Love And Bombs On The High Sea

Egomaniacal Director Plots Adaptation Of Inane Television Show, Basks In Himself

Los Angeles (AP) It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that an egomaniac in want of attention will call a press conference. At least that's how Jane Austen might write her introduction these days. A fitting way for this reporter to introduce a story of an egomaniac at work promoting himself. After the recent unpleasantness of his former editor being committed to an insane asylum after years of deranged behaviour and threats, this reporter was pleased to get a new editor who's entirely pleasant. Even to the point of giving this reporter a twist on a regular assignment: full permission to ridicule the subject as needed. Thanks to the new editor (editor: you're welcome)

And so it was recently that this reporter arrived at the LA headquarters of Digital Domain, home base of the biggest ego in Hollywood- which is saying something. Michael Bay, the explosion prone director of such mindless dreck as Pearl Harbor, the Transformers franchise, and much more, has had in recent years a growing backlog of projects he keeps meaning to get to. Such is the case with his newest project.

This reporter joined a handful of actual reporters- all still masked- and a horde of entertainment reporters- all unmasked- in the auditorium at the studio. A podium had been set up on stage. Along with a mirror. The entertainment reporters were gushing about what was to be announced. This reporter wondered if he could call in a favour from a cranky Mountie. 

At length, a woman strode out on the stage and called for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the greatest director of our time and any other time.... Michael Bay!" The entertainment reporters broke out into applause. Real reporters began rolling their eyes (editor: for good reason; Michael Bay is a wanker). Has this reporter mentioned how grateful he is for the new editor?

Bay came out on stage, waving and grinning like an idiot, looking his usual self. Dishevelled hair, stubble, casual clothing. He walked up to the podium, winked at his reflection in the mirror, and began to speak to the crowd. "Thank you! Thanks for coming out! It's wonderful to see you all here today. You know, it's been awhile since we've had one of these." Not long enough, this reporter thought to himself. "But here we are, getting our way through this whole pandemic thing. Sorry for the no room for social distancing thing, but hey... people love seeing me. So I'm sure it'll all be fine. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. The big announcement."

He paused a moment before continuing. "You know, I think a lot about the masterpieces I've made and the things I still have to do. I've given the world my spin on World War Two and asteroids and giant robots and all that. Now I want to move in a new direction. Something that you might not expect out of me."

He smiled as he looked out at the audience, totally oblivious to the contempt on the faces of real reporters. "I thought about a television series. Not doing a television series, but adapting one. Bringing it to the big screen for a three hour extravaganza of fun, Aerosmith tunes, bikini clad women, and explosions. Because you've got to have explosions. What kind of movie is it when there aren't explosions?"

He paused once more before continuing. "And so it is, ladies and gentlemen, that I will be adapting for the big screen... The Love Boat."

Entertainment reporters broke out into applause. Real reporters rolled their eyes and sighed. Bay remained utterly oblivious to their disdain, laughing and basking in the esteem of the entertainment reporters. The television series had followed a number of crew members on a cruise ship helping various guest stars each week with their romantic foibles, back in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a light hearted but utterly tedious show with faded stars in the guest roles each week, following a tired formula (editor: I agree with you; who was calling for a reboot of that dreck?)

And so this reporter sighed, expecting the worst. Because even more obnoxious than a retread of a 70s television show is a hack of a director like Michael Bay directing it. Of course he would announce his usual crew of nitwits as the main characters, but what washed up contemporary actors would fill out the list of passengers on this cruise ship to movie going hell? And how many Michael Bay techniques would we be seeing? Because he had already mentioned explosions.

"Thank you! Thank you! Oh, what a wonderful response!" Bay said, pleased by the cheers of the entertainment reporters. 

"Are you insane?" this reporter inquired. (editor: spoiler note- he is).

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" Bay asked, oblivious to the contempt from the actual reporters. "Now of course we have to tell the story of passengers finding romance as they meet on this great cruise ship off the West Coast. But there has to be more. Because I'm Michael Bay, the greatest film director ever, and I know what the audience wants. Which is why my plot will shift as the heroic crew tangles with a villain hidden among the passengers. A mad bomber out to make a whole lot of trouble. I mean, I did mention explosions, after all."

"Are you aware the bomber on a ship thing has been done before? It was called Speed 2, and it was a sequel no one was asking for," this reporter pointed out.

