48 days, season recap

48 days
Jack Bauer, Special Agent to Counter Terrorism Unit, has only 48 days to keep the presidential primary campaigns on track as they spin toward Super Tuesday.

m.o.i.: Season premiere-48 days, week 1
Jack Bauer surrenders himself for 48 days on a DUI charge and quickly discovers that his ability to control presidential campaign spin is severely threatened. A man-in-a-chicken suit heckles the Obama campaign.

m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
Jack Bauer spends Christmas in jail but extracts a gift from a rival inmate. Hillary Rodham Clinton encounters her own brand of campaign hecklers. CTU staff resort to torture in an effort to extract campaign secrets.

m.o.i.: 48 days, week 3
Jack Bauer spends New Year's Eve in solitary confinement, Obama staffers run headlong into the supporters of questional merit, and the writer's strike begins to effect campaign logic in a showdown at the Iowa caucuses.

m.o.i.: 48 days, week 4
As the campaign buses roll into the Granite State, Jack tries to warn CTU of impending trouble and campaign rallies become targets for bullies.

m.o.i.: 48 days, week 5
Jack's cellmate, Vincent, is freed, then heads to Vegas only to find solace in the arms of a Huckabee volunteer. The Obama campaign comes into a lot of money but during a South Carolina fundraiser, Obama's speechwriter begins to question the dream.

m.o.i.: 48 days, week 6
The Clinton campaign tries out a few dirty tricks. An unlikely coalition travels cross country and stops at a Huckabee fundraiser in Texas. CTU thwarts an unlikely terrorist threat a MLKing rally.

m.o.i.: Season Finale:48 days, week 7
The campaign heads to Kansas in the week before Super Tuesday, CTU cracks the mystery behind some bogus emails, and Jack endorses a new way of life but not before torturing a former White House intern.

Background.
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.
m.o.i.: 48 days: script notes

48 days: script notes

Last summer, while visiting a friend near Hollywood, I discovered that one of my favorite guilty pleasures had been serialized in paperback. This was pulp fiction at its simplest - a plot formula based on a television show. What I enjoyed about these books, besides the fact that they were perfect for the beach, or a few quiet moments - as they appeared to be written so as to be read in exactly one hour, was that there was absolutely no pretense with them. They were just trashy pulp designed to foster a brand. Reading one was the equivalent of watching a rerun of the show.

So when I heard that the major character on the series was going to jail for what amounted to a doubling of the series in more ways than one, 48 days (the series is 24 hours) I thought it was a chance to have fun with a number of different things while still allowing the pricipal character to struggle some with what sent him to jail in the first place.

Television, before which I've sat prostrate for more hours than I care to admit (and I actually moderate my intake to the best of my ability; not having a working television really helps) was on strike. How difficult can it be to crank out a television script? Show some empathy for the WGA. And do it just like they do on 24. Week-to-week. No pre-ordained story line, just write and see where the action takes you. It's not easy. Things that seem simple rarely are. It would take many more rewrites to get my scripts in working order and remove all the confused plots lines but it wouldn't be true to the original if it made complete sense. It's really a dopy show, but it's fun to watch.

For 48 days, the end-of-the-world action were the presidential primaries and caucuses leading up to Super Tuesday. I gave myself one week to crank out each episode and if interesting things in the campaign surfaced, I tried to obliquely work them into the story line. In politics, just like in 24, there's always some wacky shit happening.

We forced ourselves to keep the central 24 character, Jack Bauer, in each episode, but felt it important that he remain incarcerated and superficial to the events. He really has only a small amount of control and for Bauer this is not his normal way of working. But this is Jack Bauer we're talking about, if it can be done, he'll find a way. Or he won't. In addition to saving the world, he's also trying to save himself, and in many ways Bauer is a proxy for the voter, but being locked behind bars, he just isn't in position to actually cast a vote.

Because we're spoofing 24 and because our government has decided to partake in these actions, torture had to be a part of some of the plot lines. It never works, but it doesn't stop folks from using it.

I used campaign staff rather than the candidates because there was so much being written about the candidates what could possibly have been added? Besides, I could have more freedom with these characters and let them roam around a bit. The Obama campaign manager and speechwriter just surfaced as the primaries began to unfold and we worked through each episode.

Any semblance of real characters are only a figment of your imagination. If you haven't yet discovered that satire underlies m.o.i. then please, by all means, the next time you have a personal problem, call Jack Bauer. NOW!

Season Finale: 48 days, week 7

Sunday, 8:30 AM, Barack Obama’s private jet en route to Kansas City
Jennifer Rowland, sleep deprived, nursing a deep hangover, and a growing resentment for politics as usual is stretched across two seats waiting for the battery on her laptop to recharge so she can bang out 500 words before the wheels touch tarmac and another day goes to hell. David Pouffe, Obama's impatient campaign manager, is on his second cup of airplane coffee. "The South Carolina speech was inspiring. People are starting to call it life-altering."

Jennifer groans. "It was...I'm never drinking again."

"Bullshit. We're headed to Kansas. It's almost February. How many times can you tweak the same stump speech anyway? Maybe you should get outside more, see if you can see your shadow, I want to know if we've got six more weeks of this madness or if the winter of our nation's discontent is almost over.

"Soon enough, now leave me alone. I could sleep, read the blogs, catch a movie. Lead a normal life."

"Normal was town in Iowa; we're well beyond that."

Monday, 10:00 AM, CTU Headquarters“How’s that new program Nina wrote working out?” Special Agent Tony Almeda asks Michelle Dressler.

“Check this out.” Michelle turns her monitor so Tony can get a look but all he sees are millions of twinkling dots scattered across a map of the U.S.

“Census data?”

“Of sorts. These are the IP addresses of every computer that has received the snarky 'Obama is a Muslim' email.”

“Everyone knows that shit is fake, how dumb are people?”

“Eight years of W?”

“OK. So the email went viral and Americans don't read. I still don’t see a pattern.”

“You wouldn’t at first, but if we go back in time...” Michelle types a few letters and hits the return key.

“OK. Still looks like lot's of dots on a map to me.”

“These are the muslim emails two-times removed, sorta like the grandparents of the thugs. Hard to see, but we’ve narrowed 50 million computers down to half a million. With Nina's improvements, we can go much farther back in time tracing the evolution of the spam. Actually, it's only a few days in time, but many, many, many forwards. A 10 generational family tree of the bogus email reduces the number to 50,000 computers, still too many to search individually. But, then we take..." Michelle hits a few keys and another map pops up with what appears to be a random distribution of dots scattered across the United States.

"Point?"

"Coming. We subtract one map from the other, and...,"

“Wait, wait, wait, what’s that list?"

"The eddresses of everyone who’s ever been to a Clinton rally, donated to her campaign, or received an email from them.”

“Looks like a lot of people.”

“Ten million and growing.”

Michelle hits a few keys, "OK. Back to the map. Subtract Clintonites who have forwarded the email more than 10 times from the Obama viral and we're down to only 1000 IP addresses.”

“We’ve only got 5 days before Super Tuesday, we don't have that many agents of change in the field.”

"How about hiring moveon.org."

“Be serious for a minute will you Tony. Now, here’s where all that CPU time starts to payoff. We hack into 5 of the 1000 machines, plant our own bogus email and spoof it out to another 5 machines. Looks legit to the receiver, the sender never knows about it. Turns out it only takes a few dedicated people to start a movement. This email made the claim that Barack was a foot soldier in the Reagan revolution and wants to make the Bush tax cuts permanent."

“Isn’t that McCain’s line? And why, as a Senator, why doesn’t McCain understand that trickle-down, means piss-on-you or that the Constitution prevents permanent tax cuts.”

“You’re missing the point Tony. We stand back and watch it become viral, propagate through the system. In just 16 hours it went from 5 machines, to 125,000 machines. When we cross-referenced all three of the virals, we discovered that 15 people are responsible for 75 percent of the spam. Ten of those are pre-pubescent males. And of the 5 who are over 18 years of age, two of them are convicted pedophiles who can’t vote, and of the remaining 3, 2 are registered Republicans. That leaves Jefferson Davis Jones of Orlando, Florida."

"Who's he?"

"Runs a Christian Theme Park."

"Disneyworld?"

"The Holy Land Experience."

"What's his problem?"

"Apparently he has several. His version of the New Testament doesn't include people of color, he's pissed that his primary vote won't be counted at the Democratic convention, and he wants to abolish the IRS."

"Sounds like it's time to throw the money-changers out of the temple."

Tuesday, 10:05 AM, Glendale City Jail
Jack Baer has cell mate and former White House intern, Izzy "Altoid Boy" Hernandez, hog-tied with bedding strips. “Ready to talk?," Jack calls from the crapper in the corner of the cell. Izzy shakes his head in terror. Jack looks at Izzy's bare feet, then down at the pair of socks he's holding in his hand, then proceeds to wipe his ass with each sock. He flushes, then takes the socks, rolls them into a ball, and jams them deep in Izzy's mouth.

"How about now?" Jack asks as beads of sweat begin to form on Izzy's forehead and roll down his face but he won't make eye contact with his interrogator. "OK. Suit yourself." Jack pulls a couple of large tablets from his shirt pocket, "Learned this one from the Chinese, they called it plop plop fizz fizz."

Jack pulls Izzy's head back and shoves the tablets deep into his nostrils. "Give it a minute, works wonders on indigestion, and sinus cavities."

Jack moves to the bed and begins leafing through a Daily Variety. "Hey, did you read this? Sean Young got drunk at an awards show and tried to shout down the Man. Hard to do? How's your indigestion?" He looks over and foam is bubbling out Izzy's nostrils and his ear canals. "Feeling better?"

Jack stands and moves toward Izzy, "you are going to tell me what you know about Super Tuesday and you are going to tell me, NOW!"

Jack rips another strip from the sheet and ties it around the man's head. He then pulls his cell phone out, removes the back cover, and using small pieces of chewing gum, attaches some tiny wires to the circuit board on the phone. Jack then inserts the phone inside the headband so that the display is visible to Izzy. Jack takes the other ends of the wires and one he secures against the man's left temple, the other he shoves deep into the his right ear, still bubbling with alka-seltzer and secures it with a wad of gum.

