2012

Chapter 11: I'm not a fucking magician
[Go to beginning]

While he drove to his meeting with Buddy Roemer, Karl Rove talked into his digital recorder. He was trying out graphic adjectives with which to lace his fliers and ads lambasting Obama and his policies. He’d always been good at this, and he rattled off a series of zingers. “Profligate spending, record deficits, monstrous health-care costs, huge bailouts, distortions, demagoguery,” he said, as he turned off 16th Street NW onto Colorado Avenue. He drove past the Rock Creek Tennis Center and parked in the southwest section of the parking lot adjacent to the Carter Barron Amphitheater. His was the only car there.

Rove put on the heavy coat he’d brought and put the recorder into his left coat pocket. He checked his calls and email, and then put his smart phone and BlackBerry into his briefcase. He got out, walked around his rental car, and put his briefcase in the trunk. He leaned against the car and checked his watch. It was a few minutes after three o’clock. Roemer was late.

#

Buddy Roemer watched for Rove from the bleachers of the Rock Creek Park Tennis Center. He looked through binoculars as a car drove past the tennis center and parked in the far southwest section of the lot. The season was well past and the amphitheater parking lot was deserted. He saw Rove get out of the car and put his briefcase in the trunk. When he was sure no one was with Rove or following behind him, he walked down to his car. He opened the door and put the binoculars under the seat. He took a digital recorder and an audio jammer from his glove compartment. He put the jammer in the left pocket of his trench coat, and the recorder in the right pocket. Then drove over to where Rove was waiting.

#

The sky was overcast and a cold wind blew across the lot gathering leaves in a series of small whirlwinds. Rove hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. He watched as Roemer parked and walked over.

Rove stuck out his right hand and switched on his recorder with his left. Roemer stuck out his right hand and switched on his jammer with his left. The two men shook hands.

“Karl.”

“Buddy.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Roemer said.

“Fine,” Rove said, and they started down the trail towards the amphitheater. The trail was bordered by dense foliage that protected the men from the chill wind, but made the trail seem dark and the area somewhat threatening. Good place to off someone, thought Rove.

They sat down at the left rear of the amphitheater seats and each scanned their surroundings before Rove spoke up. “Buddy Roemer you picked a cold, lonely place to meet,” Rove said.



“It’s a beautiful spot in the fall, Karl, but this time of year, not so much.”

“Well it’s too damned cold out here to beat around the bush, so let me get right to the point. I can offer you significant financial support for a third party run, and should we see a Republican elected president, a cabinet position,” Rove said.

“Which?” Roemer asked.

“Health and Human Services, HUD, or Labor,” Rove said. “Depends on who gets the nod and who owes what to whom,” he added.

“How much?” Roemer said.

“How much what?” Rove said.

“How much financial support will I get and when will I get it?” Roemer said.

“Well, you know that Republicans with deep pockets contributed to Ralph Nader’s campaign in 2004, and they are willing to do that again for you,” Rove said.

Roemer opened his mouth to say something, but Rove held up his index finger and hurried on. “In addition, we will help you raise the required matching funds in at least 20 states so that you qualify for matching public funds.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Roemer said.

“Hell, Buddy, we have PACs, Super PACs, grassroots support groups...you name it. Raising the money’s no problem. Laundering it is the problem.”

“I’ll need one million up front to get off the ground,” Roemer said.

“One million?! What are you getting off the ground in, a Lear Jet?” Rove said, with a guffaw.

Roemer just looked at Rove.

“Okay, we can manage that. You’ll want to look as if you have some substance,” Rove said.

You crass son of a bitch, Roemer thought.

#

Rove went on to outline the next steps in moving the dishevelled mob that was Occupy Wall Street towards the formation of a third party. "Look, Buddy, we're not trying to get these bozos to come to a consensus or anything like that. For Christ sake, they can't agree on what they're protesting. We're just gonna insert a few people in the mix, get them some attention, and then have you announce your third party candidacy and have these people endorse it," Rove said.

"And what are the real Occupiers going to say about that?" Roemer said.

"Who gives a shit," Rove said. "First of all, they don't speak with a single voice, and second, by the time they realize what's happened, absentee ballots will be in the mail."

"So you have no intention of really trying to coalesce the Occupy Wall Street movement into a coherent political party? Roemer said.

"Hell no!" Rove said. "I'm not a fucking magician."

#

Both men were quiet as they made their way back to their cars, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in the pockets of their coats, as each mulled over what had just transpired.

They had agreed that in the future, face-to-face meetings would be kept to an absolute minimum. No use taking the chance that someone would spot them and wonder what was going on.

DC was a hotbed of rumors and it didn't take much to get one started. Rove had purchased a couple of anonymous prepaid cell phones, activating them from a phony address. He'd given one to Roemer, and told him how to buy another when the activation expired. Mostly, they'd coordinate their activities by phone.

When they reached their cars, Roemer shut off his jammer and switched on his recorder. Rove shut off his recorder and stuck out his right hand, "Nice doing business with you, Buddy," Rove said as the two men shook hands.

As they turned to their cars, Roemer said, "Hey Rove, one more time. Just so I have this straight. Quick run down on the plan."

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012

Chapter 7: Anger Points

[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove sent a text to James O’Keefe, “Send more photos from OWS. Hire more helpers.” ‘Helpers’ was a euphemism for the homeless guys O’Keefe was paying to wander around Occupy Wall Street rallies and sit-ins. In a stroke of genius, O’Keefe was paying his 'helpers' with beer.

