Free America Rising by Tom Paine

has some concerns he wanted me to communicate to you,” he began.
     
    Instantly Bane’s air of jocularity vanished like the cigar smoke pulled towards the ceiling by industrial-strength fans but Millar ignored it and pushed on.
     
    “The cartoon of President Elias as a witch on a broom, the photoshopping of her in a Nazi uniform, a bikini, a burka, calling her a bitch, a communist, a fascist, a slut and a lesbian—’rug muncher,’ I think is how you put it—intimating the ‘c-word.’ Mr. Bigby thinks that’s going too far. After all, no matter how much we all despise her, this company has relationships with many people in her administration, does a lot of business with the government, and alienating the President of the United States is not a very smart move.
     
    “There’s also the matter of the new division. I know, I know, you’re not part of the news division. But the Great Unwashed doesn’t understand the difference between news and commentary, and Mr. Bigby feels that commentary so far over the top damages the news division’s credibility, makes it harder to give the American people the news they need, news that strengthens their opposition to this president’s socialist-communist agenda.”
     
    Ed Bane let his eyes linger on his visitor until Russ Millar squirmed in his seat. When he spoke, his tone was glacial. “So just what part of the billion-plus dollars a year I make for you and ‘Sir William’”—a dig at Bigby’s upper-crust pretensions—”do you have a problem with, Russ?”
     
    “None, Ed. None at all,” Millar said hastily, trying not to swallow his cigar. “It’s just that Mr. Bigby would appreciate it if you’d tone down the rhetoric a little. Use a scalpel instead of a bludgeon, make it more policy than personal.”
     
    Bane pointed his cigar like a shotgun at Russell Millar’s face.
     
    “Listen to me, Russ,” he said. “There is no such thing as going too far. My audience doesn’t give a shit about the news division’s credibility or Sir Billy’s ‘relationships.’ They don’t even give a shit about the president’s ‘socialist-communist agenda.’ They couldn’t tell you what that agenda is if you tied them to an anthill. They’re scared and mad and want to take it out on somebody.
     
    “That’s my job, Russ. I give them somebody—a lot of somebodies—to take it out on. And I do it so extraordinarily, exceptionally well that they run right out and buy enough of the cars and soap and incontinence medication you peddle to make us all filthy rich. That doesn’t happen by saying Nancy Elias is just another ambitious hack who is no different than the hack before her and will be no different than the hack who comes after her. That happens by telling them she’s an evil bitch-cunt-whore who wants to take all your money and give it to Osama Bin Laden and let a bunch of illegal Mexicans move next door and rape your daughter. Whether you believe that or I believe that doesn’t matter. They
want
to believe it, and when I tell them, they
will
believe it.”
     
    Ed Bane put down his cigar and glared at Russ Millar.
     
    “You know what you’re really afraid of, Russ? You’re afraid I might have more control over them than you do. You’re afraid they might get too riled up and upset the whole goddam applecart, the one you and your Wall Street and Beltway buddies have been riding around on for all these years. You’re afraid the only thing that’ll be left standing between you and the pitchforks and ropes is a low-class commoner like me. Well, get used to it, Russ. And tell Sir Billy not to send you on any more missions here. Or all his moats and drawbridges may not be enough to protect him.”
     
    * * *
     
    I’d been so focused on checking out Armando Gutierrez I had let plans to nail my drug and hooker-loving Florida legislators slide. I needed help and some high-tech spy equipment and there was only one person to call: my friend Robert, whom I