[b]Washington D.C.[/b]

"Mr. Vice President, how would you and the Second Lady like your steaks cooked?"

"Medium rare," Russell replied.

Peter Kelly, Senate Majority Leader, plopped two thick steaks on his charcoal grill. Russell, Kelly, and Senate Majority Whip Rod Marston stood huddled around the grill on the balcony of Kelly's Georgetown apartment. They were dressed in casual wear, khaki pants and simple button-up shirts. Marston wore cowboy boots with his outfit. All three men had beers in their hands.

"And the honorable junior Senator from Arizona?" Kelly asked.

"All questions and responses are to be directed to the President of the Senate," Russell cut in.

They all chuckled at Russell's joke. The archaic Senate rules stated that any and all comments on the Senate floor could not be directed at any colleague in particular, just through the presiding office. Like the formal rule that all senators must refer to themselves and each other in the third person it was one of the many old rules that hamstrung the institution. 

"Mr. President," Marston said with his beer raised, "Inform the honorable senior Senator from Montana that the junior Senator from Arizona and his wife like their steaks at a nice medium."

"So, gentlemen," Russell said once their laughter subsided. "How are things in your home states?"

Kelly flashed a grin. Despite being from a sparsely populated western state, Kelly wasn't what you thought of when you thought of Montana or the west. He was a former political scientist and academic that was drafted into running for the Senate by the Republican Party in Montana. He was the only member of the congressional leadership who could quote the Constitution and Proust with equal aplomb. 

"Same old same old," Kelly said with a shrug. "The beef industry is what anyone cares about out there. As long as the US keeps up its agricultural exports I'm golden."

"Cows? That's it?" Marston asked.

Kelly laughed. "Rod, you've got to remember that the people of Montana are just simple farmers, people of the land. The common clay of the West. You know... morons."

"I wish I had morons," Martson laughed. "Arizona is nothing but one giant handout. Everyone's looking to get paid."

"Including the state's junior senator," Kelly said with a wink.

While the Majority Leader turned his attention to the steaks, Russell glanced towards the balcony door. Just through the glass door was the kitchen and the wives of the three men. Russell caught Robin's eye and saw her bored expression lighten when she saw her husband. Henrietta Kelly was a pleasant enough lady who was devoted to her husband, but she was a bland woman who only talked about our family. Peggy Marston was the complete opposite. Twenty-five years Rod's junior, she was a former Sun City showgirl that the Senator had only recently married. She had bleached blonde hair and wore too tight dresses and talked about nothing but jewelry and all the things she liked to buy with the money "Roddy" doled out to her. 

"I need to head out there someday," Russell said as he turned back to the men. "Never been to Sun City, but I'd like to see it for myself. I've never had much of a taste for gambling. A sure thing is much more reassuring."

"You're a gambler, Russ," Marston said with a short laugh. "If you weren't, you'd still be in the Senate with us."

"You got me there," Russell said with his hands raised. "I made a gamble on that one. Still not sure if it's going to pay off."

"In Sun City, we call that the long con."

"Speaking of that," said Kelly. "What's the reason for crashing our lovely steak dinner, Mr. Vice President? What's your game?"

"I'm here on presidential orders, I'm afraid," Russell said after sipping his beer. "The President is heading out of town next week. Aren't you going with him, Pete?"

"I'm flying back to Montana and touring with him when he goes through the state. But that's not for a few more weeks."

"And in that time, the president would like to see that Ethiopian foreign aid appropriations bill put on the legislative calendar at the very least."

Kelly grunted as he flipped the steaks. "I was planning on doing that, Russ, but the problems you'll have won't be with the Republicans. Your problem is with--"

Marston whistled a few bars of "Dixie." 

"We like the bill," Kelly shrugged. "Hell, everyone is tripping over themselves to support this foreign aid stuff. But your pals are going to drag their feet like always. I'm going to recommend the bill be sent to Foreign Relations where Bill Dixon's the chairman. He's borderline Southern Caucus."

"What's Dixon's bloc of Senators look like?" Russell asked.

"He's got about a dozen in his back pocket," said Marston. "And that's just the ones we know for certain. He may have as many as twenty Republican senators. If they work in tandem with the Southern Caucasus, that's nearly half the Senate in alliance."

"Why don't you do something?" Russell asked Kelly. "You're Majority Leader, Pete. For god's sake, get them in line behind you."