Rove turned his attention to the list he was making on a BlackBerry digital notepad app. It was labeled, ‘Anger points.’ At the same time he was listening to Reince Priebus on his cell. Priebus was whining that it was near impossible to arrange a deal for Roemer when the GOP hadn’t yet nominated its presidential candidate.

“Listen, Reince, I’m meeting with Roemer again Monday. I need to lay this out for him.” Rove got up, flushed the toilet, and walked into the bedroom of his hotel. “You need to get the top three together and tell them no RNC money unless they all agree to the deal.”

“The top three?” said Priebus.

“Romney, Gingrich, and Cain,” Rove said, punching the room service number on the desk phone.

“But what if--”

Rove interrupted, “What if Bachmann gets the nod, or Santorum, or Paul, or--”

“Perry,” said Priebus.

“Have you seen his numbers recently? The guy is shooting himself in the foot, when he doesn’t have it in his mouth. He’s losing contributors right and left. He won’t have the money to see it through. Believe me, I know,” said Rove, checking his BlackBerry for the latest polling on the Republican candidates.

“Well...,” Priebus said.

“Club sandwich, potato salad, pickle, and a coke,” Rove said.

“What?” Priebus said.

“Set up a conference call. I’ll handle it,” Rove said, ending the call before Priebus had a chance to protest.

Rove thumbed his smart phone until he found what he was looking for on Youtube. Then, while he ate, he watched the attack ad on Elizabeth Warren his Crossroads PAC had produced. He chuckled as Warren was shown in her ‘class warfare’ speech in the ad. The volume in the ad had been turned way down, so that the viewer couldn’t hear the substance of her argument. She was just gesticulating strenuously. She came out looking deranged, especially when superimposed over the chaotic scenes of the Oakland Occupy Wall Street protests. The ad’s ominous music was a bit cheesy, but in Rove’s opinion, cheesy never hurt when it came to politics. The ad cost Rove’s PAC nearly $600K, but it was worth it. The GOP couldn’t afford to lose Scott Brown’s senate seat.

By the time Rove walked out of the Ritz-Carlton and into a waiting taxi it was almost 2 pm and he still had a lot on his ‘to do’ list. His first stop was GOP Headquarters. On the way there he continued to add to his ‘anger points’ list. ‘Guns’ topped the list, followed by ‘homosexuality/gay marriage. Then he wrote, ‘Barney Frank.’ He paused, put his hand on his stomach, belched, and then dry-swallowed an antacid. Then he wrote ‘Nancy Pelosi.’ Then in rapid succession he wrote, ‘abortion,’ ‘mandated health insurance,’ ‘high cost of gas,’ ‘global warming hoax,’ and ‘unemployment.’ Rove paused to look out the window as his taxi navigated downtown Boston, and then finished his list with, ‘OWS.’ and put away his BlackBerry as the taxi pulled up in front of the drab, brick building that served as GOP Headquarters.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012

Chapter One: How do you pronounce Reince?


Karl Rove enjoyed the opulence of the posh Washington DC club in which he was breakfasting with the head of the RNC. It was these sort of perks that made him feel successful. He looked up from the newspaper he had spread in his ample lap. “Have you been following the Occupy Wall Street movement, Reince?” he asked his companion, a pasty-faced, buttoned-down younger man shoveling hash browns into his mouth.

Priebus looked up at Rove and frowned. It irked him that Rove refused to pronounce his name correctly. It rhymed with Heinz, like the catchup, not rinse, like the wash cycle. Priebus picked up his napkin from his lap and very deliberately wiped his mouth before responding. “Those hippie freeloaders? I could care less.”

“Well, you should care. They could help us elect a Republican president in 2012.” Rove narrowed his eyes and stared at Priebus. What a cypher, he thought.

Priebus sat back in his upholstered arm chair. What the fuck does Karl have up his sleeve now? he wondered. “How’s that, Karl?”

Rove dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his large, linen napkin. Then removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Reince, you know what the spoiler effect is,” he drawled.

Priebus narrowed his eyes. “You mean like in sports?”

“Are we talking about sports, son?” Rove said. “I mean, goddangit Reince, put on your thinking cap!”

Priebus flinched visibly. God I hate it when he goes into his god-damned lecture mode. Just say what the fuck you mean and get it over with. “What do you mean?”

“In the 2000 election... you were old enough to vote then, right?” Rove said, with just the hint of a smile.

Priebus opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rove guffawed. “Just joshing ya, son.” Rove said.

Priebus looked at Rove with an expression between disgust -- it made him nauseous to see the waddle under Rove’s double chin tremble -- and malice. Rove was such a dick. “I remember the 2000 election,” Priebus said.

“Well then you remember the kingmaker; the fellow who got Dubya elected.”

“You?” Priebus said.

“Ralph Nader, boy. Ralph, unsafe at any speed, Nader. That’s what a spoiler in politics is, and that’s what we’re gonna create for the 2012 Presidential Election, and we’re gonna mold it right outta the mud and shit of the Occupy Wall Street morass.” Rove slammed his open palm down on the table making the silverware, the plates, and Priebus jump.

“How the hell..., I mean--” Priebus stammered.

“Third party candidate. Someone the hippies -- I mean the noble youth -- can identify with. A person with all the liberal left bone-fides; a green, socialist, gay marriage, pro-abortion, free love liberal. Someone we’ll help get on the ballot, and support right up to the election.” Bubbles of spit floated in the air over Rove’s place setting as he grew in excitement. 

“You’re talking about co-opting the Occupy Wall Street movement?” said Priebus.

“Hell no, Priebus. Stephen Colbert’s already tried that. I’m talking about infiltrating it.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.