(no subject)
10:30 AM:
Tony Napolitano arrives in his office, tired and a little hungover. He'd been out late the night before, having drinks and shooting pool with some guys from the old neighborhood, and it had only cost them a grand each to get put on the Treasury Department's payroll. They did, after all, have years of experience with banks and engraving. A perfect fit.
But he's paying for it this morning. He's got an early meeting, or he wouldn't even be in yet; he'd tried to make it for later in the day, but the other man couldn't come any later. He had lunch meetings with members of Congress, after all. It was eleven or it was nothing, and since it promised to be a lucrative deal, Tony was willing to make an exception, just this once.
Which doesn't mean he has to like getting up early.
Rhonda, his secretary, brings in a stack of mail and messages as he takes a seat at his big marble-topped desk. She is fresh out of college, has a soothing voice with a soft Virginian accent, and likes to wear short skirts. (She is a replacement for his former secretary, a Californian with a bad case of spray-tan who had threatened to sue him for harassment for nicknaming her Creamsicle Girl. It was said with affection, and anyway she was orange. Women.)
"That man keeps calling, sir," Rhonda says.
"I'm still not in. Whenever he calls, I just stepped out for a smoke or something."
Junk mail, junk mail, credit card offer, catalog, subpoena... ah, the personal letter pile. Twenty-three separate inquiries that could lead to kickback deals, two from women wanting to get to know him better, and only one telling him that he's going to hell. His numbers are improving.
"He's real persistent," Rhonda says. "Maybe you should just--"
"I don't want to talk to him--"
"You," says an uncharacteristically angry voice from the open doorway.
Tony sighs inwardly, but outwardly just smiles. "Jay, my man, what can I do for you?"
(Jay Walker, accidental supervillain. Where Squirrel isn't very evil, Jay is not evil and also incompetent--he'd fallen into villainry by mistaken identity, and stayed with it out of disgruntlement. Queen Faraday, in a rare moment of pity--or maybe sadism--had made him Secretary of Transportation.)
"You can give me what you stole on my behalf," Jay says, folding his arms across his chest and glaring.
(Rhonda gathers up some of the sorted mail and ducks out past Jay.)
"Stolen on your behalf?" Tony asks, the very picture of innocence. Well, as much as he ever is.
"You know damn well you're only supposed to regulate and direct the bribes going to government officials," Jay says. "So how come I've got people telling me how to do my job, and you've got all the perks? I saw that gold-plated sports car--"
"That was for Faraday," he says, "but she didn't want it. Who the hell gold-plates a Lotus, anyway?"
"And I've heard that you've gotten to pick names for new car models--"
"I went golfing with some executives, and made a few suggestions. That's all. They liked my ideas... so sue me."
"You named an airport, too--"
"You'll get the next one, I'm sure. I Can't help it if I'm a likable guy, Jay. People give me things. I don't ask for them. Say, have you ever thought of taking self-confidence classes? I bet people'd give you stuff too."
Jay looks skeptical, but says nothing.
"Look, I'd love to chat, but I got some guys coming in for a meeting in a few, and I need to read over my notes. But let's do lunch--next Tuesday, say? My treat."
"...okay," Jay says reluctantly.
"And I'll see what goodies I can dig up and send your way. Make some endless cloverleafs for me, eh?"
"Okay," Jay says again, as Tony escorts him back to the door. "I want a new car, though. See if you can get me one? I'm tired of the metro--"
"How can you be Secretary of Transportation in this new, eco-friendly age without taking public transit? Seeya Tuesday, Jay. I'll pick you up, say elevenish, your office." He nudges Jay out of the doorway, closes the door, and heads back to the desk to page Rhonda.
"See that he's gone before my eleven o'clock gets here."
11 AM:
"Come in, sit down. You don't mind if I call you Jack, do you?"
(They never mind. They like to present an image of informality, of gifts between friends.)
The man sits in the chair across from Tony's desk. "How'd you like the game on Saturday? Great seats, huh?"
"Turns out I'm not really a sports fan," he says, almost apologetic. Almost. "But it was a nice thought, I guess. My girl and I, we're more into opera. Culture, you know?"
Jack smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Admirable. I'll remember that."
