The Last Days of Mr. Right

All bowed to the will of the government and threw their support behind the President, save but a few.

A relatively small contingent of Americans held that the government's actions were diametrically opposed to the Constitution. They spoke out against the illegal practices of the President and his administration, leading ever-growing numbers of their countrymen in protest against the government. The streets crawled with uppity Americans, ready to fight for those certain inalienable rights that were guaranteed them.

These uppity Americans were beaten down and eventually jailed as traitors.

Anyone who spoke out ran the risk of being imprisoned and, if the new Good American Act passed into law as expected, executed within days of arrest. Due process was one of the first casualties of America in the face of the terrorist attacks.

This fact made the actions of the protestors in front of the White House on this day all the more foolhardy. If they were caught they would likely be executed, some of the first victims of the new law.

And still they protested.

Armed soldiers stood just inside the White House fence, rifles at the ready, fully prepared to fire into the crowd. All they awaited was the order to do it. Inexplicably to some of them, they were ordered to stand down. Unless the protestors got violent the soldiers were ordered not to engage, merely to observe.

The protestors carried signs that read patriotic slogans, but no one was fooled. These people hated America. They were probably working for the AAATA. There was one long-haired guy who marched with his sign that read, "GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE DEATH". A middle-aged woman carried a sign that read, "YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO TAKE MY FREEDOM". A little girl waved a sign that read, "I WANT TO GROW UP IN A FREE USA".

Obvious liberal scum.

The kind of people that the Good American Act was designed to eliminate.

The soldiers grew more nervous and agitated by the second, waiting for the powder keg to go off. Even the little girl could be dangerous. Who knew? Maybe they had used children to plant the bombs at Disney World. No one would have ever expected that. The soldiers knew they had to be ready. The vision of Mickey Mouse's graphic immolation was still seared into their minds. Let their guard down for one second and it could be them going up in flames next. A sweating soldier fingered the trigger on his M-16, wanting for all his life just to point his rifle into the crowd of protestors and empty clip after clip until they all lay dead.

True American soldiers would never fire on unarmed civilians in their own country, and that had been a tough sticking point. However, it was not insurmountable. The private soldiers contracted to fight in many foreign theaters were brought back to the United States and quickly became the known authority on the streets of every American city. Actual members of the U.S. military were all sent to fight the spate of new conflicts popping up against American almost every day. The new soldiers' allegiance was not to the Constitution of the Untied States. It was solely to the large paychecks they were handed on a monthly basis from their employer, Schwarzenaqua.

The protestors grew louder still in their chant. "HEY HEY! HO HO! THE PRESIDENT HAS GOT TO GO! HEY HEY! HO HO! THE PRESIDENT HAS GOT TO GO! "

The soldiers prayed quietly for someone to come and save them. They wanted to be out of harm's way. Sure, they had guns, but the protestors had numbers. Some were children, some were elderly, but numbers are numbers. If the protestors decided to overrun the fence the soldiers couldn't stop them all. The situation was bad and looking to get worse.

Suddenly, salvation came in a red, white and blue streak.

One of the soldiers saw it and pointed to the sky. "Look! It's Mr. Right! We're going to be okay!"

The protestors never even heard the attack as Mr. Right barreled head first into their ranks, knocking them down like so many bowling pins. The chants gave way to screams as the few protestors who remained on their feet scattered. Quite a few of them were down and some weren't moving.

Mr. Right swooped back up into the sky and took stock of the carnage. He was looking for groups, not individuals. He could use his speed and flight to take out a whole group much easier than he could pick out one person to bring down. There they were, huddling amid the broken bodies of his first attack. A perfect target. These cowards could come down here and scare and intimidate the regular soldiers, but they cowered in fear when they had to face Mr. Right. He began his second dive, building speed as he approached.

BLAM!

Leading with his fists, Mr. Right exploded through the huddled group, sending them cart wheeling through the air, as he flew into the sky again.

