This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Rhonda Santos sat cross-legged (Indian style, if it weren’t for the goddamned PC police) on a king-sized mattress in the Palm Beach Four Seasons’ presidential suite. She wore silver silk pajamas and her hair up in a bun. The moon was rising, the lights were dim, her eyes were closed, and she was trying her best to clear her head and control her breathing. It wasn’t working.
Despite her string of recent victories and a clear glidepath to greater national ambitions, she couldn’t relax. At first, she thought it might be discomfort from the afternoon’s Botox treatment, but no, she was a warrior. She’d happily pay someone to replace her entire face over a lunch break if it took a couple of years off. That was the price of success as a woman in politics—especially one running in conservative circles—though many of her most vociferous male and female Democratic critics got just as much work done over vacations, retreats, and long weekends when they thought no one was looking. So much for liberal feminist bluster.
Maybe she was horny. She considered texting Thing 0 to get his firm ass into her room. He was just the latest in a long line of ambitious, attractive young men she’d hired and then bedded, only he had a better head for Florida’s ruthless politics than most.
And why shouldn’t she have a younger lover? Practically every lauded statesman throughout American history did it. FDR, JFK, LBJ, Newt Gingrich, Bill Clinton, John Edwards, Anthony Weiner, Dennis Hastert, Donald Trump—they’d all had mistresses for decades. Her boy toys knew exactly what they were doing, and many had reaped rewards in the form of job connections and successful runs for office. At least she wasn’t married while doing it. So, no, she didn’t feel bad about acting on her sexual appetites, and wasn’t that what real feminism was all about?
Santos had given blessed matrimony a try, but it didn’t work out. She married her high school sweetheart right after graduation because that was what you did when growing up in bum-fuck nowhere Central Florida in Ronald Reagan’s 1980s. He was a controlling prick—didn’t want her to get a job, leave the house, or do anything other than pop out babies in his run-down doublewide. When her OBGYN informed her that children weren’t an option, he got angry. Then he started having affairs and fathered a half dozen little bastards all up and down the I-75 corridor. Santos didn’t care. It was just the excuse she was looking for, so she divorced him at the ripe old age of 22. He was a total piece of shit, but he gave her two invaluable gifts she carried to the present day: her last name and insight into how to interact with disgruntled men.
Santos got a full scholarship to the University of Florida, where she graduated summa cum laude. Then it was on to Yale Law School, where she was introduced to an entire universe of privilege she didn’t know existed. She was judged for her accent, her clothes, her mannerism, and how she styled her hair. She was ridiculed for not jet-setting to Bali for winter break, for not having a trust fund, for preferring beer to cocktails. But she also found her calling, her people: a small group of conservative professors, operatives, and thinkers that formed the core of a sprawling network of donors and activists who would launch her political career.
After Yale, she had a stint in a Top 10 firm, where she finally earned the income to afford the trappings so many of her law school colleagues had lorded over her. Gone forever were her blue jeans and Burdines tops to be replaced with Gucci, Chanel, and Hermés. Though she enjoyed the new lifestyle, her calling was always politics. She tapped back into her network, which set her up for successful runs for municipal council, county commissioner, state senator, the House of Representatives, and finally, the governorship. She was particularly proud of the fact that she beat out five other Republican powerhouses and the state’s last, and extremely well-funded Democratic Senator during her final run.
She mulled her accomplishments—a terrible idea when trying to meditate, she knew—but Santos’ past wasn’t what confounded her attempts at calming her mind. No, Santos’ head was a carnival of clashing frustrations, grudges, and resentments. She winced, eyes still closed, as they jostled each other for subconscious supremacy.
She was mad at the cripples and their enablers for thwarting her efforts at leveling the playing field for the able-bodied. She was upset with the mainstream media for depicting her as a tyrant obsessed with imposing her autocratic vision on the state. She despised the climate activists doing everything in their power to stymie Florida’s desperately needed development, especially in long-ignored backwaters like where Santos was raised. She hated everyone maligning and thwarting her when all she wanted was the best for real Floridians—men and women who had a stake in this country, rather than the hordes of illegals hell-bent on smothering it to death. She was furious with the rat-fucking, piece of shit mole in her office who’d leaked her call transcript to that slut, Cynthia Burgos, who didn’t even have the decency to come out of hiding and face her like a real woman.
Santos grimaced and then sighed. She clearly wasn’t about to enter anything like a Zen-like state before her big Miami Heights commencement ceremony in two days. She checked her watch. It was 9:02 PM, a bit early to ring up Park Pal-seong, but she sent him more than enough clandestine wire transfers to answer when called for spiritual support.