"I've never heard of it." Bay shrugged, smiled like an idiot before carrying on. "And we'll have high drama, great action, amazing explosions, and life and death stakes. And explosions. So without further ado, let's start introducing you to our stellar cast. Playing the leading role of Captain Stubing, he's one of my favourite actors and one of yours... Mr. Nicolas Cage!"

Cage came out on stage, carrying a bottle of aged whiskey and lighting a cigar with a hundred dollar bill. Obviously his previous brushes with near bankruptcy have not taught him anything. He looked as bizarre as usual, which is saying something. "Hey there!" he called out to the crowd. "Great to be here. And it'll be great playing this role. Did I mention I always wanted to be an admiral?"

He joined Bay, who gave him a fist bump. "And two of my other favourite actors playing key roles in this film. He'll be playing Doc, and she'll be playing Julie... let's give it up for Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox!" 

The two stepped out on stage; she was wearing a low cut black dress and gave the entertainment reporters a view of her proverbial assets. He was waving like an idiot, and started talking in the third person like he usually does. "Shia approves of all this applause!" he told the entertainment reporters. "Shia loves to bask in the love! It is good for Shia!" This reporter wondered if Shia LaBeouf understood how much of a dumbass he came across as. 

Fox and Labeouf joined Bay and Cage, and Bay smiled like the dolt that he is. "I've got plenty more casting to come. After all, we've got our villain to cast. I tried calling Jon Voight, my go-to guy on these things, but he's too busy curled up in a fetal position and muttering his undying loyalty to some guy named Trump. So we'll have to find someone else who can emphasize crazy like no one else can. I'd go with Samuel L. Jackson, but he told me to go **** myself. I don't know why... I mean, I'm a perfectly respectable person."

"It just means Sam has standards," this reporter suggested. 

True to form, Bay didn't understand that he was being insulted. "It can't be that."

He smiled again. "At any rate, lots of things for us to do and lots to get ready for. So get yourself ready for an extravaganza of fun on the open seas with five star service, sunbathing, and explosions. It's The Love Boat, Michael Bay style, and it's coming to your theatres before you know it. As soon as I've got all the other stuff I'm working on done. Genius takes time, you know..."

"You're not a genius," this reporter called out.

Bay laughed. "You kidder!" With that, Bay and his cast left the stage. Entertainment reporters were gushing. Real reporters shook their heads and took their leave. In an ideal world, Michael Bay would be thrown off a cruise ship. In the middle of the Bermuda Triangle (editor: covered in barbecue sauce and tossed in with hungry sharks).

This reporter likes his new editor.

A Voyage Into Bay Style Explosions

It has been an exceedingly long while since I've featured the world's most egotistical director, so here we are...

Lunatic Director Announces New Project; Reporters Sigh In Dismay

Los Angeles (AP) Reporters were summoned this week to the production offices of Digital Domain in Playa Vista, L.A., for a new announcement made by the company’s resident self-described cinematic genius. Some of those reporters were real reporters, sent on this assignment by cranky editors with grudges who hated them (editor: shut up!). Others were of the entertainment reporter variety, each of them vacant headed twits who were gushing to themselves as they arrived at the facility, speculating on what big announcement might be in store.

As the real reporters and the entertainment reporters gathered in the facility auditorium, this reporter felt the oncoming of a headache (editor: I hope it’s a brain tumour, you smirking bastard!) at the idea of being stuck with so many entertainment reporters to take in yet another announcement from the most egomaniacal film director of them all (editor: hey! He’s a humble guy!) This reporter would also like to point out that his editor is particularly mean spirited, with that brain tumour remark, and that his editor is the subject of a restraining order preventing him from being in the same building as this reporter (editor: and someday I’ll figure out a way past that restraining order and you’ll get what’s coming).

This reporter would further like to point out that his editor is unwise to write threats in the form of editorial notes into publicized reports (editor: shut up!). Now then, the real reporters and the entertainment reporters had all gathered together in the auditorium. As usual, the entertainment reporters were gossiping among themselves as to what might be announced. The real reporters were checking their watches and wondering how long this nonsense might take. A spokeswoman came out on stage, where a podium had been set up, with a full length mirror beside it. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” she called out. “Give it up for the greatest cinematic genius of all time… Michael…. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

The entertainment reporters broke out into rapturous applause. This reporter wondered what the point was to dragging out Bay’s surname like that. And Bay himself came out on stage. As usual, he had that same demented grin, the same delirious look in his eyes. As always, his hair was disheveled and he was bearing three days of stubble. And as usual, he was dressed fairly casually- jeans and a denim shirt. He waved to the crowd, came up to the podium, winked at himself in the mirror, and faced the crowd.