Hovering above the fleeing protestors, Mr. Right searched for his next target. The decision had to be made quickly, lest they all get away. He scanned the fleeing mass and committed to a target. A young man with long hair ran, dragging a small boy away by the hand. The man carried a sign in his other hand and Mr. Right could read it as he zoomed to his target, jaw set, and fists clenched. The sign read, "GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH".

In the split second before Mr. Right drove his fists through the man's back he cried out, "Death it is, you dirty hippie!"

Unfortunately, the body of the hippie would not come off of his hands. He had busted through and gotten them stuck inside the hippie's body and he just couldn't shake loose. With one mighty rip, Mr. Right tore his way free, dropping each half of the hippie to the ground.

Turning to find a new target Mr. Right realized that his work there was done. The soldiers were well equipped to take care of the protestors now. As the protestors continued to run away the soldiers shot many of them in the back. In their zeal they even shot a couple of the protestors who were surrendering. When it was said and done there were thirty-four captured protestors, one hundred and eleven dead protestors, and an unknown number of escaped protestors. Not to fear, though. There was a video record of the crowd and they would all be tracked down and brought to justice, one way or another.

Mr. Right landed next to the soldier who appeared to be in charge and the soldier turned and saluted him. Mr. Right returned the salute in a really half-assed manner, trying not to get hippie blood on his mask.

"We can take it from here, Mr. Right. Thank you!" the soldier said earnestly. "That could have really gotten bad before you showed up."

"No thanks is necessary, Sergeant. I'm always glad to help a real American."

The soldiers began to lead some of the captured protestors back toward the White House fence. It was all over but the mopping up.

"Good work," Mr. Right said officiously. "I'd stay and help finish up here, but I need to check on the President."

With another of his patented mighty leaps, Mr. Right flew up into the sky and over the fence, heading for the White House.

Chapter Three

Moments later

In the White House Rose Garden…

With hands dripping blood, Mr. Right found the President in the Rose Garden, speaking to a small group of the press. The reporters and photographers went into an absolute tizzy when the greatest American hero to ever live approached the President, smiling and with hand outstretched.

The President reached to shake Mr. Right's hand, but at the last second he noticed the gore and pulled his hand away, trying to mask his revulsion. The President had no stomach for the sight of blood. He had no problem ordering blood to be shed; he just couldn't bring himself to look at it.

"Mr. Right! How wonderful to see you!" the President announced gleefully. Then in a whisper, "You know, I'd shake, but I can't let the press see me with blood on my hands."

"Of course, Mr. President," Mr. Right agreed, turning his attention to waving to the press. Little droplets of dirty hippie blood spattered on the concrete and against the back wall of the White House. Mr. Right noticed his inadvertent flinging when a few errant drops hit him in the face and he stopped his waving.

The press clamored for Mr. Right's attention, now ignoring the President. "Mr. Right! Mr. Right!"

Mr. Right recognized Paul McSwift, a friendly face in the crowd, and pointed to him, flicking another drop of blood from his finger. It splattered on the cheek of a star struck young female reporter from Fox News. She visibly swooned. "Go ahead, Paul."

"Are we right in assuming that the blood on your hands is from the altercation with the protestors out front?" McSwift asked.

It was a stupid question, but Mr. Right, always the PR machine, answered it like it was the height of brilliance.

"Well, Paul, that is a very good question. I was, in fact, involved in the thwarting of the terrorist attack out in front of the White House moments ago."

The clamoring started anew and Mr. Right picked out another friendly face. It was a pretty little blonde that he had nailed a few weeks ago in the men's room at a correspondents dinner given in the President's honor. Unlike with Paul McSwift, Mr. Right couldn't remember the blonde woman's name. He just pointed.

"Ann Cooley, Sycophant Times.com," the woman began, blushing a little as she introduced herself. She was awed in the presence of the great Mr. Right. "Is there any indication that the protestors were members of Americans Against All Things American?"

"Yes, there is," Mr. Right declared commandingly, hands on his hips, chest thrust out. "I had been looking into this particular faction for some time and I assure you, this group was a small splinter cell among the AAATA. It is even believed that one of the men in the group today was personally responsible for building the bombs that devastated Disney World."