Jack coldly looks at the man, then leans in close so that his bad breath makes the man's eyes water and whispers, "last chance fuckwad. In exactly 2 minutes, my phone’s going to ring. And when it does, a 50,000 volt microwave burst goes into your frontal cortex and out your ear. You won't be able to hear yourself shit your pants and you’ll be lucky if you remember how to wipe your ass.” The man’s eyes open wider but he gives no indication that he’s going to speak. Jack steps down on the man’s foot until there’s an audible crack. The man struggles to keep from throwing up but knows if he does he’ll suffocate on his own vomit.

“One minute.”

Tuesday, 10:09 AM
“Stella, get Jack Bauer on the phone for me.”

“Yes Mr. Vice-President.”

Tuesday, 10:10 AM
There’s an audible pop, Izzy begins to quiver, then the faint smell of burning flesh and a small puff of smoke emanates from his right ear. Izzy's head drops, then he slumps over comatose. Jack loosens his restraints, drags him to the bed, places the pillow beneath his head and tucks in the sheets.

Wednesday, 2:00 PM
Vinnie Carter and Ruth are driving from Florida back to California in Vinnie's Cadillac El Dorado convertible. The top is down, the sun is shining, and George and Tammy are blaring out of the radio.

Vinnie reaches over and turns down the radio. "Fifty number one singles, you know that. George had 50. He made sense to people, but all this driving around to hell-and-high-water and back again makes no sense to me Sugar. Week before it Vegas, then Florida, and now we're headed back to Main Street, but it's the one that runs down the middle of Disneyland. No one lives there except 'toons"

"Hey, don't forget the side trip to the Creationist Museum in Lexington. I knew I wasn't related to a baboon."

"One should only play the ponies in Lexington. Maybe you're not a baboon, but you are my baboo, and when you present that fine ass of your's to me, I get all gorillared up inside."

"Don't be crude Vinnie. It's not becoming."

"So what's next for us? We chased the shepherd's purse around for a couple of weeks and have little to show for it."

"Don't know 'till you try Vinnie. But we'll always have Des Moines. How do you feel about purple?"

"Purples a fine color but what does it mean?"

"It's the color of Lent and it's not blue, and it's not red, it's somewhere in between. Look, see that purple mark on that tree? Where I come from, it's the universal NO TRESPASSING sign. Mark your property with purple paint and anyone who comes on your property without your permission, can be arrested for tresspassing."

"Like Mexicans and anti-war protestors?"

"Doesn't matter who you are. You could be Fred Phelps, you cross into purple, you're in our maze and we hold the solution."

"Glory! Glory! Purple it is."

Thursday, 11:45 PM, Glendale City Jail.
A small crowd has gathered outside the Glendale City Jail awaiting the release of Jack Bauer. TMZ, ET, Access, are there along with a gaggle of 15-year olds lugging cameras looking for the money shot of Bauer looking sheepish peering through the tinted windows. A limo approaches and attempts to turn into the parking garage. A crowd gathers around the limo and impedes its progress. One of the kids stands in front shooting pictures through the front window. The limo driver lays on the horn, then rolls down his window, "get the fuck out the way you scumbag, before I run you over!"

The kid refuses to budge. Quickly a uniformed officer comes over and grabs the boy by the shoulders and moves him out of the drive. "I wouldn't test that guy, he used to drive for Anthony Pellicano. Anyway, aren't you out past your curfew? Do your parents know you're out this late."

"Eat pelican shit copper," the boy says mockingly. "How do you think I pay for tuition at Buckley? The right photo of Bauer will pay a months tutution, so don't heckle me about missing Letterman's top ten list."

The policeman's radio buzzes, "Yo' Herandez, that's us, and leave that kid alone, he's harmless. Let's go pick on someone your own size."

"If I see you on the street past midnight anytime in the next week, I'm taking your IPod."

"That'd be theft." the kid says, taking the cop's picture for good measure, "I'll send this to your seargant. Now go get a donut."

Friday 12:15 AM Steps of the Glendale City Jail
The warden, sensing a growing impatience and frustration in the crowd, moves to the mike and begins speaking:
At 12:01, Pacific Standard Time, Jack Baeur, after serving 48 days in the Glendale City Jail on a DUI charge, was released on his own recognizance. While incarcerated, Mr. Bauer was a model inmate. He was assigned to laundry detail and to the best of my knowledge, had very little contact with staff, visitors, or other inmates. It is my understanding that Jack passed most of his time reading unfinished scripts.

Friday 12:16 AM Hollywood Blvd
"That the one?"

"Yes, sir, looks like our man."

The office makes a quick u-turn in the street, hits the bar lights and trains his spotlight on a rear window of the black Cadillac Escalade slowly cruising the boulevard. The SUV pulls over to the shoulder, but the beats get louder, and the spinners keep turning. The officers approach from each side of the car. The office-in-charge nods toward Sgt. Recruiter, the new bistro on the block, and ask his partner. "You been there?"

"Naw, it's new. Opened just before the New Year's."

"Yeah? heard it was intimate and luscious."

"I'm done with the lush life for awhile."

"Really? I hear that same shite story 5 times a week? You don't know anything but that. And what else would you do?"

"This time I mean it. But I really don't know what I'll do. Got a couple of days before I have to get back to work, then we've only go a few scenes to shoot before we run out of script. After that, we'll have to play it by ear. Maybe folks will come to their senses and cut a deal" Jack says, removing his patrol hat and handing it to the officer. "Maybe I'll get into politics. Wouldn't the first time an actor made the transition from the sound set to the Oval Office," he starts to removes his badge.

"Keep it. As a reminder of the right way," the officer says taking the hat but refusing the badge. "Haven't we had enough of politics? And I've been in the biz for 25 years, cooler heads never prevail. Just stay away from the boredom Jack. That's what gets to folks. The boredom."

"Politics. Boring?"

"Never meant much to me, but then again I'm just a shoe on the street."

"Hey don't sell yourself short. We need folks like you to keep the world safe, protect our families, hold the terrorists at bay."

"I thought you were doing that? saving the world from Al Qaeda, immigrants, and the drug cartels."

"No man, that's a Hollywood myth. Besides Bin Laden is just another out-of-work character actor and the terrorists appear to be out of scripts. Really, deep down, we're just like each other, trying to do a job, raise a family, and sometimes getting lost in the process. If either of us were President we be doing those same things, except lot's of people would be advising us on how to do it the way they think is best."

"Each day a new day?"

"Yeah," Jack says, giving the officer a hug, "something like that." He opens the door of the Escalade.

"Hey, I forgot to ask," the officer calls to him, "who ya' voting for on Tuesday?"

"I have no idea but I'm...people are...", Jack's voice catches, "everyone...everywhere..." he struggles to get the words out. "We're all tired of the headache. All the time, the head hurts, the body aches, nobody feels well. We've GOT to do better. We can, we must, we will. Change."

"Sounds like an endorsement. Take care and God Bless."

-------------------------------------
see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 6
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 5
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 4
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 3
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
m.o.i.: Season premiere-48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 6

Sunday, 9:00 AM.
Eddie Salazaar drops his paper and punches in a number on his phone; the call immediately goes to voice mail. "Bastard!" he shouts, then hangs up and dials another number. "Where's Hector?" he demands.

"I don't know, last I heard he was headed to the high stakes table on Obama's behalf," Bridgit replies. "Maybe Jennifer took him over to the dark side. Have you tried the churches?"

"It's too early for the sermon. And none of those folks seem too churchy. Listen closely, Bridgit. Hector needs to be in Columbia for the King Celebration. Why? Because all the Dems will be there. HRC wins Nevada and he disappears. What the fuck is going on out there? I thought you guys had a handle on this."

"Relax. Barack won more delegates. House rules or something."

"Weird. But not as strange as Mike Huckabee doing an Elvis impersonation of Take My Hand, Precious Lord. Saw that on YouTube."

"You scare me with that stuff Eddie. Next you'll be telling me you watch Quarterlife. But that was a bad move on the Huckster's part, the analagy is too easy for the bloggers. Elvis IS dead. Tell me you know that. Huckabee isn't far behind."

Monday, 11:00 AM.
CTU agents Tony Almeda and Michelle Dressler stand before Special-Agent-in-Charge George Mason. "Sit!" he commands, and then walks over and closes the office door. "What do you have?"

Tony starts. "Hillary looks like a lock on the nomination given her machine, but the party base is fractured. She's might still be vulnerable to eloquence."

"Bill's or Barack's?"

"Both. But Barack's the one with the dream."

"You think Bill doesn't have one? All he does is dream. Hell, he's had more wet dreams than most people have hopes. As for Obama, once the peckerwoods find out his middle name is Hussein, he's done. And you Michelle, what do you have from the grand old folks home?"

"It all depends on which prophet you follow. Jesus, Joseph, or Ronald. I've give 'em all about even odds in Florida at the moment."

"This is costing the country a whole lot of money. You've been on this for almost 6 weeks running and nothing! Not a damn thing! We're getting a lot of pressure from people in very high places to get a wrap on this and you know the Dick loves Bauer like a child. He's pushing real hard to get Jack back on the street. If you want YOUR name in lights, you better get some juice to the cable, and quick."

"Agreed, Jack's a special agent, but remember, he also a two-time loser. Once more and he's done. And we have managed to kick off some of the fringes."

"Fringes? To date, we've lost the only Spanish speaker, a tv hack, an evangelical, and some geezer white dudes. That sounds like middle America to me! Maybe you should reach out to Bauer again, see what he knows."

"I thought you said he was off-limits for the duration."

"I did, but dirty laundry is his specialty."

Tuesday, 11:00 AM.
There's a loud knock on the door of Suite 777 at the Belagio Hotel and Casino. Then again. Then the door opens and the room attendant calls out in a thick Spanish accent, "House keeping! House keeping!"

She goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. Sunlight floods the room. She turns to see that the room is in complete shambles, champagne bottles everywhere, room service trays, a lamp tipped over. She mutters to herself ¡Ah cabrón!, looks up, then tentatively approaches what appears to be a body beneath the covers. She touches it. No movement. She touches it again. Again nothing. She looks around the room unsure of what to do next. Finally she musters up the coverage to pull back the covers and examine what's underneath. Slowly the covers fall away to reveal Ron Surnow, the out-of-work-writer and Vincent Carter's friend, lying face down on the bed. She nudges him. Nothing. Again. Nothing. "Mierda!"

Just as she begins to back out of the room, she hears a groan. Then another. Ron turns over slowly and tries to open his eyes but the sunlight makes him wince. He can see a woman in the room but he can't make out her features.

