AH Vignette #6: 'You Get What You Give'

I'm on a mexican radio
I'm on a mexican radio

I dial it in and tune the station
They talk about the u.s. inflation
I understand just a little
No comprende--it's a riddle


I'm on a mexican radio
I'm on a mexican radio
--
"My patience is runnin' thin. Get out of my office!"

So, that's how he chooses to speak to people, then? This'll be a long four years; thought Donna, typing out the set of notes handed to her an hour beforehand, as a plain suit wearing man exited the office and went down the corridor, redoing his tie as he did so.

Don't mind it much, s'long as I'm paid.
---
The man seated in the office grinned to himself as he rested with his shoes on the desk, the sandals covering the collection of maps Chappie had brought in earlier. He was so wrapped up in his sheer pride that he almost missed the ring of the telephone. After three rings, he nodded his head back and put the handset to his ear.

Before his caller had a chance to speak, he shouted - almost screamed - down the line, "You are SPEAKING to the President of the United States!" He said it with such emphasis, in a way that suggested that while he held himself in the utmost esteem for achieving the highest office in the land, he just couldn't quite believe it himself. He certainly wasn't alone in the latter regard.

After a brief splash of static - not unsurprising, the connections were never as strong following the events of the year prior - the hushed but emphasized voice that could only belong to a minister rang out on the other end. "Mister - Mister President - is that the title you want?" spoke the man. Thankful for the question, or really anything that confirmed his status, the president responded with "Yes, yes, that is the one, Jesse - I presume you are Jesse? Jesse Jackson?" Jackson cut in with a blurted out "yes" that got mixed in with the lingering static.

Before Jackson could proceed with his topic of choice, the president suffered a coughing fit. Not a severe one, but any sign of illness worried him significantly. He had seen how illness - pneumonia, to be precise - and questions of health had dogged his opponent. The image he presented unto his followers, his advisers - and indeed unto himself - would be betrayed by anything similar.

"You okay, Mister President?" Jackson gave his response with an eerie monotone that the minister in question was not known for. "Of course, Jesse. My health has always been - what would be the word?" he paused for a second. "Tremendous."

"Well, listen - the law you're putting on the books, look - there needs to be a revision." The president felt around on the back of his neck for an itch before jerking his arm onto the sides of his chair, nearly knocking his glasses onto the floor into the process. He eyes widened with fury at the suggestion. "Revisions?! Revisions?! There is no hope in revisions! Would - at the epoch of civilization - would Noah make revisions to his list of animals?" Though he was not there to witness it, the president could sense the rolling of the eyes on the other end.

I thought you'd given up on the Ark, Jackson thought and wished he'd said. "Whatever. But you have to look at the facts. Congress is not going to approve nationalists of this measure!" Licking his lips, the president took his time to respond. "Jesse, I think you'll find that the fact of the matter is that it's nationalizations, not nationalists." The reverend could barely contain his groan.

"Second of all, hasn't underestimation been the bearer of my success? Has it not, Jesse? Those Jews - up there in Hymietown -" Jackson winced, "They've been the bearers of bad news to me and my supporters for years. But we don't buy it. Not one bit, Jesse. We didn't buy it from the Republican goons set out by the enemies of our true goal. And what would they know? They couldn't muster the ability to shuffle Richard Nixon out of the White House. They had to...drag him out by his own two feet!"

With a sigh, Jackson choked up a response. "Mr. President, yes, I understand. Just asking you to take a little precaution." Almost immediately, the president, almost as if a burst of energy had surged through him, gave a spirited comeback. "Precaution is a devilish creation, Jesse, and I would not for a second hold back from declaring you an agent of him. It was not precaution which won Dr. King his rights -"

Jackson had enough of the wannabe preacher, and hung up, the brief conversation having already made him exhausted. The president was offended, of course, but he paid it no heed as he continued with his prior relaxation. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a picture of the outgoing president in his drawers. He set his legs down on the carpet and swiveled over to it. He picked it up, and ripped it into shreds. Oh Gerry, you were such a moron. You couldn't even defeat the cowboy. Everyone was a moron to the president. None were as good as he.

They called it narcissism. Egotism. To him, those 'isms' were all synonyms to one word - reality. That'd be a good line, he thought as he scribbled it down on a loose scrap of paper. Damn good line. There were never any bad lines, and if there were, they were never his to begin with.

Still in a state of awe over his ascension, the president took the rather odd decision of scrabbling down two words on his scrap. "I'm President," they read. I am indeed. They all took me for granted. Flournoy, Udall, Reagen. They could never understand what drove the people. They wouldn't understand. When Three Mile Island went belly-up, they still wrote me off. No hope, they said. It was actually all according to the plan. The nukes would start flying and merely confirm it.

And of course, you must always be the author of your own destiny, or plan.
As his shaded glasses were removed and laid dormant on the table in front of him, Jim Jones felt very happy indeed, for he had much work to complete. And as he contemplated the future, he felt obliged to quietly sing a merry tune.

"When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark"
 
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I mean, if Jesse Jackson is scared by Jim Jones' anti-Semitism, there's a problem. How'd he succeed Ford?
It's quite ASB, yes, but I'm imagining something like this:

- Nixon refusing to resign and being impeached
- An impeachment crisis that becomes rapidly toxic
- Something happening to Jerry Brown that rules him out of running
- Bill Shearer running again as a third party candidate. Jones ekes out a victory based on even worse anti-republican feeling and vote splitting.
- Ford goes down in defeat at a bitterly contested convention to Reagen.
-
Jones runs in '76, and emerges from a divided field. (Handwavium I know)
- Three Mile Island blows up in the middle of the campaign, and Reagen has a very weak response.
- Other things, too, that haven't come to me yet.


The Hymietown thing was a wee joke based off of Jackson's own problems on that front, admittedly. Jones wasn't too much of an anti-semite iotl, though perhaps different circumstances could lead him to be.
 
When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again.

Do, don't you want me to love you
I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you
Tell me, tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer
You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.

Helter skelter, helter skelter
Helter skelter...
 
When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again.

Do, don't you want me to love you
I'm coming down fast but I'm miles above you
Tell me, tell me, tell me, come on tell me the answer
You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer.

Helter skelter, helter skelter
Helter skelter...
Governor Manson is not available for comment.
 
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