“Hello!” he called out. “It’s great to see you! And it’s great that you’re seeing me!” He grinned again, totally oblivious to the contempt and dismayed sighs from real reporters, drinking in the adulation of the entertainment reporters. “You know, I’ve got a lot going on. Projects that are occupying my attention. And yet there’s always room for more. And it occurred to me the other night. I had one of those nights I occasionally get where I have insomnia. So I’m sitting up, watching television, and there’s this show on. Something I’m sure you’ve all seen before. A lighthearted romp on the ocean, big guest stars every week, romantic adventures, character comedy with the regular cast. So I realized, hey… why not adapt it into a blockbuster film? Which is why I’m already planning the epic adaptation of… wait for it! The Love Boat!”

The entertainment reporters broke out into more applause. Bay grinned and laughed, soaking in their approval, looking all the more like a demented buffoon. The real reporters shook their heads. The television series, having had aired for nine seasons from 1977-1986, was hardly the sort of thing that could adapt well to the big screen. Romantic pairings on a cruise? Pure fluff of a past era in a present day that had long since outgrown cruise liners? How would you even begin to weave a film out of that? And especially in the style of Michael Bay, who was addicted to explosions, Aerosmith tunes, bikini clad women waxing cars, noise, peril, and excess? (editor: shut up! Michael Bay is a great director!)

“Are you serious?” this reporter asked, having had already decided this whole announcement was a waste of his time. (editor: you’re a waste of my time!)

“Of course I am! Why do people keep asking me that?” Bay asked, seeming confused.

“Well, a romantic melodrama hardly seems like your typical sort of film,” a Reuters reporter noted.

“That’s right. Which is why I have to add a few things in,” Bay admitted. “Now it all starts out seemingly like you’d expect in the television series. A passenger ship in the Pacific taking on passengers for a luxury cruise. Random people seemingly drawn together. Romantic moments. At least until it’s revealed that one of them is a mad bomber and there’s a hurricane headed right for the ship, and icebergs being thrown around, and sharks in the water and all sorts of big moments and peril. So without further ado, let’s start giving it up for the cast I’ve already signed up. First, we have to have the stoic and noble captain, the big man himself. Now in the television series, his name was Merrill Stubing. That’s not going to fly in a Michael Bay movie if you ask me. I mean, what kind of name is Merrill? So we’re changing his first name to Mark. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Ladies and gentlemen, give a hand to one of my favourite actors, Mr. Nicolas Cage!”

Cage stumbled out on stage, waving a bottle of scotch as he drunkenly strode towards Bay. The entertainment reporters cheered. “Hello! Thanks for coming out!” This reporter wondered if Cage had ever considered that he might be a full blown alcoholic. The actor took his place by Bay.

“Now then, the series had the captain’s daughter as part of the regular cast,” Bay continued. “And so it will be with this film. Playing Vicki Stubing, an ever reliable member of the crew, give it up for Megan Fox!”

Fox stepped out on stage, looking her usual way- a black mini-dress with low cut cleavage. There were cheers and cat calls from the entertainment reporters, and Fox smiled, drinking in the attention. Then she took her place with Cage and Bay.

Bay carried on. “And playing a new role, a young Navy SEAL veteran who’s trying to get past seeing his two best friends get run over by a Macy’s Christmas parade float… another of my favourite actors, Mr. Shia LaBeouf!”

Now it was LaBeouf who came out on stage, waving to the crowd, smiling. “Hello! Shia is happy to see you! Thank you for coming! Shia approves!” He walked up to the others, still grinning like an idiot. This reporter wondered if brain damage was a factor (editor: I’d like to give you brain damage, you twit!).

Bay nodded. “I’m still busy casting other roles, but I do have one more cast member to introduce to you. He’s a guy I haven’t worked with before, but he’s got just the energy I need for a vital member of the crew. He’s going to be playing the wise bartender Isaac Washington… ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Ice Cube!”

The sometime rapper and sometime actor stepped out on stage, looking uncertain. He took in the crowd, shrugged, and said, “okay, working with this guy was a bit of an impulsive thing to do. I figure, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“The end of your career?” this reporter asked.

“That’s a funny joke!” Bay said with a laugh. “Now then, we’re going to get busy on this film. I mean, when I’ve got all the other films in the pipeline done. We’re talking sunset views, romantic moments, babes in bikinis waxing… well, there’ll have to be something substituting for sports cars, because you can’t really race sports cars around on a cruise ship. We’re talking Aerosmith coming in and doing a theme song. We’re talking about explosions and peril and a sinking ship and rogue waves and sharks in the water and a menacing iceberg and…”

“Has anyone told you you’re insane?” this reporter asked.