"I'm Italian," Tony says. "We do love our music, and you get to hear the language--it's really a beautiful thing. Real passionate. You're not Italian, are you?"
"English," Jack says, shaking his head, "but I appreciate the arts. Speaking of, I have some drawings ready for you to look at. All done, just like you wanted." He takes some papers from his briefcase, turns them around to be right side up for Tony, and slides them across the desk.
Tony glances at the drawings. "Jack... Jack. Don't get my hopes up like that if you're not going to deliver."
"What's wrong?" Jack asks, frowning.
"That is not a T-bird. That's a Mustang. And a late-model one, too. It's just not good enough. Don't you remember--we had a nice long chat about fins? That there is a finless car."
"That's the closest we can get--"
"No. That's what you thought you could get away with. Your boys said 'Eh, good enough,' and signed off on it. What I asked for, what I want, is a '59 T-bird with all the gadgets and power of today's cars. You can do that, I know you can. Finest auto industry in the world, right?" He sips his Scotch. "I tell you, I've had more than a few offers from foreign manufacturers to keep things just as they are over here. You want to deunionize, you've got to make it worth my while."
"We can refit a classic car for you--"
"I could do that," Tony shrugs. "That's not what I want. I want a new, factory-built one."
"We can't go into production for just one car--"
"Like you don't for prototypes? Then make it a limited run and do a few. But there's only one red one, and that's mine."
"It's got a limited appeal, and car-buyers aren't--"
"Then make just one," he says, patience slipping away. "Have some of your guys come in on their days off or something. I don't care how you do it, but if you want to play ball here, you'll get me that car."
"...I'll see what I can do," Jack says with an exasperated sigh. "Now, about the other things on our wish list..."
12:30 PM:
"Avon calling," Tony says as he taps on the frame of the open door to Gloria's office.
(Gloria, one of the co-leaders of the radical feminist supervillain band the New Order of Women, and generally the voice of reason--such as it is--among the group. Queen Faraday had appointed her Secretary of State, and as such she is one place above Tony in the line of presidential succession.)
She looks up from the papers on her desk, and gives him a mock-stern look. "Is that supposed to be a crack about wearing makeup? You know I don't subscribe to the patriarchy's dictates on how I should present myself..."
"But don't you know, you'd look so pretty if you just wore a little eyeshadow," he grins, advancing toward her desk.
One long kiss later, she gives him a sharp poke in the ribs. "You're late, Tony. And don't tell me you were held up in traffic."
"My meeting ran over," he says, pushing the papers out of the way and taking a seat on the edge of her desk. "Got here as soon as I could, though. There's no way we'll make it in for our reservation--want to just send for takeout? Or, hell, that lunch cart outside was looking pretty good..."
"You just want a cheap date," she says.
"I just don't want to spend what little time we've got left driving around," he murmurs, reaching to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Got a press conference at two, and they want me there early for makeup and, I bet, to be sure I'll actually show up."
"Such a renegade. Lunch cart it is--but next time, it'll be a real restaurant."
"I thought fancy dates were a tool of the patriarchy, a holdover from an outmoded way of thinking where the man is the provider--"
"You have more money than I do, and anyway you owe me for canceling last time. We'll go for sushi."
She calls her assistant in, then sends her down to the lunch cart with some of Tony's money.
"You need a couch in here," Tony muses after the assistant has left.
"Someone offer to bankroll some redecoration for me?"
"Not yet, but I can make it happen." He picks up the nameplate on her desk, looks it over, sets it back down.
"There's nothing I need," she says.
"Nothing you want?"
"You know what I want."
"Sushi it is, then."
Some time later, after the assistant has brought their lunch in and they have finished eating, Tony lights a cigarette as he leans back in the chair across from her desk. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special."
"Just because we don't think we should have to, doesn't mean some of us don't like to. You've been reading too much propaganda."
"This from a woman who once tried to spike Skyline City's beer supply to kill off sexual function in men--"
"What can I say, the lesbian separatist wing can be pretty persuasive--"
"Wouldn't have affected me, anyway."
"It's hard to spike prison hooch from the outside, you mean."