"You don't understand," said Kelly. "I don't have the type of power you had. The second you left the Senate, Dixon and Helms and the others made sure to strip away all the powers the Majority Leader had. I can lead floor debates and schedule the legislative calendar, but that's about it. I can't control committee assignments like you could and the reelection steering committees are led by seniority now. Nobody needs to listens to me. I'm just... not you."

No shit, thought Russell. It didn't surprise Russell to find out that the Senate had made the Leader toothless once again. It had been like that eight years earlier when Russell took over the job. He'd found ways to abolish, temporarily at least, the rigid seniority system that decided committee assignments and had the Leader decide who served on which committee. He'd also set up a reelection steering committee that donated money and resources to incumbent senators, with the Majority Leader as chairman of that committee. Every Democrat was beholden to him for committee assignments and reelection help. No matter if a man served twenty years in the Senate, they had to come crawling on their hands and knees, quite literally in the case of poor Bob Osborne from Tennessee, for Russell's approval. For eight years he was the second most powerful man in the country, second only to President Fernandez. And now that power was gone, not just from him but from the Senate altogether.

Russell stayed silent as Kelly put the steaks on a plate and tossed two more on the grill.

"How's Dixon doing it?"

"Dixon Oil," said Marston. "Or at least that's what it looks like. He's going around the steering committees and Senate re-election funds and having his oil company donate straight to candidates. Of the Republicans that came into the Senate in the election, over two-thirds of them are caucusing with him. They ran campaigns above their means and requested very little money from the steering committee."

Power is where power goes.

Bill Dixon had said those very words to Russell the night of the presidential inauguration. They'd been huddled in a corner talking shop while everyone watched Norman and his wife glide across a ballroom floor. Dixon was so sure that he wouldn't need the Majority Leader role to accumulate power and he was right. Power is where power goes, and now the power Russell had once wielded was gone. It had been dismantled by vengeful and power hungry senators. The power vacuum they created was filled by Dixon's oil money. 

Kelly finished off his beer and looked at Russell with an arched eyebrow. He'd noticed Russell's faraway look and scowling. 

"Just reevaluating my roll of the dice," Russell said when he noticed Kelly's staring. "I may have pushed my luck too far."

"In Sun City parlance, we'd say you crapped out," said Marston.

"Crapped out," Russell grunted. "That sounds about right."



------



"Over fifty years ago, I had my first White House visit," Senator Wilbur Helms said through his oxygen mask. "President Wheeler was here then. He was a son of a bitch."

White House Chief of Staff Jeff Brewer pushed the decrepit old man down the halls of the West Wing in a wheelchair. He utterly detested Helms. The octogenarian represented all that was wrong with Washington and the American political system. The Southern minority that controlled the upper house of Congress did not speak for the majority of America. They were 19th century men, Helms quite literally, who had turned the once great deliberative body into a place of negation. Even with the Socialist paradigm shift across the country, they still held on firmly to their Senate power. 

That power did not come from any particular set of skills. They weren't brilliant, Senator Matheson from Texas struggled through the speeches he read on the Senate floor. Nor were they great political operatives. Helms' colleague from South Carolina, Larry Beasley, was reputed to nap frequently at committee meetings. They were old, every single one of them. At forty-seven, Jim Sanderson was the youngest member of the Southern Caucus by nearly twenty years. The age was a major problem due to the seniority system. Senator Byrd from Alabama, the ranking Democratic member of the Armed Service Committee, often forgot where he was. When he was committee chairman, the senator in charge of congressional oversight of American defense would snap his head up suddenly and bang the gavel against the conference table to call to order a meeting that had already started an hour before.

Age and age alone was why they were in power. And their power derived from their constituents. Simply because the people in the states that elected them voted Democrat and nothing more, these hateful, ignorant men had the federal government at their mercy. These men with all the power could walk, or be pushed as in Helms' case, into the Oval Office and make demands. 

Helms wheezing filled the quiet West Wing corridor Jeff pushed him down. It was late at night, most of the staff had gone home for the day. Those that were here still were like Jeff and did not leave until the president did. They were the most dedicated and loyal of the White House staff and would not feed the Washington rumor mill with talk about Helms' late night visit.

Jeff opened the door leading into the Oval Office and pushed Helms through the threshold. Leaning against the Resolute desk was President Norman. His suit jacket was off and tossed onto the sofa facing the desk and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. 