Bay seemed confused. “Why would anyone think that? That’s all the time we’ve got today. Look for Doom On The Love Boat coming sometime in the future to a theatre near you! Thanks for everything!”

With that, Bay and the cast walked off. The gathering started to break up, with the entertainment reporters buzzing amongst themselves over the story. This reporter found the idea of rogue waves more appealing than editor-mandated assignments covering the narcissism of a twit (editor: I swear to God, I’m going to have you dropped into shark infested water covered with barbecue sauce).

In the opinion of this reporter, that last threat from his cranky editor is rather specific (editor: shut up! I hate you! Oh, do I hate you!).

Revenge List Of A Narcissist

Okay, so before the election I wrote a post that shall go forever unpublished (Norma and a few other people have seen it), featuring Trump's epic temper tantrum when he lost. Obviously for some inexplicable reason, he didn't lose. After the election, well, let's just say I wrote a rant for myself, basically venting, which will also go unpublished. It contained a lot of curse words and would have ended up losing me at least a couple of readers.

I've written this lately though. It's Trump's revenge list. The first part of everyone he wants to get even with. Incidentally, writing in his voice still makes me nauseous. I'll try not to say I told you so when the time comes.

Okay, right? So I won, right? Won it fair and square and cheated like a bastard the whole time, right? Now it’s time to settle some scores, get even with a few people. Nothing too big. Just millions and millions of people. Losers, all of them. Losers! Big fat losers! So that’s what this is. This is my revenge list. The people I’m going to start gettin’ even with startin’ on day one of the Trump Presidency, which, by the way, is going to be the greatest, the most stupendous, the most amazing, the best ever presidency you ever saw, right? Lincoln? Washington? The Roosevelts? All losers compared to me. Because I’m the best, the greatest, the most stellar president ever. And I’ve got really big hands.

Where was I? Oh, right. My revenge list. And it’s gonna be great. All these people who for one reason or another ended up on this list? They’re gonna pay. They’re gonna pay big time. And this revenge list is gonna be the biggest and the best revenge list of all time. Richard Nixon has nothin’ on me!

By the way, it’s probably a good idea not to let anyone see this list. Part 1 of 483 716, in fact. It's a big list. Yuuuuuuuuuge!

So where do we begin? Well, in no particular order...

Crooked Hillary. Lock her up! Lock her up!

The Squirrel Faction

Obama and Michelle

Rosie O’Donnell. What a disgusting pig, let me tell you...

The Pope

Jon Stewart

Ellen De Generes

Zombie plot bunnies

Anyone around the world who ever thought it was a good idea to criticize my buddy Vladimir

Tim Russert. Sure, he’s dead, but I want that know it all no-nonsense punk punished anyway

Dogs and cats. Buncha fleabags, the lot of them

Alec Baldwin. Nobody mocks me and gets away with it.

Mexico. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringin’ crime, they’re rapists...

All those women who dared to accuse me of gropin’ them. Hey, I can grope anyone I want! I’m President Donald Trump! Soon to be Exalted Grand Emperor Donald!

Megyn Kelly. Bleedin’ outta her whatever...

Van Jones

John Oliver

The Queen

The blacks

Stephen Colbert

Angela Merkel

China

Vampires

The Jedi

Larry Willmore

Luxembourg. They know the reason why.

CNN, NBC, the New York Times, and the whole lamestream media that refuses to bow down to everything I say and hail me as their lord and master. I’m really gonna get even with those losers, believe me folks. Matter of fact, when I get my way, I’m gonna just have Trump News, the Enquirer, and Breitbart as the only legal news outlets.

Those ex-wives of mine. Soon to be followed by the current one, just as quick as I can find another bimbo from eastern Europe to be the next trophy wife

Tree huggin’ environmentalists

Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair

The Bush family

Trevor Noah

The ACLU

Muslims

Bill Nye the Science Guy. That De Grasse Tyson guy too. We can’t have reasonable well informed experts tellin’ anyone the truth, after all.

Lyin’ Ted. I mean, seriously, folks, the man’s father practically killed JFK, I read it in the Enquirer, and that’s the only paper that matters to me, believe me, believe me...

Bill Maher

The Illuminati

Canada

The UN

PBS

Ivanka

Ferris Bueller. Just because. Smart aleck punk, who’s he think he is?

