smooth, tanned back. Then there was a knock on the door.

"What the hell do you want?" Stinson yelled.

"Sorry, sir, we have a situation, critical," a Secret Service agent, said through the door.

"Ah Christ on a cross," Stinson declared, throwing his clothes on and going into the hallway, closing the door behind him so the agent would not see the girl, Hadley or the coke.

Israel had been bombed.

Jim and Jill Stinson immediately met with his National Security team on Air Force One, where he learned that it was not just a "bombing," a garden variety terrorist explosion: Jerusalem had been nuked.

Jerusalem. Where Christ had preached and then been crucified to save man from his sins. The city of the Crusades. The city of the three great religions. Symbol of God's covenant with man. Israel, little Israel, surrounded by Muslim hatred, winner of three land wars with Arab armies. A survivor no more. Reports quickly determined there were few survivors. The bombing had been total and complete, the fallout would assure many, many more would perish, and this eternal city was eternal no more.

No sooner had reports come in about Jerusalem than a second report came in: another nuclear bomb had been exploded in Houston, Texas. Houston, home of a big league baseball team, a pro football franchise, an NBA club, a major university, some of the largest oil refineries and companies in the world; and 2.1 million people.

Houston, perhaps the most conservative city in the world. Deeply Christian, rabidly anti-Democrat, where hatred of Valenzuela and Stinson had reached epic heights.

Nuked. The city and most of its population, wiped off the face of the Earth.

Stinson's NSC advisors briefed him throughout the long flight home from Stockholm. He was told in no uncertain terms, if this was indeed the Iranians, operating through Hezbollah, he needed to send a nuclear bomb to Tehran, and for good measure put radical Islam to sleep once and for all: nuke Mecca and Medina.

"I welcome this opportunity," Stinson told his advisors. "This is my chance at greatness, to consolidate this country once and for all, to get the Right on my side, to win a big war like FDR."

Me, me. I. I.

His advisors agreed. Tehran was dust. Mecca and Medina, that would require a little more thinking, but it was not off the table.

Stinson made a speech to the American people, promising to "find the despicable terrorists who did this and return the favor. I reserve judgment, but early reports are that Iran used the peace agreement to carry out a 'sneak attack.' When this is confirmed, I promise that America will rise up in her 'righteous anger' and engage in a full retaliatory response."

All the harping and criticizing of the American Right ceased, at least for a little while. There was some initial displeasure with Stinson for being gullible enough to sign a nuclear treaty with Iran that left America open to a strike, but these were desperate times, and the nation needed to find common resolve. The Republican Senators and Congressmen who had left apologized, vowing to support their President. A call to arms went throughout the land, to stir a nation. All the riots, the racial violence, the skirmishes, came to an end. War fever gripped the nation, a desire to start World War III.

****

It was a political meeting. Among the attendees were President Jim Stinson, Vice President Joseph Broadmoor, Speaker of the House Nancy Gallardo, and the President pro tempore of the Senate, Lewis "Ducky" Medwick, an obscure old timer from Maine so nicknamed because his last name was the same as Hall of Fame baseball star Joe "Ducky" Medwick, the last National Leaguer to win the Triple Crown.

The subject, of course, was retaliation against Iran. It was quickly agreed that if Stinson did not react swiftly and quickly, formal opposition from the Right would form, screaming for Stinson's head, and calling for prosecution of Valenzuela, for the crimes of treason in signing a deal with the Iranians that gave them carte blanche to build "the bomb." Absent a Congressional Right to oppose them, except for the Tea Party "nut jobs," as the press called them, the Stinsons received plaudits from a press corps that saw this as his great opportunity to make his mark on history. Jim Stinson: commander in chief.

Many in the military had abandoned their posts after Stinson's election, convinced they served a Constitution, not an illegitimate President, especially when many felt the previous one had been illegitimate as well. But many others returned after Houston went up in flames, itching to get some "trigger time" against Muslim savages who had it coming.

The meeting in between the President, his V.P., the Speaker of the House, the President pro tempore, and a few other advisors, concerned certain political ramifications of a retaliatory strike, namely concern that they not blame Islam for the killing of several million people just killed by Islamists. A TV commercial would be needed, one that asked Muslims to forgive them for protecting America, or something along those lines.

Then the explosion hit. A huge, incendiary bomb that ripped apart the entire White House. President Jim Stinson: gone. His Vice President: gone. The Speaker of the House and President pro tempore of the Senate, both dead. Thousands of officials, aides, advisors, military personnel and White House staff: all gone in an instant.

The news hit like a thunderbolt. Then a message: the Muslim Brotherhood, Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda and Iran had joined forces in a worldwide Islamic crusade against the infidel. They were behind the nuclear strikes in Jerusalem and Houston, and now the destruction of the White House. All Muslims were tasked by Allah to join in jihad. The armies of Middle Eastern nations, the statement read, would gather as one in world war against the West. They now had fully armed nuclear weapons and planned to use them "at a time and place of our choosing."

Around the time that a stunned America came to grips with the destruction of the White House and the death of Jim Stinson, it hit everybody like a slap against the face; according to the line of succession, the Secretary of State is fifth behind the Vice-President, Speaker of the House and President pro tempore of the Senate. They were all dead.

Jill Wyndham-Stinson, unelected, the most hated and adored woman in the world, was behind the bombing of the White House. It was all her doing, all planned by her and a small cadre of loyalists who worshipped her like a god. It had been planned to its most meticulous detail for decades. Now she was President of the United States. Millions of Americans suspected she had been behind it, but the liberals squelched such "unpatriotic" talk, insisting now more than ever the nation stay together, behind Jill Stinson, the only person in their view who could deliver peace in this most troubling period in world history.

The Joint Chiefs gathered within a day of the White House bombing in a special situation room at the Pentagon, which would have to serve as "the White House" at least for now. Jim was planning a nuclear strike against Tehran, she was told; maybe further retaliation against Muslim holy sites. The intelligence was still coming in, but it was obvious Iran had betrayed the agreement, signed more than a year earlier by both Stinsons and Valenzuela. They admitted as much in their statement. They had bombed Jerusalem, Houston, and now the White House. Iran had never disavowed Hezbollah, the lie believed by Valenzuela and Jim Stinson. Instead, they had banded with the Muslim Brotherhood, a rival organization, and Al-Qaeda to form a new Islamic Empire, combining ancient civilizations from Egypt and Persia, to rightfully regain what had been lost to the Greeks, the Romans, the British, the Jews, and the Americans over many centuries.

It was all out war. Congress should declare war. The entire military must be mobilized. Ground troops must invade Iran and occupy her after the nuclear first strike. The military men were less sure about bombing Mecca and Medina, or Cairo or Baghdad or Somalia, but if Jill Stinson had ordered all those places turned into fire then and there, all within American capability, they would have smiled, saluted, said, "Yes, ma'am," dispatching orders to Strategic Air Command in Omaha forthwith.

But that was not what President Jill Stinson ordered them to do.

"No," she told them. It was a one-word order. Stand down We don't fight.

For a while, the military men wondered if Jill had some grand scheme up her sleeve. She was supposed to be "the smartest woman in the world," according to Newsweek. She "ran rings around her male advisors," according to Time. She was nuanced and full of nerve, not jumpy and reactionary like these Right-wing militarists. But over time, her lack of action became her message. She was not going to retaliate.

The former elected Republicans who, hat in hand, vowed support first of her husband, then of her, in the wake of nuclear bombings, abandoned her. Many of the military men resigned. There were wholesale defections throughout the ranks. Violence and rioting spread throughout the county. Many thousands died. She declared martial law. America was a police state.

****

Michelle Woodward Goodson and her husband, Alan Goodson, had invited Duke Ramsay to their home in California. Heads bowed, they asked God to forgive them, for the unintended consequences of their actions. Michelle's affair with Jim Stinson opened a Pandora's box of events, each spiraling out of control, with the worst possible consequences first upon their personal lives, then upon the nation and the world. The Stinson Body Count, Goodson's helping Duke as a modern "Deep Throat," the election of Valenzuela, then the stealing of the election by Stinson, followed by the rise of the evil Jill, all triggering, it seemed, World War II, made them truly wonder who it was they were serving. How could such good intentions end up going so terribly awry?

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Ramsay said.

Michelle was particularly flummoxed. No sooner had she found happiness – Christian faith and a good husband – than everything was turned against her. She could not walk down the street without being recognized as the "gangbang queen."

But her new Christianity stuck. She did not turn from it just because things had turned against her. "God gives us only what we can handle," she told Alan. "Because of Him, now I can handle this."

The three of them open to Paul's Letter to the Corinthians and are engaged in Bible reading when the door bursts open. Five armed men, all special security personnel working for President Jill Stinson, surround them.

"We've got 'em," their leader says into his wireless device. "All three. The girl and both of them."

"Proceed as planned," he is told.

"It's a go," he tells the others.

"Are you going to kill us?" Ramsay asks him.

"Yes, we are," he replies.

"May we pray one last time?" Ramsay asks him.

The man arches his eyebrows.

"Make it quick."

Ramsay, Michelle and Alan, on their knees, their Bibles on the floor in front of them, then hold hands.

"Before we depart this Earth," Ramsay intones, "we ask that you forgive us our sins, grant us eternal salvation in Jesus' name, as we forgive these men who have come to trespass against us."

Michelle and Goodson stare at him. "You must do this," Ramsay tells them.

"I forgive them," Goodson says.

"I forgive them," says Michelle. "Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do."

Then the shots ring out.

Blood splatters against walls, bodies fall, one on top of the Bibles on the floor. Rapid-fire machine gun bursts have wiped out all of Jill Stinson's "octopus squad." Into the room like a ton of bricks bursts Lieutenant Colonel Paul North, dressed in full military camouflage, along with Don Rainer, and 10 other militia, armed to the teeth.

Ramsay and the others stare at them, not believing their eyes.

" 'A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people,' " North says to them. "Will you join us in the Second American Revolution?"

"Give me liberty or give me death," states Duke Ramsay.

The age of chivalry is dead

"The Revelation" was held at President Jill Wyndham-Stinson's secret headquarters. She could not go back to New Orleans; Louisiana had joined the rebel forces fighting her government. The country was in civil war. The military was depleted by at least half, and much expensive weaponry had been pilfered from it stockpiles, to be used, quite possibly, in a pitched battle between the forces of freedom, as they saw themselves, and a corrupt government that had been stolen along with their country from them.

Invited to "the Revelation" were former President Fidel Castro Valenzuela, his wife Melissa "Missy" Valenzuela, longtime Stinson political operative Don Carver, and the media mogul Gyorgy Szabo. Each had been told ahead of time that it was a moment of crisis. Their particular wisdom, consultation and advice was needed by the new President, facing intense pressure even from the Left for what many called treason; the failure to respond to the nuclear attack of Houston, and the destruction of the White House, from Iran; not to mention the leveling of Jerusalem.

The guests made their way into President Stinson's study. The door was locked behind them. There were no microphones or recording devices. They could speak candidly.

"Thank you for inviting us, Ms. President," Missy starts the conversation.

"Call me Master," replies Jill.

Missy stares at her for a second, then gets on her knees, bowing before her. "Yes, Master," she practically sobs. "As you command, Master."

"What in the hell is goin' on here?" asks Carver.

"Missy, what is wrong with you?" Fidel asks his wife.

"Bow before your Master, Fidel," Missy tells him.

"What?"

"Master of what?" asks Gyorgy Szabo.

"President Stinson, what is happening here?" asks Fidel.

"Jill Wyndham-Stinson is just a name I use for purposes of convenience, President of the United States is just a position I have assumed in order to further my plans," she replies. "I have used many names, many aliases, many guises, of both sexes, but for now, use a name I like: Louise Cifer."

"Louise Cifer?" replies Fidel. "I don't understand."

"Jesus Christ -" exclaims Carver

"Do not blaspheme, Don," Jill states.

"Don't . . . blaspheme? Oh my G- oh Ch- oh no," Carver bursts out. "Louise Cifer. Lucifer!"

"Oh hooray for the great Don Carver," replies Jill. "The smartest political man I know, whose lies and shady deals won my husband so many elections, brought us so much money through so much graft. Delivered to us power and prestige and world acclaim. Thank you, Don, you have served me well."

"I have served you," Carver exclaims. Then he gets on his knees and begins to pray, babbling like a tiny baby.

"Please God forgive me, please Christ have mercy upon my soul, oh please delivereth me from evil, oh God forgive me, Christ is Lord, Christ is Lord, Christ is Lord, Christ is Lord -."

"Would you like a bible," Jill says to him. He stares at her in abject fear. She grabs a book from her desk and tosses it in front of Don. It is the Satanic Bible.

He looks at it and keeps babbling away, asking God to forgive him, exclaiming Christ's merciful ways, and the like. Then Jill waves her hand, and like that he is rendered mute. His lips move, but not a sound emanates from his mouth. He kneels, sweats, exclaims, in silent agony.