The reporters, without exception, burst into applause and Mr. Right basked in their adoration, holding his hands above his head in triumph and occasionally flexing his enormous biceps. He lived for this, the love of the masses for their hero.

Moving through the crowd, a short and chubby man raised his microphone toward the stage and waited for the cheer guild to quiet their worship. He stood patiently before the stage, taking in the scene of Mr. Right posing in the lightning strobe of dozens of flashbulbs.

When the crowd finally calmed down, Mr. Right did something totally out of character. He called on a reporter he didn't recognize as friendly to the cause. The man was a disheveled stump, what harm could it do? Everyone loved their hero, right?

"Mr. Right! Mr. Right!" the man called out.

"Shoot," our hero said, making the sign of two guns with his thumbs and forefingers and pointing them cockily at the man.

"How do you respond to the accusations being made that you and the President fabricated the AAATA as a diversion to gain control of the American population through terror and that you had the attack on Disney World, the poisoning of the food supply and the assaults on the other targets carried out?"

The crowd went dead silent.

Mr. Right's smile never faded, he just froze, like a deer in the headlights. For a few long seconds he didn't even breathe. Mr. Right had no idea how to respond to someone who would have the audacity to ask him such a question. Who the hell did this chubby little man think he was? This was Mr. Mother Fucking Right that little sonofabitch was messing with!

"Also, concerning your business practices," the man continued, like a shark smelling blood in the water. "Isn't it true that you employ children in sweatshop conditions in South America to make your toys, t-shirts, and other merchandise? And that these children are paid subpar wages even by Third World Sweatshop standards?"

Mr. Right tried unsuccessfully to hide his nervousness, gulping audibly through the microphones at the Presidents podium. With a darting glance to the stunned President, Mr. Right began to issue broken, stress-filled laughs under his breath. "Ha ha… um… ha… well… um…"

Damn it! The people were starting to listen to this guy. He could see it on their faces.

"Isn't it also true that you are addicted to painkillers that you force your illegal alien housekeeper to acquire for you on the street?"

'How the hell did he know that?' Mr. Right thought, shocked. No one was even supposed to know that he had illegals working for him. He hired them after he fired his cleaning service when he realized that he could pay undocumented workers much less and control them much more.

Mr. Right truly started to panic. He had to do something. If this man knew these things, what else did he know? And what else might he say? Mr. Right needed desperately to silence this man. There was only one thing he could think of.

"GUN!" Mr. Right bellowed, leaping from the stage and knocking the man unconscious with one crushing punch.

The crowd scattered, screaming. The Secret Service pushed the President out of harm's way, inside the White House.

Flashbulbs began popping again, everyone trying to get the picture of Mr. Right standing over the prone body of the crazed would-be assassin who had tried to shoot the President with a gun made to look like a common microphone.

'Ingenious!' everyone thought. These AAATA bastards would stop at nothing to topple this great nation. Using the distraction of the protestors out front, the AAATA had their man on the inside ready to pull the trigger when the Secret Service's guard was down.

Fortunately, Mr. Right was there, once again, to save the day.

The story about the microphone/gun was never released by any official agency. One reporter made it up and it sounded plausible, so the rest of them went with it as well. Even as Mr. Right was handing over the perpetrator to the proper authorities, the news channels were putting that story on the air.

Chapter Four

Inside the Oval Office…

"Hell, that's better than anything I could have come up with," the President said as he watched the news broadcast with Mr. Right. "Microphone gun! Genius, man! Pure genius!"

"Thanks, Mr. President," Mr. Right said proudly. "I'm glad you're pleased. I knew they would run with it."

"They sure did," the President said, clicking his remote and changing to other news channels.

All the channels were reporting that an unknown assailant had attacked the President with a gun disguised as a microphone. Only by the quick thinking and lightning reflexes of Mr. Right was the President saved.

"It's an absurd story, but these clowns are eating it up," Mr. Right said through a smile. "If the media is buying it, we know the public will buy it. Nice."

"A great man once said, 'What luck for leaders that men do not think'," the President quoted with a nod.

"Who the hell was that guy with all those questions?" Mr. Right asked. "And how the hell did he know we made up the Three A-TA? And all that other shit?"