"Bingo." He takes a contented drag on his cigarette. "You know, it's a shame Faraday's stalling so hard on their campaign promises to you. Not being able to vote's a comforting thing--since I've been pardoned, I'm feeling the pressure of my civic responsibilities. Keeps me up at night."
"What do you mean, stalling?" she asks, more serious now.
"Worrying too much about legality. You ask me, she's planning to hide behind the Constitution, and put the blame for her weaseling out of the deal on Squirrel."
"We're not going to let that happen," she says darkly. "He promised it on her behalf, and she agreed to it. He's not the one in a position to make it happen. She is."
"I got some connections in Congress," he says. "I'll see what I can do about pulling some strings, speed it along with or without her."
"We never figured they'd keep up that end of the bargain, anyway," she admits. "You always want to keep your allies on an uneven footing, just in case."
"You want to take over, don't you?" he asks softly, with a smile.
"Everyone knows the ultimate goal of feminism is the oppression of men, to make up for millennia of subjugation," she smirks.
"Just let me be your fan-and-grapes boy, and I'm in."
"It's so strange and refreshing to find such progressive views, even in the supervillain community," she says. "It's still a man's game, and most women who want to play it have to present themselves in ways men want--look at Faraday. Look at Spandexwoman. Pandering costumes, and the men--there's the Squirrel, and you, but most of the rest are pretty Neanderthal, you have to admit."
"Keep an eye on your golden boy," he says. "Have you thought about the implications of his latest round of bannings? Banning disposable diapers--what does that do? Chains women to the washing machine. And who knows, maybe he'll go after your monthly products next. Next thing you know, it'll be back to the days of the menstruation hut..."
"I'll have a talk with him." She frowns. "I appreciate your coming by, Tony--you've always got such interesting news. But you've got news of your own to go make, haven't you?"
"The press conference," he mutters, looking down at his watch. "Fuck. Yeah, I'd better get going."
"Next Tuesday for the sushi?" she asks, standing.
"Tuesday, sure."
"Be here at eleven."
"Will do." He grins, and after another kiss, heads on his way.
2 PM:
"My fellow Americans, you have no idea what an honor and a pleasure it is to come before you today to talk about all the hard work we've been doing on the economy.
"Now, you've probably seen that employment figures are up--particularly in the mid-Atlantic region. This is good. That's a pilot area for some programs we'll be rolling out in other places in the weeks and months to come.
"Hell, once we get the startup costs covered, we'll be making money off Governor Watanabe's energy plan, and you know what that means--lower taxes for you. Or if you'd rather, a nice big refund check. We can go either way on that, nothing's set in stone.
"But the point is, things are looking up, and we're all gonna be just fine. Any questions? You."
"Jamie Sullivan, Channel 4 News. Secretary Napolitano, you're not a trained economist--"
"I prefer 'self-taught.' You."
"Ed Thomson, Economy Journal. Secretary, I have here the interest rates for--"
"Oooh, that's a nice graph. I like the use of color. Gold star for you. You."
"Lauren Smith, Politics Now! Secretary--"
"My favorite magazine. Hiya, Lauren. Loved the article on international relations."
"Why, thank you, Secretary--"
"Call me Tony."
"Okay, Tony. We've all seen the pictures--do you and Governor Watanabe work hand-in-hand, so to speak, on financial policy?"
"Course not. It's hard to get work done holding hands--that's a silly idea. You."
"Simone Edwards, Business Today. Secretary, I've been going through the reports issued last week by your office--"
"I'm a very busy man, you know. Don't have time for long questions. Which would you rather have me do, answer long questions or save the world from financial ruin? You."
"Elizabeth Norton, Current Events for Children. Mrs. Hansen's second-grade class in Topeka, Kansas, would like to know whether, as Secretary of the Treasury, you get your own car."
"Hi, Mrs. Hansen's class! I hope you're all studying real hard. Yes, I get my own car. But it doesn't have flashing lights and a siren on it, like I really wanted. You know, in case of Treasury emergencies. Great question, kids. Stay in school. You."
"Sylvia Malone, Skyline City Daily Sleaze. Secretary, you're a convicted bank robber--"
"You know what a pardon is, Sylvia? Makes it like it never happened. So no, I'm not. And what, you think that the government'll let me just walk into Fort Knox and waltz out with my pockets full of gold? Believe me, they won't--"
"That's all the questions we have time for today. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."
