The presidential entourage had one more campaign stop before the last debate, and Grant had the dubious honor of riding in the limo with Earl. The man talked incessantly.
“Moron Murray. What a loser,” he shouted to nobody in particular. “He’s way behind.” He looked around for agreement.
“Yes, sir,” one of the Ken Dolls responded, but not with enough enthusiasm to satisfy Earl.
“The polls are a hoax.”
Another man nodded.
“It’s true. They’re all frauds. Every one of them,” Earl said, increasing his volume.
“Yes, sir,” the two Ken Dolls shouted.
Somewhat mollified, Earl started mumbling about the impeachment by the House Judiciary Committee. “Sniveling Snyder. Trying to dig up dirt on the President of the United States with that committee of his. They made it all up. He’s a fucking traitor.” His face turned a deeper red.
Earlier in this assignment, Grant would have been puzzled by these comments considering the meeting with the Russian president and Saudi prince they’d just come from, but he’d stopped trying to figure the guy out. One thing he had finally realized, though. Earl would talk until he convinced himself. He supposed it was a form of self-hypnosis, although he wasn’t really sure what that term meant.
Earl grabbed his phone and started tweeting. He would probably type out everything he’d just said, and they’d all have to hear it all over again on the news. Except Grant didn’t listen to the news much. When they’d gotten back from Kosovo, he’d caught a glimpse of a report on the screen at the airport. There had been another mass shooting, this one a gay club in Springford, Connecticut.
The news anchors were talking about the man’s online posts. They were examining his mental health. Before Earl could see the news, one of the Secret Service agents turned the channel to his favorite propaganda station. But Earl had been briefed about it on the plane. The press would be sticking their microphones in his face when they caught up with him, expecting a sane statement.
Good luck with that, Grant thought.
On the plane to South Carolina, Brad told him that Earl had sat in a depressed heap after President Egorov reamed him a new one. He’d finally roused himself after he heard about the shooting, shouting about how immigrants were destroying his presidency. The shooter was white, as far as Grant knew. Plus, what did immigrants have to do with fags—or the LGBTQ community, he was supposed to say.
Fuck all those letters.
They pulled into the underground parking for the Star Sports Center in Greenville. Earl hadn’t gotten any rest on the plane and had been ranting the whole limo drive. Grant wondered if he’d have the energy to yell some more, but his base was eager for red meat.
The Ken Dolls and local police ushered Earl into a lavish green room where the South Carolina senator started the shoulder pounding. A line of other people probably running for state office formed up to be introduced. One of the Ken Dolls said that Senator Dickenson’s polls were as dismal as Earl’s, but Grant figured the senator was looking to turn that all around with this magic rally.
Brad rushed into the room and started issuing orders. “Grant, Derrick, stage left. Walk the aisles. George and I will take the right side.”
“Roger that.”
Grant and Derrick slipped out a small door under the stage and took up their positions. The restless crowd waved their signs at the cameras, yelling “Bogus news” and “Shoot the press!”
Grant started looking for guns. For once, he was glad of the Ken Dolls and even the local yokel backup. He lost track of time, absorbed by the fast movements and loud shouts of the crowd. Local officials came out and the group quieted down a bit, bored and waiting for the main event.
Derrick strode up to him. “See anything?”
“Nah, but it’s hard to tell,” Grant said.
“Too much going on.”
While the crowd mostly sat, Derrick and Grant walked in opposite directions. Most wore blue jeans and big t-shirts that covered their waists, making it a bit hard to check for a bulge in the mid-back. The audience had gone through two metal detectors to get inside, but still, this was their job. Many wore campaign hats and hostile expressions.
“What you lookin’ at?” A man suddenly jumped up and pressed his weather-beaten face close to Grant’s, taking him by surprise. “Huh? You ain’t never seen a patriot before?”
Grant took a step back.
The man closed the gap with another step. “I asked you a question.” His breath smelled of cigarettes and hot dogs.
One of the local police moved up. “Is there a problem, sir?” He addressed himself to Grant.
But the redneck spoke up. “Yeah, this wetback’s staring at my wife. Fuckin’ immigrants.”
“Actually, he’s working with us tonight, sir,” the officer replied, keeping his voice calm, even cheerful. “Helping to keep our president safe.”
“Sheeeit.” The man hawked up a wad of spit, then remembered where he was and swallowed.
Grant’s stomach twisted.
The patriot turned to the cop. “You should hire some real Americans, sir.” He spat out this last word, but returned to his seat.
“Thank you,” Grant said to the policeman.
“Any time.” The officer took a solid stance next to the redneck’s row, hands folded in front of him.