"Senator Helms," the president said with a soft smile. "Welcome."

Norman stepped forward and gently shook Helm's wrinkled, arthritis ridden hand. The old man smiled through his gas mask, showing the president a mouth of yellow teeth.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten about me, Mr. President. I've had many a meetings in this office with a new president, but not this late into the start of their administration."

"Well, I apologize for that, Senator." 

"It's not you fault," Helms said graciously enough before adding. "You're still new to how we do politics around here. You're just ignorant."

Jeff felt a flash of anger go through him. He was glad he was standing behind Helms so the old man couldn't see his face. The president could, however. Norman's eyes flashed a hint of amusement as he patted Helms' hand and smiled. 

"You're right, Senator. I'm still learning the ropes here."

You're a better man than I, Jeff thought. President Norman stood and motioned for Jeff to park Helms next to the sofa. He sat while Jeff placed the aging senator next to the couch. Jeff took a seat on the sofa opposite the two men, something Helms noticed and scowled at.

"Now I thought it was just gonna be the two of us."

"Jeff is my chief of staff," said the president. "He's been serving in that capacity even when we were in the Army. He's my right-hand man. Whatever you can say to me, you can say to him."

"No, I believe it's you who has something to say," Helms wheezed. "You called this meeting, Mr. President. I'm waiting to hear what you want to talk about."

"The bill on foreign aid to Ethiopia is coming to the Senate, and I want assurances that the Southern Caucus will not try to kill or hijack the bill."

"I'm but one man," he said sheepishly. "There are twenty-one other senators who make up the Southern Caucus, each one their own man with their own principles and ideals."

"We both know that's not true. You tell those senators to jump and they say how high." Norman leaned forward, his finger pointing at the old man. "Senator, I'm already tired of having to scrap and fight for every piece of legislation that's important to the country."

"Checks and balances." Helms laced his pale and twisted fingers together and smiled at the president. "The Senate is the ultimate check against the power of the executive." 

"No matter what public opinion has to say on the matter?" Jeff asked.

Helms' white faced showed a flash of red as he snarled at Jeff. 

"You better mind your manners, boy! Mr. President, is how you train your staff? If this boy were on my staff I'd have him flogged for speaking out of turn."

"I apologize, Senator," the president said with a slightly annoyed look towards Jeff. "I'll see that he's punished adequately. But he does raise a point. Time and time again your body blocks legislation that the House, the president, and even the voters all want and approve of."

"That's horseshit," said Helms. "People are idiots, they don't know what they want. Our Founders thought the same thing. It's why they created the chamber I serve in. The whole reason the Senate exist is to fight against the tyranny of the majority. You want a bill passed through our chamber? Convince us of its merits, or at least give us something in return."

A silence settled in as both Jeff and the president took in the last bit of information from Helms.

"Vice President Reed said you'd try to pull something like this," said Norman.

"That man is a two-faced snake, but he's right on this matter."

The president looked towards Jeff before turning back to Helms.

"What is it you want?"

"The nigger bill," Helms hissed. His entire mouth seemed to twist as he said that word. "I do not want no goddamn bills passing Congress that support federal nigger rights."

Jeff felt his anger rising at the man's callous use of the racial slur. Like always, the president took it all in stride and ignored it.

"Like you reminded me, Senator, Congress is beyond my control. I can't stop a liberal Congressman or Senator from writing up a bill and bringing it to the floor."

"But you can stay neutral on the matter," Helms snapped. "You've said a lot of goddamn things about niggers that make us in the South worried. And then sending that sum bitch Reed to meet with those agitators only worsened matters. I understand you can't come out against civil rights, I know how politics works even though you think I don't. What I want is your solemn promise that you will not push for any type of civil rights bill for the next four years. Anything comes up on the House or Senate floor you stay silent on the matter. Civil rights is an issue for the states. Let us deal with our own niggers our own way."

Norman looked at Jeff again. Jeff nodded slowly.

"What do I get in return?" The president asked.

"This foreign aid bill will pass and you'll have full Southern support behind your legislative agenda, within reason. You try any of that socialist shit like Fernandez and I promise you we'll be filibustering day and night."

