The President's Dilemma: A Novel

By Cooper

When the White House escalates the War on Drugs
by launching the GREAT ROUNDUP and interning
all stoners from political swing states, the administration is
out-foxed by Flea and his band of freewheelersincluding
The Most Beautiful Woman in the Worldwho take over the
internment camps and convert them into social experiments.
But even Flea and company are outdone by the Devils Tower
when that celebrated Wyoming mountain moves east toward
the nations capital. No one knows what the mountain wants or
how to deal with ituntil it makes a non-negotiable demand
of the U.S. President.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 8, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462830923

Cooper

Sonni Cooper is an artist and author of the Star Trek tie-in novel, Black Fire.

Book preview

THE PRESIDENT’S DILEMMA

A Novel

COOPER

Copyright © 2009 by Cooper.

Cover Photo © Alptraum/Dreamstime.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

PART TWO

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PART THREE

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTERWORD

PART ONE

COWVILLE, OHIO

CHAPTER ONE

The Great Roundup

It was the day of the GREAT ROUNDUP.

The Iraq Postwar wasn’t feeling very well so the Veep decided to cheer it up with a simple diversion: he started rounding up America’s pot smokers. War on Drugs, tightly linked to the War on Terror, whispered the Veep to a highly receptive Prez. The Roundup was as meticulously planned as a political character assassination, as evidenced by the fact that months earlier the Veep had leased, as a re-education center, the entire state of Wyoming; he planned to inform the Prez of this but the people of Wyoming he had no intention of telling because they had no need to know, which is security lingo for don’t tell the bastards anything they might leak to the press. And besides, not only the media but pitiful dunces without power deserve to know diddlysquat.

So much for the backstory.

The DEA swooped down like so many horny pterodactyls. They made well over a thousand swoops on the first day, which means they had to have help from the FBI and Customs and the Coast Guard and the Border Patrol and possibly the CIA—there is a rumor that they rejected FEMA’s offer to assist on the grounds that FEMA can’t tell the difference between grass and corn or, for that matter, between Katrina Hurricane and Katrina Hepburn. So the Feds swooped down.

Potheads were rounded up and herded into Wyoming, which was being fenced by Halliburton on its government contract for doing whatever wherever—a noncompetitive contract known in federal procurement circles as The Sky’s the Limit.

Speaking of the sky, from the Space Station the potheads converging on Wyoming looked like a lopsided pinwheel.

From a Boeing 757 they looked like armies of ants marching toward a Cheyenne picnic.

From a Piper Navajo they resembled great herds of zebra and wildebeest returning to the Serengeti.

From tree-level they appeared to be millions of Americans without health insurance converging on a free megaclinic.

So: the GREAT ROUNDUP. An event that will be long remembered like the DAY of THE GREAT SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE or be as completely forgotten as the DAY of the GREAT KUMQUAT.

History is notoriously fickle.

Escape from Montana

On the day of the Great Roundup my pal Flea was tenderly tending pot pots at his cabin in the Montana outback. Fortunately the swoop of a lone DEA parachutist set off the rattlesnakes defending Flea’s rustic spread. He peered through the cracked and dusty north window of his cabin just in time to witness his serpents swarming the hapless agent in a supersquirm reminiscent of the snakepit scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark but there was no Steven Spielberg or George Lucas to write the poor fellow out of trouble. In his last moments he could, however, find some solace in the fact that these were not lethal cobras with lightning neurotoxins but mere prairie rattlers with their slow-mo blood-poison; nevertheless, as Willa would presumably have said, death eventually came to the archagent.

Flea escaped. He led his pot plants on a long march east to the house of his friend Trixy in Cowville, a small town in subappalachian Ohio. There she was holed up with her boyfriend Zip Locke who had lately escaped from Florida’s Chattahoochee dingdong palace. As Trixy lounged on a maroon sofa that suffered from terminal lesions and Zip sprawled on a maculate throw-rug, Flea, sunk in a deep brown cushionless uneasy chair, noodled what to do about the DEA onslaught.

What, asked Flea, calm as a cloud, as calm, in fact, as the soothing cloud of herbal smoke, should… we… do… about… the… DEA… onslaught?

Ho ho ho, responded sprawling Zip. Ho ho ha ha ho ho ha ha…

Mmmm, replied lounging Trixy, Mmmmmmmmmmm…

Right, said Flea—or did he? He couldn’t remember.

He then joined Zip in a style of laughter that would emprouden even the most persnickety hyena. Serengeti, indeed. And from a Piper Navajo yet. Maybe a Pied Piper Navajo.

Trixy sat silent and stony as a silent stone.