"You're still here?" he mumbles. "Don't know if I have another round of role-playing in me without some help," he reaches over to the nightstand and gropes around.
A pharmacopoeia of prescription bottles topple off the nightstand and Ron proceeds to follow them into the floor.

"Give me just a minute here and I'll be ready," he weakly calls to her. He gropes around looking for the right bottle and then sees a couple of polaroids on the floor. He picks one up. It's of him looking very blotto. Standing next to him is a woman who could make cream whip just by looking at the bowl. He's trying to remember her name. Damn, he thinks, he was lucky last night. He tries to grab onto the nightstand to pull himself up, but only manages to pull an ice bucket full of lukewarm water onto to himself. "help me out here! will you?"

The housekeeper comes over and helps Ron to his feet. He looks down and sees more photos on the nightstand. He picks them up and begins leafing through his sordid progression from the night before. There's one of Ron at the cabana with the Clinton staffers. Everyone seems to be having a good time. A couple of them are real babes. Damn, he wishes he could remember more of last night that these photos seem to reveal. He shuffles through the stack. There's one where everyone is skinny-dipping in the pool. Another of them in the room with 2 of the staffers, no one has any clothes on. Ron's starting to get excited.

"¡Estas cabrón!" the housekeeper says to Ron.

He smiles. He continues to look through the photos and until one makes him gasp. Ron is wearing an Afro wig and is tied to the bed. Standing over him is a woman who resembles, at least in the photo, Oprah Winfrey in black leather bondage attire. She's slapping Ron's ass with a whip. But what is really upsetting to Ron, what makes him retch and drop the photos, and run to the bathroom and hurl, is that photo clearly shows that in addition to the bondage, Oprah's wearing a huge strap-on dildo and Ron's got a big grin on his face.

Ron spends several minutes draining most of his stomach contents into the commode, then finally manages to stand and walk back into the room. When the housekeeper sees him she laughs and points, "hijo de mil putas".

Ron looks down and realizes for the first that he's wearing of pair of jockey shorts with a big picture of Hillary Clinton on the front. He bends down for a closer look and the writing scrawled across the bottom. "It was fun! See ya' on YouTube my sweet little Oprah Bitch. signed, the Hillary Nutcrackers."

Ron stomach churns and he heads back to the toilet.

Wednesday, 5:00 PM.
Vincent "Vinnie" Carter's Cadillac Eldorado convertible crosses over the cattle guard with a thunk and stops at what appears to be a lemonade stand. Two lady's, hair in buns against the Texas heat, sit behind a sign that says, CHUCK4HUCK. All U CAN EAT, $15. "Y'all here for the B-B-Que?" the woman asks.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well it's $15 apiece or $30 a family. Ya'll family?"

Vinnie looks over at Ruth, the middle-aged show-it-all-girl he discovered at the Belagio omelet bar, winks, then looks back at Hector Ramirez sitting in the back. Ruth smiles back, Hector scowls. "More or less," Vincent says to the woman and hands her two twenties. "Keep the change."

"You want some sweet tea? Ranch is a ways ahead and it'll be dusty with the top down."

"Sure why not", Vinnie takes 3 plastic cups of tea from the lady, "nothing like a little southern comfort to take the heat off the afternoon."

They drive on. Hector takes a big gulp of the icy beverage, the sticky sweetness rolls around on his tongue, and makes it hard to talk. He pulls a flask from his coat and tops off the drink.

""A little sweet for you?" Ruth asks.

"Yeah, this ticket needs some balance," and he hands Ruth the flask.

"Don't mind if I do"

Vinnie looks over at Ruth, "you ever been to a ranch, a real ranch?"

"There's country, and then there's me, sweetpea," Ruth replies. "I was polling Herefords before they invented push polls."

"How about you?" Vinnie looks up in the rear view mirror and makes eye contact with Hector Ramirez. "Are you country? because this here's supposed to be the real deal." and he sweets his arm out toward the landscapes. "Owned by a real Texas Ranger."

"Bullshit, if this dude is a real lawmen, then I'm a campaign advisor."

Wednesday, 6:30 PM.
Vinnie, Ruth, and Hector are sitting at a picnic table chowing down on some brisket, beans, and slaw, drinking PBR from cans. All around them are white folks with wane smiles and up on stage, Lynard Skynard covers are being tortured out of guitars.

Vinnie looks across to Ruth, grabs her free hand, and suckles the sauce from her fingers, "I always did prefer the sweet to the piquant, now I'm in love."

"You really haven't been out in a while have you Vinnie?" Ruth says, dabbing sauce from her smile. "You're in a campaign. Every one's in love."

"Maybe I'm naive, and yes, I have been out-of-touch of late, but I still want to believe that people from vastly different backgrounds can still find themselves on the road to America."

"Sounds like the stuff of fairy tales," Hector chimes in, "I need to charge my phone, this music is giving me a headache."

Thursday, 5:00 AM.
Hector's up and taking a walk. There's considerable activity around the ranch at this hour, Hispanic ranch hands and men with prostate problems. His phone rings, first time in a couple of days.

"Hector? That you?" Bridgit asks. "Where the fuck are you? Salazaar been going ape shit trying to find you.

"Stopped in Texas for some b-b-Que."

"Wrong meat, Hector. You're supposed to be at Maurice's Piggy Park in Columbia."

"We'll get there. But the buses needed refueling and they're out of money. Had to have a hoe-down just to buy gas."

Friday, 11AM, CTU Headquarters.
Tony and Michelle are sorting through campaign staff emails taking notes. Mason approaches them. "Any word from Jack?"

"He's been released back the general population, but his former cellmate, a man named Vinnie Carter, was kicked loose last week. Vincent somehow managed to get hooked up with a Huckabee staffer in Vegas. They're driving cross country now and one of Salazaar's men, Hector Ramirez, is traveling with them."

"Do we know what their plans are?"

"Beyond playing Free Bird in all the Purple States we're not sure. Looks like they're headed to Florida."

"So who's Jack bunking with now."

"Some White House intern charged with perjury in the Balco case."

"There's a steroid scandal in politics?"

"Not yet, but the intern was an old friend of W's, from his glory days with the Rangers. Club house attendant or something. Apparently he was also the clubs go-to-guy for the clear. He made the mistake of lying about it to a Clinton appointee."

"Those activist judges will get you every time. You think he's a plant?"

"Either that or a ball boy."

Saturday, 11:50 AM, Zion Baptist Church, Columbia, South Carolina.

The crowd is beginning to get a little restless as they listen to the concluding M.L. King Day remarks about how the lives of public figures have changed in the year's since King's death, how every aspect of the candidates, their families, and their staff's lives have become fodder for the prying eyes of America, "it's played out on television, it's sensationalized in the media, and it's crept into the presidential campaign in a way that serves to obscure the issues" Barack Obama tells the crowd to shouts of "Amen! Amen, Brother! Testify!"

Saturday, 12:20 PM, Capitol Grounds, Columbia, South Carolina.
Tony Almeda surveys the crowd, now estimated to be 5,000 strong and growing, from his vantage point atop the Governor's Building just across from the Dome. He calls Michelle Dresseler who's working the street ahead of the marchers, "What's it look like down there?"

"It's a mixed crowd. State police, locals, SS, plus the campaign staffers working the crowd for product placement opportunities."

"How much longer before they get to the Capitol."

"Tomorrow afternoon if they don't stop kissing babies."

"Any sign of Salazaar's people?"

"Not yet, but we've got people spaced out the entire 6 blocks so if anyone surfaces, we should be in a position to react."

"Keep me posted." Almeda motions to Rico, the SWAT captain to come over. "Listen. Our inside man, Bauer, came across someone in the know who said today's the day. You have specific orders. If a target appears, get a visual lock, copy the image to your handheld, and page it immediately to me. I'll verify the ID and then give you the go ahead. But if deem them an immediate threat, and you can take them out with minimal collateral damage, you have authority to do so."

"Roger that."

Saturday, 12:40 PM, Street, Columbia, South Carolina.
"Tony, it's Michelle, listen I think we've got something."

"Where?"

"Intersection of Assembly and Lady Street, that's one block from you. Can you see it?"

Tony places two fingers to his eyes and motions to Rico. Rico begins scanning the crowd with his 80-power binoculars. "Where? Where? Where?" Tony calls to Michelle.

"Southeast quadrant of the intersection. Check out the guy in the white outfit moving through the crowd. Jumpsuit, glasses, looks like he's wearing a wig. No, wait, it looks like an Elvis costume, from the Vegas years."

"He's out of place, King's birthday was last week. Rico, capture that image and send it to me. I'll run a trace. Tell your men to standby for orders, and DO NOT let him out of your sight."

"How far before the Dems make it to the intersection Michelle?"

"They're a block away. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm waiting on this feed, standby."

"They're getting closer Tony. The guy's behaving erratically, jumping around, yelling, he's moving closer to the street."

"WE can't tip our hand if he's not the one. Give me just a sec, we're paging through files now."

"Sir! The target is moving into the street. I repeat, into the street. I have a clean shot. Should I take it?"

"Hold fire for 10 seconds."

"Tony, the guys in the street now. He's acting crazy, moving around, he's looks like a nut."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. Could be a distraction. Rico, have your men cover him. Michelle scan the crowd for an accomplish."

There's a beep and Tony looks down at his pda. Status confirmed. "Holy shit! It can't be. Weapons down! Now! Weapons down! I can't believe this shit! It's the President."

"The President. Sir, are you sure, the fat dude in the jumpsuit, the President?"

"Yes, former President Clinton. Looks like he's making good on his promise."

"His promise? to do an Elvis impersonation on Martin Luther King's Birthday?"

"No, he challenged Obama to a dance contest."

"Well sir, he does appear to be winning at the moment."

see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 5
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 4
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 3
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
m.o.i.: Season premiere-48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 5

Sunday, 10:00 AM
Habitual small-time offender, Vincent "Vinnie" Carter, pushes through the Glendale City Jail doors and into the bright Southern California sun. "I can't see a damn thing out here!" he says, and then spotting his brother Jimi sitting on the steps, reaches down and plucks the new chrome aviator shades off Jimi's head and puts them on. "Better!"

"So, how was it this time? Any trouble from the latin kings? How was Mama Momo's cookin'?"

"Easy does and easy it was. The Locos have moved on, the Latin Kings are now a swing band, and Mama Momo's still the shit, I'm tellin' you... black-eyed peas, mustard greens, and corn bread for New Year's - the best in the valley. Brought me some luck too."