The president stood and walked away from Helms and Jeff. He walked around the Resolute desk and gazed out the Oval Office window at the rose garden outside. Jeff knew the deep deliberation the president was currently engaged in. He'd witnessed it many times over the years when the general stood at a crossroad on some important matter. 

"Okay," he said after a long minute of silence. 

The president turned around and leaned forward against the desk, staring at Helms while he spoke.

"In exchange for Southern Caucus support in the Senate, I promise you that I will not interfere in any civil rights legislative battles."

Helms smiled widely and wheezed out a laugh. It was a short, harsh little thing that sounded more like a death rattle than a joyful noise.

"Well, hot damn. I knew you'd come to your senses, Mr. President!"



-----



[b]Natchez, Mississippi[/b]


The sound of gunshots woke Will Johnson from his sleep. He sprung up from the bed and was on the balls of his feet as he raced across the bedroom to his chest of drawers. His wife Shelby was still rubbing sleep from her eyes while Will pulled the rifle from the bottom drawer. It was his rifle from the war. It had served him well during that bitter fighting in the Midwest. He thought he'd never have to use it again after putting it in the bottom drawer three years ago. He still hoped that was the case.

"What's going on?" Shelby asked, still half asleep.

"Get the kids and get in the cellar. Lock yourself in from the inside."

"Will?"

He heard more gunshots on top of each other. They were shotgun blasts followed by loud whooping. It was a sound many black people in the South had come to fear. It was the Rebel Yell. There was a cold feeling in the pit of Will's stomach as he loaded a magazine of bullets into the semi-automatic rifle.

"Shelby, baby. Go get the children and get in the cell. Now."

It had finally dawned on Shelby what was going on. Without a word, she leapt from the bed and raced down the hallway to the two rooms where their four children slept. Will gripped the rifle tight and stood up. He padded through the halls of the house, ignoring his children's confused questions. Shelby raced by with six-month-old Samuel in her arms while seven-year-old Antwan came behind her holding the hands of five-year-old Lucas and three-year-old Ruth. Will followed them to the back porch where the entrance to their cellar lay. A gunshot made Ruth flinch and cry. Her biggest brother tried to console her as Shelby opened up the cellar door and ushered the children in.

"Come inside with us," Shelby said once the children were down inside.

"No, I'm gonna call for help and see what's going on outside. There's not enough room for me inside there."

"Will, don't be stupid," Shelby chided. "We can make it fit. Get inside now."

"I'll be back," he said as he kissed her on the cheek. "Now get in there, you hear?"

She hesitated before going down inside. He gave her a playful swat on the rump and closed the heavy wooden doors behind her. He waited until he heard her bolt the locks before he turned and headed towards their telephone on the kitchen wall. The line had no dial tone nor the voice of an operator asking for a connection. Will closed his eyes and sighed, replacing the phone back on the cradle with shaky hands. Help would not be coming, the ones outside had seen to that. He held the rifle up and walked front door. He could hear voices as he approached the door. It wasn't until he was almost there that he realized he was only wearing a pair of boxers.

"Come on out now, boy."

Standing in front of Will's front porch were a group of six men. They all wore burlap sack masks on their heads and two carried shotguns. He saw white flesh peeking out from their short shirt sleeves. Even from this far away he could smell the liquor on the six men.

"Help you gentlemen?" Will asked. 

"We was hoping to help you, boy," one of them said, spitting a wad of tobacco juice from the mouth hole of his mask. "Help you and all your little nigger pals see the way of things."

"Boy," Will repeated. "My daddy is the only one who gets to call me boy. None of y'all are him."

"I might be your daddy," one of them hooted. "I had me a thing for nigger pussy back in the day. It's all pink on the inside, boy."

"That's a nice rifle you got, boy. What white man you steal that from?"

"I got it from the US Army," Will replied with a smirk. "Yessir, I got to shoot all kinds of white men during the war. I think I developed a taste for it. Now, I'm gonna give you fellas to the count of ten." He loaded a round into the rifle. "If y'all aren't off my property by the time I get to that number, I'm gonna start shooting."

"You can count to ten, boy?"

"Count higher than you peckerwoods."

"We ain't going anywhere," one of them said. "And the second you point that rifle at any of us, we open fire and kill your black ass. Then we go inside and rape your woman and kill your pickaninnies."

