Potus

By Jack Wallen

The landscape of Washington, DC, is in shambles. The Randolph Powers administration has wreaked a special flavor of havoc that has threatened the very foundation of America. Racism, sexism, and hatred are at their highest. The only hope for the United States might well lie in the system-smashing, punk-rocking hands of Sam “Flotsam” Tierney.

After a successful gig with the NSA, the lead singer of the most popular punk band on the planet has a new assignment: defeating the incumbent president.

Politics will never be the same as Flotsam promises to Make America Punk Again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Wallen
• Release date: Jul 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463141816

Jack Wallen

Jack Wallen is what happens when a Gen Xer mind-melds with present day snark. Jack is a seeker of truth and a writer of words with a quantum mechanical pencil and a disjointed beat of sound and soul. Although he resides in the unlikely city of Louisville, Kentucky, Jack likes to think of himself more as an interplanetary traveler, on the lookout for the Satellite of Love and a perpetual movie sign...or so he tells the reflection in the mirror (some times in 3rd person). Jack is the author of numerous tales of dark, twisty fiction including the I Zombie series, the Klockwerk Movement, the Fringe Killer series, Shero, The Nameless Saga, and much more.

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POTUS

By Jack Wallen

Copyright Jack Wallen © 2018

This book is a work of satirical fiction. Unless otherwise noted, names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

***

Edited By Mary Ann Peden-Coviello

Beta Readers: Britta Victoria and Kellie Thurman

POTUS is dedicated to the RESISTANCE. Every man, woman, and child fighting against the political machine threatening to tear humanity down until it can no longer fight back. Keep resisting, my friends.

And just in case it’s necessary: This book is satire. Laugh.

ONE

Writer’s block. I think that’s what they call it. I never assumed it would apply to a musician … especially a punk. Me and my band had written and recorded hundreds of songs over the past decade, and never once did our muse take a pause for refreshment, naps, vacation, or the occasional binge of drugs, drink, or drama.

We were punks—music flowed through our veins like radical, socially-charged blood.

And yet, here I was, sitting in a chain coffee shop, sipping lattes and snacking on over-processed scones as if awaiting the call to pick up the kids from soccer practice.

That’s a joke. I didn’t even have a minivan.

Or kids.

Did I mention I’m a punk rocker? Mohawk and all?

Anyway, the computer screen mocked me, practically snickered each time I hovered my fingers over the keys. It knew—knew the words weren’t going to flow from my fingers, that lyrically I was as dried up as … as …

I couldn’t even conjure up a pithy insult for myself.

Honestly, I didn’t mind. My brain needed the break and the band was stretching itself too thin. So now, I’d get to fade into the shadows of obscurity for a while.

Hello, old friend. It’s been such a long while.

Hey, Flotsam, one of the other regulars grabbed a table next to mine. He dropped his messenger bag, pulled out the laptop he swears will help him produce the next Great American Novel, and swung over to flirt with a barista. He’d been hitting on this girl for weeks to no avail. I never caught the man’s name; instead, I called him Coffee Casanova.

Holy shit, my voice was but a breath.

I danced my fingers over the keyboard, shocked that I’d never thought to use the man’s nom de caffeine as inspiration for a tune. I typed line after line, a stream of consciousness monologue—my usual process for crafting lyrics. I never liked to follow patterns, fall into any sort of usual rhythm. The last thing punk needed was a cookie cutter stamp of approval from any other genre, critics, or the Man.

Live dangerously from start to finish.

Coffee Casanova returned to his seat, a smile painted wide across his lips. The second his ass met wood, he leaned back and whispered, The long game finally paid off.

Are you saying—

Mr. Casanova showed me his coffee cup, on which was written a name and number.

Well played, my friend.

My life is complete now, Casanova beamed. I just got a congratulations from the singer of my all-time favorite punk band for scoring a beautiful woman’s phone number. Life is damn good.

I offered Casanova a pat on the back. The pleasure is all mine … and Stacey’s. That’s her name, right?

Casanova held his cup aloft, beaming once again. Damn straight. Seriously though, thank you, Flotsam. I don’t think I ever would’ve had the courage to speak that first word to her if it wasn’t for you and your music. You’ve been an inspiration to me for such a long time.

Had this been a more casual fan, I’d have played up the punk attitude—dropped a self-righteous f-bomb, snarled my lip in an homage to Idol or Lydon, and insisted the real thanks should go to every one intent on breaking the machine of human unkindness. Given I’d interacted with Casanova for nearly a year, that approach didn’t seem befitting our station. We weren’t besties, but we certainly were far from strangers.

So you’ll be the best man at our wedding? That’d be so kick ass.