"How's that?"

"You'll never believe who I spent a couple of nights with."

"Your ex?"

"It's jail, Jimi, not a party dorm. She did some evil shit, but most of it was legal. Think famous."

"Mel Gibson."

"He's locked in a different kind of cell. Think A-list, not B."

"I thought Mel was A-list."

"After the AMPTP found out he hated Jews, he's been down-graded."

"What about OJ?"

"He's in Florida, you douche bag. And Hollywood, not the Most Wanted List."

"Phil Spector?"

"Hung jury, out on bail awaiting a retrial, primed to kill again. You're fucking hopeless, you know that? What do you do all day, when you're not wanking off? The View? Ellen? Sponge Bob? Do you know anything?"

"Nick Nolte."

"OK. Close enough. Jack Bauer."

"Bullshit. He's a hero, or somein'. Like Rambo. They don't put Rambo in the slammer."

"When was the last time you saw Rambo? Of course they put guys like Rambo in the slammer. Or at least they try to. When they try to arrest Rambo for walking down the street, THAT'S when he loses it. Law enforcement hates vigilantes more than they hate criminals."

"I thought 'Nam make him crazy."

"'Nam just made him paranoid and taught him how to survive. He was already crazy."

"So what's Bauer's problem."

"ProblemsZZZZ. He got tons of 'em. For starters, he's a meglomaniacle, alcoholic, serial-killing torturer with a distrust of authority and a penchant for destroying relationships."

"Sounds like a burden."

"A heavy one. But he's as light as a brother. Turns out he's got a soft spot that few people knew about. Come on, it's TCB time, let's go cash in on personal problems."

Monday, 1:00 PM CTU Headquarters
Michelle Dressler stops Tony Almeda as he makes his way to the canteen for a refill on his coffee. "Ever since you planted that tracking device in David Pouffe's shoe we've been monitoring his movements. We know he placed a call to Hector Ramirez the day that O'Reilly did his Colonel Sanders impression. But here's something really interesting. He flies to Las Vegas a day ahead of all the other Obama staffers, rents a car, and then drives to a beach in Southern California."

"That doesn't seem unusual. Vegas is only a few hours from LA. Maybe he's from there. Working a primary campaign would have to take it's toll. It's no wonder candidates say dumb things, they never get enough sleep."

"That's not the interesting part. On his way to the surf zone he made a stop. In Glendale. At the city jail."

"To see who?"

"Jack Bauer."

Tuesday, 5 PM
Carters's sky blue 1965 Cadillac Eldorado convertible cruises down Las Vegas Boulevard toward the South strip. In the trunk is a change of clothes, an ounce of primo, a fifth of Glenmorangie, and gym bag containing ninety-nine bundles of 20 dollar bills. One more bundle, strapped by an Elvis TCB money clip, bulges from his jacket pocket. Ron Surnow, whose last script was just dropped by Univeral Studios, and whom Vincent convinced to come along for "the ride, some no-limit texas hold'em, and some fresh babes", sits in the passenger seat.

As the convertible motors past the Travelodge sign, a big sign proclaims. Lucky room rate $77.77, Lucky dinner buffet $7.77. "Look Vinnie, they got a vacancy and lucky numbers."

"Fuck that. We can make our own luck. We're here for some action and we're staying at the Belagio."

"Sweetness.", Ron takes a hit from the third joint they've smoked since leaving LA, "but dude, tell me this. I've been walking a picket line for three months, my last script just got tossed in the can, and I'm flat broke. You on the other hand, have been in jail for 90 days and the first day, the very first day you get your tan back - you're spending money like there's no tomorrow. How's that happen?" He passes the joint back to Vinnie as they come to a stop light.

Vinnie looks at the joint, which is about half gone, then motions to a homeless man standing on the corner with a sign around his neck that reads, Need $$$ 4 alcohol reSERcH. Vinnie reaches in his pocket, flips out a couple of fresh twenties to the man, takes one last hit on the joint, then hands the rest to the man. "Best shit in Vegas or your money back. And be sure to spend that all in one place!", Vinnie calls as they motor away.

Then back to Ron, "New media. That's where the money, the action is. But you have to have something to sell. And I did. I had something everybody wanted and when everybody wants something, they're willing to pay top dollar for it."

"What's that?"

"A story."

"Nobody wants stories anymore, why the fuck do you think I've walked in a circle from Thanksgiving to Martin Luther King Day. They want reality. They want buzz. They want gossip."

"Exactly. And I had all three: reality, buzz, and gossip, neatly wrapped into a single story, and let me tell you, those greedy bastards at TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, AND Extra would fuck their boss's mother to get an exclusive story. I thought about making 'em, but decided to settle for a nice advance instead. From all three."

"Dude!!! They're going to be pissed. They might even want a refund. Have you seen Mary Hart lately, she could kick your ass."

"Fuckem. AND her. We'll be all in when they air that shit."

Wednesday, 5:00 AM, Las Vegas, Nevada
Hector Ramirez and Jennifer Rowland have been at the no-limit table in a Belagio back room for over 9 hours. Vinnie's still there, still talking trash, even though for the last 7 hours he's seen his massive twin chip towers slowly reduced to rubble. "That's quite a streak you got going there," he says to Jennifer. "How much you got in the bank?"

"About 250 thousand," Rowland says calmly from the blind as she examine her hole cards, ten, seven, suited diamonds. "But we plan to spend it by week's end and we'll need to double that for South Carolina, so don't do anything rash on my account." She tosses ten 1000 dollar chips into the pot and a button across the table.

"Here Vincent", she refuses to call anyone Vinnie, "since you're one of our biggest donors, you can have a button."

Vincent examines the button carefully. It's a large O, or circle, and in the middle it depicts what appears to the sun coming up over a flag-like landscape. "What's it suppose to mean? Ophrah Owns Omerica? Call."

"Could be. But what it really stands for is", she glances at Ramirez, then back to Vincent, "we like what you like. Or it could stand for..." she watches the flop: Deuce diamond and ace, nine, off-suit, "it could also stand for...OHHHH... the fun's just beginning. Five thousand to you."

"You did that in one night?" Vincent asks, motioning to Jennifer's stack.

"No, tonight's only about 80K, most of it yours, but you appear to be nearing campaign limits. Are you Ready for Change Vincent?"

Vincent pins the bucket to his jacket then checks his hole cards again, "no one is that lucky. All in." He pushes what's left of the three advances, $18,000, into the pot.

"What's the opposite of luck?" Rowland says to Ramirez.

Ramirez squeezes his cards, shakes his head, and folds, "I dunno, hard work?"

"No. It's money. Call." Rowland matches Vincent, and slides her cards face up onto the table.

Vincent stands, "the opposite of hard work is a monarchy!" and exposes a pair of Kings.

The turn is a King diamond. Vinnie looks up and shakes both fists in the air, "YES! Hail to the Chief." He knows trip kings are his ticket to 52K and a position of strength for a big comeback. Maybe he can get out of town before everything is lost.

David Pouffe steps from the back of the room and motions to Jennifer that there's a call. She nods back. "We're almost done."

The last card comes up Queen diamonds. Ramirez lets out an audible gasp, "Damn, That's an shitload lot of money for one hand."

"It's nothing, we can spend twice that amount in 60 seconds," Jennifer says quietly gathering her chips. She offers her hand to Vincent, "Pleasure before business, and it was a pleasure, but now business calls."

Vincent looks dumbfounded, realizing that he's broke again. He shakes his head, "I don't know how you did it, but you pulled that out of your ass."

Jennifer looks at the dealer, "Thanks," she says and tips him 5 thousand dollars. Then she looks at Vincent, "People say every thing's bigger in Texas. Here," she stacks 20 hundred dollar chips, "I'd say that's about the right size, about four inches" and she pushes the chips to Vincent. "Take that stack, go back to your room, and pull IT out of your ass", then stands and leaves the room.

Vincent calls to her, "Hey...I'm from Tennessee."

"What's the deal?" Jennifer asks Pouffe.

"OJ's been arrested!"

"Yeah? So? Who but TMZ cares?"

"Everyone. It's all over the news. The bloggers are having a field day with it."

"And what's that got to do with us."

"Black man in Vegas, another black man in Vegas jailed for a parole violation. To white folks, it's one and the same, and HRC and the Republicans are already leaking trial balloons about past drug-dealing and cocaine use."

"Shit. We got to get out here. Fast."

Thursday, 5:45 AM
Victor cashes his free chips and ambles into the lounge. There's an all-you-can eat breakfast buffet set-up by the stage, but it's much fancier than anything he's had in a while. Fresh fruit, Belgian waffles and omelets made to order. Vincent's used to being up at this hour, but it's still very early in the morning by Vegas standards yet the omelet bar has short wait. He fills his plate to overflowing and grabs a morning paper off the rack, takes his plate to a corner booth, and sits. He realizes he's exhausted. The food's not as good as Mama Momo's, but the coffee is strong and for ten bucks it begins to ease some of the tightness in his gut.

Even at this early hour the restaurant has a small crowd. Looking around the room he sees folks like himself who never went to bed, plus a fair contingent of tourists who appear to only come to Vegas for the all-you-can-eat buffets, corny comic shows, and kick lines. He can't understand why, if they don't like to gamble, that they don't they just go to Branson? He looks at the headlines. Clinton Deals Race Card, Obama Checks. He puts down the paper and mutters aloud, "doesn't anything ever fucking change in this country?"

"Yes, if you want it to." a woman's voice, deep in southern twang, says from the booth behind Victor.

He turns to look at the woman and finds her attractive. Mid-forties, maybe early fifties, he can't say for sure, but she's taken care of herself and she's alone. She's over-dressed for the place and the hour in a light wool, carmine suit, a strand of pearls around her neck. The clothes are tailored, her hair stylish, she looks like money Vincent thinks. Vincent was always fond of pearls, more fond of the act of standing behind a woman and unclasping them and the memory of that intrigues him as does the woman but he's forgotten how to talk and nothing comes out of his mouth except saliva.

"You know, you shouldn't eat by yourself, it's bad for your digestion" the woman says to him like she knows him.

"Not as bad as losing all your money."

"Money's not everything, you know."

"Only people who have money, say that."

"Even people that do, say that. Mind if I join you? My friend's aren't used to staying out all night, so they went back to the room. I'm all alone, I don't like being alone."

