Gladys Alabi and Anthony Cromwell stared aghast at the flat-screen TV on the wall in the conference room. They were watching President Morowitz come unglued, ranting about how WACKO was “the real government, the shadow government”, and that he, Morowitz, was a figurehead, a joke.
“How long you suppose before WACKO shuts them down?”
“They can't crash the bunker, Gladys. That would be too obvious.”
“Do they even know which bunker?”
“Shouldn't take them long to figure it out, but they'll wait at least until he's done speaking.”
“What about the signal?”
“You mean cut it off?”
“Yeah, wouldn't that be the best way? Blame it on the weather, terrorists?
“Oh, I'm sure they're trying.”
“I wish Randy was here with us.”
“You know...”
“Yeah, I know. He likes to work alone. I still wish he was here.”
Just then, Randy Newgate appeared in the conference room with his laptop.
“They're not doing anything. Didn't even try to keep us from co-opting the satellite feeds. Makes sense. The more that asshole rants the less his credibility, what's left of it anyway.”
“He looks pretty good up there, actually,” said Cromwell.
“That's true, but a president's not supposed to talk like that. Most people are convinced he's gone over the edge.”
“Finally grew a pair of balls, is what he's done.”
“Too little, too late, Gladys. I just hope Ruth doesn't go down with him.”
“She won't, Anthony. She's too smart.”
“Then that dimwit Kudlow will be president. Holy shit.”
Hearing Cromwell use profanity quieted the other two. They turned their attention back to the screen in time to watch Morowitz break into song.
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