A very taciturn Secret Service agent drives you to the Democratic National Convention headquarters and parks a number of blocks away.
“C’mon, kid,” he says as he gets out of the car, “I got everything you need in the back.”
You follow him around and he begins handing you things rapidly.
“ID, VOX press pass, Galaxy Note, faggot glasses, keyring flashlight, and pepper spray. These pussies never go anywhere without their pepper spray.”
“Thanks,” you say.
“I can’t give you any of these because of the metal detectors,” he says, pointing to the dozens of guns and knives in the trunk. “And I can’t give you any body armor. They’ll spot that right away. I got something better, though.”
He produces a blue baseball cap with the words “Make America Moral Again” and jams it on your head.
“MAMA?” you ask.
“Terrible slogan, right? So they will all ignore you.”
He looks you up and down, straightens the hat and frowns, he pulls your t-shirt and rips the neck, and slaps each of your cheeks forcefully.
“Now you look like a Vox reporter!’ he says happily.
“So what am I doing?” you ask.
“It’s easy. You go in as a reporter and have a look around. All the heavy hitters are there because the election is so close. Everybody should be too busy to pay attention to a loyal reporter nosing around for a puff piece about The Squad’s Korean beauty regimen or Kamala Harris’ favorite vegan goat curry nonsense. You look everywhere you can but don’t get caught. You are a deniable asset. They find you, they’ll probably just kill you. Or worse.”
“Worse?” you ask nervously
“It’s best not to know,” the agent said gravely.
He turns you around a few times making sure you look all right. He grumbles a bit and then rips one of the back pockets off your jeans.
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, you ask, “What’s it like being a Secret Service agent?”
He starts to laugh. “Who said I was a secret service agent?”
“The phone there has only one number stored in the phone book. Call it when you are done and we’ll arrange for pick up.”
“Do I look OK?”
“Not Aspie enough for Vox, but you’ll do. When people are around, pretending to be texting. Try not to make eye contact. If anyone challenges you, just say, ‘Do you have any peanut butter cheese crackers? I can only have peanut butter cheese crackers.’ Repeat that back to me.
“Do you have any peanut butter cheese crackers? I can only have peanut butter cheese crackers,” you say.
“No, more like a robot.”
“Do you have any peanut butter cheese crackers? I can only have peanut butter cheese crackers,” you say in a monotone.
“Perfect. You’re ready.”
“Uh,” you say “Why me? Why not, like, a real spy?”
The fake Secret Service agent stands up straighter and puffs out his chest and says, “Because the President believes in you, son.”
—–
Your new ID and press pass gets you through building security with ease. The first floor is a beehive of activity, interns flitting from press pod to press pod, gathering or spreading press releases like deceitful pollen. The few that notice you glance at your Vox press badge either smirk or ask for a blowjob. You keep your eyes on your phone and pretend you don’t hear.
You stumble over an intern lying on the floor and squat down for a better look. He is either dead or close to being so. You pat down his navy blue sports jacket and find a phone and some papers. You look up and see burly workmen approaching with a wheelbarrow, so you pocket the papers and drop the phone on the carpet beside the fallen intern.
“What are you doing?” one of the workmen demands.
“Yeah, what are you doing?” the other asks, “You gotta necrofetish, going around touching up the dead?”
“N-n-n-no,” you stutter.
“No? Is that all you have to say?”
“Do you have any peanut butter cheese crackers? I can only have peanut butter cheese crackers,” you tell them.
“Oh, he’s one of those,” one says to the other.
“Poor bastard,” he says, shaking his head.
One of them helps you to your feet and says loudly and slowly, “Check over by the juice boxes. Dead people don’t have any snacks. Don’t search dead people for snacks.”
The dead body beside you coughs, loudly, convulsively, and sits up.
“It’s always creepy when they do that,” one of the workmen says.
“It’s just something a dead body does sometimes, don’t be scared,” the other says to you, giving you a push toward the snack table.
“I think I’m OK,” the dead intern says as they load him in the wheelbarrow and take him away.
You back away against a wall and look that the papers you found on the body. You drop the press releases on the floor with the rest of the shoals of garbage but one thing catches your eye. A floor plan of the building and restricted areas marked out in red. The 2nd-floor offices and the building basement are heavily marked out as no-go zones. Perfect places to investigate.
DO YOU investigate the 2nd-floor offices? TURN TO PAGE 40
DO YOU investigate the basement of the building for the spoiler ballots? TURN TO PAGE 50