"Suit yourself" Victor tries to act excited but it sounds like a grumble.

"After my husband passed, dropped dead in the checkout line at Walmart. Took one look at the total, dropped dead just like that. Best $150 dollars I ever spent. Any way, after that my digestion when all to hell, the doctor said I was just lonely, so I started taking most of my meals at the diner, and before long I was good as new. So I try not eat alone" the woman continues. "You look sad. Don't tell me, your wife's at her mom's and you're flying solo in Vegas and it hasn't been all it was cracked up to be?"

"Yes. Nope, not married, not even in the loop. It was a buddy trip, 'till he won a few turns on the wheel, then split for a private cabana and a harem of liberal Clinton staffers. They were very impressed when he started waving his cash around."

"They say winning is everything."

"The winners say that. The losers say something else."

"And what is that?"

"Congratulations."

"I thought winners and losers both said 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas'."

"Tourist say that. People in the know, they say it's the only city where you can arrive in an $50,000 Mercedes and leave in an $800,000 Greyhound bus."

"Such a pessimist! It's too early for that. Eat something. They still have Greyhound buses? I thought those went the way of the Cadillac."

"Yes they do. And they still have Cadillacs. I've got one outside. A convertible."

"Really. I haven't been in a Cadillac in years."

"Nothing like it for seeing the country."

"Why not you? In the cabana, with the Clinton staffers?"

"Too progressive. I went for the big score but ended up getting knocked out of the debate by a court ruling."

"That's what happened to Kucinich."

"Who's Kucinich?"

"I thought you were a progressive?"

"Don't follow politics that closely; been a little out of touch of late. In truth, I'm a conservative Southerner, like that law and order dude, what's his name, Thompson. And it was Queen diamond that knocked me for a loop."

"Ladies best friend still packs a punch. How do you know about Thompson if you don't follow politics?"

"I watch tv instead. Hey, you ever seen the sun rise in the desert? It's pretty as money and lasts just as long."

"Why not, I did come to Vegas to get lucky."

Friday, 6:00 PM Charleston, South Carolina
Chef Rick is trying something he's never done before at his New South Cafe on East Bay Street. He's closed the main kitchen on a Friday night to host a fundraiser for Barack Obama. Friday is typically the busiest, and the most fun night of the week, as much of Charleston's career set gets wild and flirtatious after a week in the trenches and he's not sure how they'll react to not being able to sample his 3-star menu.

To accommodate more people in his tiny space, Rick pulled the 4-tops into the back alley and split the restaurant in half with a line of buffet tables. He was told by Mr. Pouffe, the campaign manager, that the cash bar had to be open for AT LEAST an hour before the food could be served. "Helps to loosen the pocket book" he'd told Rick.

And when Pouffe found out that it was tradition to serve a Low Country Boil on newspapers, he sent an intern out to get 50 copies of the Constitution from the day after the Iowa caucuses. That was 2 weeks ago, so no one had any and the inventive intern ended up at the recycling center where he spent the better part of an hour rooting around in the paper bin, then he stopped by his motel room where he spent another hour ironing the papers flat so they looked new. Pouffe was ready to fire him, till he saw all the headlines "Defining Moment in History; Obama Breaks Tradition; Moment of Change" spread across the tables.

Reed Messer, the erudite socialite turned food critic for the Savannah Times is trying to talk to Chef Rick over the crowd noise, trying to get something juicy for Sunday's style section. Her editor told her, "get me something, something good, find a different angle on politics, on race relations in America, New South meets Olde South, anything, but most of all, get me pictures of attractive people having a good time!" She asks Rick, "so what does your regular crowd think of all this, closing ranks for a black candidate? Has the South really changed that much?"

Rick surveys the crowd, a mix of working class stiffs drawn to the message of hope, heir's to old money drawn to the good looks, pinheads drawn to the eloquence, and campaign staffers. Rick notices that what's different about this crowd is there are more minorities in the fray than typical of Charleston society.

"Well, folks that come to my restaurant and eat my food know the South has changed considerably. We're not where we should be, but we continue to move in the right direction. That said, EVERYBODY in Charleston wants to meet Obama and since this is THE place to meet important people, it was a natural for us. But hell, I told Martha, donation or no donation, Democrat, Republican, or Independent, don't turn any regulars away. We'll need them next month when these Yankees are doing whatever it is Yankees do in February. What do they do, anyway?"

"Same thing we do Rick," Reed says, "Go to Florida."

He looks at his watch, 06:20. Folks have been pounding drinks for over an hour on an empty stomach and the place is really getting noisy. He excuses himself from Reed by pointing her in the direction of Jennifer Rowland and then heads back to the kitchen where he tells his sous chef, "we need to serve some food before some of these folks realize they don't really like each other".

Jennifer's watching the crowd and noticing that although the crowd is cordial, they have managed to segregate themselves into two camps. Black folks on one side of the buffet table, white folks on the other. She moves to the head of the table and begins directing folks to different sides of the table to better balance the mix. She stands there for the next forty-five minutes greeting folks and silently directing them, splitting their prejudices, and mixing them all together so by the time the last of the crowd has moved through the line they resemble the jumbled piles of spicy steamed sausage, potatoes, shrimp, and corn-on-the-cob that were cooked in the same pot.

David Pouffe hands Jennifer a Manhattan, her drink of choice on Friday. They stand there for a moment in silence, not sure what to say to each other. She can now smell the grease in the air, it hangs like fear, and dread, both of which seem to be following her around this week. The headlines on the newspapers are now stained with the grease and she can't seem to shake the notion that maybe, just maybe, the best has already happened, that all the promised land, was just that, a promise, and they're never going to get there. Dr. King got there, but look at the sacrifice. Fuck that. She's worked too hard for this, it was still possible, Barack said that just today, we can do it; believe, that's all you got to do, is believe.

It was David she decided. Such a bummer. A plane ride with him across the country and then a full day of campaigning. It had taken the buzz off, and having to fight the HRC steamroller of dirty tricks. Robert Johnson. Of all people. Everyone knows he sold his soul to the devil for some hip-hoppity, bootylishish fun. No wonder he and Bill were friends. And no wonder Hillary's ass was so big. Bill liked big asses, the bigger the better.

"Nice event, don't you think. Barack should be here in an hour. He got hung up in Savannah with a trial lawyer", David says to her.

"It's lovely," Jennifer says slowly. "It's been so long since I've been in the Deep South, forgotten how beautiful it can be. Look at them, so easy, everyone's so easy. I miss that. People in the city, on the campaign trail, reporters and staffers alike, are too damn tight." Jennifer turns her back on David, "I need some fresh air," and walks out the door.

Friday, 9:30 PM Charleston, South Carolina
Reed Messer finds Jennifer sitting on a park bench staring out at Fort Sumter. "You know everyone's looking for you. Charleston's all a buzz now with the spirit."

"My works done for the day. It start's again at 6 am. But today, no more. Done."

"How do you do it? day-after-day?"

Jennifer takes a drag off her cigarette and looks out over the water. "How? I don't know any better. Plus, I can't stop now, not at this point....why?... that's more difficult. Some days I honestly don't know why, don't know why I smoke either. But deep down I know what we're doing matters, or at least it should matter, and it's my job to help Barack convince people that it does...it does matter. If we weren't doing this, then maybe nobody else would and that's my greatest fear that no one would. I couldn't live with myself seeing, knowing, that things aren't right, if I stood by and did nothing. That would haunt me, it would haunt the country. We've lived enough with ghosts, it's time to make a difference."

"I think you are."

Saturday, 5:00 AM
A baton clangs against the door and reverberates into the cell. "Bauer! Get up pussy. You got a call."

Bauer, deep in sleep, rolls from his bunk onto the floor, then stands warily looking at the guard, "I thought no calls in solitary."

"We may special exceptions for shitheads like you. Now, all I want to see is your ass and your elbows, moving down the hall. Now!"

Bauer is led through a series of hallways and into the wardens office, then told to sit. A moment later, the warden comes in, unshaven, tucking his shirt in his pants, looking like he hasn't had his morning coffee.

"Probably didn't see the news last night did you Jack being kooped up like you are in the hole. Your buddy Vincent says you're a sweet cunt, but that's not why you're here today. You got a call Bauer, but if I had any say in the matter, you'd still be in shithole."

The phone on the warden's desk buzzes, he picks it up, nods, then hands the phone to Jack, "You got 3 minutes. After that, I rip it outta the wall and you a new asshole."

The warden turns and leaves. Jack is alone in the office. He picks up the phone.

"Jack Bauer."

"JB! You dumb fuck. When are ever going to learn? Didn't I teach you anything? Don't be a smuck, play the odds. Drinking and driving, that's a losing hand. People could get hurt."

"Who is this?"

"Dick. Jack, it's the Dick. I'm here to help get you back in the mix."

"With all due respect Mr. Vice-President, the mix is what got me here."

"Different mix altogether son. Listen, we got a situation brewing, and I need, the President needs, the whole country needs, your help. Can you help us?"

"I'll do my best sir."

"I know you will son."

---------------------------------------
see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 4
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 3
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 4

Sunday, 11:20 pm.
Jack Bauer, the cold, hard floor pressing into his face, reflects on the events that led him to be in solitary confinement in the Glendale City Jail. Jack had never told them he was dying. What would have been the point? They wouldn't have believed him anyway. No, they thought him invincible. After he escaped from the Chinese torture chamber and found the A-train bomb, everyone thought he was immune from torture, from death, from everything. They thought he'd made a pact with the devil. The truth was, he had.

What could have been gained by telling them that death lurked around every corner, waiting for him, for them, for all of us? This they certainly didn't want to hear. Jack had taken out the Chinese guard by drinking ho made hooch with him for 14 hours straight. When the guard nodded off, Jack garroted him with his own shoelace. The man who found him said his head had nearly been severed from the force. He did what needed to be done and thousands were spared because of it.

CTU wanted results. And that's what they got. They paid him to extract information. He delivered. They paid him to find people. He delivered. They paid him to neutralize problems. He delivered. They paid him to drink. He delivered. And what did he get in return. Thanks? No. A pension? Not yet. A lawyer who could make a DUI go away? No. He got more CTU dirty work. Fuck them. He'd washed their last dirty sock and now he was languishing in jail for 48 days.

Those CTU hacks. Pussies all. They couldn't pull a confession out of their own children, their own ass, much less the terror-fucks they chased night and day. Director Mason had no idea, NO IDEA, how dangerous these folks were. They were waiting, just waiting for a chance to grace the planet with a bomb, destroy our way of life, and butt-fuck his mother.

