Presidents and Kings

By Steve Melton

Where is Cranston Carter?

An evil, worldwide organization known as the “Periphery” has seized the presidency of the United States. Freeman Shanklin, a godless, radical, globalist occupies the White House. Carter has been anointed by God to seek the presidency. During their televised debate, the president walks over to Carter in an attempt to confront and intimidate his young challenger. He ignores a warning to remove his hand from Cranston’s shoulder. A left hook to the jaw knocks the president unconscious. Carter’s righteous reaction leads to a landslide victory.

Cranston Carter, a military warrior, follows the leading of the Holy Spirit to bring the United States back from the brink of total collapse. Godless, globalist world powers are committed to crushing the one obstacle standing in their way - Christian Americans who still believe in the power of faith, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

Differences between the two major political parties have evaporated. The Periphery has gained control of the country through threats and fear. Politicians are being taken away in the middle of the night for that first meeting where the Periphery’s agenda is set out by huge, evil, armed agents.

Through the power of God, Carter defeats all enemies. He triumphs over Ninja warriors during a mission in Tibet. Returning home, he foils an attempt by Periphery forces to seize a delivery of top secret computer chips. In his last battle before winning the governorship of Missouri, Carter’s twelve-man team of desert warriors joins forces with local militias to stop an attempted takeover of the southwest by a powerful Mexican warlord acting under clandestine direction of President Shanklin.

He wins the governorship of Missouri, only to have armed thugs drag him to an abandoned warehouse for a meeting with Periphery agents. A melee ensues. The thugs are neutralized. Carter is left to confront a Periphery assassin named Chin. Cranston is almost killed. Chin is left for dead, only to resurface later after Cranston decides to run for president.
As president, Carter leads fellow warriors to rid Andrews Air Force base of Russian, New World Protectorate forces. Following a Russian gunship attack on the White house, Carter travels to Moscow to confront the malevolent Russian president, Alexander Premokov. Carter follows Biblical teaching regarding how to deal with ought with a “brother.” “Premo” is a killer and former KGB boss who possesses supernatural martial arts, cage fighting skills. Before stepping into the octagon to settle their differences, the huge Russian mockingly asks Carter how can he be so confident of victory. Cranston’s reply, “Because King David never loses.” “Neither do I,” replies the over-confident Russian leader. Unknown to Carter, the battle will be witnessed live on worldwide television.

The story revolves around a small black box named Gig, invented by Pernell Puddy, a young, socially challenged, electronics genius living in his mother’s basement. He is blessed with supernatural ability to create a device with unlimited power and capabilities. The Periphery is close to creating such a device. World control is in the balance.
The United States is embroiled in three foreign wars. Scattered militia groups are the last line of protection for America. When Gig uncovers Russian and Chinese military plans for a massive invasion of America, there is fear in the White House. “King David” rallies his staff in defense of God and country. The days of passive leadership are over. Cranston is committed to being on the front lines of battle, spiritually as well as on the battlefield. He can never retire the “sword.” When criticized for taking scores of human lives in defense of his country, his only reply, “King David never apologized for killing the enemies of his nation. Neither will I.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Melton
• Release date: Apr 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310784231

Steve Melton

Steve Melton has authored an eclectic assortment of works. “Presidents and Kings” is his first published novel. "Searching for Aunt Bea" is his latest offering. Soon to follow will be "Pasadena Thunder," a fictional work about a little old lady who races a Dodge Muscle car on the streets of Pasadena. Other works waiting in the wings are a collection of novelettes. Several volumes of children’s poetry. And a volume of stories from his childhood growing up in the fifties and sixties in the middle class suburbs of St. Louis. Steve is a graduate of the University of Missouri where he studied journalism, art and photography. He served four years in the United States Air Force as an overseas communications specialist. He earned his teaching credentials form Lees McRae College in North Carolina. He retired after twenty years of teaching Junior High and High School Social Studies. He does volunteer work at the Missouri Home for Veterans in St. Louis. Inspiration for his characters comes from his father and other military warriors he has had the honor to know and associate with during his life. Steve's knowledge of Blue Ridge Mountain life and culture was the inspiration for another soon to be published novel, "Blue Ridges - Silver Streets." He laughingly refers to himself as a “real renaissance guy” with interests in writing, music, cooking, photography, comedy, physical fitness, Biblical teachings and a growing relationship with Jesus Christ

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Introduction

A blur of security agents in dark suits rushed the stage to the fallen Commander in Chief. Half of them wanted to congratulate the challenger for putting the president on the floor. Congratulations would have to wait. Their forced, measured tones into hidden communications devices were barely audible above the chaos in the room as dozens of photographers forced their way through the crowd to the front of the stage. Code four. Alpha One is down. Repeat. Code four. Alpha One is down.