"Faith come through hearing," says President Stinson, "but no one hears you."

"I do not believe in the devil," says Szabo. "I am an atheist."

"Oh, my dear Gyorgy, I love atheists," she replies. "My greatest accomplishment, as has so often been said, is that I convinced the world I lack existence. But let me remind you of something."

She waves her hand, and suddenly an image appears out of thin air, as like a giant big screen television in the middle of the room. There they all see a young Gyorgy Szabo, a Jew in a Nazi concentration camp during World War II. In Hungarian, Szabo kneels and exhorts, "Oh Satan, if you exist, grant me escape from this place and I will serve you."

"I never said that," Szabo says to Jill/anti-Christ

"Are you calling me a liar?" Jill/anti-Christ says, laughing at him. "Why, of course you did. I asked that you deliver your fellow Jews to the Nazi ovens. You happily did so. Afterward, I mesmerized you – some I prefer to mesmerize so they are not burdened by our . . . agreement during the course of their lives . . . in the doing of their duties. But in return for sending a large number of these Jews to the gas chambers, I gave you a cable news network, billions in hedge fund profits, back room political power unseen in the history of the Democratic Party . . . do you remember now?"

Suddenly, Szabo recalls. He bows his head, trying to absorb this, then stares at Jill/anti-Christ.

"So, I have served you well. Am I to be rewarded?"

She smiles. "Of course, Gyorgy. Of course. I am well pleased with your good works. You will get what you deserve."  
"Thank you . . . Master."

Carver gets up and runs to the door, but it is locked and he cannot get out. Still muted, he falls to the ground, agonized.

"Missy called you Master," says Fidel. "What does that mean?"

"Explain to your incompetent husband, Missy," says Jill/anti-Christ. "Explain to his dumb spick-negro face and his Dumbo ears."

"I conjured Satan when we were first married," Missy says, smiling. "You agreed, and the devil granted us power, glory, honor, political victory; all the things you have had. All you ever asked for."

"But I don't recall this," says Fidel.

"You were mesmerized, as Gyorgy was," Missy explains. "You needed to believe you did it on your own."

"And you thought you were serving the Soviet Union and the Muslim Brotherhood, you dumb spick-negro," says Jill/anti-Christ. "They all serve me."

"You knew about that?" says Fidel.

"Do I look stupid to you, Ears?" asks Jill/anti-Christ, happily mocking Valenzuela's large ears. "I know all. That faggot Jones who taught you how to blow hard dick and swallow semen. The fact they had to pump you with eight Viagra and provide dicksmokers to get you hard enough to impregnate Missy. I know how you paid for your coke, and that your drug dealer became this stupid negro rapper, and he was shooting his load in your wet mouth when those Navy SEALs were killed as you sat, derelict in your duty, in a Las Vegas hotel room, packed with high-grade cocaine. I know the Muslim Brotherhood took over as you masters, and ordered the deal with Iran that we now see has, quite literally, blown up in your face."

She laughs. "My stupid husband, who by the way was a Soviet protégé of his own, fell for that hook, line and sinker. So here we are."

Carver is beside himself, rolling on the ground. Missy is on her knees, smiling at her Master. Fidel slowly goes to his knees.

"Am I to be rewarded, then?" he asks, nervously, tentatively.

"Of course, Fidel," replies Jill/anti-Christ.

She stares at Gyorgy.

"On your knees, Gyorgy. Now."

He slowly goes to his knees.

"This is always my favorite part," says Jill/anti-Christ. "I love revealing my plans and I just loooove the reaction of my disciples."

Missy is beside herself with joy; she has met her Master and been praised for doing such pleasing work. Valenzuela and Szabo are very unsure of this situation. They are literally dealing with fire. Carver is virtually insane, going out of his mind in the corner of the room.

"You all have served me well," says Jill/anti-Christ. "Now it is time for me to reveal my . . . tradecraft, so to speak. But first, indulge me in a little history lesson.

"Now, I have been around since the beginning as you know," Jill/anti-Christ continues. "I have been at war with God since I was cast out of Paradise. After Adam and Eve, the world was mine. Man was given free will, and more often than not he chose my way, not God's. The Nazarene was born to spite me, and since then it has been a struggle in which God and I have used men, nations, armies and empires in this eternal war.

"As they say, you win some, you lose some. Ha!"

She laughs, pleased with herself.

"National Israel, the Chosen People," she continues, spitting the words out. "Oh, those stiff-necked Jews, how disobedient and sinful they were, even after they knew God's plan for them. Couldn't help themselves. But God kept . . . forgiving them, until finally they rejected the Nazarene. He could not forgive this outrage, and poof, national Israel was the Promised Land no more. But the Nazarene surprised me. I have to give Him credit for that. Gone but not forgotten he was, but this war takes on many forms, evil slithers in and out of the lives, the affairs of man, in so many ways; man cannot keep track of it.

"A war, a crusade, some battle is won, the forces of the Nazarene achieve some Pyrrhic victory, but I am never defeated. I just re-emerge. I find another victim. So we move forward. I hope I'm not boring you, I always loved history."

"No Master, no, please enlighten us with knowledge and brilliance," says Missy.

"Why thank you, Missy," says Jill/anti-Christ, her voice saccharine-sweet, dripping with false niceties. "By the way, I always liked your ugly little mouth. It was shaped in such an odd way, curled up, just perfect for the dispensation of the many lies and false works you have allowed to drip from it in my service. It is really quite fashionable."

"Thank you, Master, I am made in your image."

"You don't know what my image is but you will," says Jill/anti-Christ. "Anyway, I got religions to war against each other. The Muslims practically conquered Europe. For a few centuries there I thought the Nazarene had just left it all to me, then He stepped in and gave Charles Martel victory in the Battle of Tours. Are you familiar with the Battle of Tours, Fidel."

"No, Master," Valenzuela says, bowing his head.

"All that high priced education you received in the Ivy League. Perhaps you were sucking off the rap star J-C, er, Calvin as he was then known, the day the class was held, but then again, I saw to it that these great institutions reject Catholic jingoism in favor of 'black studies' and other such rubbish. It matters not; you were passed along in affirmative action manner without doing any real work or accomplishment. I love affirmative action!

"Anyway, I digress. The Catholics were still denied Jerusalem. I infiltrated their great church, of course, and militarized them, made them political, made them thirst for power, and of course one of my great masterpieces was the Spanish Inquisition. I liked that!

"So the Jews were scattered in Diaspora, racism spread, along with disease and corruption and modernism. The French Revolution was a particularly fine invention of mine, and frankly I again began to think that perhaps the old bastard had ceded it all to me. Given up on people. The French Revolution started man on a road towards Communism and Socialism and Nazism, all such great favorites of mine. None of this could have made it easy, to use an American term, to reach first base had it not been for Darwin and his theory of evolution, the poor sap. Just wanted to study plants and animals, you know, but I was there in the Galapagos Islands, of course, and saw to it that he came up with much more than that!

"By this time, I needed a new course. The British were promoting free trade and nations were going Democratic. All very distasteful. But of course racism is such a dirty sin. By the way, Fidel, I particularly have loved the lies you told so eloquently, blaming everything on racism"

Valenzuela is sweating profusely. Her sarcastic manner and direction of so much of it toward him is making him very uncomfortable. He is hoping against hope that his wife's commitment to the devil would grant him favor, but he is unsure. Will he be spared hell, or given a place of comfort in hell? Is such a thing possible?

"Thank you . . . Master," he mumbles.

"Anyway, of course there was real racism, not the kind you told about the Tea Party. Anyway, the 20th Century was such a beautiful century. The eugenics movement, Margaret Sanger, even British social Darwinism, in which those chaps got it into their heads that because such a tiny island nation ruled so many dark-skinned people, this was some proof of their genetic superiority. Ha!

"But of course, good old Margaret began the abortion movement, and this was one of my great prizes. First, all the intellectuals and happy liberals in England like the beloved Mr. George Bernard Shaw started talking about humanely killing the lame. Oh joy. A pill, or an injection. The lame, the dumb, the feeble. Unneeded by Mankind, so let us do them a favor and painlessly put them to death. Such a delicious concept. And of course I whispered all of this into Adolf's ear and, well, you all know the rest. They did teach that at Harvard, correct Fidel."

"Yes, Master," Valenzuela feebly replies.

"So glad. By now two world wars and a Holocaust and Communism and the gulags have reduced the value of human life next to nothing. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, as I told Lenin. Humans have this wonderful mechanism; they can feel compassion for an animal, a single little baby or kid, a few people scattered here or there, but as Stalin repeated my line, much beyond that it's all just statistics.

"Communism was my greatest invention. It was even better than abortion. But of course Mao and Red China turned abortion into an art form. They are so good at it, it should be made an Olympic sport. God hates to see people getting killed, but he especially hates little unborn children not being born. For some reason it irks the old bastard no end. So I am very proud to have convinced the American Democrats that this is some sort of feminist issue.

"But of course, all of this is something of a regurgitation. Call it a survey course, from Professor Louise Cifer, Ph.D., Radcliffe and Harvard Law School. Ha. Radcliffe and Harvard graduated the anti-Christ. Congratulations. Ah, th Crimson, school days, romance with 'Jim-boy.'

"But of course the four of you are here, together, for a very special purpose. You have each made a vital contribution to the final piece in my puzzle. Let me regress just a minute, and go back a couple of centuries, because I must say the old bastard threw a loop at me. I had been led to believe that Israel was the Promised Land, the Jews the Chosen People, blah blah blah. They were, but the Diaspora was a really nifty piece of work on my behalf.

"I thought I was only left to deal with individuals, a very easy proposition and one I am most adept at handling. Temptation is easy. A bag of gold, some jewels, a woman with big knockers or a shapely mouth uttering the promises of saliva-heaven in the form of a blow job – you know about giving those, Fidel – and a man is turned to putty. He will turn from God in a second. Women, they can be bought with wrath over cheating husbands, desire to get some fellow's money. These and a billion other things.

"The bastard's will so often repent, the crappy sons of bitches. They will sin over and over and over, but keep repenting. I hate that. God makes it so easy to be forgiven, but of course some just fall by the wayside, to quote the Nazarene. A little bit of drugs, a little too much narcissism or fame or power . . . why Missy, am I describing you?"

"Yes, Master."

"Of course I am, and you too Don."

Carver is still curled up, writhing in a ball in the corner, trying to shout and pray, muted into total silence.

"Anyway, the point of today's discussion: the United States of America. The old bastard creates America. I did not see that coming, either. The Promised Land. This is a very hard nut to crack, because when God favors a whole country, when he makes it exceptional, the people start getting very thankful, and when that happens they turn to the Nazarene, and when they turn to the Nazarene they are at war with me. And when somebody declares war on me, I declare war on them.

"This little country with all of its Biblical names like New Canaan and Bethel and Bethlehem, and all this rot-gut. And in no time flat a few agrarian colonies have grown into the most powerful country on Earth. Rome and Alexander's Greece, to name two of my favorite empires, were pikers in comparison. Of course, it was all in just the nick of time. The old bastard saw me coming from a mile away with the French Revolution.

"Slavery? Oh wasn't this rich. He gets slave owners to frame the laws used to free them, once and for all. I loved slavery. Sex trafficking is fun but just not the same, know what I mean?

Then Germany tries to win the Industrial Revolution, but here come all these Doughboys in the Argonne. Next round. Adolf my darling and that little Nip, they had a good thing going. Dwight Eisenhower? Are you kidding me? Dwight Eisenhower? A clerk in the Philippines. I had America in the palm of my hands with the New Deal, the government was filled with Communists, Hollywood was a cesspool of 'em, but now along comes this hick from Kansas and that is the end of Hitler and Japan and now I'm beginning to wonder if maybe God really can win this thing.

"Then Israel comes into being. Imagine my frustration, I've murdered six million of these lousy Kuykes and God somehow turns that to their political advantage, and now they have a country again. Of course, that lousy book the old bastard wrote, and that crazy son of a bitch John of Patmos wrote that most disturbing chapter on, in Revelation; well, when Israel came into being it was game on, because now I knew we were in the end of days."

"Are you not able to know the end time, Master?" asks Missy.

"The old bastard won't reveal it to me," she replies. "You can no doubt tell by now I'm not going to quote from that pile of pages He put out. My book is so much clearer, much better edited, a real self-help tome. His is jumpy, lacks cohesion, I wouldn't spend two bucks for it but what the hell!?

"But you know where I'm going with this, you know, don't make me say it . . . 'not even the angels in Heaven . . . no man shall know the time and place,' enough, lest it just remain a mystery, but that little island prisoner revealed a lot I could use. 'Wars and rumors of wars,' earthquakes, signs and wonders. You didn't really think 'global warming' was man made, did you?

"Anyway, He did me a favor of a sort, because he made me realize what I really needed to do. I was wasting my time getting dictators in Germany, Japan and Russia to enslave and murder millions, and destroy France, and all this good stuff. It was really fun, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't getting me anywhere. In fact, it was working against me, because all these worshippers of the Nazarene in this . . . Promised Land began to actually realize they were exceptional, and instead of giving themselves credit, they were praising the Nazarene. I hate that. Gawd's country, and all that.

