The Party: Chapter 5 Duncan Angelson – Friday Flash Fiction Post
Yes, this is political. I offer you trigger warnings for language and sexual and racist slurs and comments. Future episodes may also contain rape, abuse, and other unpleasant things.
Chapter
5: Duncan Angelson
After Andy McGuire left, Duncan got to work. He knew
exactly why Mr. Joe Evans, The People’s Party leader, wanted to talk. There was
much to do. Too soon, his secretary, Wendy Ackerman, buzzed. “Mr. Evans to see
you, Sir.”
He punched the intercom button. “Send him in.”
As the door opened, Duncan stood and walked around the
desk. “Joe. Good to see you.” He held out his hand.
Joe Evans strode in and shook hands with the Chief of
Staff. “Good to see you, too, Duncan. It’s been too long. Emily says you and Monica
need to come out to the farm for dinner.”
“Let us know the day and time, Joe. We’d love to come
out.” He motioned to a loveseat in the middle of the room. “Have a seat. What
can I do for you?”
Joe Evans sat down, his bulk nearly filling the
loveseat.
“Drink?”
“Scotch. No ice.”
Duncan nodded and poured his best into a heavy, squat,
cut-crystal glass. He poured one for himself then handed over the glass before
sitting in the armchair across from a small, glass-topped coffee table.
Evans sipped, smacking his lips. “You know how to take
care of a visitor, Duncan.”
Duncan smiled and put his lips to his drink, then
placed it on the table. “I know you didn’t come all the way into Washington for
a Scotch.”
“No.” Joe Evans sighed, drank again, and held the near
empty glass in his lap. “You reading the Immaculata reports?”
“The summaries, of course. A full report when there’s
something of interest, why?”
“Well, it’s a good thing, bad thing sort of issue. The
Immaculata were very efficient. We had them started rounding up dissidents and
activists before the President’s second term was only half over. And you know,
by the time it ended, we’d put all of our people in place and had the
electorate whipped into a frenzy about illegal aliens. Then we rolled back all
the civil rights legislation since 1959. The next three years, we had anyone
not a citizen and anyone with any Negro or Chink blood rounded up, or nearly
so. This last year, anyone turned in by people they knew who had even the
smallest amount of black, chink, or Hispanic blood was fair game.”
He laughed. “Damn but that marketing campaign was
effective. Suspicion, greed, jealousy—all of it ramped up until we were working
24/7 on rounding people up.” He drank the last of his scotch and motioned,
asking for another.
Duncan nodded and got up, taking the glass to his
little dry bar. “So, what’s the problem?”
“It worked too well. The Immaculata are rounding up
people now with so little taint in their blood that we’re damn close to making
it up.” He took the glass from Duncan and drank some more. “We’re not sure what
to do now.”
Duncan sat back in the armchair. “Are the people being
turned in actually bad people? They complain about the president or the party?”
“No.” Joe Evans waved away the thought. “Matter of fact,
a lot of them are party members and donated to the President’s reelection.
Voted him President for Life, too.”
Duncan rubbed his cheek. He could feel the stubble
already forming. “How about letting some of them go, then. You know, they were
examined and found clean, politically correct. It might be time to show how
fair the party is.”
For a moment, Evans rubbed his chin, nodding, as he
thought that idea over. “Perhaps. I’ll take it to the committee.” He sipped,
then changed the subject. “How’s the President?”
Duncan shook his head. “It’s like minding a child. But
we knew that six years ago. How’s his wife?”
Evans sighed. “She’s happy to be in New York. Their girl
is in that special school she needs. But Mrs. Margaret Masters wants to
divorce. We can’t allow that.”
“Any particular reason? I mean other than she knows
he’s a horndog?”
“She wants to be free to see other men.
Understandable. She’s only thirty-two. But we can’t allow that.”
“What about if she sees men discretely? Would she go
for that?” Duncan was thinking furiously. Maggie Masters knew the whole story.
If she decided to spill the beans, that could cause a huge problem. Mainly for
her. Duncan didn’t want that. He personally liked Maggie and her daughter,
Bectie. It wouldn’t do for her to have an accident.
A slow head shake from Evans was the answer. Then he
shrugged and drank another sip. “Maybe. I’ll take that to the committee too.”
He sighed again. “We can play off anything that happens in the press, of
course. Most of the media outlets know where their bread is buttered now. But
there’s always a few reporters still willing to kick up a fuss.”
Duncan shrugged. “What about the President. I don’t
think there’s enough hookers in the country to satisfy the lecher-in-chief.”
“Start bringing back the ones he started with. His
dementia is far enough gone by now, and the girls all look the same anyway,
he’ll never know.” Evans drained his glass and rose ponderously from the
loveseat. He smoothed what little white hair he had into place. “The doc’s giving
him a clean bill of health?”
“Yeah. As much as possible. Dementia has it’s health
side effects, you know.”
Evans nodded. “Do what you have to. By the time he’s
too sick for any appearances, we’ll have the entire country nailed down.” He
turned to the door and took a step. “Oh.” He turned back. “The Eastern
Federation wants a sit down on nuclear issues.”
“President Popov?”
“Right. When they rolled over Eastern Europe, the
Balkans, and Germany, they acquired a lot of material.”
“I’ll set something up.” Duncan walked Evans to the
door, opened it and shook his hand. “Give me a few days.”
“Keep in touch.”
Duncan nodded and went back into his office as Evans
waddled out of the secretary’s office. Nukes, he thought. Great.
Thank you for reading.
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