don’t have that luxury. I can’t just take a ‘ready, fire, aim’ position as the chairman seems to take, and I might advise him to ease up until he knows all the facts. For now, I’ll stand by my opening statement.” Mentally, he rolled his eyes, thinking, That Washington Post reporter will be thrilled knowing she now has a week’s worth of controversy to write about.
Burkmeister felt a sudden chill and was hit by a powerful wave of fatigue; for a moment he actually wondered if he could walk away from the Rose Garden under his own power. Calling on a reservoir of inner strength, he said, “I think that will be all for now. We’ll keep you advised and wish you all a good day.” With that, he slowly walked back to the Oval Office and immediately summoned Dr. Toomay.
After quickly examining the president, a concerned Doctor Toomay said, “I’ve arranged for you to take a battery of tests at Walter Reed this afternoon, Mr. President—the usual blood workups, urine tests, and so forth, and I have asked that they do some ultrasounds, CT scans, and a liver biopsy. This will all be done discreetly, of course, and if something should inadvertently leak out, we’ll say your general health is good and you were in to check out some flulike symptoms. For all we know, that might be all there is.”
That is not completely true, Toomay thought, but he didn’t want to unduly alarm the president. He could not help but be alarmed by the president’s yellowed skin, loss of weight, fatigue, stomach and back pains, and generally run-down condition. He learned long ago to never jump to a medical conclusion until all the data was in, but in his heart of hearts he had a premonition that was almost too unpleasant to even imagine. The president, he knew for sure, was a very sick man.
7
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
14 September 2017
W ellington Crane was particularly cheerful as the news of the Chunxiao Incident started to filter in. The stock market had plunged since the opening bell, and the world was losing its grip as the details became known. As always, the eyes of the world were turning to the United States for leadership, and he knew he could count on the BM boys to screw everything up. A crisis always supercharged his ratings, and he had scooped all other news media sources on Chunxiao yesterday.
Crane knew he could position whatever the BM boys did as ineffective in contrast to his own brilliant economic and political theology, which he called Pax-Americanism. The Pax-Americana philosophy was quite simple: what was good for America was good for the world. And who was in a better position to define what was best for Americans than Wellington Crane?
His listeners loved the way he cut to the heart of an issue, defined the sides, and took a stand. For multitudes of confused Americans hungering for answers, he provided a no-nonsense clarity that eliminated all gray areas. His authoritative declarations and stamps of approval were all anyone needed to make a decision, he felt, and he carefully cultivated this codependent relationship with his listeners.
He often wondered what he loved most about himself. Was it his annual income of over $50 million? Was it his power to mold public opinion, influence policy, and decide who should win or lose elections? Whatever it was, Wellington knew he was the complete package, without peer.
He was proud to call himself a self-made man. Born into a middle-class family in Louisville, Kentucky, the lights went on for him in junior college, where he had auditioned for and been given a one-hour weekly radio show on the school’s privately owned radio station. He dubbed his little soapbox Wellington’s World and quickly recognized his talent for engaging and enraging audiences while capturing market share. He craved power and attention and parlayed his talent into a succession of bigger and better jobs. He hit pay dirt when a major Atlanta-based media conglomerate offered to syndicate his
Burkmeister felt a sudden chill and was hit by a powerful wave of fatigue; for a moment he actually wondered if he could walk away from the Rose Garden under his own power. Calling on a reservoir of inner strength, he said, “I think that will be all for now. We’ll keep you advised and wish you all a good day.” With that, he slowly walked back to the Oval Office and immediately summoned Dr. Toomay.
After quickly examining the president, a concerned Doctor Toomay said, “I’ve arranged for you to take a battery of tests at Walter Reed this afternoon, Mr. President—the usual blood workups, urine tests, and so forth, and I have asked that they do some ultrasounds, CT scans, and a liver biopsy. This will all be done discreetly, of course, and if something should inadvertently leak out, we’ll say your general health is good and you were in to check out some flulike symptoms. For all we know, that might be all there is.”
That is not completely true, Toomay thought, but he didn’t want to unduly alarm the president. He could not help but be alarmed by the president’s yellowed skin, loss of weight, fatigue, stomach and back pains, and generally run-down condition. He learned long ago to never jump to a medical conclusion until all the data was in, but in his heart of hearts he had a premonition that was almost too unpleasant to even imagine. The president, he knew for sure, was a very sick man.
7
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
14 September 2017
W ellington Crane was particularly cheerful as the news of the Chunxiao Incident started to filter in. The stock market had plunged since the opening bell, and the world was losing its grip as the details became known. As always, the eyes of the world were turning to the United States for leadership, and he knew he could count on the BM boys to screw everything up. A crisis always supercharged his ratings, and he had scooped all other news media sources on Chunxiao yesterday.
Crane knew he could position whatever the BM boys did as ineffective in contrast to his own brilliant economic and political theology, which he called Pax-Americanism. The Pax-Americana philosophy was quite simple: what was good for America was good for the world. And who was in a better position to define what was best for Americans than Wellington Crane?
His listeners loved the way he cut to the heart of an issue, defined the sides, and took a stand. For multitudes of confused Americans hungering for answers, he provided a no-nonsense clarity that eliminated all gray areas. His authoritative declarations and stamps of approval were all anyone needed to make a decision, he felt, and he carefully cultivated this codependent relationship with his listeners.
He often wondered what he loved most about himself. Was it his annual income of over $50 million? Was it his power to mold public opinion, influence policy, and decide who should win or lose elections? Whatever it was, Wellington knew he was the complete package, without peer.
He was proud to call himself a self-made man. Born into a middle-class family in Louisville, Kentucky, the lights went on for him in junior college, where he had auditioned for and been given a one-hour weekly radio show on the school’s privately owned radio station. He dubbed his little soapbox Wellington’s World and quickly recognized his talent for engaging and enraging audiences while capturing market share. He craved power and attention and parlayed his talent into a succession of bigger and better jobs. He hit pay dirt when a major Atlanta-based media conglomerate offered to syndicate his
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