"But I'm a resourceful devil, don't you now. Mankind is my resource, they come up with stuff on their own that I can use so nicely, and so I set out to weaken this country, because if I could weaken America, the rest of the world would fall just like that apple in the Garden of Eden. That son of a bitch Reagan, you remember that lousy no good rotten SOB, he called it a shining city on a hill, the 'last, best hope of man on Earth.'

"I really listened to Reagan. Most politicians, they just mouth rotgut and platitudes, but this son of a bitch, I have to hand it to the old thespian, he was right on point. You have to know your enemy, so I got to know Reagan.

"The old bastard really opens up doors for me sometimes. I don't really know His game for sure, but just when it looks like He's got me beat he keeps me in the game somehow. After the Berlin Wall fell, and all those enslaved Slavs and riff-raff and human garbage that Hitler and Stalin tried to get rid of . . . they just kept being born, and now a billion Eastern Europeans are suddenly freed by this, this . . . this actor! Eureka College, are you kidding me? And that pizz poor Pope, and some Polack union hack, and the next thing I know it's looking bad. People started talking how it was the 'end of history' and how 'peace is breaking out all over.' I needed to go into overdrive.

"Well, if I say so myself, this is when I do my best work. I am particularly proud at how I handled the Eastern European situation. The women over there are quite physically attractive. I have always found sexy chicks to be my best tools. They can get men to do anything. Well, look at Eastern Europe today. Go to Poland and ask who their national heroes are. Will they reply, 'Lech Walesa'? No, of course not, no Catholic heroes or resistance fighters, but instead their heroes are porn stars with massive silicone boobs and mouths that can suck the chrome off a Trabant's fender.

"Poland, Budapest, Germany; these porn chicks also are fashion models, they are role models for every young hottie from every little town. Go to these little villages. The Communists eliminated all the churches, official atheism for 50 or 60 years will make people look for other gods. Parents and brothers are now proud that their little sisters and daughters are the most successful prostitutes in the region. They feed their families that way. Whores, strippers, porn stars. Hungarian women are so slutty, so nasty, they'll do anything. 30 years ago would a girl eat the jizz shot in her mouth by 35 men? Would she let a hundred guys jack off all over her face? Hell no. But today? I can find you a hundred such scenes on the Internet in five minutes. Just look at this."

She reaches into her desk and pulls out the DVD Cum One, Cum All: A PartyChick's Gangbang Adventure starring Michelle Woodward. She tosses it at Gyorgy Szabo.

"Oh my," he exclaims when he sees the cover depicting Michelle after countless men had ejaculated all over her face.

"Do you believe that little whore who Jim and my good pal Hart Hadley were banging?" states Jill/anti-Christ. "I sent my security men, my best guys in to kill her and that Ramsay and that FBI wannabe. They had them all lined up and do you know Ramsay exhorted them to 'forgive them their trespasses' before they shot them, and that little tramp uttered with the same mouth that sucked countless schlong, 'Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do'? It really makes me wonder what the world's coming to. Then that Bible-thumper Army guy comes in and mows all my people down, and now they're all off in the hills fighting this 'civil war,' this 'Second American Revolution.'

"This reminds me of the blacks. Thought I could really get those niggers. I always could manipulate the worst in human nature in Africa. I'm really kind of from Africa, sort of, at least by the Darwinian model, but that's a different story. But the blacks are so stuuu-piiiid, you know, I figured they were easy prey for the Communists. I got Paul Robeson to rope Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier into Communism as easy as pie, but the old bastard really has rigged the game against me. First, he got Poitier to leave because he could see he'd make so much money in Hollywood. Capitalism! Leave it to the old bastard to devise a way to use my best weapon in His favor. Fine, I lose Poitier, but do you know what Robeson did at the end? It really frosts me to this day. That son of a bitch thanked God for his singing talent on his deathbed, told somebody he renounced the Communists, and accepted the Nazarene. Paul Robeson, for 77 years he was all mine, and for five minutes he's the Nazarenes, and now he's lost to me forever. Is that fair?

"That Belafonte. You know, I can't even count on his narcissistic ass. On his death bed I suppose some pastor or some believer will try to shove a Bible up his ass and then, poof, all my work will be for nothing and he'll be saved. I've seen this happen so many damn times."

She looks around the room, and they all stare at her.

"The damn niggers. I really hate Branch Rickey and Jackie Robinson, I hate those guys. I hate Martin Luther King. If only he'd not have used all that flowery Biblical language about mountaintops and 'mine eyes can see the . . .' well you know what he said. Don't make me repeat it. But Robinson really let the cat out of the bag when he goes in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee and told those self-righteous Republicans the Communists wanted to take over the Civil Rights Movement but 'the black community is too Christian to let them do it!' Oh I could've just torn his tongue out when he said that."

"Excuse me, Master," interjects Valenzuela. "May I ask a question?"

"Of course, boy, of course."

"Was Jim Stinson aware of exactly who you are?"

"Fine question, boy. The answer is no, just as I mesmerized you into believing you 'accomplished' all on your own, his ego needed to believe he did it by virtue of his own skills. But Jim was a brilliant man. He was quite capable of rising in America, I just attached myself to him when I could see his potential, but he had the goods and was perfectly capable of the duplicity needed to get to where he got. He never conjured me or asked for me. He was an atheist all the way. Many of my best people did it all on their own.

"But you, Fidel, you are different. I'm afraid you lack Jim's brilliance, in fact you have a touch of the dumb ass. You are quite an incompetent, really. If every well meaning liberal from birth onward had not elevated the Mexican-black-Egyptian child to the next level perhaps you could have learned to work your way up on your own, but after the madrassa you were being handled, you had no self-motivation beyond the lies you believed about yourself.

"You'll understand what happened next, this all occurred in your lifetimes and it is where you all come in, because you have done more to help with all of this than anybody else. Abortion, gay marriage, the glorification of homosexuality, no more prayer in public schools, immorality on TV and in the movies.

"I am very pleased with Hart Hadley. I was so happy to help him get elected Governor of California, and the first thing he did was institute Gay Pride Day. What a great word: pride. The sins of pride and vanity, my favorite sins. He gets these faggots to dress up with ball gags and loincloths and prance around screaming how proud they are to be dicksmokers and lesbos. Ter-ri-fic. They'll never repent of their sins and then they're all mine. All those faggots have to do is just admit these strange predilections are a sin and, like that porn slut Woodward, all of it is forgiven and they are saved! Saved! After all my hard work. But you make them proud; that's when you can lock 'em in, and oh how I love to see their prissy little faces when they see those flames just waitin' for 'em. In ya go, prissy boy. 'All you had to do was admit it to God,' I'd tell 'em, just so they can regret while being tortured for the next 100 billion years.

"The Internet has really proven to be a double-edged sword for me. On the one hand I get all the child molesters organized, all the kiddie porn easily accessible, all the escort services and the screw videos streaming and the social sites with stupid teenagers postings all sorts of lies about each other, and what-not. I've gotten a lot of suicides that way. But son of a bitch if the old bastard - and this I have to admit he used America to do – manages to get His saving words out to all the negroes in Africa and the chinks in China and the spicks and the tar babies and the island sluts and all these natives I thought were just left over to me. Figured God had no use for 'em, just dumb heathens, you understand, but noooooo, now niggers whose names even I can't spell are reaching out to white Christians in freaking Alabama or some place and extending Christian brotherhood on Facebook. What the hell was Birmingham and Selma for if not to divide the races and now I've got pricks whose fathers were in the KKK exchanging Bible verses with Nairobi Negros. 'Every life is precious, we are all the children of God,' and that nonsense. Uuuuuugggghhh!"

Everybody stares at her, startled out of their wits when, for just a second, her appearance takes on the visage of horned animal surrounding by flames. Then she morphs back into Jill Stinson, aka Louise Cifer, the anti-Christ.

"Anyway, the Christians lost their leadership when the world became 'politically correct' in the 1990s. Got overconfident, thought they'd won after the Cold War. They should have paid more attention when they saw Eastern Europe wasn't turning Christian as much as they were turning to porn featuring lily white girls getting gangbanged by Africans.

"That Paul North, he sure saw it quite clearly, I must admit. Step by step, I was able to prepare America for you, Fidel, my special project. Really, you should be proud, you really are 'the messiah, the one.' You're 2,000 years in coming. It took me that long to make it possible. Did you know Judas was the first liberal? Remember how he expressed displeasure over the anointing of pissant with oil before the Jews handed him to the centurions? Oh, well, sure he could sell it to feed the poor. He wasn't gonna use it to feed the poor any more than the Great Society ended poverty.

"Really, all of history is contained in a few short Bible passages, but man is too arrogant and stiff-necked to really see it, but the Roman Empire was Big Government. Who were the sinners? Tax collectors. The IRS you used so skillfully to nail the Tea Party.

"Jim was right, when he was a kid you'd a been serving him his coffee, but I finally channeled liberal guilt right where I wanted it to go. I really like the way your nose is upturned after you make some pronouncement. Your arrogance, the way you get people to think you're smart even though nobody knows a book you've ever read, all of this is very admirable. Oh, and I really love the way you bow down to Muslim dictators, plus how when the Christians were persecuted in the Middle East, you were just sittin' on your hands. That was good work in my book! I also liked how you ignored the pleas of Americans jailed by Al-Qaeda. Bravo.

"Now, take Valuecare. I love huge, massive federal projects nobody understands that benefit nobody. Congratulations. But let me tell you where I will take it. Most people won't be able to afford it. Eventually the government will seize their private property to pay for it. Private property is the cornerstone of American capitalism. Over time I'll confiscate property and the will of the individual will be broken down to nothing.

"I love all the regulations you signed into law, the way it strangles enterprise. North was a smart bastard, he said it out loud; all those laws and rules eventually will lead to a 'night of the long knives' in which all my enemies will be arrested for breaking environmental, tax, and other laws, their property confiscated, and nobody will be left to fight for them. I'll model it on Hitler's Reichstag fire, Kristallnacht and the rounding up of Ernst Rohm.

"I know you were disappointed not getting that third term, then a fourth, like Roosevelt, but I had Missy tell you no, I had my reasons and now you see what they were. Each of you had a role to play. Jim played his role, he's gone now, I'm President and the world's in chaos. Hey, hey, hey. The Millennium!! What's gone right since 2000?

" 'Moreover Jehovah said, Because the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with outstretched necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet.' That's me. God no longer 'sheds His grace on thee.' "

"So, the United States has always been your ultimate prize, is that what you are saying?" asks Szabo.

"You know, I always hated Paul Harvey," replies Jill/anti-Christ. "He and that rotten Reagan both died saved. I love to get politicians and pontificators, but those two I could never get to. But Harvey seemed to see me coming and in 1965, after LBJ signed the Great Society, he warned the world of me. Frankly, Gyorgy, I can't say it better than he did:

"So, I would set about however necessary to take over the United States. How would the devil do that?

"If I were the devil . . .

"I would gain control of the most powerful nation in the world;

"I would delude their minds into thinking that they had come from man's effort, instead of God's blessings;

"I would promote an attitude of loving things and using people, instead of the other way around;

"I would dupe entire states into relying on gambling for their state revenue;

"I would convince people that character is not an issue when it comes to leadership;

"I would make it legal to take the life of unborn babies;

"I would make it socially acceptable to take one's own life, and invent machines to make it convenient;

"I would cheapen human life as much as possible so that the life of animals are valued more than human beings;

"I would take God out of the schools, where even the mention of His name was grounds for a lawsuit;

"I would come up with drugs that sedate the mind and target the young, and I would get sports heroes to advertise them;

"I would get control of the media, so that every night I could pollute the mind of every family member for my agenda;

"I would attack the family, the backbone of any nation.

"I would make divorce acceptable and easy, even fashionable. If the family crumbles, so does the nation;

"I would compel people to express their most depraved fantasies on canvas and movie screens, and I would call it art;

"I would convince the world that people are born homosexuals, and that their lifestyles should be accepted and marveled;

"I would convince the people that right and wrong are determined by a few who call themselves authorities and refer to their agenda as politically correct;

"I would persuade people that the church is irrelevant and out of date, and the Bible is for the naive;

"I would dull the minds of Christians, and make them believe that prayer is not important, and that faithfulness and obedience are optional."

Carver is staring her, almost frozen by a combination of fear and fascination. The others are on their knees, realizing their particular roles in having helped the devil achieve precisely what Jill Stinson, the anti-Christ, is now saying.

"If I were the Prince of Darkness I would want to engulf the whole Earth in darkness," Jill/anti-Christ continues.

"I'd have a third of its real estate and four-fifths of its population, but I would not be happy until I had seized the ripest apple on the tree: the United States.

"I would begin with a campaign of whispers.