Grant never really thought of himself as Latin until he visited his family, and even then, they were just his parents and siblings, their husbands and wives, their kids. Yeah, they ate beans and rice, tacos, but didn’t everybody these days? He gave himself a shake and looked back at the crowd.
A roar rose up when Senator Dickenson escorted President Earl onto the stage. Earl didn’t start his speech right away. Instead, he walked from side to side, waving, smiling, soaking in the adulation like that desiccated octopus Grant had seen on social media. It had started out as a tiny blob and gradually expanded as people poured water over it until you could finally see what it was. Then it swam away. There was no chance Earl would disappear like that, but he was sure drinking in the love.
The president didn’t exactly expand, but he leaned back and basked in the applause and rhythmic chants of the crowd. He pushed his shoulders back, and his normally paper-white skin seemed to flush a light pink as if he were a vampire sucking fresh sustenance from his fans. The chants started with the oldies but goodies from four years ago.
“She’s a crook. She’s a crook,” rang out for what seemed to Grant a full five minutes. It was hard to tell since he was watching for weapons. The chant morphed to “Send them back” for a while, then went on to more recent favorites like “It’s a hoax” and “Snyder is a traitor.”
Finally, Earl started to speak, but Grant had heard it all so many times it blended in like the radio left on to keep him company on lonely nights. Phrases popped out at him.
“. . . the Dems are desperate to prove election fraud, but it’s—”
“—a lie,” the crowd filled in, glee on their faces.
Grant kept his eyes moving. His eyes caught on a man in a denim jacket and cowboy hat who had a distinct bulge on his belt. He angled around and saw a pouch for a hunting knife hanging empty.
“Aren’t my rallies the best?”
The crowd roared their agreement.
“I never had sex with that woman,” Earl shouted.
His followers laughed uproariously at this. At least they knew that was a lie, Grant thought.
“I ordered all those people killed?” Earl raised his hands in the air, looking around. “If that’s true, why is Murray still around?”
The eruption of applause hurt Grant’s ears. Just as it wound down and Earl had taken a breath to shout his next bumper sticker, a block of people in the middle of the auditorium stood up and started shouting, “Time to resign.”
The crowd bellowed their disapproval.
The small group brandished signs reading “Lock Him Up” and “Russian Puppet.”
Earl crossed his arms and leaned back, shaking his head. He rolled his eyes, a gesture magnified by the video screens around the hall. “Just look at those people over there,” he said.
His base shouted louder, almost drowning out the small group. Grant saw a dark-haired man in a black t-shirt and jeans with some kind of an amplifier. He wondered how he’d gotten that through security.
“You know what they deserve,” Earl said, his voice booming over the crowd. “Hell, I’ll pay your legal fees.”
That was all his base needed. Two men climbed over the back of the chairs separating them from the protestors and started swinging. The cops ran for them. Grant and Derrick hung back as they’d been taught to do in situations like this, watching the president to see if anyone separated themselves out and approached him. Or even worse, dropped and aimed. But everyone’s attention was on the fracas.
By the time they looked back, about ten men and a few women had joined in the fight. A beefy man in army fatigues tore a sign out of a protestor’s hand and started beating him with the stick it was stapled onto. Two cops were dragging one man off another protestor. A line of security pushed and shoved their way around the brawl, trying to separate the two groups and move the protestors toward the door.
Earl leaned forward, his face strawberry red, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “You show ‘em.”
Senator Dickenson approached him and said something in his ear. Earl shook himself as if coming out of a trance, then shouted, “Okay, Okay. I think that’s enough. Let the fine men of the police force do their job and arrest them.”
“Lock them up,” the crowd chanted. “Lock them up.”
Grant didn’t think they’d broken any laws. Maybe Earl thought protesting against him was a crime.
After a few more scuffles, the protestors were escorted out and the noise level came down from ear-splitting to a din. Earl raised his hands and the crowd quieted a little more. “Now all you patriots get to the polls. Let’s reelect Senator Dickenson here.” Earl pounded him on the back and Dickenson winced out a smile. “The lying media says I’m lagging behind Moron Murray.”
Loud boos rose up along with shouts of “Bogus news.”
Earl leaned back again, his eyes half closed, soaking it in. Then he held a hand up and paused for everyone’s attention. “It would be the worst thing if I lost. Very bad. Remember to vote for me!”
The crowd went crazy, taking Grant’s full attention. After a while, people filed out of their seats and he confirmed that the president had left the stage. He and Derrick made their way backstage and followed the Ken Dolls to the limos. Grant ended up in Earl’s car again. It was his lucky day.
“They love me,” Earl said. “Did you see how much they love me?”
“Yes, sir,” the Ken Dolls said in unison.
They headed back to the hotel in Atlanta.