Bentley Little - The Collection

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had assured him that the National Guard was ready for its demonstration and that the other branches of the armed forces were available as backup.

Everything was in place.

The second the limousine carrying the queen passed onto the White House grounds, and the iron gates closed behind it, National Guard troops blocked off the street and sur­rounded the area. Simultaneously, the White House press secretary put out the news that a bomb threat had been made against the queen and that precautions—including the use of armed guards—were being taken.

Adam waited in the Oval Office, the document he'd had drawn up by the chief justice of the Supreme Court sitting on his desk, a pen next to it. He was nervous, hands sweaty, but he was determined to go through with the plan. He would be assassinated if they failed—he had no doubt about that—but there was a good chance that they would not fail.

He was imagining his place in history when there was a knock on the door. He stood, composed himself, cleared his throat. "Yes?" he enquired.

The door opened and a host of British dignitaries and American cabinet members entered the room, parting to allow the queen to pass by.

The queen.

She looked just like she did on TV and in magazine pho­tographs. Even knowing the extent of her power, even with all the knowledge of her position that he'd gained recently, he could sense no aura of exaggerated importance about her, no intimidating demeanor, none of the dictatorial trappings he would have expected. It was an illusion, though. He knew that. And he bowed extravagantly as she stopped before his desk. "Your Majesty."

She acknowledged his servility with a barely perceptible nod and sat down in the specially provided chair opposite him. "Now," she said, "tell us what you have to say."

"I'd prefer to do this alone," he said, motioning toward the gathered dignitaries.

"Anything you say to us can be said in front of them."

"I'm afraid that they might have a vested interest. May we speak in private?"

She nodded, dismissing the others with a slight wave of her hand. Everyone else, American and British, filed out of the room. The door closed behind them.

Outside the office, Adam knew, FBI agents were disarm­ing and subduing the British, herding them downstairs with their compatriots. A trickle of sweat slid from under his left armpit, down the side of his body, hidden by his suit jacket.

"I want a guarantee that there aren't going to be any repercussions simply because I tell you the truth."

"We give you our word," she told him.

" 'Our' word? What about your word? I don't mean to be disrespectful," he said, "but I'd like some assurances that you, personally, guarantee that your underlings will not seek reprisals."

She looked at him as if he was a bug she had squashed on the floor. "You have my word," she said.

"And that is legally binding?"

"The word of the British sovereign has been legally bind­ing for hundreds of years. It is law."

"Very well." He stood, pushed the document and pen across the desk toward her. "I want you to sign this."

The queen blinked. "What did you say to me?"

"I want you to sign this document."

She regarded him with an expression centered some­where between horror, disgust, and outrage. "You dare to make demands on us?”

He met her eyes. "Yes."

He saw hesitance, what might be the first faint stirrings of apprehension, and it made him feel good.

"What is this?" she demanded, motioning toward the document.

"A real declaration of independence. A contract ceding the United States of America to its citizens and declaring that you and your nation relinquish all rights—"

"Never!"

"Never say never."

"Pembroke!" she called loudly. "Lewis!"

There was a pause.

Silence.

"They're not coming," Adam said. "We've captured them." He walked slowly around the huge desk. "Now all we need is your signature."

"You're loony!"

"Maybe so, but you're going to sign that contract."

"I most certainly will not!" In one quick movement, she was out of her chair, across the room, and almost to the door. He lunged at her, and she stepped aside, allowing him to shoulder the wall. He felt a sharp pain in his side as she jabbed him with a bony fist.

"Goddamn it!" He reached for her arm, but she was al­ready running away, toward the opposite side of the office, yelling for help.

He tackled the queen, and her purse flew across the Oval Office. She was small but wiry, and she squirmed out of his grasp, kicking him hard in the chest with a high-heeled shoe. She scrambled for her purse and was opening it, pulling something out, when he landed on her. He wrenched her right arm behind her back, causing her to cry out. Still hold­ing her, he struggled to his feet and forced her over to the desk.

He held her around the neck with his left hand, while he loosened his grip on her arm with his right. "Sign it!" he or­dered, forcing her hand onto the desk.

"Fuck you!" she screamed. She tried to break away, but he was stronger than she was and she received only a more tightly pinched neck in return.

"Pick up the pen!" he ordered.

"No!"

"I'll break your arm, you shriveled old bitch." He in­creased the pressure.

Angrily, she picked up the pen.

He held her hand to the paper. "Sign it."

She hesitated.

"Now!" he screamed.

She quickly scrawled her signature. He moved her over to the left side of the desk and compared her written name with the example of her signature Simons had provided.

It was good.

He let her go.

A surge of pride coursed through him, an expression of pure patriotism he had not felt since ... well, ever.

The queen had run immediately to the door and was rub­bing her sore wrist, begging to be released. She was crying, and he thought with satisfaction that she wasn't such a tough old broad after all.

He picked up the document, placed it in his middle desk drawer, and locked it.

The United States was officially a sovereign nation.

They were free.

He looked at the queen. She was no longer crying, and he could see no tears on her overly made-up face, but she was still frowning and rubbing her wrist, and he smiled at her, feeling good.

"God bless America," he said.

Confessions of a Corporate Man

I worked as a technical writer in the early 1990s be­cause at the time I could not support myself writing fiction. Being a bearded, long-haired liberal arts guy, I found it a bit surreal after seven years of college to find myself sitting in an office surrounded by well-groomed business, accounting, and public administra­tion types. Even more surreal was how seriously they took their petty little turf wars and how ridiculous were their priorities.

"Confessions of a Corporate Man" is my slightly exaggerated take on those days.

***

We sharpened pencils for the War and walked over to Ac­counting en masse. The Finance Director and his minions were working on spreadsheets, and unsuspecting. We had the advantage of surprise.

We screamed as one, on my cue, and when the account­ants looked up, we drove the pencils through their eyes and into their brains. It was glorious. I was in charge of dis­patching the director himself, and I shoved the pencil in hard, feeling it puncture membrane and spear through gelatin into flesh. The director's fat hands lashed out, trying to grab me, but then he was twitching and then he was still.

I straightened up and looked around the department. The War had been awfully short, and we had won virtually with­out a fight. Bodies were already quiet and cooling, blood and eye juice leaking onto graph paper and computer print­outs.