There was no smoking gun. No assassin disappearing under a mass of secret service agents. It was a left hook to the point of the jaw . . . . . delivered by a young challenger defending his space. There was no pre-planned code covering the unlikely event of a president being knocked unconscious during a nationally televised debate. Code four would have to do.

The scene was surreal. A sitting president crumbled to the floor, flat on his back in front of a national audience. For weeks there had been gleeful anticipation by presidential supporters that he would take the young challenger to school in the fine art of political debate. The president was in his element. In front of the cameras. Confident. He was making no effort to conceal the contempt for his challenger and the newly formed third party he represented. The president had faith in his ability to present his vision for the future in a manner that would guarantee that a nation in the beginning stages of complete government dependency would send him back to Washington, in a flood of public support to finish the job.

The president was a master of the finer nuances of national debate. If the nuances weren’t serving him well, he was not above castigating opponents with a barrage of insults, lies, and innuendo that deflected attention away from the issues, and focused it on an adversary’s ability to defend himself. It was usually a lack of ability, which was all that would be remembered the next morning.

All the voice inflections. All the graceful gestures. All the sideways, condescending, sneering looks at the challenger. All the facts and figures, presented with just enough shading, that a largely unstudied electorate, often referred to as the low information voter, wouldn’t realize he was a master of deceit. Such techniques had served him well during his political career. So self-assured that he didn’t notice, or wouldn’t admit, that his challenger couldn’t be shaken, or taken off point. They were polar opposites. The president, with a long-held, core belief that all absolutes could be made to appear fluid. His challenger believed that a foundation based on the Rock could never be fluid.

The challenger had been flawless during the debate. He was inspirational. Unlike the president, who was short on inspiration and truth, and long on oratory performance. It was obvious to the millions who were watching the nationally televised broadcast that the challenger would never have to struggle with a bad memory. Truth was always easier to remember. He had core convictions that were guided by truth. Christian observers had little trouble discerning the source of such guidance and wisdom.

The president had spoken in political vagaries and platitudes designed to obviscate his intentions. The challenger’s language, while not as grandiose, spoke right to the heart of any given subject in a conversational manner that was readily understood. Often citing Biblical references to back up his views and assertions. It was something that had been considered political suicide in years past.

Then, the president made a major miscalculation that would change the course of national and world affairs. The president was several inches taller than his rival. An intimidating, impressive, figure who had developed a habit of invading personal space when trying to make a point, or win a debate. This bully pulpit mentality often led to putting a feigned, fatherly hand on an opponent’s shoulder or arm. An action that was usually followed by a request to, Take a deep breath . . . . . and allow me clarify my position. Which often had the desired effect of making an otherwise collected opponent become agitated. Agitation could be exploited.

The president had been advised that it could be an effective strategy during the debate. Unfortunately, the provided information on his challenger turned out to be lacking. Information warning that there could only be one alpha male in front of the national audience. It wouldn’t be the president. The challenger had been even tempered and controlled. Never displaying the slightest hint of annoyance, arrogance, or agitation at frequent attempts by the president to demean his youth and inexperience.

Every point made by the challenger was met with accusations of naivety. That he was naive enough to believe that ancient teachings could ever be applied to a contemporary world. The young man was not to be shaken. The president followed the dictates of his advisors. Leaning across the open space between the podiums and placing his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

Young man, with all due respect, allow me to get to the heart of the matter. I think the American people realize that the job of President of the United States is far too big for a person of such limited experience. The president turned his gaze to the camera. Offering an ever so slight sneer indicating that he was in control of the debate. A father admonishing an errant son.

Stunned silence. There were the sounds the sounds of dozens of camera shutters being tripped, and a flood of popping flashes from press photographers who knew they were about to witness something spectacular. The president's jaw was set. Head up. Looking down his nose as he spoke. Taking on the persona of a modern day Musolini.

The American people deserve . . . . . He never finished the statement. The challenger looked at the hand on the shoulder. Looked up. Locking eyes with the taller man.

