cheney, mcgruff, bauer to lead st. pat's parade in green zone

Wow what a lineup! And almost as hip as the Rachel Ray showcase at SXSW, leaders of the group, American Death Metal, will headline the St. Pat's Day Parade in the Green Zone.

In a surprise visit, Dick "the Dick" Cheney, McGruff the Crime Dog, and Jack Bauer have all landed in Iraq to assess the situation and trade war stories, autographs, and riff on endless war. Beer chugging contests, spontaneous back-slapping, and green puke expected later.

More @:

Rachel Ray @ SXSW

Jack Bauer sweet talks Pam Fessler

McGruff rocks the Green Zone

Petraeus testifies about The Surge

Jack Bauer saves the Democratic Primary

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 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.

Damn it! I just can't do this anymore.

Fox has announced that it will not be airing new episodes of the hit series 24 beginning in January, 2008 as expected due to the lingering writer's strike in Hollywood. In it's place, Fox will air 48, a new reality show that follows the exploits of former CTU operative Jack Bauer as he negiotiates the rough and tumble world of the Glendale city jail.

In a related story, the Alliance of Motion Picture and Televison Producers (AMPTP) and striking writers agreed to suspend talks for the entire period of Bauer's time in jail so that tv fans would not have to miss any episodes of 24 without Agent Bauer.