Casanova’s request sent me reeling. Wait, what? You’re messing with me, right? I mean, she just gave you her—

Another smile, this time with an accompanying nod and twinkle in the eye. "Of course. I’m not that guy. Although, could you blame me for thinking such a thing? Look at her! She’s the single most beautiful woman on the planet!"

I didn’t have the heart to tell Casanova that Stacey paled in comparison to my wife. That was getting too personal for my liking. Yes, the general public knew I was married to the bassist in the band—who had a name, of course. Britta. She was badass on every conceivable level.

She was also on vacation with her sister—which, truth be told, was why I was spending so much time hanging out in coffee shops. I was absolutely lost without her. I’d never confess that to anyone. It’s not a part of the punk ethos to pine for the company of another human. We were supposed to be loners, misfits who could barely even stomach our own company. Brit and I were very much the exception to the rule—hell, to every rule. We’d been married for what seemed like forever, had not—for one second—grown tired of one another, and were happiest sprawled out on the couch together, letting our brains go to mush in front of the telly.

Yes, I said telly. It was part of the band’s schtick. Everyone knew we were from America, but punk always seemed more genuine with a British accent. The irony in that was laughably thick.

Casanova was about to dive into yet another spiel about Stacey, when he was robbed of the moment by my phone chiming.

I held up a single finger. Hold that thought.

I snatched up my phone, hoping like hell it was Britta. I needed to hear her sweet voice before I lost what was left of my mind.

On the screen was an unknown number. Under normal circumstances, I’d have dismissed the call—assuming it nothing more than spam, someone digitally panhandling for a cause. With Britta out of town, I didn’t dare ignore a single incoming ring. The area code was 202—which I recognized as Washington, DC. Why? As with everything I manage to recall in my life, it was a lyric to one of our songs. Otherwise, those three digits might as well have been the mark of the beast.

There was a certain level of poetry and truth to that thought.

I scooped up my phone and answered with a simple, Hello?

Sam Tierney? The voice on the other side of the ether asked.

That couldn’t be good … especially coming from a DC number. The thought occurred to me that lying or hanging up was the most prudent path to protection. For whatever reason, I failed to comply with my twisted sense of logic.

Yeah … maybe.

Could I get any more lame?

Who’s asking?

And there’s the answer.

At this juncture, my name is not important. You and I must meet. This is a matter of national security.

Okay, you’re probably asking yourself, Why would anyone need to read in a member of a punk band on matters of national security? It’s a long—although terribly exciting—story. Suffice it to say, my band was only recently recruited by the NSA to help take down a drug lord. After completing the gig, we didn’t hear a single word from Zed—the ringmaster of the job—and his crew. Since then, I’d assumed that was the end of our deal. Me and my band served our purpose and the men in black could move on to bigger and better things.

Turns out I might have been premature in that particular ejaculation.

Can you get a flight to DC tonight?

Sorry … I don’t even know your name. Shouldn’t we at least have a first date before—

If you cannot come to me, I will come to you.

You’re going to have to give me more than that, if you want me hopping on a plane to DC at such short notice. Besides, that’s going to cost me—

I’ll cover the cost.

I don’t know… My voice drifted to an uncomfortable silence.

Trust me, Mr. Tierney, you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.

Are you recruiting my band to take down another criminal? For the record, we’ve retired from that gig.

It’s nothing like that, sir.

The bastard had to drop the s-word. I was a sucker for respect. Tell ya what, you have Zed call to confirm this information and—

Sorry, Mr. Tierney, Zed isn’t aware of this.

Can I at least get your name?

Not over the phone, sir.

"Fine. Tell ya what, you arrange the flight, send me the information, and then I’ll decide if I’m willing to hop on a plane at the eleventh hour, to meet a perfect stranger."

Done, sir. I’ll text you the confirmation and flight number as soon as I have them.

How should I pack? The question lingered in my mind, conjuring up images of human trafficking.

Light. You’ll only be here for a short period … at first.

Before I could continue my line of questioning, Stranger Danger hung up.

That sounded ominous.

I looked up from my phone to see Casanova staring. Without a word, I nodded.

Mr. Coffee took my cue as the okey dokey to pry. Care to share?

I don’t believe I can … at least not without risking life, limb, and freedom of speech.

Shit, was all Casanova had to offer.

You could say that. I packed up my bag. Sorry to be blunt, but I gotta jet. Seriously, good luck with Stacey. You’ll be great. I offered a hand for shaking. Casanova greedily took up the proffered palm and gave it a few vigorous pumps. Next time I’m here, you better have put a ring on that woman’s finger.

