This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Santos stared up at a four-story-tall cast iron spike. Its top was molded into a solid metal sphere, eight feet across, and split into two hemispheres by a subtle divot running down its center. At the bottom of the shaft’s cylindrical length was a ribbed, reinforced conical cap, the height of a person, which ended in a sharp point. The whole thing was painted a bright gold that reflected the rising South Florida sun.
Santos and Thing 0 had taken Florida’s best plastic surgeon’s private jet from Palm Beach to Opa Locka Executive Airport, where they were picked up by a helicopter that shuttled them directly to the Bulge. The 30-minute trip would’ve taken an hour and a half by car, but the governor relished the high life as well as the outrage she sparked among the online activist crowd tracking her carbon footprint.
Santos removed her Prada sunglasses and turned to Thing 0, who stood beside her on a stage at the Bulge’s summit.
“Why does this thing look like a penis?” she demanded.
The platform was a 20 by 40-foot rectangle elevated five feet off the ground. Its outside border was festooned with a series of Florida state flags which, when seen from afar, made it look like it had large red X’s running down its length. A wooden podium embossed with the State Seal stood at its center. The admittedly phallic golden stake, framed by four steel rods, loomed behind the stage. An industrial pile driver—basically a crane with an enormous steel weight that would pommel the ceremonial stake into the earth—idled to the right of the stage.
Event organizers hurriedly set up the last of 500 white plush cushioned seats before the platform. One mile away and well outside the Bulge’s electrified perimeter fence, the first of 5,000 people began to filter into the stands meant to hold those with less than a 10-digit figure net worth. Three 50-foot screens would broadcast the proceedings to the plebians. They were all currently filled with the slow-motion grandeur of a Floridian flag flapping in the wind.
“Fernand Benicia, the contract engineer, assured me it’s the most durable and efficient design…” explained Thing 0.
“This thing was designed by an Italian?” snapped Santos.
“Yes, Madam Governor,” he replied.
“An Italian man?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grimaced, placed her hands on her hips, and turned to the side.
“Fucking Europeans…”
Santos spun back to Thing 0.
“And there’s no way to replace it before the ceremony?”
“That would be logistically impossible given that groundbreaking is set to begin in two hours. An image of the spike was even attached to the press release.”
Santos sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Why must everything in this state be a dick?”
She placed the sunglasses back on her face.
“I’m about to pound a giant golden cock into the Bulge but, you know what,” Santos tossed her hands with a flippant expression. “I’m not even mad! Let’s fuck this Bulge!”
She smiled like a cat about to catch its proverbial canary.
“Run me through the guest list again,” said Santos.
Thing 0 paged through his ever-present folder, found the document in question, and cleared his throat.
“We have 112 billionaires attending.”
Santos whistled.
“Correction, Madam Governor, 112 U.S.-based billionaires. That’s approximately one-seventh of the country’s total.”
“There are 800 billionaires in this country?” asked Santos.
“756. We’ll have a representative sample in attendance: tech founders, real estate moguls, finance and banking CEOs, opioid peddlers, and the scions of Gilded Age robber barons.”
“You mentioned U.S.-based billionaires,” said Santos. “Are there others?”
Thing 0 flipped to another page.
“Yes ma’am. There will also be 232 foreign billionaires in attendance.”
“The only foreigners I like,” replied Santos with a grin. “Who are they?”
“12 South American and five Mexican drug kingpins, 45 Russian oligarchs, three Central Asian dictators, 52 Arab princes, five Korean chaebols, two Yakuza crime bosses, 15 African warlords, five Swiss bankers, 23 British bankers, 39 Chinese princelings, 25 assorted European royals, and…”
He double-checked his notes.
“One Canadian.”
Santos laughed and slapped his back.
“And a partridge in a pear tree! No one can say I don’t love diversity!”
She grew suddenly serious.
“Wait a second, these people aren’t going to start shooting each other, are they?”
“I’ve been thoroughly assured that, as a matter of course, they are all on their best behavior when overseas because they personally find interpersonal violence repugnant. It’s the underlings back in their home countries who massacre each other in the street.”
Santos nodded knowingly.
“Of course.”
“I have to double check with the representative from Guinness,” added Thing 0. “But this might be the highest concentration of private wealth in the history of the world.”
“Eat your heart out, Mansa Musa!” yelled Santos at the ground. “I hope you rot in Muslim hell!”
She did some quick mental math.
“Unless my arithmetic is off, that gets us to less than the 500 seats we have laid out.”
“Yes ma’am,” replied Thing 0. “Elzos also invited a choice selection of 156 hundred millionaires who he is convinced will make it to the 10-figure club shortly.”
“We’re lowering our standards, but I’ll let it slide,” she said.
Santos narrowed her eyes and licked her lips.
“Alright, how much are much are we extorting these fuckers for a guaranteed plot in Miami Heights?”
“Five million dollars apiece,” responded Thing 0.
Santos pumped a fist in the air.
“I love to hear it!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Thing 0. “And the accumulated $2.5 billion, under Elzos’ receivership, will be at your disposal to blow your opponents out of the water when you run for reelection and…”
Thing 0 lowered his voice and leaned into the governor.
“Higher office.”
“Fuck a duck!” declared Santos. “I’m going to build a money ramp out of this Podunk, ass-backward, piece of shit state straight to the White House!”
Noticing her enthusiasm getting the better of her in front of the help, Santos smoothed her tastefully tight crimson dress and cleared her throat.
“Alright, Thing 0,” she said. “That’s enough fun for the day. Let’s go through the event itinerary.”
“Of course, Madam Governor,” he paged through his folder until he found the run of show.
“Right. The attendees will take their seats at 9 AM sharp. You’ll see Griffin Elzos in the front row, first seat to the left of the center aisle.”
“Got it.”
“We’ll begin with the Pledge of Allegiance and a fighter jet flyover.”
“Yeah, OK, the patriotic bullshit.”
“Then we’ll move on to a rendition of ‘Suwannee River’…”
“Wait, why?” interrupted the governor.
Thing 0 looked confused.
“It’s the state song, Madam Governor,” he replied.
Originally titled “Old Folks at Home,” the pre-Civil War composition was performed in traveling minstrel shows by white actors in blackface using breathtakingly racist diction. Before it was revised in 1978, the version sung at every gubernatorial inauguration included the word “darkies.”
Santos rolled her eyes.
“Next you’ll tell me we have a state insect.”
Thing 0 declined to inform her that the state butterfly was the zebra longwing.
“Your remarks will begin at 9:20,” he continued. “And will last until 9:35. Once you finish, you will find a brick-sized gray box with a large red button on the podium. Every time you press it, the pile driver will strike the stake. The engineers tell me you will need to push the button four times to drive it all the way into the ground. Once that’s done, a fireworks display will ignite and we’ll conclude the ceremony.”
“Perfect!” exclaimed Santos. “I love the showmanship. This’ll go down in Florida history!”