Remove your hand Freeman.

Gasps echoed through the room. The Commander in Chief had just been addressed by his first name. Not Sir or Mr. President. But Freeman. Television cameras zoomed in to fill screens with close up images of both men. The president’s was perfectly manicured, coiffed, tailored, made-up. In direct contrast to challenger’s battle scarred face, and pale blue eyes that exuded strength and confidence.

For the first time in his political career, the president sensed he was overmatched. He couldn’t back down. He couldn’t lose face. He was the president. The young man should have been nothing more than the latest in a history of weak challengers. Both men realized that the next few moments could determine the destiny of the country. The young challenger again looked at the hand on his shoulder. Then back into the eyes of the president. The president hadn’t given ground. He increased the pressure of his grip in an attempt to intimidate . . . . . dominate. He realized it was a mistake when he felt the steel-corded muscles in his opponent’s shoulder tense. He should have known what was about to happen. The left hook, delivered over the outstretched arm, brought a stunning end to the debate.

Across the nation, there was sudden revelation. Neither side of the political spectrum could be certain who they were dealing with in this young challenger. He possessed great strength, courage, and wisdom. But there was one thing the country had been lacking for decades. Something they were crying out for. Righteous leadership. The challenger possessed it. The country realized it. After years of struggle, a third party had become viable. The Christian community believed they had just witnessed King David slaying Goliath. Israel was about to be in good hands. Cranston Carter would win in a landslide. The American Patriot Party had arrived.

Part I

Chapter I: Lessons from David

Young Cranston was in a hostile environment. Surrounded by aliens. Such are the first impressions of normal kids experiencing the first day as the new kid in school. But Cranston wasn’t a normal kid. He was a boy of stronger mettle. His young life already transformed. Forged in the fire of ancient accounts of Biblical heroes. Unlike other children, Cranston preferred to sit in church with the adults. At five years of age, he was already keen of intellect. He was a curious boy with an unlimited attention span for things that fascinated him.

While other children his age were in children’s church, eating snacks, playing games, and watching ten-minute cartoons dealing with the Biblical subject of the week, Cranston was soaking in the life changing accounts of Biblical history. His father had always insisted that Biblical teachings were never to be referred to as stories. They were history. Every bit as true as Columbus, or the first lunar landing. Early on, Cranston realized he didn’t have to be perfect to be a great man of God. King David was his hero.

///

The Carter family had arrived in St. Louis three days earlier. Wesley Carter was a career government official in charge of highly classified operations that would forever remain TOP SECRET. Alma Carter was a brilliant woman with a doctorate in Political Science, who willingly gave up a promising career to be a full time mother and wife. Cranston was their only child.

There had been barely enough time to get all the boxes loaded into the garage, and the furniture pushed together in the middle of unfamiliar rooms. Out of town ants trying to establish a new colony as they busied themselves moving through paths and compartments. Pushing along and rearranging a lifetime collection of belongings. Organizing their new home would have to wait. Defense Mapping Agency was working on a critical new project that demanded a last-minute relocation of Wesley Carter and family to St. Louis. The project, and the first day of school, would be starting in three days.

Cranston was in his seat as the last echoes of the opening bell faded down the long marble halls of Edgar Road Elementary in Webster Groves. He was the first person the other kids would see as they entered the room. Cranston learned early on it was often a good idea to do the opposite of what others would do. He wouldn’t be the timid, new kid walking through the door at the last minute to face a sea of staring, critical faces. While the teacher was out in the hall waiting to herd all the other kids into the room, Cranston had already sized up the exterior of the brick building. He counted the exit doors to the playground, located the door he was certain was room number two, made his entrance, chose his own seat in the middle of the class, and waited for the bell to ring. Even at that young age he was instinctively dealing with the intricacies of reconnaissance and covert entry.