Pity. That's what he would have gotten from CTU. Pity. Fuck that. He didn't need their pity. They could take their decaf chai lattes and their pity and shove it. He'd take a black-and-tan with a Talisker neat on-the-side, if you'd don't mind. To victory. Yes, to victory. Another round? Sure why not, got no place to be. Let's drink to Tuesday. Tomorrow's Tuesday. And then after that, Wednesday. To Wednesday.

Monday. 8:00 AM.
David Pouffe greets Jennifer Rowland as she boards the Obama bus. "I got a good feeling about New Hampshire. How about you? You got a good feeling? Or did you get more of that feel good last night."

"Fuck off, David. Beats shagging yourself. And yes, I do have a good feeling. A hopeful one."

"Hillary says hope is a bad work."

"She would. Bill's from Hope. And so is that scab Huckabee."

"Scab? He's running for President, not shop steward. Have you seen the tape of the Leno show? He's kinda likable, very pastorly."

"You're talking about Leno, right? 'Cause Huckabee is Old Testament, David. He would pluck your out eyes to get to 1600 Penn. And his wife needs a new set of china. The only that gets Hucksters more excited than a chance at free china are tent revivals and WalMart sales. Stand aside, David, or I will smite thee with a terrible vengeance!"

"You're going to hell."

"We both are. After New Hampshire, it's on to Las Vegas."

Tuesday. 11:00 AM.
The HRC caravan, which today consists of a fleet of 4 campaign buses, flanked by 5 blue Suburbans, 2 Black Excursions, 6 rented, white minivans, and 1 unmarked SS sedan, follows the lead of Bob Dimmit, Hillsborough County Sheriff, as he makes a slow turn onto Elm Street and descends into the final days of Granite State campaigning.

Bridgit Kern looks up from her coffee at Dunkin' Donuts and watches them pass, walks into the cold air, and calls Hector Ramirez. "They're here. A few minutes late, but they're in town."

"Good. You know what needs to be done. Make it happen." Ramirez says and hangs up.

Tuesday. 11:25 AM.
Hillary Clinton, working on 3 hours sleep steps from the bus, exhausted. The bright New Hampshire sun makes her squint and she almost misses the last step, stumbles just a bit, then rights herself as a small crowd of supporters begins to applaud. The applause and brisk air sends a new energy deep inside her. She smiles slightly, waves to the crowd, then moves toward the day's events.

Tuesday. 3:25 PM.
"We can't sit on this, we've got to keep moving, got to keep pushing ourselves. What have you got for me, Jennifer?" Barack Obama, voice a little stretched is reclining on the bus.

"I think you need to keep reminding people that anything is possible in America, that their Dream is Still Alive."

"What do you think David?" Obama looks at David Pouffe who's staring blankly into the falling snow. "David! you with me here? what do you think?"

"I think it's a mistake. I told Jennifer that. Stick with got you here."

"Change?"

"No. Hope."

"That's what we're doing. You OK David? Need a few days rest?"

"No. I'm good, just tired. No time for rest, we've only got a few days."

"We've got months, years maybe. Have some faith. Some hope. Dare to dream David."

"I'll dream when this is over."

Wednesday, 1:00 PM. CTU Headquarters.
Tony Alemada pulls Nina aside. "Anything from Jack?"

"This text. Although he may have been interrupted when he sent it. Either that or his battery died. Does this mean anything to you?"

Almeda reads the message, Col. SAND Fair &

"Nothing. Give it to Michelle, have her break it down. Pronto!

Wednesday, 5:00 PM.
Special Agent-in-charge Mason confronts Tony. "Anything?

"We got a message from Jack. Michelle may have found something. Salazaar had an operative, a former colonel in the S. Vietnamese Army, working for him a few years back. We think this may be the guy."

"Who is he?"

"Rilo Sand, born Nguyen Quan in Hanoi. Escaped just before the fall, now owns a dry cleaners in Omaha."

"What's his beef?"

"Thinks taxes are too high."

"Bring him in."

Thursday,11:00 AM CTU Headquarters
Michelle Dessler, special agent, has been monitoring the cellular transmission frequencies since 5 AM with a new voice recognition program that alerts her when Eddie Salazaar or Hector Ramirez uses the phone. She's reading the latest Nikke Finke blogger buzz about the writer's strike when her other monitor buzzes. She turns ups the audio, checks the log file and hears Ramirez's voice.

"Ok, it's a go. Friday at the gym." she hears Ramirez say. She tracks the other call but can only determine that it first passed through a tower near Concord, New Hampshire. Michelle pulls up the the campaign staff's calendars and discovers that Hillary is scheduled to be at Concord High tomorrow afternoon.

Alemeda and Nina have suspected that Salazaar and Ramirez had formed a cabal to interrupt the Presidential primaries with the goals of destroying freedom and our way of life. Now Michelle is certain that it's true. She takes the info to Special Agent-in-Charge Mason.

"Get on it. Be discreet. Stay out of SS's way and for God's sake, don't let anything happen to her."

"It won't. I promised Jack that nothing would happen on my watch."

"Great. Now promise me."

Friday, 2:45 PM. Concord High School Gymnasium.
Senator Hillary Clinton has just finished giving her stump speech for the third time today to a modest crowd. Unbeknown to HRC, in addition to her SS detail, audience members also include a team of CTU undercover agents, lead by Michelle Dessler, and Bridgit Kern, Hector Ramirez's operative.

Hillary's campaign advisers have warned her to loosen up, be more human, interact more with the crowd. Her SS detail has warned her of the dangers. But after Iowa, she's on the ropes; it's showtime now and Hillary knows it. She's put up with Bill's bullshit for long enough -the White House will be her payback. Hillary begins to move into the crowd, taking questions. Someone asks a question about health care. Hillary turns to address the question and moves closer. Bridgit sensing this might be her chance, reaches for her bag, places it on her lap, opens the latch and reaches inside.

Then from the back of the room there's some shouting. At first she can't understand what he's saying. "Excuse me? Could you repeat the question?" Clinton asks politely.

"Do my ironing. Do MY ironing. DO MY IRONING." the man is shouting. He reaches for a cardboard sign which says the same thing.

"Take him, NOW!" Michelle shouts into her lapel and a CTU agent 2 rows behind the man leaps over a whole of chairs and lands on the man, dragging him down. He pulls him to his feet and drags him out the door.

Michelle quickly follows them outside into the alley. The door is barred from the inquiring press. "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"Do my ironing." the man replies.

"What? What did you say?" Michelle screams in his face.

"Do my ironing," the man calmly replies.

"Fuck you. You are going to tell me who you are working for. Now!"

"Do my ironing."

Michelle pulls her weapon and says, "three seconds." The man stares blankly at her. She jams the barrel in the man's mouth, "Two!" Nothing but fear in the man's eyes. She pulls the hammer back on the Beretta 92FS. "Then shit your pants and do your own ironing." The man shits himself. "Momma's boy," she spits in his face and walks away.

Saturday, 10:00
Omaha, Nebraska. Three blue suburbans drive down an alley and stop. A group of undercover swat officers emerge. The group, led by Special Agent Nina Myers take up positions in doorways and behind dumpsters just out of sight of the rear entrance to
the Sand and Sons Dry Cleaners. Before long, a young man emerges, looks around, pulls out a pack of smokes and lights up a Marlboro. Nina looks over and at one of the swat team members and shakes her head "No." The young man takes a deep breath, relaxes, opens the door, and then shouts something in Vietnamese. Before long an older gentlemen emerges, limping slightly. He takes a cigarette from the younger man, grabs a light from him, and inhales. He exhales, looks down, and notices the red lasers tags dancing across his chest just as the squadron leader emerges from behind the. "GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

Saturday, 11:00 AM
Manchester, New Hampshire.
Tony Almeda sits at the back of the cafeteria and scans the room. Barack is answering questions at the front. Folks are still trying to get into the room to catch a glimpse of him. The wait, he's been told, is close to 45 minutes just to get in the parking lot. Tony sidles over to the coffee pot, pours himself a cup, grabs a donut from the box. They're both stale, but he hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday. He hears him before he sees him. At first he thought it was laughter. Cluck. cluck. cluck. A funny laugh. Forced. Then he notices that people are turning in their chairs to see behind. For a moment Barack seems to glance in the direction, his speech slows just a bit. Then Tony sees him. A man. A large man. Dressed like a chicken. He's strutting back and forth at the back, "cluck, cluck, cluck", he says as he struts back and forth. Tony watches him closely.

People turn back to Obama trying to ignore the clucks. "Jeez. What a nut." someone say out loud.

Obama raises his voice to cover the sound of the clucking. Almost imperceptible the man begins to creep toward the stage. Because he's so loud and large, folks naturally give him some room, but he moves slowly toward Obama. Almeda stands as moves toward the man as he edges closer to the stage. Barack looks up, he and the man-in-the-chicken suit exchange looks, but Obama continues speaking as though it's normal to be clucked at by a large white chicken when giving a public speech.

Obama is just to the point in his speech. "They said it couldn't be done. That we were too inexperienced..." Almeda reaches the chicken-suited man just as he nears
the edge of the stage, grabs him, then forces him behind the speakers and toward the rear of the room. Obama continues, "today is an historic moment..."

The crowd appears more intent on the speech than the minor commotion. Almeda forces the man to behind the stage, then shoves him into a folding chair and rips off his chicken head.

"O'Reilly? Bill O'Reilly?" Almeda can't believe what he's seeing. "What the fuck are you doing here...in a chicken suit! You pathetic egg sucker."

see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 3
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 3

Monday, 11:10 pm.
Jack Bauer is spending New Year's eve in solitary confinement at the Glendale City jail. He sends at text message to Nina at CTU. "Ramirez is the man-in-the-chicken suit. He can lead you to Salazaar."

Nina comes back, "we're w/ U. Ramirez drinking @ Clear Lake HolidayN. Almeda has him covered. Stay strong. LOL."

Monday, 11:45 pm.
Hector Ramirez squeezes into the crowded bar, elbows his way between David Pouffe, Barack Obamas' campaign manager, and Jennifer Rowland, Barack's chief speechwriter. Ramirez leans over the bar, loosens his tie, slams his glass on the bar and shouts over the blasting karioke to the bartender, "Another!"