"I don't know who he is, but I've got the Secret Service working on it. We'll know shortly."

Of course, Mr. Right knew what that meant. The guy was somewhere in the bowels of the White House being tortured. They didn't call it torture anymore, though. It was aggressive interrogation. One of the nicer things about having control of all branches of government is that now all of their actions were completely legal when worded that way. The word torture wasn't even in the lexicon any longer. It was removed shortly after the incident in Abu Ghraib prison. For all intents and purposes, it was only considered torture when it was done to Americans by a foreign government.

The President tried to reassure Mr. Right, wanting to let him know that he was fully behind him and prepared to take whatever actions necessary to keep all their secrets.

"Listen to me, Bill," the President began, putting on his patented earnest and concerned face, the one he used for the American public. "You have my absolute support in this. The full resources of my office are at your disposal. I will not rest until we have made certain that the public has accepted the story as we tell it. But, right now… I really have to poop."

The President walked to his private bathroom right off of the Oval Office and shut the door.

Mr. Right plopped heavily down into a chair and peeled his mask back from his face. Worry lined Bill Rush's handsome features. Here, in this sanctuary, he felt like he could let down his guard a little bit. It was one of the only places where he was free to do that. Those bastards from the ACLU had been trying for months to dig up the dirt on him. Unfortunately, there was a ton of dirt to be found, if they were only to turn over the right rocks.

Apparently, someone had turned over a few of the right rocks. The reporter with the "microphone gun" had it right. Everything he had said was true. The question now- what else did he know? And who else knew?

Did anyone know about Naomi? Bill Rush's secretary at Rush international was Naomi Love, a former porn star who he had had a brief, but torrid affair with. If the affair were found out it would be a huge blow to Mr. Right's image as a paragon of virtue. Mr. Right took great effort in presenting himself as an icon for American family values. The idea of an affair would damage, if not destroy, that aspect of his public persona. On it's own, of course, that was not an insurmountable obstacle. But if the American public found out that Mr. Right had coerced Ms. Love into aborting his bastard child, the damage just might be enough to topple him from the pedestal. Mr. Right was the spokesman for the national organization Right To Life. That was it, he would be finished. No one would understand. A baby with that slut would have had disastrous consequences for the movement, so the pregnancy had to be terminated. Mr. Right did believe that abortion was murder, but it was different in his situation. The other aborted babies didn't have the ability to bring down a national hero. One thing that seemed particularly bad was that after dropping Naomi Love off at the clinic and she was inside aborting the little bastard, Mr. Right led a protest right outside. He led rabid chants of, "Murderer! Murderer!" when the other women would walk out following their procedures.

Did anyone know that Mr. Right commonly slapped his wife, Laura, around the house? The police had been called on several occasions early in their marriage, but Bill Rush had always had enough money and clout to keep it quiet. Even before he became Mr. Right, Rush had a lot of people right where he wanted them. The way he saw it, he paid the doctor bills, he could damage whatever he liked. Laura had threatened to leave him once and he had promised her a slow painful death. So, instead, she sat in their sprawling multi-million dollar prison and quietly awaited the beatings that accompanied her husband's displeasure. Or boredom. Certainly, this wasn't Bill Rush's fault. Laura pushed him to it. The pressure of the business world had pushed him to it. She didn't understand and neither would anyone else. Beating the living shit out of your wife didn't really stand up to most American's definition of 'family values'.

From behind the bathroom door Mr. Right could hear a fierce grunting, followed by a low moan, and then a depth charge splash. The President's voice called out from behind the door, "Heh heh, just gave birth to another Liberal!"

Mr. Right was still too worried to smile. The President could make jokes at times like these because he didn't take anything seriously. Everything had always been taken care of for him all of his life. The truth was, the man was a goofball. What made him so valuable to the plan was that he was an easily manipulated goofball. He simply wasn't very smart. No one but Mr. Right knew that the President had a collection of Hot Wheels cars in his desk drawer that he liked to play with when the stress got to be too much. He would run them around the desk and make revving sounds and tire squealing noises.