Trixy’s Tresses

Trixy looked like Angelina Jolie but without the good looks. She had a few pits on her face, but no Brad Pitt. A suicide blonde, she was, who occasionally washed her hair in public. From my window in the flophouse I, Max, could see her squirting her bean with the garden hose and then enturbaning her tresses in a bath-towel festooned with frolicking red flowers faded to pink; probably ex-roses. The reason I always tried to catch Trixy’s act was that she performed it unencumbered by garments. Au naturel. A pride of lions… an encumbrance of garments? Maybe so, for why get her jeans and t-shirt wet? I was not a solo spectator; whenever she picked up the hose the rush to starboard almost capsized the flophouse. Occasionally the sailors’ cheers rose into the maritime air though as often as not they were punctuated by slaps and whacks and screams shrill as buzzsaws as the little missuses emerged from belowdecks to stanch the flow of saliva. Now and then a deputy sheriff showed up in an ugly brown cruiser but by the time he arrived Trixy was always safely inside her abode and gave him no satisfaction though she may have promised some for later.

Needless to say, Trixy was not a genuine blonde, not even close. A very passable bod, though, for one chronically beset by the munchies. Either that, or she was gifted with excellent Scotch-Irish genetics and this is probable because otherwise how could she accommodate two boyfriends, one loonier than the other? And how could she handle the leers of all those mariners, some of them ancient? Well, as my fond mother always said to me, Get out of town! Go to Africa or something!

Serengeti, indeed.

In Our Nation’s Capital, the Veep Has a Bright Idea

In Our Nation’s Capital the Vice President of the United States was discussing a SERIOUS MATTER with his old friend and confidant, Secretary of Defense Crummy Strudel. Because the two men trusted no one but each other they met surreptitiously in a janitor’s closet deep in the bowels of the Executive Office Building across the sidestreet from the White House. The closet was rather small, crowding the conspirators with mops and brooms and dustrags and soap and chlorox and green and blue bottles of cleaning fluid giving off nose-pinching odors that the men scarcely noticed because, sorry to say, advancing years had almost burned out their olfactory bulbs. There was a third person in the small room: Hooter Lippy. Hooter was a Veep staffer they trusted some of the time but only if they kept a close eye on him, a requirement easy to meet at the moment as he was crammed into a ragbox three feet away. Hooter served as Veep’s gofer and speechwriter and now and then, in a fit of enthusiasm, popped up with a good idea that could be readily appropriated and claimed as Veep’s own though of course Veep was a dedicated patriot and public servant and cared only for the good of his Great Nation and never gave a thought to the acquisition of personal glory or power or wealth or to the many paragraphs that would some day parade his plaudits in the Encyclopedia Republicana.

Abu and Gitmo are non-starters, said Veep cryptically, with his characteristic sly look and curled lip. His head always tilted slightly as though it had awkwardly stuck while swiveling. He hovered by the door and two feet away dapper Crummy eyed the uncouth rim of a mop bucket that threatened his pearl grey slacks. Potential for leaks, whispered Veep—and in a move worthy of Inspector Jacques Clouseau of the Surèté, he suddenly jerked open the door and peered into the empty hallway.

Roger that, said Crummy. Unfortunately extreme torture is knowable by the media. Very tempting, but too knowable. Though never under any circumstances would he taunt his old pal the Veep as he routinely did four-star generals and the media, his glasses glinted and his neat small teeth seemed to mock. We need something more sophisticated.

We certainly can’t keep the drug addicts in the ‘re-education center’ indefinitely. There will be a clamor. Pressure will be exerted on the President.

It is easier to get into something than to get out of it.

Aiming a forefinger at Hooter, half-hidden in the ragbox, Veep said, Any ideas?

Hesitating, Hooter scratched his nose, pulled his earlobe. Indoctrination? He sounded as nervous as a mouse at a catnip party.

Veep and Crummy stared at him, but he said nothing more.

My grandmother could have suggested that, said Crummy. You’ll have to do better, Hoot. You’ll have to step up and earn that huge government salary of yours.

Like varsity lettermen dissing a jayvee, Veep and Crummy snickered.

Give me time to think about it, said Hooter.

Steely-eyed Crummy kept snickering. Maybe, he said, it’s unknowable.

Veep asked Crummy, What about your pharm buddies? After all we’ve done for them, they should be more than willing to produce a suitable drug for us.

Crummy puzzled for a second. Ah. You mean a drug to break the marijuana addiction? The equivalent of nicotine gum?

That’s not what I mean, said Veep—and suddenly whipped open the door.

In the hallway, with hand extended to turn the now-absent knob, stood a slate-colored uniform occupied by a startled African-American man.

Shit, said the Vice President.