"With the wisdom of a serpent, I would whisper to you as I whispered to Eve, 'Do as you please.'

"To the young I would whisper 'The Bible is a myth.' I would convince them that 'man created God,' instead of the other way around. I would confide that 'what is bad is good and what is good is square.'

"In the ears of the young married I would whisper that work is debasing, that cocktail parties are good for you. I would caution them not to be 'extreme' in religion, in patriotism, in moral conduct.

"And the old I would teach to pray \- to say after me - 'Our father which are in Washington.'

"Then I'd get organized.

"I'd educate authors in how to make lurid literature exciting so that anything else would appear dull, uninteresting.

"I'd threaten TV with dirtier movies, and vice-versa.

"I'd infiltrate unions and urge more loafing, less work. Idle hands usually work for me.

"I'd peddle narcotics to whom I could, I'd sell alcohol to ladies and gentlemen of distinction, I'd tranquilize the rest with pills.

"If I were the devil, I would encourage schools to refine young intellects, but neglect to discipline emotions; let those run wild.

"I'd designate an atheist to front for me before the highest courts and I'd get preachers to say, 'She's right.'

"With flattery and promises of power I would get the courts to vote against God and in favor of pornography. Within a decade, I'd have prisons overflowing and judges would make pornography mainstream.

"Thus I would evict God from the courthouse, then from the schoolhouse, then from the Houses of Congress.

"Then in his own churches I'd substitute psychology for religion and deify science.

"If I were Satan I'd make the symbol of Easter an egg;

"And the symbol of Christmas a bottle.

"If I were the devil I'd take from those who have and give to those who wanted until I had killed the incentive of the ambitious. Then my police state would force everybody back to work.

"Then I would separate families, putting children in uniform, women in coal mines and objectors in slave-labor camps.

"I'd lure priests and pastors into misusing boys and girls and church money.

"I'd convince the young that marriage is old-fashioned, that swinging is more fun and that what you see on television is the way to be.

"And thus, I could undress you in public and lure you into bed with diseases for which there are no cures.

"If I were Satan I'd just keep doing what I'm doing and the whole world go to hell as sure as the devil."

They all stare at her. Valenzuela and Szabo are babbling incoherently. Missy is in pure rapture.

"That is said so eloquently, so beautifully, Master," she says breathlessly.

Carver continues to moan silently.

"So, the four of you have, along with that bimbo-brained husband I had killed along with his dumbass Vice-President – yes, I destroyed the White House and just used the jihadists as my vessel – you have done more to destroy the 'ripest apple on the tree' than anybody else. I know, Fidel, that was your intention all along. Congratulations. Job well done."

Fidel is in tears, her sardonic tone cutting him to pieces, all his arrogance, years of narcissism and having everybody tell him how great he is, cut down in a matter of minutes.

"Each had your own motivations," she continues. "The usual: greed, narcissism, lust for power, arrogance. Missy was really quite pure. She just wanted to serve me."

"Thank you, Master," Missy intones.

"A nation that aborts almost 70 million children, elects Fidel Castro Valenzuela twice, then Jim Stinson – I know, all the elections were stolen by fraud, but let's not quibble – can no longer be favored by God. The old bastard just gave up on her. After the Cold War ended, slowly but surely it just added up. I could see it coming. All you really had to was watch the Academy Awards, the Nobel Peace Prize ceremonies, the sit-coms glorifying dick smokers, and it was as plain as the nose on my face that the old bastard was opting out, and you know; what was that old TV show, The Jeffersons? Yes, of course, 'I'm movin' on up, to the Eastside, to a dee-luxe apartment in the sky.' America has been my wholly owned subsidiary for nine years now.

"So, having set the stage, let me reveal the future to you. This is always my favorite part, and it's only for my best disciples that I provide such a preview of coming attractions."

"Thank you, Master," says Missy.

"Thank . . . you . . . Master," mumbles Szabo, just not able to absorb all this, unsure of whether his role as a Satanist will somehow spare him eternal pain. Valenzuela barely mumbles something, weak-kneed and fallen so far from grace that he cannot lift his own eyes anymore. Carver remains in semi-hysterics, still silenced.

"Now Fidel, Missy was only following orders when she told you you would not get your third term," Jill/anti-Christ tells him.

"Thank you, Master," says Missy

"Everything was planned, to the most meticulous degree," continues Jill/anti-Christ. "I needed you to destroy the foundation of America, brick by brick. Under you the debt ballooned beyond any possible chance of recovery. Valuecare destroyed the ability to save lives and destroyed faith in medicine. Gay marriage? Well, that's an old favorite of mine. Just look at the Roman Empire if you want to see the corrosive effect of homosexuality. Every time. If those lousy wives of Roman senators had not started listening to the Nazarene I might have had this won game, set and match, 1,500 years ago, but noooo . . .

"Those bitches started telling their husbands to stop sucking off 11-year old boys. Stopped going to orgies and telling their husbands they can't go, too. Stop, don't taste, don't touch, repent, resist temptation. Gawd, what a turnaround. The next thing I know the empire is crumbling, and the Vatican, of all things, is in control of Europe. The old bastard just gets my goat every time, but this time I have an ace up my sleeve.

"The ripest apple on the tree.

"So, anyway, President Valenzuela, sir, by the time you were done with your 'fundamental transformation of America,' it was a defeated, debased shambles. Of course you stole your way in, then 'Jim-boy' stole his way, courtesy of your machines, Gyorgy, and the Christians, and the Right and the Republicans, and the conservatives, and all those lousy rotten sons of bitches in the Tea Party just saw it plain as day, which I wanted them to see. It was all planned.

"But I needed 'Jim-boy.' I mean, Fidel, no offense, but a former drug addict who blows rappers for his fix and favors Communism and works for the Muslim Brotherhood, that's a very noble resume, but come on, pal, it's nothing to compare to my husband and I. We are mass murderers! That reprobate Ramsay and that screwed up book he wrote just got maybe half of what we did in Louisiana and Mena and everywhere. I mean, Jim was a true criminal, the kind only the Mafia can produce. The mob is still the best at crime. The gangs and the corrupt Democrats and the drug dealers are pikers, the Mafia is still the best at it, and they gave Jim all the cover he needed to do it for a lifetime. So his election was the kicker I needed.

"Now, the Republicans have opted out. That prick Paul North is leading an armed revolution. Half the Army is AWOL and with him. I really liked the timing of that whole Nobel thing, and Bill's big stupid grin, so full of himself, and then – booooom – Iran destroys the holiest city in Israel, and Houston. Too many conservatives in Houston. I always said it had to be Houston.

"And of course, Jim had to die for the cause. I kind of miss the old skirt-hound. I didn't see those three pissants, the writer and the FBI agent and the silicone sister, but any general has to have contingency plans. So here I am, President of these no longer United States, torn asunder. No, kids, I will not restore the Union like Lincoln. I tried to whisper in his ear, 'Who cares about those lousy niggers anyway,' but he resisted. Sometimes they do.

"So, the big question? I know you have questions?"

There is silence, then Valenzuela lifts his head.

"So . . . Master, what will happen next. Is this Armageddon, the Apocalypse?"

"Ah, grasshopper, you seek more than I can reveal. Remember what the Nazarene said, why you force me to repeat it I don't know, but even I cannot know the hour or the time. But I can know the 'signs and wonders.' I can know of Israel's nationalization. Much is my doing: the weakening of 'God's country,' gay marriage, Hollywood immorality, porn, Internet crime, priests's molesting kids, wars, rumors or wars, Christian persecution, the election twice of an illegal alien then a mass criminal – I liked it Fidel when you said America was no better than other nations, I love your lying mouth - one-world government, the U.N., the European Union, global warming, which people are stupid enough to think they can do something about . . . just open your eyes and see. I am preparing for the Apocalypse in my way."

"But Master," says Szabo, "the Bible say God triumphs over you."

Jill stares a hole at him.

"I know the old bastard is preparing for what he calls 'the Rapture' because he made America powerful enough to free billions, and then armed the world with technology so that the largest number of human ears could hear what the Nazarene has to say, nauseating as it is. But there will be tares."

"Tares?" asks Szabo.

"Yes, Gyorgy, tares. There is wheat, and there are tares. In the Gospel of John it does not say God sent the Nazarene so all the world will be saved. No. He sent the little Jew so the world might be saved. The carpenter said, 'Many are called, but few are chosen.' After the chosen, the rest are laid to waste, ripe for the picking. That's where I come in.

"But there's still work to be done. So, without further adieu, I present to you, my . . . cabinet . . . Satan's chosen people, I present to you the future. How many get to see the future? Considers yourselves most honored."

They all begin to sense some lightning of the mood and relax a bit.

"The riots and the violence that sweep America today will spread. I have refused to respond to Iran's nuclear attack and shall continue not to do so. This will increase agitation across America until I am 'forced' to declare two things: martial law, far more total than what I've done so far, but a real Hitler-style jack-boot themed takeover, using EPA security forces and United Nations troops. I'll call it a suspension of habeas corpus, and lie saying Lincoln did the same thing. Half a lie. Then a suspension of the Constitution. Always hated that document. A bunch of clowns and slave owners and God just came into their heads and practically wrote it for 'em. Plagiarism pure and simple. Then I shall declare a suspension of elections. I will become the de facto President – for life.

"Of course all the Right-wingers will go nuts, and Paul North will lead a full military revolution in order to win the country back. A major war will begin. At first the war will be a race war, of a kind. The niggers and the spics will get together and try to kill the white man. The Black Panthers had a similar vision, as did my main man Charles Manson.

"But the whites will defeat them quickly and the war will escalate beyond mere race skirmishes, into full scale civil war, although North is already calling it the Second American Revolution. I will lead a liberal faction that, instead of trying to restore the Union, will force the 'red states' out of the Union. The 'red states' will resist, claiming they are "Americans' and 'patriots' and all that rot-gut.

"At this point, it will be called the 'War Between the Red and Blue States.' The red states will have a strong force, as so many military personnel will leave and go to them as they are doing, and bring much weaponry with them. I will still have a large force, plus a private security force built up, as you know Fidel, mostly in secret under the guise of protective EPA, INS, IRS, and other bureaucratic agencies. The U.N. will lend me many foreign troops and equipment in an effort quell this Right-wing uprising, which the world media will portray as entirely racist in nature, blah blah blah.

"The struggle will taken on more religious overtones, when North will begin to call his forces 'Christian soldiers.' Over time, many will begin to see it as a pre-Apocalyptic event. This is when I will be elevated beyond the mere Presidency of the United States, but to a quasi-religious role, as a world leader, the only human being capable of bringing peace to the Earth. We will ourselves the Coalition of Socialist States. A little bit of the Pope, a little bit of the U.N. Secretary-General, the Secretary of State, and the President. That will be me.

"In the mean time, Iran will rise, a resurrection of the Persian and Ottoman Empires on steroids, consolidating all Muslim armies, and Israel will be bombed mercilessly from all sides. England will fight on behalf of North's Christian soldiers, but I will have the U.N., the E.U., France, Russia and China. The Christian soldiers will then get Australia, Canada, Japan, what is left of Israel, and soon we will have World War III on our hands. It will be different things to different people: liberal vs. conservative (guess who the liberals are, Fidel?), Jew-Christian vs. Islam. The Third World will be a proxy battleground on a worldwide scale, not unlike the Cold War.

"Lots of pollution, a lot of oil wells blown up, and nuclear fall out, and of course economies will be destroyed, wealth will be protected by the greedy, the poor will be hated and scapegoated, many minorities forced into camps and ovens and all that good stuff.

"I'm afraid the Jews will finally come to recognize the Nazarene came for them; I can't do anything to stop them, would that I could, but I can sure send nukes into those little Biblical towns of theirs. I'll declare one-world government, the forces opposed to me a global enemy. The atheists will all worship me.

"Before one knows it, the world will resemble a giant cesspool of war, with American, Russian, and Chinese nuclear weapons flying over their heads, exploding in willy-nilly manner from one end of the globe to the other. The Chinese will blow up several American cities using technology my husband and I sold them. I love that kind of pay off."

"Who will win?" asks Szabo.

"I will," says Jill/anti-Christ.

They all bow down lower, in thrall to her.

"So," she continues, "I have told you of my grand war, but there is still one more thing for me to reveal. Oh, Don. Oh, Dooooon, this is especially for you."

She waves her hand and with a sweeping gesture wills Don Carver back into the middle of the room. He remains writhing on the floor, muttering incoherently. "Can we have some silence out of you, Don?" she asks, waving her hand, and suddenly his whimperings are heard again.

"Christ is Lord, oh God forgive me, oh Christ have mercy . . ."

"Silence," shouts Jill/anti-Christ, and with a wave of her hand Carver is shut up. "Look at me." Carver is forced by an invisible power to stare at her. "This you must understand. It is important." Carver stares, his face a mask of total fright.

Missy is enraptured. Valenzuela and Szabo are beginning to think maybe this isn't so bad after all, but Carver remains beside himself.

