CHAPTER NINE

“There have been good and bad leaders all through history. Men like Caesar,

Washington, Churchill, DeGaulle, Lenin, and Stalin—for better or for

worse, they all showed how strong leadership can transform a

society and lead it in a direction that oftentimes, only they

themselves had foreseen.”

Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Ground Zero

“Democracy in this country cannot be maintained when the top 20%

of its inhabitants control 85% of its wealth. So many of our great

scientists, inventors, educators, business leaders and politicians

have percolated up through the middle class that the disappearance

of that class will leave a vacuum from which no good can come.

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

“Davy, Davy Crockett the man who don't know fear.
He went off to Congress and served a spell
Fixin' up the government and laws as well.
Took over Washington, I heard tell,
And patched up the crack in the Liberty Bell.

Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier.”

He couldn’t get the song out of his head. Especially the “king of the wild frontier” part. He’d been a Crockett fan ever since his parents had bought him the song on a bright yellow Disney vinyl record. Davy, king of the wild frontier. When he was President, he’d see to it that he, too, had a suitable phrase after his name. Samuel, king of the American continent. Samuel Parsons, the man to whom all praise is due.

Oh well, there’d be time for that later. He poured another scotch and soda (three cubes of ice, three jiggers of scotch, and a small splash of soda) and threw his slippered feet onto the coffee table with a muffled thud. You’d think the Waldorf would have much fancier furniture. The heir to Crockett’s legacy deserves as much.

He fancied himself an authority on the frontier figure. He’d read two or three books on his hero; no need reading more, he reasoned: why confuse yourself? Anyway, he knew what he needed to know. Crockett was elected to congress in 1827. He was defeated in 1830. Parsons knew why. He tried to play up to the Washingtonian know-it-alls. Of course, it was pre-ordained that no matter how hard he tried, he would remain the backwoods hick in the coonskin cap. But he lost his base. Became too citified for his hick voters.

He wouldn’t make that mistake. He knew his base. The disenchanted, the dispossessed, the disillusioned. Hell, the dissed. The average Joe and Jim and Jane and Jen who had no voice in Washington, had no control of their futures. Maybe they don’t dress as well. Maybe they don’t read as well. Maybe they didn’t know how to properly hold a fork at a dinner party. Who the hell cares? They all do one thing that puts them on equal footing with any of the landed aristocracy.

They vote. And Samuel Parsons knew there were a helluva lot more of them than all the DuPonts, Rockefellers, Carnegies, Hiltons and Kennedys put together. And that gave a man of the people a helluva lot more sway than some big city liberal rich guy.

Yep, he’d drink to that. He threw back the last of his scotch and poured another. The Waldorf Astoria—whoda thunk it back in the day when he was mayor of Post? The Waldorf off Central Park in New York City. What did the New York Times call him? “An inveterate political buffoon.” At first, he thought the Times meant he had no backbone. Buffoon. How many f’s are there in buffoon; one, two? It didn’t matter. A few more months and he’d more than f-up the Times, the Chronicles, the Reporters, and all the daily rags that had made fun of him all these years. Hitler did it. Mussolini did it. He’d do it, too, but only for all the right reasons.

It’s good to be king. He smiled.

His speech, given a few days before, had gone over well. Of course, there were the inevitable complaints from the blacks, the browns, the yellows, the Jews, the Moslems, the losers. Didn’t matter. They were never going to vote for him anyway. The common man was behind him. Everyone from Sarah Palin to Rush to Glenn said so. Pat Robertson was ready to anoint him. David Duke promised him the south. Militia groups across the west were parading for him. And Joe and Jim and Jane and Jen were all blogging their little hearts out praying he would be the next President.

I’ve seen Hillary’s numbers, he thought. Your prayers will soon be answered.