Welcome to Cowville

Cowville, Ohio. Lovely little coalmine town. Rundown houses lately spruced with federal funds: maintain rural appearances, you know: keep up with the suburbs, not to mention sweep up the loose votes lying around in the rural reds. Cover flaky paint and people with vinyl siding of white, green, yellow, blue. A week’s bang bang bang bang—and done! Roofs off too, cracked leaky slate ceding to tough asbestos tiles, your choice of browns or Ford black; nail-gunned into perfect rows, guaranteed for twenty years. Double-paned, argon-insulated replacement windows with E-coating to keep houses cool in summer, toasty in winter. All the comforts tax-money can buy. Rural China and India, eat your hearts out. Africa, don’t even dream about it.

Quaint town, Cowville. Almost picturesque in its cute little windtunnel valley, but not quite because a few mangy residences missed the merry makeover and also there’s a downgrade of housetrailers, which goof up the neighborhood much as a dead tooth spoils a bright smile. A pride of lions… a downgrade of housetrailers?

Maybe so.

Slow pace in town. Light traffic, ample parking, absence of urban ADHD. The quietest kind of airport—no airport at all. Serene setting, but let’s not whitewash this, we’re not Eden here. The serenity is marred by yappy dogs and the now-and-then grind of a coal-toting semi and the afterschool and weekend snarl of ATVs (in winter, Sno-cats) with which the gearhead sons and daughters of farmers and mechanics amuse themselves, much as the teens of the BOBO suburbs entertain themselves with Beemers and Vettes and Porsches. And all summer the inevitable and ineluctable Lawnboys and Polans assault the ears like gigantic mechanical insects on loan from a Godzilla set. Even so, life is not too shabby on the subappalachian front. The air is transparent, you can freely fill your lungs, and on a clear night, when the stars come out to play, you can see each and every one of them. Twinkle twinkle little star, I know exactly where you are.

Our valley, flat-bottomed like a rowboat, runs east and west. Rising on both sides, wooded hills bear oak and elm, locust and sycamore, walnut, wild cherry, spruce, pine, the whole arboreal shebang. Things go better with Oak. When you lose desire, head for the Elm. Thomas Wolfe would have taken five fat pages to catalog all the trees—Tom Wolfe, too, if trees were assigned slogans and model numbers: imagine the Wild Cherry STS or the Hawthorne Z100.

So much for Cowville and Breakneck Valley and the brothers Wolfe.

Even Cowvilleans Get the Blahs

The DEA was closing in on Cowville. Chop Chop Chop Chop went the National Guard helicopters crisscrossing the town like angry dragonflies.

Why aren’t those bastards in Iraq or Afghanistan where they belong? Shaking a fist at the interlopers, Flea proceeded to answer his own question. "We don’t fire at them, that’s why. No Stingers, no RPGs. No AA. Anyway, not yet."

Like angry dragonflies the choppers swooped over innocent white- and yellow- and blue-sided dwellings, over the seven Houses of God and (the) Lord’s Funeral Parlor, over the House of Mammon otherwise known as Countryfolks Bank, over the USPS and general store and lumber yard, over Slag Creek and Hilltop Cemetery and down the Breakneck valley.

Chop Chop Chop Chop

Any minute the Humvees might show up, with or without suitable armor, to cow the Cowvilleans. Maybe APVs. Maybe Bradleys, maybe Abrams tanks. Maybe angry armadillos. A Libertarian nightmare. And Pat Robertson down on his knees, crying Here at last! Here at last! Here at last! And while you’re at it round up the homos too and the aborters! Oral Roberts deflowered by glee, giving birth to another university. Jesse Duplantis joyriding a ten-foot gator into the bayou. Kenny Copeland shuttled back to prison, this time penalized for excessive celebration. T.D. Jakes zealing himself headfirst off the dais, swandiving into the marble floor. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Pass the ammunition!

But the Humvees never showed and the day wore on. The angry dragonflies flew away dragging their Chop Chop Chop Chop behind them like noisy kite-tails. All quiet in Cowville. At least for the moment. Flea rolled and lit a joint, took a hit, passed it to Trixy, now poured on the sofa in her invisible jeans and t-shirt. What, me worry?

What’s our plan, mates? demanded CEO Flea, suddenly exhaling.

Thinking, responded post-hit Trixy, passing the joint.

On the throw-rug rearranging his scrotum as usual, Zip inhaled, compressed; in a rush elided, Gushitkay.

Doing my Maxly social duty I filled up with fumes; eased them out, saying, Not much coverage on TV. Rolling Stones concert in Cheyenne, is the party line. Megaconcert. What’s Wolf Blitzer’s problem, anyway?

Too much dope, opined Flea. Or too much of a dope. Hey! Let’s have a plan here!

Mmmm. Trixy’s suicide hair slithered off the sofa. "Mmmmmm

mmmmm…"

After awhile, how long I have no idea, we all sat as stony silent as silent stones.

Even Cowvilleans get the blahs.