"You see, Don here was raised Baptist," exclaims Jill/anti-Christ. "All that evangelism in New Orleans. Gawd, I hated it. Had to move there with 'Jim-boy,' a sophisticated Radcliffe girl like me, oomph." She shudders. "But Don here went to Sunday school, church once a week, he even was at a revival meeting where they handled snakes. The rest of you, you were never burdened with all this nonsense, all this guilt, so today you are receptive to my message, but Don has been conditioned.

"That pissant father of his was knee deep in the mob activities that my husband and I were in for so many years. He was a gangster masquerading as a union boss and a political chief. I think Scorsese captured it best in Goodfellas when Lorraine Bracco, seeing Ray Liotta treated to the best of everything at the Copa, asks what he did, and he just says, 'I'm a union delegate.' Oh, well, a union delegate. That explains everything. The Democrat Party in a nutshell!

"Well, that old craphound Cleve Carver, he had a conscience and he confessed his sins before he died. I wanted that son of a bitch bad, but the Nazarene stole him from me. Stole that porn star Michelle Woodward and that FBI stooge when that 'journalist' Ramsay got 'em to accept the Nazarene, before Paul North's crew pulled off a big heroic rescue, oh hooray for the nigger Army man! You can't win 'em all, but the rules are just so Goddamn unfair. This porn slut sucked off so many men, jizz was practically seeping out of her pores. Do you know Hart Hadley had one of his contract girls eat the cum off her face and spit it in her mouth and she swallowed it? It was in the movie. Cum One, Cum All. Great flick. A real masterpiece.

"I mean, it would seem to me a girl that depraved, just give her to me. I know what to do with her. But nooooo, Duke Ramsay, who I had addicted to porn like nobody's business, he turns and gets her to believe in Gawd. Just like that, another one lost. He makes it way too easy.

"Which bring me to you, Don."

Carver now looks up, filled with dread.

"I confess my sins to God, too," he says. "As my father did. I can be saved."

"You know Don, yes, normally that would be the case," replies Jill/anti-Christ. "But sometimes, in very special circumstances, I am allowed a special . . . dispensation, shall we call it."

"Oh God, no, no, no, no . . ." Carver screams.

She haves her hand again, and he is again muted.

"Normally, a terrible criminal such as yourself, after having murdered, lied, cheated and destroyed the lives of many for personal gain and profit, for political purpose and the like; well, such a man as, as you say, can ask for . . . forgiveness." This she utters with disdain that words cannot describe. "Buuuuut, there are exceptions. I am allowed to seal up some souls. The Nazarene gets to save people, and once he he does, they are done for me. I have no use for them. The old bastard doesn't always tell me who they all are. He must like to watch me waste my efforts. But the ones I know are saved, I can't tempt them, can't get them, so why bother? Which really burns me up, because they are still weakened by temptation. They still look at porn, they still get drunk, they still cheat on their wives, they still do all these things, but they have this repentance written into their hearts, they feel so bad afterward, they always cry out to God after, asking that He forgive them. It's so dammed unfair.

"But you Don, after all that Christian training, you turned from it. You went to the dark side with 'Jim-boy' and I. Yes, you still could have done what your father did, what you've been doing the last hour, crying and whimpering to the Nazarene, asking to be forgiven. But the special dispensation is that once I have revealed my true self to you, you are sealed up, and I have done this, and you are mine!"

Now his cries and fear again fills the room. The others stare at him, and at Jill/anti-Christ, spell bound. What is next?

"Now the moment we have all been waiting for," she announces. "Witness with your eyes."

With that, she waves her hand and the giant big screen TV again re-appears in the middle of the room. They stare, and within seconds all four of them – Missy, Fidel, Szabo, and of course Carver – are screaming, yelling, crying, and in the process of going insane. The vision is of all four of them, naked, completely consumed by flames. They are all in hell, consumed by flames, the pain at a full intensity that only fire can inflict.

"I always laughed when I hear some rock star or druggie talk about hell," Jill/anti-Christ continues. " 'Oh, I wanna go to hell, that's where the fun chicks are.' There are no fun chicks. There are no sex orgies. Fidel, you will get a load of dicks to suck when I deem it pleasurable to me, and your face will be covered in their ball snot until you choke, and then it will be back to the flames, but trust me, you will not enjoy these man snakes as you enjoyed J-C's when he filled your mouth with jizz at such time as you abandoned those Navy SEALs.

"And no, hell is not merely 'separation from God,' giving some the idea that it is just a dark corner, boring but livable, for a couple thousand years or so. Or non-existence, just as I am not non-existent. No, it is fire, it is torture, and it never, ever ends. There is no end to the suffering. It just goes on and on, and the pain of the fire never gets better. You don't faint from smoke inhalation, as Joan of Arc did after about a minute or so tied to the stake. The pain never ends, the body stays the same, the nerve endings fresh, the searing torture unending.

"I would like to take full credit, but it's a Calvinist thing. Pre-ordained. You all have free will, you made the choices that sent you here, but somehow the old bastard knew ahead of time, he never reveals it to me, which frustrates me, I'd like to know where to consolidate my effort, just when I think I've got some poor sap he gets saved, but you can at least know that this was a fait waiting for you before you were born. Your names were simply not written in the Book of Life. You would be amazed at some of the people whose names are in the book, and some whose names are not. Even I don't understand it sometimes, but I make do with what I'm given, and I was given all of you!"

"But I served you," Fidel pleads with her.

"Yes, thank you," she replies. "All of you did, which is why I am giving you all a special gift. I am informing each of you the exact dates of your deaths, so you can live every second of every day between now and then knowing this is your fate, and no amount of Bible study or repentance or any of that can save you from it. Fidel, Missy, Gyorgy; your fates were all sealed when you conjured me and asked me to help you. You made a deal with the devil. Besides Gyorgy, I will enjoy doling out just a little extra pain to you because you told my husband and I you didn't like us when we asked you to steal the Presidential election. So I'll turn up the heat just a bit more. Ha. Don, you never did make a deal with me, but your fate was sealed when slapped me once. Remember that? I do.

"Fidel, you will live another 11 years, nine months, eights days and . . .11 seconds from this moment. Then your ass is mine.

"Gyorgy, you have less time: five years, one month, four days, and 27 seconds.

"Missy, my dear, you have nine years, six months, five days, and two seconds to go.

"Don, you have 10 years, five months, 29 days, and 57 seconds to go, my friend.

"Judgment Day is apparently not going to happen during this time frame. It's the one thing the old bastard gives me, so I give it to you. Isn't that great? For the rest of your days you get to walk around knowing your fate, which will be to be burned alive for all eternity. I mean, I can almost see why the old bastard put the Nazarene on that cross. It's one helluva penalty to pay just for taking a bite out of an apple."

"But Master, I conjured you," Missy pleads. "I asked to serve you."

"And you thought, 'better to rule in hell than serve in Heaven,' or some such non-sense," replies Jill/anti-Christ. "I promised you fame, glory and power. Did you not enjoy those expensive vacations on the tax payer's dime? Having military officers who dedicated themselves to a cause greater than themselves treating you like a black queen? Besides, you bitch, there's only one ruler in hell and I'm a liar. What do you expect?"

By now, the words are barely heard, as they are screaming and have already gone insane. Each will remain insane the rest of their lives, but knowledge of the exact dates of their respective deaths are firmly implanted in their minds. They will function in life, but as vegetables. The knowledge of sure eternal damnation is too terrible for the mind of man to contemplate, and therefore knowledge of what the Lord Jesus Christ saves us from is too wonderful to ever understand until one passes into His loving arms.

****

So it began. God looked at the United States of America, the Promised Land, the land of American Exceptionalism, favored and blessed by Him as celebrated in song and prayer, but after almost 70 million babies had been aborted; after her people failed to fight for the freedom all her previous generations had fought for; after this once-great nation had elected the likes of Fidel Castro Valenzuela and Jim Stinson as her President; the Good Lord no longer blessed the Fruited Plain. It had been a nice run, over 200 years. Its time had simply come, as it once came for Israel. America had done what God needed her to do, and now, as the world moved into a dark new age, closer to Armageddon, thanks to her the largest number of people possible throughout the world had heard, and would continue to hear, the word of God, courtesy of technology, the micro-chip that was invented in Ronald Reagan's California. This would be the only thing sustaining them, giving them hope, as the world plunged towards World War III, and devastation making all previous conflicts look like a children's nursery rhyme in comparison.

But there would be Christian soldiers fighting for an idea of America, distant in the memory as it suddenly was, yet for Lieutenant Colonel Paul North it was all he knew to do. He knew a dark age had descended upon his beloved America. He saw as a sign of this terrible new age the elections of President Valenzuela, than saw the White House stolen from him by the Stinsons. He suspected the anti-Christ walked the Earth, but he did not know his – or her – exact identity. To him, Jill Stinson was just a corrupt Left-wing dictator, and his knowledge of history told him that such dictators are brought down by the righteous force of a military machine, as General Eisenhower, the "soldier of Democracy," had once marshaled the forces of free people to defeat Adolf Hitler.

But North felt a religious calling. After all, it had been Christian leaders, not Republican Party activists, who recruited him to run against Jim Stinson, because they knew then that the battle was not merely political, but spiritual. He could not foresee the future, but he could sense that he was doing God's work. When he heard from Don Rainer and the rogue agents that Duke Ramsay, Michelle Woodward and Alan Goodson were to be killed by Jill Stinson's "octopus squad," he knew he had to save the people who had saved him at the Statue of Liberty. It was the first commando mission of what was now the Second American Revolution, eventually a Third World War. He did not know if he would be there to see its conclusion, but he had his staff. Ramsay, Michelle, Goodson, Rainer, the rogues; they were true believers that had seen evil up close, and they were with him. Inspiration to the troops gathering in the hills and valleys, determined to fight Jill Stinson, and restore America to its rightful place as the "shining city on a hill."

****

Edmund Burke, reflecting on the savagery of the French Revolution, when the beautiful and delicate Queen Marie Antoinette had been so badly maligned, lied about, treated, then eventually guillotined, had seen in his wisdom a picture of what had now come to America some 230 years later. America was, as President Ronald Reagan so eloquently put it, the "last, best hope of man on Earth," and when she fell, as he also warned, "into a thousand years of darkness," then Burke's words of 1790 echoed throughout history:

"The age of chivalry is gone."

"That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever," Burke had written then. "Never, never more, shall we behold a generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, achieved defense of nations, the nurse of the manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness. . . ."

By the time Jill Wyndham-Stinson, or Louise Cifer, or whatever appellation she went by to suit her purposes, took control of the world, Burke's words described not just the fall of France, or modern Europe, or an America destroyed by unrighteousness; but the whole world.

It was the End Times. The faithful, huddled with their Bibles and their prayers, waited in their proverbial "watchtowers" for the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. As Matthew reminds us, "Two shall be in the field; the one taken, and the other left. Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken, and the other left. WATCH therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come."

End.

Author bio

Steven Travers, a former professional baseball player with the St. Louis Cardinals and the Oakland A's organizations, is the author of over 20 books, including the best-selling Barry Bonds: Baseball's Superman, nominated for a Casey Award as Best Baseball Book of 2002; and One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game that Changed a Nation (a 2007 PNBA nominee, subject of the CBS/CSTV documentary Tackling Segregation, the Showtime documentary Against the Tide, and soon to be a major motion picture). He pitched for the Redwood High School baseball team in California that won the national championship in his senior year, before attending college on an athletic scholarship and earning all-conference honors. A graduate of the University of Southern California, Steven coached at USC, Cal-Berkeley and in Europe; served in the Army; attended law school; and was a sports agent. He has written for the Los Angeles Times and was a columnist for StreetZebra magazine in L.A., and the San Francisco Examiner. His screenplays include The Lost Battalion, 21 and Wicked. He has a daughter, Elizabeth Travers Lee, and lives in California.

Books written by Steven Travers

One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed A Nation (also a

documentary, Tackling Segregation, and soon to be a major motion picture)

A's Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Trojans Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Dodgers Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

Angels Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real Fan!

D'Backs Essential: Everything You Need to Know to Be A Real

The USC Trojans: College Football's All-Time Greatest Dynasty

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Los Angeles Lakers

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly Oakland Raiders

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly San Francisco 49ers

Barry Bonds: Baseball's Superman

Pigskin Warriors: 140 Years of College Football's Greatest Games, Players and Traditions

The 1969 Miracle Mets

Dodgers Baseball Yesterday & Today

A Tale of Three Cities: New York, L.A. and San Francisco During the 1962 Baseball Season

What It Means To Be a Trojan: Southern Cal's Greatest Players Talk About Trojans Football

The Poet: The Life and Los Angeles Times of Jim Murray

The Last Icon: Tom Seaver's Town, His Team, and His Times

God's Country: A Conservative, Christian Worldview of How History Formed the United States

Empire and America's Manifest Destiny for the 21st Century

Angry White Male

The Writer's Life

The USC Mafia: From the Frat House to the White House to the Big House

Ambition: My Struggles to Fail and Succeed in Baseball, Politics, Hollywood, Writing . . . and

the Rocky Path I've Walked With Christ

What Is Truth? Powers That Were, Powers That Are

The Duke, the Longhorns, and Chairman Mao: John Wayne's Political Odyssey

The Reaping: What the O.J. Simpson Murder Case Did to America

A Murderous Campaign

Praise for Steve Travers

Steve Travers is the next great USC historian, in the tradition of Jim Murray, John Hall, and Mal Florence! . . . the Trojan Family needs your work. Fight On!