That therapist who once told me I’m a class A narcissistic sociopath with a terminal self love complex. Hey! I don’t need to jerk off! I’ve got people who’ll jerk me off on command!

That heavy metal drummer. Costs me thousands of votes and puts supporters of mine in jail after beatin’ them up, and he thinks he can get away with it?

While we’re at it, we’re gonna just change the way music’s heard. All Ted Nugent, all the time. Nothin’ else. If Ted’s good for me, he’s good for everyone. Everybody else can go **** themselves. There’s not gonna be any Beyonce serenadin’ the Obamas ever again.

Bruce Springsteen. Born in the U.S.A. my ass. He was born in Canada! He’s got worthless communist socialist maple syrup guzzlin’ tree hugger written all over him! I demand to see the birth certificate! Lock him up! Lock him up!

Every single person who ever mocked my great outstanding hair and my hands. My hair is real and my hands are yuuuuuuuuuuuuuge! Just as yuuuuuuuuuuuuuge as my Trump schlong!

My eighth grade teacher, Mr. Reading, who gave me detention for calling him an asshole. I’m really gonna get even with him, believe me, folks...

Grumpy Cat. Nobody outfrowns me!

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

Some links before getting underway today. Norma wrote about captchas. Parsnip had a Square Dog Friday post. Eve has been carrying on with the A-Z Challenge. Krisztina had spring decorating ideas. Mark had thoughts on spring and a book announcement. And Lynn featured ducklings.

Today I feature something entirely different.

It was a dark and stormy night. Mostly because the writer knew he could never get away with using that as a first line in a proper book, given the fact that it has long since been considered a cheesy, bad opening line. At any rate, it was indeed a dark and stormy night in the skies over the capital of Canada. In his study at 24 Sussex Drive, the Prime Minister of the nation, Stephen Harper (Emperor Stephen the First, as he secretly planned to be called once he launched his plan to seize power for life) sat brooding. He often brooded, for his was a blackened soul devoid of humour and empathy, thinking only of vendettas, driven mad by power, yearning to destroy any who stood before him. It was said by many that the Prime Minister lacked the capacity to smile or laugh. Oh, yes, he would try from time to time, but an attempted smile always came out more like a glare of malevolence and disgust.

He was lost in thought, ignoring the lightning outside, thinking only of ways to manipulate the polls, to launch more attack ads at his opponents, to find ways to undermine them. It was, after all, his way. He had learned at the feet of the master, his old mentor, the Reform party founder Preston Manning. “Stephen,” Preston once said back in the day. “Above all else, democracy only works if we’re in power and doing everything we can to absolutely obliterate any dissent. You might say one thing. I mean, go on and on about transparency and accountability, but once you’re in power, dissent must be destroyed, and anyone asking questions must be silenced. Oh, and you have to do everything you can to pander to your base. They’d support you no matter what you do. Now, how about we have a corn roast? That plays well with the base.”

Time had passed- he came out of his musings, wondering about the hour, the quiet of the house. He looked up in the darkened room, and saw that he was not alone. Someone stood there in the shadows, barely perceptible in the gloom. How had he gotten in? Harper was certain, after all, that if anyone had come in, he would have noticed. The figure advanced, the lone light from the desk lamp starting to illuminate some of his features. The dark circles under the eyes, the severe looking face, the widow’s peak hairline, all of it familiar, all of it resonating with the Prime Minister. This was, after all, one of his influences- even if he could never actually admit it publicly.

It was Richard Nixon.

How was that possible? Had Richard Nixon not passed away in 1994? Twenty years after his fall from grace. Those pesky reporters, Harper had often thought, even from his youth, one of the many reasons he had ended up developing a profound loathing for the media. How dare they make trouble for a politician. Particularly one that I admire. If it had been up to Harper, Woodward and Bernstein would have been arrested for treason instead of admired for their role in exposing Watergate and ending up being played by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffmann.  Of course, that was a different time, a different country, and one of the many reasons the Prime Minister would never acknowledge the existence of Robert Redford or the Sundance Festival. How is it possible? Richard Nixon is dead.

“Um... hello? Are you....?” Harper began.

“Hello, Mr. Prime Minister,” Nixon said in that familiar growl of his, a mixture of bemusement and contempt underlying his tone. “I am.”

“Hello, Mr. President,” Harper replied, rising. ‘This is... this is quite an honour. Of course. Though... I guess you’re not really here, are you?”