///

Hodie Frisch. The boy had a personality that perfectly matched his name. He was a silver backed gorilla in a cage of spider monkeys. The fourth grade enforcer for rules and conditions of his own making. He was at least a head taller than any of the others in the class. Including the few gangly girls who were struggling with premature growth spurts. He appeared to be fifteen minutes away from needing his first shave. First impressions indicated a challenged dolt who was struggling through a three-year plan to get out of the fourth grade. It was a notion that couldn’t have been further from the truth. The boy was brilliant. With an I.Q. that went off the charts. He was also the teacher’s pet. And a thug. A bad combination that, coupled with dark-set, evil eyes, magnified by thick glasses, made the boy even more intimidating. He wasn’t a traditional bully who would back down if confronted. He loved confrontation . . . . . and fighting. The only thing limiting his penchant for fighting was the fact that there were no worthy challengers in the school. On one occasion he had thrashed two sixth graders who made the mistake of making fun of his thick glasses and kickball skills. Complaints had come from numerous parents whose children had come home from school roughed up, or with school supplies and lunch money missing.

Ethyl Marmstead. Fourth grade teacher. THE Ethyl Marmstead. The woman was the stuff of legends. Not all of them righteous. Nearly six feet tall. Two hundred pounds of German extraction and goose step precision in her teaching methods. An imposing presence for certain. Parents who confronted her walked away feeling like scolded puppies with tails between legs. The principal felt it wise to walked eggshell-covered circles around her. She ran the school. It had been that way for the past fifteen years, through four different principals. The woman was a brilliant teacher. She was a no-nonsense disciplinarian with an impeccable resume and credentials. She also had a working knowledge of the finer points of educational law. All attributes that made her untouchable.

If she had a major flaw, it was a history of having at least one teacher’s pet every year. It was a status conferred on only the most academically gifted students. As long as one of her charges was academically gifted, she tended to ignore all other shortcomings in social skills or behavior.

Hodie Frisch was her current pet. They could have shared same genetic pool. There resemblance was unnerving. Both were of imposing dimensions. Both wore black-rimmed glasses that added to their intimidating personas. His, magnifying a sinister countenance. Hers, large cat’s eye frames, with points so pronounced they gave the appearance of horns growing out of her temples. There were rumors that they were mother and son in real life. Neither of them did anything to dispel such notions.

///

The kids were pouring into the room. Cranston sat listening to Mrs. Marmstead’s voice.

Get out of the hall. Go on in and get seated. Same seats as last year. I want you seated and quiet before the second bell rings.

Cranston was trying to put an image with the voice in the hall. A voice that couldn’t possibly belong to a small, demure, young teacher. He studied the kids as they came through the door. The smaller, thinner ones wedging through the door two or three at a time. The larger kids, one at a time. All of them pushing and jostling while making their way to their seats. Their passing bodies causing old, yellowed posters and artwork to flap and undulate in the created breeze.

Most of them lived in Cranston’s neighborhood. He recognized none of them. In a moment, all the seats were full. All of them quiet while waiting for their teacher to enter the room. Cranston looked around, wondering how he had managed to pick the one desk that hadn’t been occupied by another student the year before. He studied the wooden desktop. Carved graffiti marred the woodgrain finish. A few profanities were visible through the attempted erasure marks. In the upper right hand corner, the large initials H.F. It was obvious they had been carved with the sharp blade of a large knife that effectively cut down useable writing surface by twenty-five percent. He checked the other desks, wondering if they had suffered the same abuse. The rest were pristine.

A huge form appeared in the door. Hodie Frisch. He was in no hurry to get to his seat. He stopped, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. Ankles and legs crossed. His head nodding up and down as he surveyed the room, as a king passing judgment on a new gathering of peons. Giving the others in the room enough time to acknowledge his presence before entering. Cranston’s first thought was that this was some lost sixth grade boy who couldn’t find his room.

Get to your seat Hodie.

The boy was being propelled through the door. Now who in the world would be capable of pushing this guy around?

Mrs. Marmstead came into the room, herding Hodie through the door toward his seat. A seat that was being occupied by some new kid who didn’t realize he was in forbidden space. It took a moment for Hodie to scan the room, looking for his empty desk. He didn’t see it. He looked again, scanning down the middle row. There was no unoccupied desk. What he did see was a stranger sitting there, studying him. Somebody studying HIM? That couldn’t be right. Some new kid looking at him from across the room, instead of turning his eyes away in fear. He made his way to his old desk. Towering over Cranston. Glaring down at him. Running his fingers over the deeply carved initials. An exaggerated, low-pitched growl in his voice.

Hey new kid. What’s your name?

Cranston Carter. What’s yours?

Hodie was immediately angered at the thought that there was someone in the school who didn’t know his name.

Name’s Hodie Frisch. And if you’re smart you won’t forget it.