2:45 PM:
"Sir, Vice-President Faraday's called here for you. Three times. I told her you're not back yet, and she said you're not answering your cell phone."
"I'm on my way into a meeting, Rhonda. I'll check in with you when I get out."
"They're coming about the redecoration at 3:30--"
"I know. I'll be back by then. If Faraday shows up, get her out of there. Not dealing with that today."
2:50 PM:
"Sorry I'm late," Tony says as a secretary escorts him into Speaker of the House Hypnotron's office. "Traffic was pretty rough heading over."
Hypnotron does not answer, just stares balefully at him.
(Hypnotron, a robot commissioned by the Squirrel for the 2004 presidential campaign, with the intent of hypnotizing the American public, getting into office, and letting Squirrel run things as the power behind the throne. But Hypnotron had developed a mind of his own, and when he had turned against his creators, he had been taken down. This model has more security features to prevent that from happening again. He had run as a Democrat, since the Evilcrats do not have a majority in the House. Only two members of the administration are immune to his hypnotic mind-control powers, to the best of Tony's knowledge--Squirrel and himself.)
"Look, I'll skip the--what was it you called them? 'Empty human social phrasings'?--and get straight to the point. I think we should make a deal."
Hypnotron says nothing. Tony takes it as encouragement to continue.
"The current administration is using both of us," he says, "and it seems to me it's just about time we returned the favor. We're each only a few spots down the line of succession to the presidency--you're ahead of me, of course. I want to improve my standing, and since I can't go through you, I'd like to work with you."
Still no answer.
"I know Squirrel ran you for President, but that's a risky job for you. Anyway, there's term limits and elections--but if you can help me get to the top of the line, and take yourself out of that line, I'll put you on the Supreme Court. No one can say you're not qualified, it's a position with a hell of a lot of power, and you can be there forever. Literally."
"And you get to be President," Hypnotron says in his flat electronic voice.
"That's the idea, yeah. I don't want it for long--just one term, maybe two--but there's some things I've always wanted to do and it's the only way I can."
"Things?"
"I bet every human and mutant out there's got a list of things they'd do if they were in power."
"And yours?"
"Mostly involve banks. Nothing for you to worry about."
"And what would you need me to do?"
"You could get rid of Doe like flipping a light switch. I bet you could override the remote control he's got operating him, make him fall down some stairs or walk in front of a bus or something. That's something I can't do."
"That's all?"
"...well, we've also got a bit of a problem with the ladies..."
3:35 PM:
"Sir, the phone's been ringing off the hook--" Rhonda begins as Tony returns to the office.
"So leave it off the hook," he shrugs, picking the stack of messages up off her desk, flipping through it, then dropping it in the trashcan. "The decorator here yet?"
"She's making some sketches in your office," Rhonda says, glancing to the trashcan and then back up to him.
"You left her in there alone? State secrets, Rhonda. Loose lips sink ships, and all that. She better not touch my cue--"
"I told her not to, sir," she says, heading for the inner door and opening it for him.
The decorator is a woman in her early thirties, short blue-dyed hair a sharp contrast to her business suit. She has a clipboard in hand and is walking around the office, making notes.
"I'm gonna have to see those before I can let you leave," Tony says by way of greeting.
"Oh, that's fine," she says, setting the clipboard on a table and offering a hand. "Edwina Greyson. A pleasure to finally meet you, Secretary."
"Call me Tony." He shakes her hand, and steals a glance at the clipboard--sketches of the windows of the office. Boring. "Look, I hate to cut things short, but I'm only here for a few minutes and then I've got another meeting to get to. You come highly recommended, though..."
"So do you." She smiles. "Now, what did you have in mind? What things are essential to you, what do you envision as your dream office?"
"The pool table stays," he says. "And it needs couches. Beyond that--ever watch those '50s and '60s spy movies? I want a lair away from home, if you know what I mean. Put in a decorative pond and fill it with piranhas, that sort of thing."
"...piranhas."
"Alligators would get out. What, are you thinking goldfish? Yeah, they'll intimidate people so much by floating upside down at 'em. Why have animals in your office if they're not going to serve as an example? Have you seen the office of the Secretary of Defense?"