Casanova’s eyes went wide.

Just messing with you, mate.

Before he could respond, I made my exit, flipping a single bird to the remaining customers. It was my schtick. I never left a joint without giving it the grand gesture.

Image was crucial in my line of work.

As I approached Betty Bang Bang, my matte black ‘57 Ford Fairlane, a couple of skaters spotted me. They were nervous little fanboys. I waved them to me, grabbed the nearest kid’s board, flipped it over, whipped out a Sharpie, and scrawled my name on the bottom of the deck. Without saying a word, I repeated the action for the second kid.

Oi! I barked with an upward nod and a devil horn salute.

One of them squealed with delight as the pre-pubescent kids skated off.

It’s the little things.

Betty’s door squeaked open, reminding me she needed a visit to the shop for a checkup. I tossed my bag into the front seat, pulled the phone from my skinny jeans—what with so little room to bend—and checked for messages.

Son of a bitch.

The screen displayed the flight information, promised to me by my own personal Deep Throat.

Had Britta not been out of town, there’d have been no way in hell I’d have entertained the notion of flying off on a moment’s notice to meet some stranger. Instead, I was a temporary bachelor in need of serious inspiration for my art.

Anything for the music, I whispered, before replying to the text.

You better have a limo waiting for me.

Once in a great while the universe afforded me the perfect moment to be a dick. I rarely took advantage of such instances. Every so often, however, I couldn’t resist.

This being one such moment.

That, of course, was the extent of my dickery … hickory dock, as it were.

I fired up Betty and punched the gas.

Not really. I was in no mood to be harassed by the Man.

Driving back to the flat—see what I did there—I flipped on the satellite radio to one of my favorite news channels. The punk stations offered were a joke, so I typically fed my brain with a bit of knowledge while driving. Even blokes like me needed to stay woke.

And in touch with the younger crowd.

Unfortunately, the news cycles were filled to overflowing with stories about corruption, sexual harassment, collusion, legislation promising to reverse Robin Hood the country, mass shootings, and the occasional wildfire in California. It was all bad juju, 24/7. Even so, I felt it important to stay informed. You never know when a news piece might inspire a song—something I never shared with anyone. Far be it from me to capitalize on other’s pain.

I wasn’t a bloody politician, after all.

My arrival at chez PAP—Punk Ass Punk, the name of my band—was met with silence. Both Driver and Patch, guitarist and drummer, were nowhere to be found.

There’s a spot of good news, I mumbled while making my way to the bedroom. The last thing I needed was to explain to my mates that I was about to be whisked off to Washington, DC, to meet a stranger for no reason, other than curiosity. I dodged a bullet of lectures and reminders that this cat only had one life. Not that their concern bothered me … it didn’t. We four loved one another like family—and not the dysfunctional type. PAP functioned, on every level, like a well-oiled machine.

Even so, I didn’t want to explain my little trip.

I packed, lightly as instructed, and made my way back out to Betty. The plane would depart in just under two hours; time enough for me to reach the airport, go through security, arrive at the gate, and hand the airline staff member my boarding pass.

Did I mention how much I hated flying? It wasn’t so much the metal tube zipping through the air as it was being locked up in said metal tube with my fellow humans. We were a nasty creature—especially when crowd mentality kicked in. Give this group of monkeys just the right environment, and they will tear the walls down with fear-induced rage.

With the added bonus of crying babies.

And booze-addled businessmen who could get handsy, regardless who they were seated by.

Fortunately, for my sake, I wound up seated next to a nun—or so I assumed. The, twentyish-year-young woman wore a habit. Of course, this could be a case of mistaken identity and I was seated next to a porn star on her way to film Altar’d States.

Nevertheless, I opted to play everything as straight as possible.

The sister smiled at me. You look familiar.

I couldn’t repress the chuckle. Sorry, ma’am, I really doubt it. You and I don’t hang around the same circles.

I’m certain of it … and I am rarely wrong about this sort of thing. The nun stared hard into my eyes. Eureka, that’s it. Now I know. You’re Flotsam, from Punk Ass Punk.

My eyes opened wide, surprised at the nun’s knowledge of punk.

Don’t be so shocked. Just because I am married to the Lord, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a little punk now and then.

Amen to that, sister.

Are you Catholic?

Another round of explosive laughter. You might say that. And then … you might not. Sorry, sis, another joke. I was born Catholic. Over the years my ability to believe was always wrapped up in some idea that there was something to gain in the doing. The ol’ Catholic guilt. I’ve spent the last couple years searching for help with that recovery. So far … nada.