"Same as before? Manhattan? with Jim Beam and rye?" the bartender asks.

"That's an odd twist on a strange city" Rowland says outloud and then turning to Ramirez, "you can't be from around here."

"Make that two!" Hector calls to the bartender. When the drinks come he drops a twenty down, "Happy New Year," then slides the other drink over to Jennifer, "what's a beautiful Manhattanite doing in Clear Lake on New Year's Eve?"

"I'm from LA. Barack Obama brought me to Iowa. Richie Valens, Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and boredom brought me to Clear Lake."

"Oh, yeah," Hector says smiling, "didn't they all crash and burn in a corn field in Iowa?"

"Everyone except Obama," Pouffe interrupts, "he's still flying high."

"I'm sorry," Hector says, "I didn't know you two were together. Anyway, after the caucuses, he'll be back down to earth."

"We have a working relationship." Jennifer interjects, "What, you know something we don't?"

"Don't trust the polls when you know the score."

Monday, 11:59 PM
Hector, Jennifer, and David, wearing party hats and blowing paper horns are counting down, "five, four, three, two, one!!!" David, who can hardly stand, blows feebly on a paper horn. Hector raises his glass to Jennifers, "To the New Year, a victory in the caucus, and then on to New Hampshire!" She smiles at him, then moves close to kiss him.

Tony Almeda watches the dance from the other end of the bar....

"So I'll see you at the victory celebration?" Jennifer says to Hector.

Hector smiles, "Whoever scores the most, wins. You wanna be a winner?" then points at Pouffe who's now passed out on the bar, "or a loser?"

Tuesday, 12:01 AM
Jack can hear a muffled celebration throughout the jail as inmates bang anything they can find against the bars. In the darkness, Jack's cell phones buzzes with a text message. "Happy New Year Dad. love Kim." Jack begins sobbing.

Tuesday, 2:00 pm.
Jennifer pulls open the door of the Obama bus which is idling outside of a diner and steps inside with 2 cups of to-go coffee. She hands one of the coffees to David Pouffe. "Where's Obama?" Pouffe takes a drink of coffee, then starts to gag.

"Rough night?" Jennifer mocks. "You know, for a campaign manager you're a lightweight. And you suck at karioke."

"Karioke? I don't remember that part."

"I didn't think so. There's a part of last night that I'd prefer not to remember."

"Barack's at the event. He wasn't happy that you weren't here this morning. I covered for you and told him you were researching the latest HRC ad."

"There's a new one?"

"Yeah, it shows her meeting with Benazir Bhutto and runs the lines, "I knew Benazir as a leader. She wasn't afraid of standing up to power, and at this critical time in our nation, I won't either. We need a strong leader, one who isn't afraid to stand for change."

"What a crock of shit. She probably had tea and crumpets with Bhutto while Bill shumped a servant in the kitchen. She's clueless, but it sounds like it might play well. Isnt't it a little soon to be trying to capitalize on the assisination of a leader. Should we play up pandering? or the war?"

"Barack wants to leave it alone, I thought otherwise, you were nowhere to be found, so we're in a holding pattern. Did you have fun last night?"

"After I put your lame ass to bed, yes, I had a ball. Did you learn to drink like that with your soft Harvard pals?"

"Fuck you," Pouffe mutters under his breath as he walks off the bus, out into the cold, and pukes on the ground.

Wednesday, 8:00 AM
CTU director Mason picks up the phone "What do you have on Ramirez?" he asks Tony Almeda.

"He was snorking one of Barack's aides last night. They ended up at Denny's for breakfast."

"Any sign of Salazaar, or the chicken suit?"

"Not yet."

"The President is ready to pull the ropes on CTU and turn the investigation over to Secret S. SS will immediately arrest Ramirez because they consider him a danger to the candidates. If that happens, we lose our chance to get to Salazaar. Find them both, NOW!"

Thursday, 2:45 PM
Mike Hukabee drives past a large crowd of picketers, supporters, and press through the NBC Burbank Studios gate for the taping of that evening's Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

Thursday, 10:55 PM
Nina, bored with the inaction at CTU, is scanning the web. She trolls past the United Hollywood blog to check for the latest strike info. A video posting entitled, "Mike Huckabee is a scab!" catches her attention. She plays it. In the opening seqeuence, a limosine drives past hordes of picketing WGA members at the NBC west gate. Something catches her attention. She calls Almeda over. "Tony. Check this out!"

Thursday, 10:58 PM
"Right there. Stop it right there! Now zoom in on the man standing just outside the gate. Now blow it up. There! Look at that." Almeda squints at the image and sees a man-in-a-chicken-suit holding a placard. The placard reads "Mike Huckabee is a scab. Watch Letterman @ 11."

Thursday, 11:00 PM
The desk seargent at Glendale City Jail shuffles into the break room, pulls a beer from the fridge, props his feet on the table, uncorks the beer, takes a long pull, then points his remote at the portable tv sitting on the couter. We hear, "From the CBS studios in New York City, it's the Late Show, with David Letterman."

Friday, 8:00 AM
"Well, did you watch?" Nina says to Tony.

"I fell asleep after the monologue and Robin Williams."

"So you didn't hear the taped message from HRC?"

Friday, 10:00 AM
Barack is screaming at David Pouffe who appears on the verge of tears, "the Letterman Show? on the first night when he's back after 3 months off. Why not us, why HRC? Did you know about this?"

"Yyyeess..." Pouffe stammers, "Letterman hates Oprah. Oprah supports you. You're out. HRC is in. The enemy of my enemy is my enemy."

"It's the enemy of my enemy is my friend, you twit".

"Everyone's your enemy in politics and Hollywood."

"Make something happen, and happen quickly, or you're out Pouffe. For good!"

Saturday, 10:00 AM
Salazaar sits by the pool, then looks up slowly from his paper when his phone rings. He looks at the caller id - Ramirez, secure. "I told you never to call me before noon, Hector. This better be important."

"David Pouffe has something to say to you."

"Put him through."

see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 2
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 2

Week 2
Sunday. 3:00 A.M.
Jack Bauer, imprisoned in the Glendale City Jail, tosses in the upper bunk, mutters what sounds like "chicken, watch out for the chicken" then bolts upright. "Jack?" his cellmate Vincent calls out. "You OK brother? It's been a week man, the feel for the hard stuff ought to be outta you."

"No, it's not that. I saw something last night that troubles me."

"You still ragging on that man-in-the-chicken-suit jazz? Give it up brother. Ain't nothing you can do about it here. And the warden, he thought you'd lost your mind, he was ready to put you in the padded room."

"Fuck the warden."

"Amen to that. But watch out, he likes to be on top."

"I'm telling you Vincent, that chicken suit is bad news. I've got to get out of here. Now!"

"Don't we all, Jack, don't we all."

Sunday. 14:00 PM.
"Yeah", Tony Almeda picks up the phone at this desk in CTU headquarters.

"Tony, shhh!it's me," he hears Nina on the other end. "Listen, I've got news from Jack."

"Jack? How? No one from CTY is supposed to talk to him."

"I didn't. Jeff Green, he got picked up last night near Malibu for being an ass, spent the night in the drunk tank, then got transferred to Glendale, before his Larry David kicked him free this morning."

"Green? the writer? the fat-fuck?"

"Yeah that's him. Apparently, when he's been drinking he's not so funny. And since the strike started that's all he's done. Last night, he and Nikki Finke got a little carried away at BooRah, Malibu's latest buzz restaurant. Apparently they were having a little too much fun at Brad Grey's expense who was across the room."

"What's this got to do with Jack?"

While Green was at Glendale, he overheard the desk sargeant going on and on about a stink that Jack was raising the night before; said Jack almost got committed he was acting so crazy."

"What about?"

"Apparently it had something to do with a man in a chicken suit."

Monday. 10:00 AM.
David Pouffe, aid to Senator Barack Obama, bangs on the door of the charter bus. The door opens, he steps inside, greets a few members of the volunteer staff, motions to Obama who listening to his iPod.
"
"Listen, Barack, we got word that the man-in-the-chicken-suit may be showing up at some more events later today."

"No, we're cool. I talked to HRC. It's an old joke between us. A dude in beaver coat and raccoon hat will be filming her today."

"Problem is, this FogHorn Leghorn wasn't Hillary's joke. The man she hired was found this morning at the Hampton Inn just off I-29 near Des Moines. He was hanging from shower rod, still in costume, his entrails going down the drain. This dude that greeted you, we're not real sure who he is, but we think he's dangerous."

"What's his beef?"

"He knows you don't eat chicken."

"I always knew Colonel Sanders was a racist."

Monday. 10:00 AM.
A car pulls into the Sonic in Dubuque, Iowa. Inside is a woman named Bridgit. She orders a Breakfast Toaster sandwich and a large coffee. Then asks if they have whole wheat bread and turbinado sugar. When her order comes she pays with a $20 dollar bill, says "Merry Christmas! Keep the change." to the young carhop, then rolls up the window. Her cells phone rings.

"You got it?"

Bridget opens the Sonic bag and looks inside. "Got it."

Tuesday. 11:00 A.M.
Hillary Clinton, wearing a green pantsuit stands on a makeshift stage constructed of hay bales and some old John Deere signs. There are combines parked strategically to her left and right and in the cabin of one sits a Secret Service agent and in the other, Tony Almeda. They are furtively scanning the crowd. It's a brisk fall day, perfect for football, so even though the man they are looking for stands out amid the Carharts and seed caps, most in the crowd don't bother to look his way. However, pay give much thought although one farmer nudges his wife when the man in the raccoon coat and coonskin hat brushes past them and says, "Look Merle, I bet that's one of those Times writers".

Tuesday. 11:02 P.M.
Tony Almeda says into his lapel. "Nina, he's behind you, 5-O'clock."
Nina turns and moves toward the man. He's approaching the stage both hands in his pockets. Nina abruptly slams into the side of him, knocking him to the ground. She falls on top of him. She pulls the man to his feet by the lapels holding them so he can't raise his arms. "I'm so sorry. Clumsy me." she says to the perplexed onlookers. To the man she whispers, "See those guys in the combines. One wrong move and they'll blow your fucking brains out. Now turn around and come with me."

The man opens his coat and tries to put his hand inside. Nina grabs his wrist, there is audible 'crack', the man winches but does not cry out.

Wednesday. 3:06 A.M.
Tony Almeda walks out of the interrogation room, sweat runs down his forehead. CTU Director George Mason confronts him, "anything?"