That should have been enough of an implied threat to put the fear of God into the new kid. Hodie didn’t know the fear of God was already with Cranston. And he wasn’t going to fear any mere boy. Cranston stared up at the huge figure towering over him, smiled, and responded.

Hodie Frisch? That explains the really cool carving on this desk. Pretty neat. And I’ll be happy to remember your name. If you could spell it for me, I promise you I will put you right at the top of my prayer list tonight before I go to sleep.

Cranston was being sincere. Hodie didn’t see it that way.

I don’t need you to pray for me punk. A slight spray of spittle with the word punk. I’ll pray for myself if I need to. In the meantime you’re sitting in my seat.

Ok Lord, what’s the deal here? Why did You put me in the one seat that belongs to this guy? Just show me what to do here. Ok, so I think You’re telling me I’ve already done it, and to just get up and give him his seat.

Sorry Hodie. I didn’t mean to take your desk. I hope you’ll forgive me. Here you go. Cranston stood up to face Hodie. A friendly, confident, look on his face.

I sure didn’t want to start out the year this way, said Cranston. Cranston’s lack of fear was worse than a sucker punch to Hodie’s gut.

Forgive you? What’s with you kid? You one of those Jesus nuts or something?

Hodie’s face was red with anger. An artery in his neck was throbbing.

Tell you what . . . . . boy, if you get your stupid looking self out of my desk NOW . . . . . then I won’t slap a knot on your head. Do we have a deal?

Hodie stuck out a huge hand to close the deal. Cranston was quick to oblige. Once Hodie had a grip on the smaller boy’s hand, he planned to crush his knuckles together until Cranston dropped to his knees in pain. It didn’t happen. Cranston gladly accepted the offered hand, expecting Hodie to attempt something painful.

Cranston’s father had taught him how to offer a firm, manly handshake. To exact a grip that would be difficult to take advantage of. And, if appropriate, when shaking hands with a stronger control freak, stand sideways. Plant your feet. And give a short firm tug.

If he can be moved toward you, you will have established a psychological edge over him, his father had explained.

It worked. Hodie was standing with his knees against the side of the desk. He was facing Cranston flat footed. In an instant, he was falling over his own desk. The only thing keeping him from overturning the desk was Cranston’s own grip holding him up. The kid was strong. For the first time, Hodie was forced to experience the humiliation of a room full of kids snickering at him. They were afraid to laugh out loud.

Mrs. Marmstead stood in the doorway. Observing. Ready to yell down the hall for back up should Hodie decide to go after Cranston. Instead, she just stood there, mesmerized at how this newcomer had handled Hodie. With such pleasant ease no less. It was time to intervene.

Cranston. Why don’t you have a seat over here next to my desk. You can work on my desk until we can locate another desk for you. I apologize for not having a seat ready for you, young man. I guess you must have been a last minute addition to my class roster. I should have the final roster by noon today. Then everything will be straightened out. In the meantime welcome to Edgar Road. I’m certain everyone remembers your name at this point. Don’t we students?

Yes Ma’am, in unison.

You can get to know everyone better during recess this afternoon.

Hodie was seething. Mrs. Marmstead was sensing a danger level in the boy she had never seen. He had never been bested. He had never been this enraged. She couldn’t predict what might happen. She would have to keep an eye on the two boys. Yet, at the same time, she felt a presence surrounding the new boy that told her she should likely be more concerned for Hodie. This new boy must have a guardian angel or . . . . . nine lives.

Cranston became the talk of the school. He wasn’t like the others. All the little girls swooned over his sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, and the ever present, slight, confident smile that made the boy appear to have things on his mind that he wanted to share. The boys were in awe of his physical prowess. Cranston was slightly smaller than the average fourth grade boy. But he already had a man’s biceps and powerful legs. He could do thirty pull-ups, and clear nine feet in a standing broad jump. Feats unheard of in one so young. He was impossible to beat in a foot race . . . . . at any distance. The fastest of the sixth grade boys couldn’t keep up with him.

He mastered every subject and aced every test, with little or no study. He was the most unassuming, humble boy Mrs. Marmstead had ever encountered. His response to all questions regarding his abilities as an athlete and scholar was always the same.

Oh, I don’t really know how I do that. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do. It’s just a blessing I guess.