To my surprise, the sister laughed. You are as delightful as I’d always thought you’d be. The woman reached into the seat pocket in front of her and retrieved a book. Judging by its cover, the book was a Bible. I am so embarrassed to ask this, but would you mind autographing this for me?

My face flushed. You want me to autograph your Bible? Isn’t that… My voice faded off into incredulous silence.

The nun blushed. I know. What’s more punk than signing the Lord’s words? It’s almost sinister. The woman covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

How could I resist such a moment? I couldn’t, that’s how. With the slightest trepidation, I accepted the tome, opened it to the first page, and glanced up at my fellow passenger. Who should I—

Sister Lizzy, the woman beamed with a beautiful pride and handed me a pen.

I wrote.

Sister Lizzy, you are the single most rockin’ nun I’ve ever met. You’re an inspiration and a beauty the world will always need. Flotsam. Punk Ass Punk forever.

I handed the Bible back to Lizzy, who clenched it in her hands as if her very Messiah had signed the heavenly merch.

Now don’t let me see that Bible on eBay, Lizzy.

We had a laugh before settling in for the flight. Thanks to the supreme company, the trip was looking like it might not be so bad after all.

TWO

At last I reached the exit. A man, sporting a suit and driving cap, holding a sign reading Flotsam, stood near the line of hired cars and taxis. I waved the gent down. With a nod, he turned on silent heels to open the door for me.

Nice, I mumbled. I was accustomed to this kind of treatment at show venues. Outside of that realm, not so much. Don’t get me wrong, people knew me—at least people who follow the punk scene.

Who the eff am I kidding? I said aloud. After PAP’s last album, the whole damn world knows me. Right, Jeeves?

Name’s Francisco, sir.

Got it.

Francisco held the door of the…

Limo. Noice. I let my accent shift away from my stage British for a moment. It was a force of habit. Sometimes it just slipped, without permission or purpose.

Inside the stretch mobile was perfect silence. To my great disappointment, no minibar begged me, Partake. I knocked on the partition separating me and Francisco. A nearly-silent electric motor whirred to life and slid a glass pane out of the way.

Hey, Fran … where we going?

I am not at liberty to say. If you don’t mind, please buckle your seatbelt and enjoy the ride.

The window closed, returning me to solitude. I gave in and leaned my head back. Sleep threatened to tug me into the infinite void of wonder. Had curiosity not been running rampant through my mind, I’d have given in and drifted off. Instead, myriad possibilities raced through my consciousness. Was I being whisked off to a Gulag for conspiring to spread dissonance and chaos? Had some US politico tolerated enough of my anarchy-laden music?

All of a sudden, I was doubting my decision to meet with Stranger Danger. The temptation to knock on the window and insist Francisco return me to the airport was stronger than I’d anticipated. I felt like a coward … a lost child desperately needing the immediate return to the loving arms of Mommy.

Mommy being my wife.

Minus the Oedipal complex.

The limo came to a stop. It occurred to me that I could make a quick exit and sprint off into the darkening night—hope like hell I could find my way back to the airport and hop a return flight home. The idea was fleeting. Instead, I stiffened my upper lip and followed through with the curiosity that brought me here in the first place.

The door to my right opened; Francisco nodded for me to exit. The second I stepped from the car, the man handed me my bag, closed the door, and gestured for me to follow.

I scanned the immediate area, as though I were in some CSI episode and might require this bit of recall when the investigators grilled me on where the big bad held me hostage. The area was about as nondescript as you could get. The building before us had a very black ops feel to it—there were no markings, no windows, just a blank, one-story edifice that screamed secret testing facility.

If this doesn’t scream X-Files, nothing does. Know what I mean?

Fran refrained from answering—which did not bode well. He reached the entrance before me and placed the palm of his hand against a black metal plate.

Son of a bitch, I whispered, nerves getting the best of me.

The door hissed open and my driver indicated I was to enter. I sucked in a quick gasp of freedom air and complied. The second I crossed the threshold, the door shut against my backside.

No turning back now, I mumbled in the near darkness. Hello? I called out.

Before I could say another word, a door opened at the end of the hall. A beacon of light cut across the otherwise black passageway; my inner Cowardly Lion rose to the surface. The big difference was, the spooks I believed in could get away with killing in the name of … just about anything.

A shadowy figure stepped from the light. Mr. Tierney. I’m so glad you decided to join us.

In for a penny, I thought—the title from one of Punk Ass Punk’s first songs.

I have a few people I’d like you to meet.

I stopped in my tracks. My heart threatened to make a break from its bony cage. How’s about you tell me your name first.

Federal Agent Malcolm Deschamps. You can call me Mal.

"Federal agent? What the