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.

caucusing on the queen's gambit

Whatever else history may say about me when I'm gone, I hope it will record that I appealed to your best hopes, not your worst fears, to your confidence rather than your doubts... My fondest hope for each one of you—and especially for the young people here—is that you will love your country, not for her power or wealth, but for her selflessness and her idealism.

Ronald Reagan, Republican Party national convention, August 1992,

Less than 3 months later, Reagan's bag man for 8 years and the incumbent President, George Herbert Walker Bush, would be defeated by William Jefferson Clinton, a brilliant hick from Hope, Arkansas. Two days later in Belgrade, working in violation of U.N. sanctions imposed against the brutal regime of Slobadan Milosovic, Bobby Fischer, a gifted mind with a reputation for daring moves and insanity, closed the board on the Soviet Union's last hope at a comeback, and sent Boris Spassky into permanent exile.

These distant events, inauspicious and seemingly unconnected at the time, were brought to light this past week as Republican Dives repeatly attempted to resurrect Lazurus from the dead and the Democrats tried to convince the America public that although they are smart, they hold none of the trepidation sometimes associated with members of the intelligensia.

Reagan as a party icon has been relegated to (depending upon your particular brand of Republicanism), a lifetime of matrimony, neo-con infamy, or napping forever in the Big House with clouds for pillows. In truth, the Great Communicator left behind a polarizing ideology that lacks, despite the feeble arguments of the well-to-do, pragmatism, fiscal responsibility, and a world vision that extends beyond the lower forty-eight.

As for their part, the Democrats still seem to want to dance around being the smart one in the room, driven by a fear of being labelled bookish and therefore by implication lacking the resolve they imagine the public expects of a Commander-in-Chief. They fight over who gets to sing in the church choir, but in truth don't know the lyrics of Precious Lord, Take my Hand without consulting their handlers, the hymnal, or the Ghost of Elvis.

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.

candidates choose AmGlad over NPR

Due to a lack of interest among Presidential candidates, NPR has been forced to cancel a scheduled debate next week in South Carolina. Instead, Democrats and Republicans will mix it up in the arena against the cast of American Gladiators, with the last two candidates eventually squaring off in the all-important eliminator round.

Here's a sneak peak on what some of the Gladiators had to say about the pending competition.






Gladiator Cry Wolf on Rudy Guliani









Gladiator Helga on Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton








Gladiator Big Chin on Mike Huckabee.






Gladiator Crush on Dennis Kucinich.







Gladiator Stealth on Ron Paul.









Gladiator Justice on Fred Thompson.









Gladiator Siren on Barack Obama.







Gladiator Milita on John McCain.






Gladiator Tao on Mitt Romney.






Gladiator Venom on John Edwards.