"I'm afraid I haven't," she admits, taking the clipboard again and making a few notes. "So... lair."
"Go get yourself a few issues of Lairs Quarterly, but don't just go copying what other people have done. I want retro, I want style, I want class, but I want something new. You can do it, I'm sure."
"I'll do my best," she says.
"Look, I gotta run. Have Rhonda make copies of those notes before you leave, okay? Give me a call, email, whatever, when you've got some ideas worked out."
"Two days, I'll have something put together for you."
"Just bring it on by, then," he says, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "I'll see you around."
Rhonda gives him a smile as he passes her desk. "Late night, after such an early start--it's lucky for us you can't get overtime, sir."
"Oh, I'll be out tomorrow, to make up for it," he says. "It's my birthday. If anything pressing comes up, tell it to wait."
She gives him a salute. "Will do, sir. Happy birthday."
4 PM:
There is one meeting today he doesn't dare be either early or late for, so precisely at four he presents himself outside the office to be shown in.
Valerie is not at her desk, however--she isn't anywhere in sight, as her secretary escorts him in and leaves again. All the furniture has been moved haphazardly around the room, bookcases turned on their sides, cushions removed from and heaped next to the couches and chairs. Tony has moved toward one of the chairs and is leaning down to pick a cushion up to have a seat to wait for her, when he hears two almost simultaneous sounds--the door locking and closing, and the cocking of a gun.
"...hiya, Valerie," he says, slowly straightening up and turning around, hands held carefully away from his body.
She is standing there in faded fatigues and heavy boots, pistol in one hand, puppet on the other. She says nothing, merely taking aim at his chest.
(Valerie, member of the New Order of Women, appointed by Queen Faraday as Secretary of Defense--though she prefers the older title of Secretary of War--an appointment which had caused some trouble among the ranks of the Women; it had relegated their other leader, Andrea, to the office of Health and Human Services, widely viewed as a sexist assignment. Valerie had been little more than a henchwoman among the Women, but here she is outranking at least one of her superiors. She is arguably the only member of the administration less mentally sound than Tony himself.)
"What's wrong?" he asks. "I got here on time--"
She gestures emphatically with the puppet.
"...oh! Betty, hi. Forgive my rudeness." He gives the puppet a smile.
The puppet looks sternly at him, then exchanges a long glance with Valerie, and finally gives him a reluctant smile in return.
"Looking good today, ladies," he says. "All ready to head out to the range? I've never actually gotten to fire off artillery like that before--"
Valerie takes a step closer, deliberately lowering her aim a bit.
"Not in a mood to go shooting today?" he asks, resisting the urge to retreat. They can smell fear. "That's fine, maybe we--"
The gun goes off as she tackles him to the floor.
7 PM:
There is not enough soap in all the world, Tony thinks as he takes the elevator up to his apartment, to scrub the crazy-feminist off. If it weren't for the fact that everyone knows the only way to defeat groups of women is to turn them against each other, he wouldn't be having anything to do with any of them.
At least Gloria's good for conversation. Valerie just makes him feel dirty, when she's not shooting at him--the common male fantasy of two women at once loses a little something when one of them is a puppet, and the other is ready to shoot the man if he doesn't do a good job.
Lucky for him he'd trained with the best.
The elevator reaches his floor, and he heads in--it's certainly a far cry from the grimy little apartment he'd once had in Skyline City. Everything here is new, sleek, shiny, and he has a great view of the city.
He unties his tie and tosses it in the general direction of the couch as he confirms to the kitchen to grab a beer. Maybe he should hire a henchperson to handle the everyday tasks around the apartment--besides cleaning; he's already got a maid for that.
He pries the bottlecap off with his teeth and takes a long swig of beer. At least he doesn't have to go in tomorrow. He can drink tonight and sleep in. Probably get takeout later, but first a shower.
The red light on the answering machine blinks irritably at him as he moves toward the bedroom, kicking his shoes in the general direction of the front door and unbuttoning his shirt one-handedly in between sips of beer.
A long shower. And he's taking the beer in with him. He steps into the bedroom and turns on the light.