"Nothing yet."

"Keep it up. We've got to get something, and soon. Obama is scheduled to make another appearance in a few hours."

Wednesday, 10:45 A.M.
Mason looks over Nina's shoulder as she works on a computer, "what have you got on this guy we picked up yesterday?"

"Jason Park, former envoy to South Korea under the Carter Administration. Hasn't worked in politics since. Spent some time on K-street aftwards...pharmacueticals...tobacco industry...farm lobby, usual stuff. Grew up on a cattle ranch near Omaha. Disappeared for a few years in the early 90's though. That's all we got on him for now."

"Keep working. We've got to get something from him."

Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.
Jack Bauer, sits in the canteen with his cellmate Vincent, they are eating dinner. An greasy Mexican, tattoos covering his neck, walks behind them. Jack pushes back from the table, knocking the man, causing him to spill the contents of his tray.

"You're going to lick those eggs off my boots Pussy, and then you're going to bring me your food. I like 2 sugars in my coffee." He smiles at Jack.

"I'm sorry," Jack says, turns away briefly then wheels and clocks the man.

A huge melee ensues. Guards quickly surround them, pull them apart, restrain them, the drag Jack away. "You're a dead man, Bauer!" the Mexican spits at him. Jack stares back.

Wednesday, 6:45 P.M.
The door opens on a solitary cell. Jack Bauer, bruised and bleeding is drug into cell and dumped. He slowly opens his eyes, then reaches into his waistband and removes a cellphone.

Wednesday, 7:15 P.M.

Nina's cell phone rings.

"Nina, it's Jack."

"OH My God! Jack!"

Thursday, 9:45 A.M.
Nina, Tony, and Director Mason are looking through a see-through window onto an interrogation room. Inside a man, wearing a coonskin cap and raccoon coat is slumped over the desk.

Thursday, 10:00 A.M.
Mason looks at Tony. "Are you sure about this? Is this legal?"

"Doesn't matter." Almeda replies, "The future of the Presidency may hang in the balance."

"This man is the key." Nina says to them both. "You have to do it. That's what Jack said."

Thursday, 11:00 A.M.

The Obama entourage pulls into the parking lot of the Centerville High School. David Pouffe looks over at Obama. "You sure about this? We could cancel. Say you've got the flu."

Obama looks up from the latest issue of Maxim, "what, and have people say I'm black, AND a pussy? No way. I'm in this till the end."

A high school band begins to play, America the Beautiful, the bus doors open, and Obama smiling broadly steps into the crowd.

Thursday, 11:10 A.M.
Eddie Salazaar stands beside his car on a gravel road, hood up, steam pouring from beneath the hood, talking into a cell phone. An elderly, farm couple driving a pick-up truck pulls up along side him asks if he needs help. The man goes into a long story, he's in town covering the primaries, has to be Centerville at 11 cover this event, he's already late, got lost, then his car overheats. Of all the luck. The couple says, "we're headed that way, we could give you a lift."

"Really? Folks in Iowa are so kind. Just let me get my camera gear." The man pops the trunk and pulls a heavy duffle bag and sets it on the ground. The farmer, steps from the truck, "here let me help you" and he moves toward the bag.

As the farmer approaches, Eddie Salazaar pulls a 45 with a silencer and shots the man in the forehead, then opens the passenger door and pulls the man's wife out. She screams at the sight of her husband laying face down, blood seeping into the gravel. "I'm not going to hurt you." Eddie says.

Eddie walks her to the shoulder. "Turn around. Get down on knees!" he shoves her toward the ditch.

She sobs, "don't shoot me. What do you want from us?"

The truck pulls away revealing two prone bodies.

Friday, 7:00 A.M.
A man is strapped to board, his hands and feet bound, his face covered with a cloth. The table is slanted so the man's feet are above his head. The tail of a coonskin cap can be seen trailing off the table. Water is dripping from the end of the tail. The man is gasping is air.

Tony Almeda emerges from the room. CTU Director Mason confronts him. "Well? Did he talk?"

"Yeah, he talked. After he shat himself."

Saturday 5:00 P.M.
A slot opens in the center of Jack Bauer's cell door. He slides his uneaten food back to the guard. "You gotta eat something" the guard says.

"Not hungry." Jack grunts. When the slot closes, Jack slides down into a fetal position, begins to sob. Then he takes out his cell phone, punches in some numbers. A woman answers.

"Kim?"

"Dad? is that you? Where are you?"

"Merry Christmas, baby, I love you."

see also:
m.o.i.: 48 days, week 1
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

48 days, week 1

Week 1

Sunday. 17:00 P.M.
Two blue Suburbans, windows heavily tinted, screech to a halt in front of the Glendale City jail. Three men in dark clothes and even darker sunglasses emerge from the vehicle where they are met by three uniformed officers. The vehicle is quickly surrounded by a throng of onlookers, television reporters, and paparazzi. One of the men in dark clothes turns his back on the crowd and speaks quietly into a cell phone, then motions to the other two and they all move to the rear of the vehicle. When the crowd begins to surge forward, the uniformed officers push them back with a fierce intensity.

The rear doors are opened to reveal a cuffed and shrouded figure. The man is pulled from the vehicle, and because his feet are also shackled is forced to shuffle his way forward. Guards hold him upright, drag his feet when he lingers to sounds of "Jack, Jack, look this way!", and brusquely pull him up the steps. A young boy, no older than 15 rushes to get a close-up photo of the shrouded figure. One of the sun-glassed guards shoves the boy to the ground. "Get the fuck out of here!" he spits at the boy. Someone at the back of the crowd screams, "Hey, you can't do that to him." The man wheels, glares, and begins to move toward the voice. "Victor! Victor!" a voice shouts. The man stops. "Leave it." Victor turns away, moves to the boy, picks him up by the elbow, and leans in where only the boy can hear him. "Next time I break your fuckin' leg."

Within the hour TMZ has footage of the incidence on its web site. It becomes the lead story for Entertainment Tonight, even Katie Couric makes mention of it on the Nightly News.

Sunday. 17:05 PM.
A white 4-door Ford Escort with a dent in the front quarter-panel pulls into the underground parking lot of the jail and parks in the sole handicapped parking space. Jack Bauer, accompanied by his attorney, emerge from the car whereupon they enter the building and Jack surrenders himself to the desk sergeant who after taking his personal effects, asks him for an autograph. Jack's attorney produces a photo from his briefcase, which Jack signs and hands to the officer. "Let's go," the officer says.

Monday. 10:00 PM.
Jack Bauer plays chess with his cellmate, Vincent. Before going to bed, Vincent tells him that he’s glad he's back in the house. Jack gives a nod and a cold stare but says nothing.

Tuesday. 8:00 AM.
Senator Barack Obama, an African-American running for President, writes his speech for the following day’s Iowa campaign event.

Tuesday. 12:00 P.M.
Carl Rovner transmits from Charleston, South Carolina that a man in a chicken outfit is coming to Iowa to heckle Senator Obama at tomorrow's event. Agent Richard Walsh, a high ranking Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU) officer, is alerted.

Tuesday. 12:05 P.M.
Walsh tries to reach Agent Bauer on his cell phone to no avail.

Tuesday. 12:06 A.M.
Agent Walsh phones CTU headquarters and asks to speak to Agent Bauer. Je is informed that Bauer has been placed on administrative leave for 48 days and is not to be contacted by any member of the staff. Walsh asks to speak with District Director George Mason but is told that he's unavailable. Agent Nina Myers gets on the phone and tells Walsh that she can't divulge Jack's whereabouts, or when he will be back on duty, but that Jack is OK and recovering.

Wednesday, 10:45 A.M.
Outside of Post 10 of the Fraternal Order of the Exalted Woodsmen, a man in a chicken suit clucks at Senator Obama as he enters the hall to deliver a short campaign speech. The passing is captured on film by a Iowa farmer with a newly purchased digital camera. He sells the film for $12,000, more profit than he made all of last on his cow-calf operation. The film becomes the lead story that evening on Entertainment Tonight.

Thursday, 2:45 A.M.
Jamey Farrell, sitting in his parent's basement in his boxer shorts and smoking a joint, posts a copy of the man-in-the-chicken-suit clucks at Senator Obama on YouTube. The video is 32 seconds in it's entirety. He gets paid nothing.

Thursday, 9:45 A.M.
A guard bangs on the cell of Jack Bauer. "Bauer, let's go. You have a visitor."

Thursday, 10:00 A.M.
Bauer is lead into a room and told "10 minutes, no touching". Bauer looks around the room and recognizes no one.

Thursday, 10:01 A.M.
A young woman arises and walks toward Jack. When she reaches him, she pulls back her hooded sweater. "Kimberly! My god, you're alive!"

Friday, 10:00 P.M.
Vincent, Jack's cellmate says "Checkmate. Again. Damn, are you trying to set me up, motherfucker, because if you think I'm a sucker for that bullshit, you are wrong." "No," Jack says, "I'm just a little distracted". Vincent says, "I don't who that was that paid you a visit, but whoever it was sure fucked with your head." For the first time Jack is afraid and realizes that he may not be in control of the situation. Jack and Vincent have a heart-to-heart talk before turning in.

Saturday, 7:00 A.M.
A cell phone buzzes on a kitchen counter. Senator Clinton, still in her pajamas, picks up the phone. "Hillary," Barack greets her, "Good Morning. I gotta tell you, the chicken suit, wow, that was clever."

Saturday, 8:00 A.M.
Agent Walsh replays the phone conversation between Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton. Stops the tape. Rolls it again. Then picks up his phone and makes a call. "Tony Almeida please" he commands into the phone.

Saturday, 10:00 A.M.
District Director George Mason looks up from his desk, "What is it Tony?" Tony fills him in on the phone call between Obama and Clinton. "What do you think?" Mason asks Tony. Tony shakes his head. "Doesn't make sense."

Saturday 14:00 P.M.
Jack Bauer is walking through the common area of the jail. It is one of the few free moments the inmates have during the week. Jack walks past a man at a computer. The man is laughing out loud. "Wow. Check this shit out. Some dude in a chicken suit just dumped on that black dude Obama," the man guffaws. Jack stops. Grabs the mouse. Go back. Go back. He freezes the frame on a closeup of the man-in-a-chicken-suit's face. "Shit!" Jack exclaims, then yells "Guard! Guard! Guard! I have to speak to the warden. NOW!"

see also:
m.o.i.: Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.