\- USC Head Football Coach Pete Carroll

. . . Steve Travers tells us all about the exciting and remarkable football . . . . that not only changed the way the game is played; it . . . changed the world.

\- Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump

Steve Travers combines wit, humor, social pathos and historical knowledge with the kind of sports expertise that only an ex-jock is privy to; it is reminiscent of the work of Jim Bouton, Pat Jordan and Dan Jenkins, combined with Jim Murray' turn of phrase, Hunter Thompson's hard-scrabble Truths, and David Halberstam's unique take on our nation's place in history. His writing is great storytelling, and the result is pure genius every time.

\- Westwood One radio personality Michael McDowd

Steve Travers is a great writer, an educated athlete who knows how to get inside the player's heads, and when that happens, greatness occurs. He's gonna be a superstar.

- San Francisco Examiner

Steve Travers is a phenomenal writer, an artist who labors over every word to get it just right, and he has an encyclopedic knowledge of sports and history.

- StreetZebra

Steve Travers is a "Renaissance man."

\- Jim Rome Show

He is very qualified to continue to write books such as this one. Good job.

\- Marty Lurie/Right Off the Bat Oakland A's Pregame Host

Steve's a literate ex-athlete, an ex-Trojan, and a veteran of Hollywood, too.

\- Lee "Hacksaw" Hamilton/XTRA Radio, San Diego

You've done some good writin', dude.

\- KFOG Radio, San Francisco

[Travers is] one of the great sportswriters on the current American scene.

\- Joe Shea/Radio Talk Host and Editor

Travers appears to have the right credentials for the task.

\- USA Today Baseball Weekly

A very interesting read which is not your average . . . book. . . . Steve has achieved his bona fides when it comes to having the credentials to write a book like this.

\- Geoff Metcalfe/KSFO Radio, San Francisco

This is a fascinating book written by a man who knows his subject matter inside and out.

— Irv Kaze/KRLA Radio, Los Angeles

Travers . . . established himself as a writer of many dimensions . . . a natural.

— John Jackson/Ross Valley Reporter

Steve Travers is a true USC historian and a loyal Trojan!

— Former USC football player John Papadakis

Pete Carroll calls you "the next great USC historian," high praise indeed.

\- Rob Fukuzaki/ABC7, Los Angeles

You're a great writer and I always enjoy your musings, particularly on SC football – huge fan!

\- Oakland A's general manager Billy Beane

Steven Travers is one of the most accomplished sports journalists in our nation today and One Night, Two Teams is his defining work to this point.

\- Strandbooks.com

Travers, a USC grad, portrays the game and USC's victory as a tipping point in the integration of college football and the South, a triumph for the forces of equality . . . his larger view of the game hits home in most respects, and he provides a compelling account- drawing from dozens of interviews with participants, coaches, drawing from dozens of others - of a clash between two schools with decidedly different approaches to the composition of their football rosters . . . All in all, an intriguing premise and a well-told story.

\- Wes Lukowsky, Booklist

The book is not just about sports but how sports and that September 1970 game in particular relate to the intertwining of sports, race, politics, history, religion and philosophy.

\- Harold Abend, In Scope

One Night . . . is a tour de force.

- Marin I.J.

Travers combines wit, humor and historical knowledge in his writings.

\- University of Southern California

Wow what a great job!!!! . . . I love the book . . . It's one of those you look forward to reading at special times . . . I can't say enough!

\- Lonnie White, Los Angeles Times

This is a book about American society. It sheds incredible light on little-known events that every American must know to understand this country . . . In 20 years, people will say of this book what they said about Roger Kahn's The Boys of Summer.

\- Fred Wallin, Business Talk radio

Steve is the USC historian whose meticulous attention to detail is a revelation. He is the best chronicler of USC ever.

\- Chuck Hayes, CRN Sports Corner

This is fabulous, just a terrific look at our history. Travers is one of the best writers around.

\- Rod Brooks, Fitz & Brooks Show, KNBR/San Francisco

You have created a work of art here, an absolutely great book. We love your work.

Bob Fitzgerald, "Fitz & Brooks Show," KNBR/San Francisco

When it comes to sports history, this is the man right here.

\- Gary Radnich, KRON/5, San Francisco

Author Steven Travers discusses his new book . . .

- Orange County Register

. . . Join Steve Travers . . . at the Autograph Stage . . .

\- ESPN Radio

. . . Steve Travers, author of One Night, Two Teams: Alabama vs. USC and the Game That Changed a Nation . . .

\- Los Angeles Daily News

Steve Travers, a sports historian . . .

- Los Alamitos News-Enterprise

Hear this dynamic speaker tell how this famous game changed history.

\- Friends of the Los Alamitos-Rossmoor Library

This is a fabulous book.

\- Michaela Pereira/ KTLA 5, Los Angeles

Travers presents this particular game in 1970 as a metaphor for the profound changes in social history during the emancipation of the South.

- Publishers Weekly

. . . Explored in rich, painstaking detail by Steve Travers.

\- Jeff Prugh, L.A. Times beat writer who covered the 1970 USC-Alabama game

You're a prolific talent.

\- Curtis Kim, KSRO Radio, Santa Rosa

Is there anything you've not written?

- Vernon Glenn, KRON/4, San Francisco

You are the Poet Laureate of the USC Program! Please keep writing.

\- Tony Pattiz, USC class of 1980

A's Essential: Everything You Need To Be a Real Fan offers a breezy history . . .

\- Bruce Dancis/Sacramento Bee

What A's Essential does give us in heaps is the history specific players and other A's personnel . . . Travers manages to dig up plenty of interesting quotes and his knowledge of other writings about the A's is voluminous. He finds enough fascinating material . . . interesting and add(s) to the reader's experience with the book . . . A's Essential can be a useful source to those who are students of A's history

\- Brian James Oak/www.atthehomeplate.com

As an Oakland fan, I was therefore interested to find A's Essential when browsing on Amazon recently

\- Matt Smith, MLB.com

(The chapter in One Night, Two Teams) on Martin Luther King - the description of the civil rights movement - your insights, the research - what an education I received from reading it. It should be required reading by every student in America! Every citizen. No wonder there were so many African Americans on the Mall a week ago! . . . I am sure there are many blacks who would say it is impossible for a white man to really understand the struggle. And, in one sense they are definitely right because you are not black. But, wow - I think you did an excellent job in bringing it together - telling the story and making me think!

\- Dwight Chapin, former Nixon White House appointments secretary

A Murderous Campaign

a political thriller

Book description

A nude model. A former porn addict. A fired ex-FBI agent.

They saved the world. Or did they set it up for destruction?

Table of contents

The politician

Jim Stinson, a slick Governor of Louisiana, married to an evil power-climbing wife, with a Machiavellian chief of staff named Don Carver, rises with the help of the New Orleans Mafia to the heights of political power, but his bid for the White House is upended by a nobody from nowhere, a Senator named Fidel Castro Valenzuela.

The California girl and the pornographer

Michelle Woodward drops out of college because her father loses his job, and begins modeling for the pornographer Hart Hadley.

The plant

The Soviet KGB and the Muslim Brotherhood handle Fidel Castro Valenzuela since birth, but when the U.S.S.R. implodes the Brotherhood takes over and oversees his election to the Presidency. In his first election, a media billionaire named Gyorgy Szabo, who made a deal with Satan, swings the election with a "September surprise," orchestrating a sub-prime housing crisis that is blamed on the Republicans. In his re-election, Valenzuela trails by seven in mid-October, but the voting machines are owned by Szabo's company. Using algorithms eliminating every third Republican vote, they swing it to Valenzuela by four. He oversees the destruction of the U.S. economy, kills the health care system, and signs an agreement with Iran giving them nuclear weapons.

The conversation

Michelle Woodward has an affair with Governor Stinson, but when she overhears him discuss his plans for a White House run and the planned assassination of a political rival, she must go into hiding because she knows he knows she heard it. She gets a mysterious phone call telling her to contact a reporter named Duke Ramsay.

The muckraker

John "Duke" Ramsay is a loser addicted to alcohol and pornography, but he has an epiphany telling him he must pursue the truth about the Stinson's use of drug millions and mass murder to build their political power base. In so doing, he turns to Jesus Christ and stops drinking or looking at porn.

The Stinson Body Count

Ramsay exposes the Stinsons in a book called The Stinson Body Count, but with unforeseen consequences; it leads to Valenzuela beating Stinson in the Democratic primaries, then getting elected President.

The smear

The Stinsons and the liberal media smear and tarnish Ramsay with every lie and half-truth conceivable in an effort to assassinate his character; his faith in Christ girds him in the ordeal.

The crash

Michelle hooks up with Ramsay, who is skeptical of her story until the brake lines of his car are tampered with, leading them to a high-speed car crash on the Washington Beltway. They survive and escape.

The safe house

Ramsay's friend, ex-FBI agent Alan Goodson, who helped him gather information for The Stinson Body Count at the expense of his career, sets them up in a safe house in rural Virginia, where they try to find out who Stinson plans to assassinate.

The father

Acting on a lead, they venture to the Louisiana Bayou home of Cleve Carver, former head of the New Orleans Democrats and father of Stinson's evil chief of staff, Don Carver. Thinking the old man wishes to make a Christian confession, they confirm that Ramsay's book was factual, but the old man will not betray his son.

The announcement

Stinson announces that he will run for President. He looks to be a shoe-in until Florida Congressman Paul North enters the Republican primaries. A firebrand black conservative and Iraq War hero, North speaks truth to power, holding nothing back in his criticism of Valenzuela and the Stinsons. He easily wins the GOP nomination and leads Stinson in general polls by double digits. Using leads from a mysterious mole inside the Stinson operation, Michelle and Ramsay travel to Los Angeles where Michelle uses seduction to steal a brief case from Stinson's security chief, which gives clues about the assassination, but not the full picture. They return to Louisiana, where Cleve Carver is now on his deathbed. An FBI friend of Goodson's poses as a chaplain and gets a last confession from Carver; the assassination target is Florida Congressman Paul North at the Statue of Liberty.

The Statue of Liberty

After learning of the target and the location, Stinson's "octopus squad captures Ramsay and Goodson" but Michelle manages to escape. She must now travel to New York on her own. Again using the power of seduction, she manages to get into a rally for North held by the VFW at the Statue of Liberty, where she sees the killer, a mob hit man disguised as a CNN reporter, distracts him enough to make him miss, and is declared a hero for saving Paul North's life.

The press conference

The FBI rescue Ramsay and Goodson. Afterward a big press conference is held in which they discuss all of Stinson's crimes, the assassination attempt, and their hiding in a safe house. The Stinsons are declared politically dead, awaiting prosecution, and North seems a shoe-in. Michelle and Goodson accept Jesus as their savior and are married, with Duke being Goodson's best man.

The Big Lie

The Stinsons go into attack mode, using their friends in the media to orchestrate a campaign of lies to discredit Ramsay, the girl, and all their accusers. Hart Hadley releases an extreme porn video Michelle once privately made for him. The Valenzuela Administration refuses to prosecute until after the election. Stinson trails North by 25 points, but stays in the race.

The stealing of America

Szabo is again tasked with creating voter-machine algorithms that eliminate every second GOP vote, and despite North leading by 20 on Election Day, the Presidency goes to Stinson. This creates riots in the streets. The GOP boycotts and their members refuse to take their seats in Congress. A civil war begins. President Stinson is awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for finalizing the nuclear arms deal with Iran, but after the ceremony in Stockholm learns the Iranians nuked Jerusalem and Houston. At first, he vows retaliation. The Right gathers behind him in a show of patriotism, but then the White House is destroyed. The President, the Vice-President, the Speaker of the House and the president pro tempore of the Senate are all called. That leaves the next in line, Jim Stinson's wife, the former Secretary-General of the U.N., now Secretary of State Jill Wyndham-Stinson. When she refuses to retaliate against Iran, the conservatives revolt and a full-scale civil war escalates. Stinson's "octopus squad" tries to kill Michelle, Goodson and Ramsay, but they are saved by North, now the military commander of the "Red State Patriots" fighting Jill Stinson's forces in the Second American Revolution.

The age of chivalry is gone

In a secret meeting, Valenzuela, his wife Missy and Don Carver meet with President Jill Stinson, who reveals that she is the anti-Christ, and the chaos befallen the nation is all part of her grand plan. From here, the American Revolution will become a full-scale World War III, with Russian, Chinese, Iranian, American and Israeli nuclear bombs exploding in the skies of above. To learn more, read the sequel.

