Distraction - Bruce Sterling [222]
“I see.”
“See, I’m really leveling with you here. This isn’t snake oil, this is the McCoy. Sure, you have some language problems, and you do tend to mutter sometimes. But, son … you’re twice the man you were! You can think in two languages at once! If you work at it, you can do amazing things with both your hands. And the best of all, boy—is when you get two good trains of thought going, and they start switching passengers. That’s what intuition is all about—when you know things, but you don’t know how you know. That’s all done in the preconscious mind—it’s thought that you don’t know you’re thinking. But when you’re really bearing down, and you’re thinking two things at once—ideas bleed over. They mix. They flavor each other. They cook down real rich and fine. That’s inspiration. It’s the finest mental sensation you’ll ever have. The only problem with that is—sometimes those ideas are so confounded great, you have a little problem with impulse control.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that little impulse problem.”
“Well, son, most people hide their light under a bushel and they never act on impulse. That’s why they end up buried in unmarked graves. A real player’s got initiative, he’s a man of action. But sure, I admit it: the impulse thing is a bug. That’s why a major player needs good counselors. And if you don’t have a top-of-the-line, raccoon-tailed political adviser, maybe you can make yourself one.”
“Heeeey!” Kevin screeched. He had given up on Huey; he had suddenly turned his attention to the crowd below. “Hey, people! Your Governor’s gone nuts! He uses poison and he’s gonna turn you into crazy zombies!”
The bodyguards seized Kevin’s pinioned arms and began to pummel him.
“They’re torturing me!” Kevin screamed in anguish. “The cops are torturing me!”
Huey turned. “Goddammit, Boozoo, don’t punch him in public like that! Haul him inside first. And, Zach, stop using your damn fists every time. Use your sap. That’s what it’s for.”
Despite his bound arms, Kevin wasn’t going quietly. He spun in place, began hopping up and down. His howls were of little use, for the crowd below was rapt inside the embrace of their headphones. But not all of them were dancing, and some were looking up.
Boozoo pulled a sap from within his clothing. Kevin aimed a clumsy kick. Boozoo half stepped back, tripped over the foot of a second guard, tangled suddenly in the spindly legs of a white iron balcony chair. He tumbled backward, landing with a crash. The second bodyguard tried to leap forward, tangled with the struggling Boozoo, and fell to his knees with a squawk.
“Aw hell,” Huey grumbled. He swiftly reached into his own jacket, removed a chromed automatic pistol, and absently emptied a shot into Kevin. Struck high in the chest and with his hands still bound, Kevin catapulted backward, smashed into the railing, and tumbled to the earth below.
Deeply surprised, Huey walked to the railing, craned his head, and stared down. The pistol still gleamed in his grip. The crowd below him saw the gun, and billowed away in fear.
“Uh-oh,” the Governor blurted.
“I still don’t know what to do with him,” the President said. “He murdered a man in broad daylight in front of a thousand people, but he still has his adherents. I’d love to jail him, but Jesus. We’ve put so many people through the prison system that they’re a major demographic group.”
Oscar and the President of the United States were having a stroll through the White House garden. The Rose Garden, like the White House itself,