When pressed further to explain what he meant by a blessing, he would talk about Jesus and all the great things He was doing in his life. He spoke with a maturity and naturalness that many of the kids found themselves wanting to emulate. He talked about Jesus at great length as matter of factually as others talked about movie stars or sports heroes. But the main thing the other kids enjoyed hearing him talk about was his hero, King David. Cranston could talk about the exploits of David in a manner that made modern day movie super heroes pale in comparison. The better everyone got to know Cranston, the faster Hodie was losing his status as the dominant force in the schoolyard. And his place as the teacher’s number one pet. He was going to do something about it.

///

There is nothing like the exhilaration and freedom that comes at the sound of the three o’clock bell. Especially on a warm afternoon when a kid breaks free from the confines of a stale classroom, and a teacher who has exhausted her patience quota for the day. The sudden rush of cool, fresh air that doesn’t smell like another kid’s sweat. The sprint across the schoolyard. Being drawn to the bicycle rack to loose a wonderful red and chrome steed. Then, to make a speedy getaway to the old neighborhood for late afternoon adventures with other fellow travelers. On this day Cranston found trouble waiting.

He sensed something was amiss when he noticed the other kids stopping in their tracks as they neared the bicycle racks. There was only one bike out of the rack. It belonged to Cranston. Hodie was straddling it. Cranston walked through the throng of stalled onlookers. Up to his bike. He was struck by how much smaller his vintage Schwinn Traveler looked when straddled by Hodie’s imposing hulk. Hodie was folding a large pocket knife. He slid it into the pocket of his jeans. Cranston saw the two slashed tires. Neither boy spoke. Hodie wanted a confrontation.

Cranston walked up to his bike. He straddled the front wheel, putting his hands across the handlebars. He smiled up at Hodie.

Pretty cool bike, huh. Rides like a dream. Probably the fastest bike in the neighborhood. I don’t blame you for wanting to ride it. Anytime you want to borrow it, just ask. No problem. At least as soon as you replace my tires.

The other kids gasped. Hodie ignored it.

I’m not borrowing it. I’m taking it. You got a problem with that? Hodie snarled.

Yeah. I kinda do Hodie. You can’t just ride off with my bike.

Wanna bet.

Hodie dug his toes into the dirt, and started pushing the bike forward. Cranston dug his heels in, keeping his hands firmly clamped on the handlebars. Cranston found himself losing ground an inch at a time. Hodie just grinned and continued forcing the smaller boy backwards.

Look Hodie, this is not your bike. It’s mine and I just can’t let you take it.

Wanna bet. Hodie kept forcing Cranston backwards. His heels leaving ruts in the dirt as he was being forced into the crowd gathered behind him.

Hodie, if you don’t get off my bike I’m gonna have to hurt you. I don’t want to do that.

You . . . . . hurt me?

Hodie was leaning over the handlebars. Laughing in Cranston’s face.

Ok then, Cranston replied, as he stepped to the side. The bike shot forward. A straight right hand buried itself in the middle of Hodie’s face. Shattering his nose, his glasses, and knocking him off the seat and onto his back. It took a moment for the dust to settle before everyone realized that Hodie was out cold.

Cranston was devastated. He knelt down in the dust, cradling Hodie’s big head in his lap, as he looked up at all the kids staring down at them.

What was I supposed to do? I asked him to stop and he wouldn’t do it. Hodie, I’m so sorry this had to happen, but I told you I couldn’t let you take my bike. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry. Cranston didn’t realize Hodie had regained consciousness until he heard a groggy sounding mumble.

That’s cool Cranston . . . . . I’m sorry too.

It was the first time they had seen Hodie’s eyes without them being magnified by those awful glasses. Without the glasses he seemed less threatening. Almost serene. He looked up at Cranston, offering a weak smile.

Hey punk, could you do me a favor and pray for me. I feel like a truck just hit me.

At that moment it became obvious that Cranston had the power to influence lives. That he was destined for greatness. Nobody realized it would be on a world stage.

Chapter 2: First Steps

The presidential primaries were over. All the contenders and pretenders had fallen by the wayside. Many having their political aspirations dashed for another four years. Some would recover to fight future battles. Some with more fragile constitutions would fade into ignonimity. The process had been brutal. It always was. Mud slinging would have been a more civilized discourse. It was now hell slinging. It was mental and spiritual warfare for the hearts, minds and control of the country. The ruling party reveled in it. The other party appeared helpless