****

Michelle Woodward is a fallen woman. Blessed with beauty almost beyond comprehension, she chose a straight and narrow path through a college education, but when her father comes across hard times and cannot pay her tuition at the University of Southern California, she falls into desperation. Hoping to make enough to pay her own way, this leads her to the sordid lair of the billionaire pornographer, PartyChicks magazine publisher Hart Hadley, whose mission in life is literally to corrupt his fellow man through the temptations of the flesh.

Thus does A Murderous Campaign begin. Drawing on recent, novelized historical events and characters, it weaves a tapestry of intrigue in the best tradition of Atlas Shrugged, No Way Out, Homeland, and The Omen; a political thriller unearthing the worst conspiracy of all time, complete with religious events literally pitting good vs. evil, with hints and foreshadowing of something even more insidious; an America no longer favored by God, a new dark age portending the End Times, and finally the revelation of the anti-Christ, leading first to a Second American Revolution, and finally an Apocalyptic World War III.

Michelle agrees for a price to make a private pornographic video which she thinks will only be seen by Hadley. Cast by Hadley as a fantasy woman available to rich, powerful men, Michelle is introduced to Hadley's friend, former Louisiana Governor Jim Stinson. Stinson has had designs on the White House since his earliest youth. Propped up by a combination of the New Orleans Mafia and the Soviet KGB, who he had a relationship with as an advisor beginning with a youthful trip to Moscow, when the Cold War ends Stinson is a free agent not beholden to any handlers, but his well laid plans for the Presidency are upended by an unknown Massachusetts Senator named Fidel Castro Valenzuela. A nobody from nowhere, the youthful Valenzuela captures the imagination of America's youth, riding it all the way to the Presidency.

It is revealed that in fact he was literally born to be a mole when his Mexican Communist mother, Maria Valenzuela was approached by the Soviet KGB and paired with a black Egyptian member of the Muslim Brotherhood, Obama al Mustafa, to have a child born in America in what is dubbed "Operation Anchor Baby." Called back to Mexico for consultations, the mother goes into labor and gives premature birth, forcing the Soviets to create a fake birth certificate complete with a birth announcement in the El Paso, Texas newspaper. Named after Maria's hero, Fidel Castro Valenzuela moves to Egypt at age five to attend a Muslim madrassa in order to foment anti-American sentiments. Upon his return to Texas at age 10, he is placed under the tutelage of a black Communist, Frederick Manson Jones, who schools him in Marxism, drug use, and homosexuality.

The Soviets secretly fund his education at an elite private academy, then Columbia University and Harvard Law School, where he is admitted under affirmative action dispensation available to foreign-born Muslims, all of which is sealed up and hidden from the public. While in college, he feeds his cocaine habit by purchasing drugs from a bi-sexual drug dealer and would-be rapper named Calvin Jackson, who accepts oral sex from Valenzuela as payment for the coke.

Funded and promoted by the KGB, despite his homosexual proclivities Valenzuela is paired in marriage with an Ivy League-educated black woman named Melissa "Missy" Barnes. In order to convey the impression they are Christian, they attend a Catholic Church presided over by a radical priest who advocates "liberation theology," once supported the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, the Marxists in El Salvador, believes the Southwest belongs to Mexico, and after 9/11 tells his flock the United States is "damned to hell" as retribution for stealing Texas.

Melissa Barnes worships Satan and requests that the devil provide she and her new husband fame, money and political power. She remains steadfast in service of the devil, but Valenzuela is mesmerized, unaware of the deal he has agreed to. He comes under the mentorship of former Weather Underground terrorist Warren Wolfsheim, Communist professor Noah Silverstein, and billionaire media mogul Gyorgy Szabo, who also made a deal with Satan to deliver his fellow Jews to the Nazis, in return for safely delivering him from the Holocaust.

Valenzuela runs for the U.S. Senate in Massachusetts, using a grainy photo of his opponent, Mitch Roberts, doctoring it to make it look like he participated in group sex during a fraternity initiation while in college. By the time the truth comes out, that Roberts tried to prevent the activity, a number of lives are ruined and Valenzuela is elected to the Senate. Despite no record of achievement, Valenzuela runs for President four years later, and in a tremendous upset manages to wrest the nomination from Governor Stinson.

Capturing the imagination of the world, Valenzuela sprints to a big lead over his opponent, a tired old pol named Jack McLain, but when McLain names as his running mate Governor Shelly Rider, the Governor of Montana who looks like a movie star, speaks her mind, and is a devout Christian opposed to abortion, the McLain-Rider ticket takes a five-point lead. Then Gyorgy Szabo manipulates the housing market, creating an economic crisis blamed on McLain's party. It is enough to give Valenzuela victory, and shortly thereafter the Nobel Peace Prize.

Despite fawning media coverage and being the darling of Hollywood, four years later he trails by seven points with little more than two weeks before the election to Governor Rider, now her party's Presidential nominee. Valenzuela calls on Szabo again. The billionaire has bought a French vote-counting company replacing the American Diebold machines used in the past. Szabo creates algorithms discounting every fourth vote of Governor Rider's party in battleground states. It is enough to turn a seven-point October deficit into a four-point Valenzuela victory in November.

No longer working for the Communists, who have lost power and influence after losing the Cold War, Valenzuela now takes orders from the Muslim Brotherhood, who had always been aligned with the KGB in his handling since his birth, and now sees him as the key to Islamic jihad. His orders are to destroy the United States from within, which he does by signing a spending bill expending more U.S. debt in one instant than all previous governments since the birth of Christ; nationalizes the auto industry; and pushes a socialized health care program dubbed Valuecare that eventually ruins the American medical system. He is ordered not to defend an American embassy overrun by jihadists, and in fact is engaged in oral copulation with his old drug dealer, now a famed rapper named J-C, at a fundraiser in Las Vegas while the Navy SEALs die without his support.

His Muslim masters then order President Valenzuela to sign a treaty with Iran allowing them to build nuclear weapons. Despite wanting a third term, Valenzuela is mysteriously "ordered" not to by his wife.

After three years as Valenzuela's Secretary of State, Jim Stinson decided to retire from politics. His wife, Jill Wyndham-Stinson is now Secretary-General of the United Nations. The former Governor wishes only to take a cushy job as a "rainmaker" for a corporate law firm, make a million bucks a pop for speeches, and travel the world, where separated from his wife he is free to party with beautiful young girls, many provided by his pal Hart Hadley.

Early in the first year of President Valenzuela's second term, Stinson meets Michelle Woodward at a party at Hadley's Beverly Hill mansion. The relationship blossoms, and the slick politician claims to love her, telling her of his retirement plans, even promising to leave his wife and take up with her. On a fancy vacation to the Caribbean, Michelle overheard Governor Stinson and his Machiavellian chief of staff, Don Carver planning the assassination of a political rival, apparently in New Jersey, code named "Rally killer," paving the way for his Presidential campaign. When they find out that she has heard their plans, she realizes she must run for her own life, Stinson's henchmen close on her tail.

Michelle escapes back to America, but must remain in hiding. There she is contacted on a phone by a mysterious "Southern voice" who says he is a state trooper working for Governor Stinson, that her life is in grave danger, and she must find a crusty D.C. reporter named John "Duke" Ramsay, who has made it his life to uncover the Stinson's use of murder and violence to further his career. Ramsay has successfully overcome addictions to pornography and alcohol, girding himself in Christian faith against an onslaught against him.

Four years earlier, Ramsay wrote a book called The Stinson Body Count, which was meant to ruin Stinson's Presidential campaign but instead backfired, contributing to his losing the primary to Fidel Valenzuela, leading to his Presidency. The book detailed the use of state troopers to commit assassinations of Stinsons's rivals in Louisiana and of drug dealers with embarrassing information on Stinson and his wife, of their association with the New Orleans Mafia, and other crimes that furthered their ascent up the political ladder. Ramsay also uncovered a drug-smuggling operation run out of Mena, Arkansas in which Stinson, then a young Congressman, profited from sales made with the Medellin Cartel, all protected since the operation was in conjunction the administrations of Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush to fund the Nicaraguan Contras.

Jim Stinson wanted Ramsay killed, but his wife insisted he be smeared instead. Using their allies in the media, namely Hart Hadley's PartyChicks magazine, along with Gyorgy Szabo's Atlantic Cable News network, every accusation was leveled against Ramsay: homosexuality, child abandonment, child molestation, child pornography, porn addiction, prostitutes, and a host of other lies. The ordeal leads Ramsay to turn from his past sins and strengthens his Christian faith as a shield against what he is sure is not merely human criminality, but spiritual evil on a worldwide scale. This is when Michelle Woodward finds Ramsay, but the Stinson's marked them both for death before he can resurrect his accusations to derail their next campaign. They tamper with the brake lines of his car, causing them to crash at high speed on the D.C. Beltway, but they survive and managed to escape.

With the help of disgraced FBI agent Alan Goodson, who helped Ramsay uncover the truth about Stinson contained in The Stinson Body Count – at the cost of his job - Michelle, Ramsay and Goodson make their way to a safe house in rural Virginia. Together, they must find the truth, to save not just their lives, but to save the nation from a murderous President.

Donning disguises, they make a perilous trip to the Louisiana Bayou, where they call upon Cleve Carver, an old man and former head of the mob-controlled Orleans Parish political machine. The father of Stinson's political strategist Don Carver, he is an old school Baptist. Hoping that he will confess his sins to them, the three extract just enough information to confirm that Ramsay's accusations in The Stinson Body Count were accurate, but unwilling to betray his son, Cleve asks them to leave without disclosing all he knows. Before leaving, Ramsay tells Carver he forgives him his trespasses, which moves the old man.

From there, Stinson officially announces he will run for President in the next election. The three stay in hiding, using different safe houses that Goodson's sympathetic FBI friends in the Witness Protection Program allow them to stay in. They are also helped along at critical junctures by the mysterious "Southern voice," who like Watergate's "Deep Throat" guides them on the right steps using a series of drops at pre-designated locations. Finally, Michelle uses her sexuality, disguising herself in a wig to attend a Stinson campaign event in Los Angeles, where she seduces Stinson's West Coast campaign coordinator Kathy Riordan and her lover, Stinson security chief Carlton Blackledge, into a hotel room ménage a trois. In the dead of night, Michelle steals a brief case belonging to Blackledge.

Goodson and Ramsay go through the contents of the brief case, which makes reference to "Rally killer." Enough time has passed by now that they are unsure whether the original assassination plans Michelle heard in the Caribbean were canceled. They still do not know who or what "Rally killer" is. It by now too dangerous to again disguise themselves and make the dangerous journey to Cleve Carver's home in Louisiana. By this time, Carver is dying of cancer. One of Goodson's old FBI friends, Richard Tomak dresses as a chaplain and extracts a death bed confession from the old man: "Rally killer" is a firebrand black Army officer-turned-Congressman from Florida named Paul North, whose specialty is tearing the Stinsons to pieces. He is identified by Jill Stinson as a major threat to their plans, leading to his being code named "Rally killer," his assassination to take place at a planned speech before the Veterans of Foreign Wars gathered at the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor.

The plans, however, were canceled when President Valenzuela, citing national security concerns, forced the event to be nixed, ostensibly because he did not want a large gathering of patriotic American war heroes bad mouthing him in what he considered his political base, New York City. His national security advisors told the media they considered white veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq to be a major terrorist threat. Had he not done this, Congressman North may well have been killed before Michelle, Ramsay and Goodson could try to save him.

With the primaries ready to begin soon, Stinson was a lock to get his party's nomination and the odds-on favorite to win the White House. The opposition party offered a series of weak, vacillating, uncharismatic candidates, none of whom had a chance to beat him. Then Congressman Paul North was approached by political and Christian leaders, who told him not only did they fear America was destroyed, possibly beyond saving, but that darkness and evil had replaced righteousness the world over. Only a dedicated Christian man such as himself, willing to tell the truth could, with God's help, stop this insidious destiny. Framed in that way, North realized he faced his greatest mission; not a personal quest for political glory, or power, but literally a call from a higher power begging that His will be done.

He entered the primaries and, using fiery language, speaking truth to power, just as Jill

Wyndham-Stinson had predicted, captured the imagination not only of his party, but also of a nation desperate for decency. He quickly became a lock for the nomination, and incredibly passed Stinson in general polls, creating panic.

With his popularity fading, President Valenzuela was unable to stop a second invite by the VFW for Congressman North to speak at the Statue of Liberty. The Stinsons decided that they had been denied too long, that they should have assassinated Valenzuela before he began to win primaries eight years earlier, and that they would not stand by and lose the Presidency to a black Congressman from Florida. The "Rally killer" plan was placed back into operation, to be carried out by a Mafia hitter from Chicago, but blamed on Muslim extremists, who hated North's incendiary speeches against their cause.