Meet Sweet Jesus and Saint Paul

Sweet Jesus lived in the woods on the north hill outside Cowville, encamped just below the ridge where drovers once herded pigs and sheep and even geese to market in faraway Baltimore. Week after week of treestumps, ruts, mud puddles, merde. And you think you have it rough. But that was a couple hundred years ago when men were men and women were pregnant and life expectancy was 33 years. A delegation of four bearing Flea’s lightbulb idea, we hiked up to see Sweet Jesus. A quick rain had squeegeed the blue sky and the April sun, a polished coin, Greek maybe or early Roman, probably not Carthaginian, shone bright but not too hot. Water dripped from the treeleaves; by the time we found Sweet Jesus we were soaked and Trixy’s wet t-shirt rendered x-ray eyes superfluous.

Sitting under his dripping chestnut tree Sweet Jesus looked remarkably like sweet Jesus, Euro version: fine effeminate features, fair skin, light brown hair down to the shoulders. Epicene, androgenous, unisex. Sort of ethereal, too, which I guess is appropriate considering his incorporeal connections. He sat cross-legged and motionless under the dripping chestnut tree, sporting sleeveless blue hospital scrubs spattered with rain. Heavenly tears? Sweet Jesus was not exactly the Greatest Salesman in the World—he was notorious for never uttering a word to anyone. Mute as a butte. Reminded me more of a yogi silently ascending the chakras than a pushy Christian. Either that, or Sweet Jesus was stoned out of his mind.

If Sweet Jesus didn’t speak, how did he communicate with his fellow beings? Vibes à la Saint Francis? In this case it was not Saint Francis who did the talking, but Saint Paul. And who the hell was Saint Paul? A pipsqueak: a factotum with honey-colored hair who stood not an inch over three feet tall. Importantly puffed up in blue suit and tie, a sort of anglified Hervé Villechaize. You remember Hervé, from Fantasy Island: Da plane! Da plane! This Hervé, however, had purloined Truman Capote’s voice, which translated his master’s silences into the WORD. For this boon Saint Paul palmed a five or if lucky a ten. The suspicion arose, of course, that he might be to Sweet Jesus as Edgar Bergen was to Charlie McCarthy or the Veep to the Prez, but that made not a particle of difference to Flea, who slipped the little guy a twenty and said:

I’ll cut right to the chase, Sweet Jesus. I’m offering you a chance to perform a great service to mankind. The feds are cracking down on innocent herbalists, rounding them up all over the country. The DEA’s about to pounce on Cowville and it occurred to us that you might be able to help defend against this outrage. As you know, the Supreme Court has ruled more than once that herbs used in certain religious rites are exempt from the Dangerous Substances Act. Just recently they ruled in favor of psychedelic tea, that contains ayahuasca, a drug a hell of a lot more potent than pot. Gives you not only hallucinations but the pukes, the runs and the screaming meemies. It’s obvious from your lack of facial expression that you can see where I’m going with this, so here it is: I propose that you incorporate herb-smoking into your religion as an indispensable ritual, a ‘sincere religious practice,’ as the Court put it, that brings you closer to the Heavenly Father. My colleagues and I will ‘discover’ the historical evidence et cetera. If you agree to this proposition, we will furnish you and Saint Paul a pound apiece of grade A ganj every week for the next five years. Let’s make a deal, SJ. Are you in?

It was like addressing a statue or a stone. During the entire pitch Sweet Jesus never blinked, not once, didn’t even sneak a peek at Trixy’s wet t-shirt. In a sort of Chinese torture, the chestnut tree steadily dropped water on his crown, drip drip drip drip. He never shifted an inch and I suspected catatonia, but never mind. Or maybe he was a non-vivid exhibition of prowess in the art and science of taxidermy. Or maybe not, because Saint Paul proceeded to paste an ear to SJ’s chest as though listening for a heartbeat, his little unibrow puckering with concentration and hair spilling down his forehead like runny honey. His plump little lips pooched as for a smooch. This strange pose he held for quite a spell, then, nodding, he re-erected, unpuckered his brow, unpooched his lips, straightened his red power tie and, once again violating the copyright law on Truman Capote’s inimitable voice, spoke:

Sweet Jesus says, and I quote, ‘Throw in Mary Magdalene and you’ve got a deal.’

We all (except of course SJ) looked at Trixy and the wet t-shirt with the swell pair of swells.

Flea said, You mean… ?

Correct, said the puffed-up little man.

"No way! Folding maidenly arms over her beauteous bumps, Trixy stamped her foot—squish squish squish—on soggy leaves. Never! Not in a million years! I don’t do fairies! Never have, never will!"

squish squish squish squish

To SJ and then to Saint Paul our eyes nervously swiveled. Apparently the dynamic duo had steeled themselves against the slam of rejection (a pride of lions… a slam of rejections? Maybe not), for their expressions changed not one iota, nary a twitch, ticless. After a good stare at the indignant Ms. Magdalene, Saint Paul once again bent to SJ’s skinny blue breast and replicated