"Goddamn cowards," said Will, his anger pushing through his collected facade. "You fucking rednecks come to my home and threaten me and my family and wear masks and carry shotguns. You're a bunch of goddamn cowards, the whole lot of you. You can't handle a fucking black man one on one, and you all fucking know it."

"Watch your mouth, boy," one of the masked men said, racking a round into his shotgun.

"Y'all afraid to fight me," Will said with a bitter laugh. "That's what it is. I'll make you fine and upstanding white men a deal. One of you fight me one on one. I win, you all go back to fucking your sisters and cows. I lose, lynch me or whatever you want to do with me but it stops with me. Not my wife and not my children."

"Fuck you--"

"Do it," one of the men said with a giggle. "I wanna see this uppity nigger get his ass beat before we kill him."

It got quiet between the six masked men. They lowered their voices so Will couldn't hear them discuss whatever it was they were discussing.

"No guns," one of them said to Will after deliberation. "We'll put ours on the truck if you leave yours on the porch."

"I won't need a fucking gun to take care of you. Now, y'all pick which one of you that wants to get their ass whipped."

True to their word, the white men put their shotguns on the hood of one of the two pick-up trucks they rode in, parked in the driveway to block Will's own truck. Will left his rifle on the porch and stood facing the biggest of the six white men while his five comrades stood in a semi-circle watching. The white man was bigger than Will by at least three inches, putting him at six foot two, but he was also forty to fifty pounds heavier. The weight was all fat. He was some white man who had a soft job. He wasn't like Will. Twenty years of twelve and fourteen hour days out in the cotton fields had made him wiry and lean. He was the only man in basic training that had to actually put on weight in order to meet the Army's requirements. 

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Web007rzSOI](Mood Music)[/url]

The white man made the first swing. It was a slow and telegraphed thing that Will saw coming all the way. He dipped and dodged it with ease. Will wanted so bad to make the fist blow, but he knew he couldn't. He could mop the floor with this slow and fat redneck, but he had to act in defense. Being too aggressive would draw their ire, and these drunken white men held his life and the life of his family in their hands. In the back of his mind he knew they were just toying with him, but he held out hope that they would be true to their word and let them live if he won.

Will felt a growing sense of unease from the men after another slow punch he avoided. One of them muttered something about him being too fast, about how he and his whole kind were bred to be fast and vicious like animals. That flipped something inside of him. Will had always been rash when it came to matters of race. He was far bolder than other black men his age. Compared to James Calhoun down the road, he was a downright radical. The crack from the white man set off his old trigger. 

A hard right hook knocked the white man backward into his friends. They shoved him forward and he stumbled right into Will's waiting right uppercut. He felt like Jack Johnson reincarnated as he hit the drunken white man with a three punch combo that sent him reeling. The fight was his and he knew it. And he hoped like hell these peckerwoods knew it too. His rage over years and years of forced subservience to white trash came boiling out as he fought this white man. One more slow punch got countered and a vicos right jab made something pop inside the burlap mask. It was his nose, Will knew right away that he had broken it with his fist. The white man yelled and started to grab it. Will was preparing to go in for the kill when he felt something hard crash against the back of his head. The blow sent him spinning to the ground. He looked up and saw one of the men standing above him with a revolver in his hands, the barrel dripping his blood. Five of the white men stomped on him while he was on the ground, the sixth nursing his broken nose. Their hard soled boots crashed against his body. Will screamed as he felt a bone in his leg snap. He bit his tongue and stopped screaming as blood filled his mouth. He felt his jaw snap at the same time the back of his skull fractured.

"Fucking cheating nigger," one of them said. 

Will tried to talk, but his body was in too much pain to muster up a response. The left him there and went towards their trucks. He tried to move, but the pain that went through his body was too much to bear. Two of the men came back into view. They carried a pair of glass bottles with cloth stuck down the neck. Will tried to scream, but it came out as a muffled and bloody rasp. He forced his body to move, fighting through the pain to crawl towards the men with the bottles. The men lit the rags on fire with lighters and tossed them at the house. The gas-filled bottles exploded against the house and consumed the home in flames. Within seconds, it was a raging inferno.

Trying to muster every bit of his willpower, Will tried to force himself to get back up and get his rifle off the porch. One of the men stood over him with a shotgun. From somewhere far away, Will heard the sounds of his family screaming and he smelled the scent of burning flesh.

"This is what happens to niggers who don't know their place."

He brought the butt of the shotgun down on Will's face.