After leaving the hospital, Tomak told Ramsay, Goodson and Michelle details of the North assassination plot. Tomak, Ramsay and Goodson were apprehended by the Stinson's "octopus squad" at a Starbucks, but Michelle was in the bathroom. Seeing what was happening, she managed to escape out the back. With the others locked away, it was up to her, not just to save Congressman North's life, but to alert the world to the Stinsons in such a way that she and the others would be safe. Rumors had long circulated: "What happened to former PartyChick of the Year Michelle Woodward and the journalist Duke Ramsay?"

She managed to make her way to New York, afraid of being caught, or killed, each step of the way. She decided her best asset was her beauty, and dolled herself up, albeit with a black wig, worried she would be recognized as the former most-popular-ever PartyChick of the Year. If revealed on social media, it could alert the Stinson's "octopus squad." She made her way to the dock where a boat took contributors and pre-paid supporters of Congressman North to Governor's Island.

There she heard a middle-aged man speaking to his son on his cell phone. The man was obviously disappointed. His son had chosen to see a concert instead of using his father's other ticket to see Congressman North. Michelle sidled up to him, and after initial reluctance, the man, taken in by her sensuality and promise of something more later, gave her his extra pass. Once underneath the statue, Michelle cased the place out and decided to try and make her way backstage to warn the Congressman. Again using her charms, she told a pimple-faced event staffer she was there for the Congressman, with a nod and wink letting him know it was for sex. The kid, who knew who she was from subscribing to PartyChicks magazine, expressed surprise that Congressman North was into that sort of thing, but it did not really shock him. She let Michelle pass.

Trying to get backstage, Michelle was stopped by a Secret Service agent. She told him she knew of a plot to kill Congressman North. The agent tried to get her to come with him for questioning when Michelle noticed a reporter for CNN fiddling with his microphone while setting up his camera shot. The microphone looked to her like a gun. Then the Congressman entered the stage to wild applause, while the Secret Service agent continued to try and get Michelle to go with him. Michelle noticed the reporter preparing the microphone/weapon, aiming it at Congressman North. She yelled and screamed loudly, distracting the "reporter" just enough so his shot missed. This was seen by another Secret Service agent, who shoots him, then leapt on him and brought him to the ground. He was not a CNN reporter; he had killed the reporter earlier, dumping his body in the East River. He was a contract killer from Chicago.

In the aftermath, Michelle was hailed as a hero. The mysterious "Southern voice" revealed himself to be an undercover FBI agent named Don Rainer, working on a special detail tasked with uncovering the many alleged-but-never-yet-proven crimes of Jim and Jill Stinson. The FBI located where Duke Ramsay, Alan Goodson and Richard Tomak were being held captive, storming the location and freeing them.

Michelle, Duke, Goodson, Tomak and Rainer then assembled for a press conference, revealing that Michelle originally heard of the "Rally killer" plot in the Caribbean; for almost four years they had been undercover, evading the Stinson's death squad while trying to uncover the plot; and that Jim and Jill Stinson were mass murderers.

At first, Stinson appeared dead in the water. His Presidential aspirations were down the drain, and he faced sure federal prosecution. A grateful Congressman North thanked them all, quickly moving to an insurmountable lead in polling. Then Alan Goodson unexpectedly asked Michelle to marry him, and for Duke to be his best man. Ramsay replied that he would if the two of them would openly accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and savior. Michelle agreed, first to marry Goodson, then to become a Christian. A happy ending, except . . .

President Valenzuela announced he would withhold the full prosecution of the case until after the election. Don Rainer was oddly relieved of his duties. A cover up was underway.

Then the Stinson and Valenzuela media attacks began. Hart Hadley investigated every politician calling for Stinson's prosecution, uncovering embarrassing details of affairs, out-of-wedlock births, abortions, hookers; the various flotsam and jetsam of human sin. He used his media empire, along with Gyorgy Szabo, to discredit Ramsay, dredging up all the old accusations of child molestation, pornography, and the worst partisan hypocrisy. Then he released the private DVD Michelle Ramsay had done for him years earlier, in which she gets gangbanged by close to 40 men. It was the most vile, extreme, hardcore sex tape most people had ever seen. He had paid her $1.5 million to do it, under the proviso that only he and Michelle could have a copy of it. She agreed, and thought it part of her past, a secret never to be revealed. Now, given the title Cum One, Cum: A PartyChick of the Year's Gangbang Adventure starring Michelle Woodward, it became the hottest-selling porn film of all time, and in fact was the third highest grossing movie of any kind that year.

It all but destroyed Michelle, but through her newfound Christian faith she forgave Hadley and the Stinson's for their trespasses against her. The truth, Ramsay told her, would set her free.

Despite all of this, Congressman North still led Jim Stinson, whose party chose to stay with him, by 30 points after the conventions. That was when President Valenzuela, at the urging of Jim and Jill Stinson, invited them to meet with Gyorgy Szabo in a secret White House meeting. Szabo was asked to re-calibrate his voting machines to assure the election for Jim Stinson. Szabo argued that he was able to swing the battleground states in favor of Valenzuela four years earlier, but North's lead was too immense; he would have to wipe out more than half of the Congressman's support not just in battleground states, but most all of the states. Despite his protests, Valenzuela talked him into doing just that.

In order to bolster his credentials, President Valenzuela asked former Secretary of State Stinson and his wife, U.N. Secretary-General Jill Stinson, to negotiate the last part of his nuclear arms treaty with Iran, which the Left hailed as a great step toward world peace. It narrowed his deficit in the polls, but North still lead by almost 20 points on Election Day. Despite that, North lost in a razor thin margin to Stinson. It was obviously a fraud, but Valenzuela's Justice Department refused to investigate it. Paul North called for a re-count, and if not satisfied with that, riots in the streets by the Tea Party.

Despite the growing threat of a civil war, Jim Stinson was sworn in as President. The opposition party boycotted, refusing to take office. It was now a one-party government with Jim Stinson as President. Absent opposition, he installed his wife, Jill Wyndham-Stinson as the Secretary of State. Paul North announced he was leading a military revolution aimed at taking his country back. Riots and skirmishes flared up across the nation, which began to resemble a failed Middle Eastern state. At first the violence was a kind of race war, with Bloods, Crips and Mexican gangbangers going into white suburbs to randomly kill the residents. Then vigilante whites, many ex-military with access to heavy firepower, began to travel to inner city ghettos, engaging in the wholesale slaughter of black and Mexican criminals. This spiraled out of control, the violence eventually taking on a more random tone, without real purpose other than to exact revenge of whatever the avenger perceived needed avenging.

The "better angels of our nature" were nowhere to be found. Dark forces now controlled the world. Happy endings and good news were a thing of the past. Then President Stinson, his wife, and their Iranian counterpart, were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for the nuclear treaty with Iran. Then President Stinson was given the news: Jerusalem had been nuked, as had Houston, Texas. Iran was the culprit.

When he returned, the country came together and the opposition Congress decided to support Stinson when he talked tough of a major retaliation against Iran, as well as possible strikes against the holy sites of Mecca and Medina. Jingoistic patriots got behind him.

Then President Stinson held a high-level political meeting at the White House that included his Vice-President, the Speaker of the House, and the President pro tempore of the Senate. Secretary of State Jill Stinson was out of the country when the White House exploded, everybody in it killed in a terrorist attack. According to the Constitutional line of succession, she was now President of the United States. She was behind the bombing.

****

Now settled in as President, Jill Wyndham-Stinson took no action against Iran. When her political opponents realized that the nuclear bombings of Israel and Houston were not to engender retaliation, a full-scale civil war began. Former Congressman Paul North led the "Red State Patriots," a collection of conservatives that included a large number of military personnel, defected from U.S. forces, who brought military hardware with them to use against the government. The Second American Revolution also came to be known as the War Between the Red and Blue States when President Stinson announced that the "red states" in the South, traditionally voting against her party, were to be disenfranchised, the opposite of President Abraham Lincoln's insistence that they remain in it. Over time, the essential political reality was that the "red states" were America, the "blue states" a new country called the Coalition of Socialist States. But conservatives living within those states quickly took to the hills, engaging in guerilla war, refusing to give up their American citizenship.

Jill Wyndham-Stinson still had a remnant of the American military that remained loyal to her government, as well as security forces formed under Valenzuela to enforce the laws of the EPA and other governmental agencies. So it was that her "octopus squad," now back in full operation, was ordered to assassinate Michelle Woodward, Duke Ramsay, and Alan Goodson. Just before the killers pulled the trigger, the doomed recited the Lord's Prayer, forgiving those who had had done such terrible things to them. Then former Army Lieutenant Colonel Paul North, Don Rainer, and his armed-to-the-teeth militia stormed the premises, killing the would-be assassins and saving their lives. Citing language of the Founding Fathers, North asks Ramsay, Goodson and Michelle if they will join him in fighting the Second American Revolution.

"Give me liberty or give me death," was Ramsay's answer.

But the Second American Revolution escalated into World War III when the United Nations entered on behalf of their old Secretary-General, Jill Stinson. England then sided with the Red State Patriots. France sided with the Coalition of Socialist States. For several years, the war was fought on American soil, until the Russians, Iranians and Chinese aligned with Jill Stinson. This caused Japan, now militarized again, to join with Israel, Canada and Australia in opposition to Stinson.

From there, all hell, quite literally, broke loose, with the war expanding to distant continents; American, Chinese, Russian, and Iranian nuclear bombs exploding in the skies above them. The Chinese, using nuclear technology sold to them by President Stinson, now have the capacity to nuke American cities in the red states. They do that.

****

"The Revelation" was called by President Jill Wyndham-Stinson at her secret location. The White House and most of Washington, D.C. were now in rubble. Invited were the former President and First Lady, Fidel Castro Valenzuela and Melissa Valenzuela. Also in attendance: Gyorgy Szabo and Don Carver.

The tone of the meeting was immediately set when Melissa dropped to her knees and addressed Jill Stinson as "Master." The others looked on, trying to understand this oddity. Don Carver, who was raised a Baptist, quickly discerned what was happening. When Jill said she went by many names and guises over the centuries, but always preferred the moniker Louise Cifer (Lucifer), Carver dropped to his knees and began to babble incoherently, asking Jesus Christ to forgive him. Jill waved her hand like a magic wand, uttering "Silence," and like that he was rendered mute.

From there Jill provided a vivid explanation of her plan. The United States of America, she explained, was the "ripest apple on the tree," and in her ultimate battle of good vs. evil with God, there was no greater prize. She, the anti-Christ, had worked and sown seeds and laid the foundation over centuries for just this moment. Melissa, she told the others, had sworn allegiance to her but was the only one who knew all along she had sold her soul. Fidel had been mesmerized, she said, because his narcissism and personal love of self was the anti-Christ's greatest asset, more useful than subservience to a Master's whim. Gyorgy was reminded he sold his soul to the devil to get out of the Nazi death camps, given billions and great power in return. Carver, on the other hand, had never vowed fealty to her. He had not known who she was really was, until now.

The anti-Christ let Carver know his soul belonged to her, that he was destined for eternal damnation. He tried to pray to God, asking for help, but the anti-Christ explained that while his father Cleve, despite a lifetime of evil, escaped her clutches – to her great consternation – when he confessed knowledge of the North assassination plot before his passing Don, despite having attended church as a child, had turned from God in favor of politics . . . and Jim Stinson.

After thanking the others for their good service on her behalf, she began to get snarky and sardonic, making Fidel and Gyorgy uncomfortable, not quite sure of their fate. Melissa remained rapturous, sure her service would allow her escape from the torture of Hades, instead given a place of great honor with her Master.

The anti-Christ explained how the civil war, and the ensuing World War III, were pre-cursors to the Apocalypse; that they were indeed in the End Times. She complained that only God knew the day and the hour of Christ's return, but she recognized the "signs and wonders" enough to know "the Nazarene is coming soon" and she possessed America, the great prize in this conflict.

She also gave all of them a picture of their fates. Each one was made aware of a visual image of their eternal torture amidst the flames of hell. Melissa desperately tried to argue that she had freely given her soul to Satan; did that not earn her favor?

The anti-Christ told her she was a liar, so why should she have believed her? Fidel tried to use his silver tongue to talk his way out of it, but to no avail. The anti-Christ told each of them the exact hour of their demise from Earth, assuring that they would know of their fates each second of what remained of their lives. When the full realization of their fate hit them, each became insane, never recovering again in their lifetimes.

With that, the devil continued doing the devil's work. Christ would return, and He would triumph in the end, but only after the world experienced the worst disasters and horrors in all of her history.

The age of chivalry, as Edmund Burke once wrote of the French Revolution, "is gone." In the mean time, as the End Times raged on, Lieutenant Colonel Paul North led his "Christian soldiers" in a battle against evil. Unaware of the exact date of Judgment Day, they struggle on in the greatest of all struggles, the Lost Cause.

To find out how that turns out, you will need to read the sequel.