“No, I’m a ghost,” Nixon admitted.

“I see. Well. I must ask, why are you here?”

“I come as a warning, Stephen,” Nixon explained with a sigh. “It is too late for me. My fate was my own making, not that I could really admit that in life. My need to have enemy lists, to poke at old wounds, to cheat at any cost... it turned me into a shell of a man. It destroyed my own place in history. I often thought in the years after I left office that if only I had won the election in 1960, I might not have become this paranoid win at all costs ultra partisan figure of history. I might have been the better man for it. But no, America fell in love with that Marilyn Monroe screwing twit who couldn’t pronounce an R to save his life, I looked bad on television, and there went the whole election. Does that sound bitter? I’m never quite sure.”

“Not bitter at all!” Harper insisted.

“Yes, well, however it happened, it happened,” Nixon told the Prime Minister. “I lost in 1960, came back years later, won, but was so cynical, distrusting, and vindictive that I was willing to do anything and screw anyone over just to get elected.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harper noted with a shrug.

“It’s a terrible thing!” Nixon countered.

“But why?”

Nixon shook his head. “Stephen, you must listen to me. When I met my end, and went to that awful infernal place, it was explained to me that I had been the most vindictive politician yet to have walked the earth. But that was not to last. One day, north of the border, there would come a politician whose vindictiveness and need to destroy his political enemies would exceed even my own. Stephen, it is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, now come on, is this a joke?” Harper asked with a sigh of dismay.

“It’s no joke, Stephen,” Nixon warned. “You have come too far down this road of vindictiveness. You have silenced anyone in the public service who can speak out against you. You have taken steps to cripple your political rivals. You have spent millions upon millions of dollars toasting yourself. You have secret plans already set to remove basic rights from your citizens. I’m just surprised you haven’t bugged your rival’s campaign offices.”

“Yes, well, I have time before the election to get to that,” Harper replied in a self-satisfied way.

“Stephen!!!” Nixon shouted in an outraged way. “That’s what did me in!”

Harper nodded. “Yes, well, your guys were third rate burglars. I’ve got much better and more discreet guys at my disposal.”

Nixon sighed and rolled his eyes. “I see it is entirely too late to reason with you. You are on the path you have chosen, and nothing will remove you from it. Where you will go from here is a disaster of your own making. I would have thought my bad example would have been enough to drive you from that path. I was wrong. About a great many things.”

“Never say that!” Harper insisted. “True conservatives like us are never wrong. I mean, come on, this can’t be you. Richard Nixon would never admit he was wrong. Why would you say such things to me?”

“Death changes a man, Stephen,” Nixon admitted.

“This has got to be a dream,” Harper told himself. “I’m dreaming. Why aren’t I dreaming of my political foes in the stocks in the shadow of the Peace Tower? That’s a good dream. Not to mention that’s where I’ll have them sooner or later for daring to defy me and demand accountability and good order in my government. How dare they question me!”

Nixon shook his head in a sad way. “Oh, sure, Stephen, go ahead, tell yourself it’s a dream. Tell yourself that this isn’t happening. Perhaps these are all the musings of a writer who really dislikes you and looks forward to the day when you’re voted out of office. Perhaps he is using this as a way to amuse his readers.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Harper objected.

“Such things rarely do,” Nixon informed him.

Harper shook his head. “A dream. That’s all it is. My hero, Richard Nixon, would never say such things to me. This is nothing more than a bit of undigested steak acting up. Yes, that’s it. A very Dickensian trick, I would say, like that Christmas Carol thing. That’s about all I remember of that story. Aside from thinking that the moral to the story was really badly thought out. Why that book is considered a classic is beyond me.”

“You are aware that the writer once put you in the Scrooge role in a Christmas Carol parody?” Nixon asked.

“Rubbish!” Harper declared. “My minions would have told me if anyone was disrespecting me in such a fashion.”

Nixon looked up at the ceiling and sighed again. “Don’t say I didn’t at least give it a try.”

The spectral presence faded. Harper sat down at his desk once more. He shook his head. No, he decided. It couldn’t have been. If Richard Nixon had really been here, he would have also brought my other personal heroes. Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and Ayn Rand. He smiled to himself- as much as his limited facial expressions and bitter soul would allow a smile, and went back to work, plotting the next intricate phase of how to annihilate his enemies in the coming election.

And somewhere else, in an infernal and hot place, Richard Nixon rested content, knowing that sooner or later he would be remembered merely as the second most vindictive politician in history.