Park had run South Korea’s largest fundamentalist megachurch called Shining Beacon. Borrowing liberally from Pentecostal spiritualism, Buddhist introspection, apocalyptic fear mongering, and good, old-fashioned American showmanship, its international membership exceeded five million by the time he met Santos at a Madison Square revival during his U.S. tour. She was an up-and-coming member of the House of Representatives’ powerful Ways and Means Committee, and he was looking to expand his influence in U.S. government circles, so they kept in touch.
A few years later, Park was accused of brainwashing, embezzlement, sexual assault, and a litany of other crimes by former church members. Santos believed none of it. She had looked into his eyes and seen nothing but kindness and a direct connection to God. He knew deep, personal details about her life without her ever divulging them. Park was a holy man, a modern prophet, and she’d be damned if she abandoned him over an out of control cancel culture.
So, Park fled South Korea and went into hiding, but she maintained daily contact with him. He gave her spiritual and political guidance as she maneuvered Florida’s ship of state through ever-choppy waters. In return, she sent him a generous monthly stipend drawn from official gubernatorial coffers so he could maintain his lifestyle. And why not? The state paid thousands of bureaucrats to sit on their asses and do nothing. Park, at least, gave her useful, actionable advice.
She called his number. He picked up after two rings.
“Good evening, Blessed Father Park,” said Santos. “I know I called a bit earlier than usual, but…”
“Your mind is clouded, my child, and you seek clarity.” Park’s voice was soothing and melodious.
Santos gasped at his foresight.
“Yes, Blessed Father. Exactly that. How did you know?”
“You are touched by the Almighty,” he replied, all empathy and enlightenment. “And I have been placed on this planet to help guide you to your God-given destiny. Our loving Father would not send a blind man as your guide, so I see all, understand all, including the conflicts raging in your mind and in your heart.”
“Yes, Blessed Father, yes!” she exclaimed. “I believe! I believe you will guide me to that destiny. And I see it as well, but it is clouded and far away. I can barely perceive it through the mist.”
“All will be well, my child,” he said calmly. “I will remind you of your ultimate destination and I will soothe the troubled waters disturbing your voyage there. Lay down, daughter.”
Santos uncrossed her legs and reclined on the bed.
“I have, Blessed Father.”
“Good. Close your eyes.”
She complied.
“Now tell me daughter, are you wearing underwear?”
“No, Blessed Father, I am not.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “They do nothing but constrict your body and therefore your mind. Have you had sex or masturbated in the last week?”
Santos hesitated.
“Yes, Blessed father,” she said. “Please forgive…”
“Which one?” he interrupted.
“Masturbated,” she answered.
“How long ago?”
“Two days ago.”
“With a toy or with your hands?”
Santos reddened. She should’ve become accustomed to his incisive questions by now, as she knew they were for her own good, but they still made her uncomfortable.
“Both, Blessed Father.”
“Mmmm, I see,” his voice now had a slight growl to it. “To completion?”
“Yes, Blessed Father.”
He paused for 10 seconds.
“Ah, well, my daughter, that is the root of your problems. You must purify yourself before your big announcement later this week. You must cleanse your soul of these impure thoughts and actions. Otherwise, how can you be expected to focus on the great things you are destined to do for your state and your country?”
“I understand.”
“And, of course,” he added. “You must immediately inform me if you fall back on your carnal ways, in detail.”
“I will Blessed Father, I will, but I’m just so angry!” her eyes popped open and her voice rose an octave. “I’m being sabotaged on all sides by enemies within and without! I want to crush them! I want to see them suffer how I have suffered! I want them to know real pain!”
“Breathe, my child, breathe,” he replied. The words floated from the receiver like gossamer. “You will see retribution visited on your enemies tenfold, I promise. You have been touched, selected by God Himself to be His holy vessel on this planet, to see His will enacted by your hands. And you will succeed because He is with you.”
“I will succeed because He is with me,” she repeated with a slow exhale.
“Yes, my child, you will. Close your eyes and repeat after me: I am righteous, I am good.”
Santos shut her eyes again and placed her hands by her sides.
“I am righteous, I am good.”
“I am chosen, I am right,” he continued.
“I am chosen, I am right.”
“I am holy, I am destined.”
“I am holy, I am destined.”
“Very good, my child. Now breath.”
Santos inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly for the next minute while Park remained silent on the line.
“Do you feel better now, my child?” he asked.
“Yes, Blessed Father, I do,” she replied with a content sigh.
“Are you sure of the divine nature of your mission, the inevitability of its results, and the ultimate destruction of your adversaries?”
“Yes, Blessed Father, I am,” she said with a smile.
“Excellent, my daughter. I assume I’ll find your regular monthly payment of $20,000 in my bank account at the end of the month?”
“Of course, Blessed Father. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.”
“I know, my child, I know. May you have a wonderful night and a better morning.”
“Thank you, Blessed Father,” said Santos, on the cusp of sleep. “Good night.”
“Good night, sweet daughter.”
