The Paper Pauper on a Whistle Perch

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A Paper Pauper on the Whistle Perch


James R. Parrish
A Paper Pauper on a Whistle Perch
Copyright ? 1988, 2016 by James R. Parrish

Cover Art
Mac Hernandez
Kristi King-Morgan
Niki Browning

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

Second Printing, 2016

ISBN 13: 978-1535303200
ISBN 10: 1535303204

Dreaming Big Publications
Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The Paper Tiger
Chapter 2: Acting President
Chapter 3: Top Secret Meeting
Chapter 4: John Houston
Chapter 5: Danger From Within
Chapter 6: Undercover Affairs
Chapter 7: Meeting With the President
Chapter 8: Power and Purpose
Chapter 9: In Pursuit
Chapter 10: The President's Speech
Chapter 11: No Quarter
Chapter 12: Back Down to Earth
Chapter 13: To Serve and Protect
Chapter 14: Old and Gray
Chapter 15: Ellie Sue
Chapter 16: Confirmation or Denial
Chapter 17: Making Preparations
Chapter 18: Mulling, Musing
Chapter 19: Mister Pirogue
Chapter 20: A Country United
Chapter 21: God's Instinct
Chapter 22: Taking Back America
Chapter 23: One Nation Under God
Chapter 24: A Nation Abuzz
Chapter 25: On the Whistle Perch
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Paper Tiger
He grimaced, and his eyes rolled beneath closed lids. The staccato of automatic rifle fire and exploding hand grenades of the terrorists' attack only a half mile away barely entered Vice President Franklin Jefferson Adams' subconscious. Yet, the fury of foreigners battling on American soil added to the ogres and ghouls already claiming him in fitful sleep.
As the rackety-racking of battle continued, Adams thrashed his feet and kicked aside rumpled covers. His long, muscular body twisted onto its right side in the big bed he'd moved near the smoke-blackened, mahogany-paneled inner wall of the spacious study of Blair House. He was gripped by fearful images.
Sweat oozed from his wide forehead and ruddy, unshaven face and drenched his shaggy red hair and bushy brows. He'd always been fastidious, but because of recent personal setbacks and the sad state of the union, he no longer cared about his appearance. He needed desperately to rid himself of the frequently screaming or awesomely silent demons, which controlled him. In his mind, he was killing himself.
His forty-one year old frame, once so athletic but now so gaunt, shuddered in clinging, perspiration-soaked green cotton pajamas-American-made, he'd have mentioned had he been awake. Both his eyes, bloodshot now but normally clear as blue water over pristine sand and coral, wallowed without aim between tear-wet lashes. He moaned faintly as he fought the ogres of his conscience gone almost insane in an America beset by savages of terrorism and politics.
Even as he shrank inside himself, he bellowed like a doggie wailing for mama's help from a stalking, hungry cougar. He shivered from the dampness of his pajamas and a March breeze, which prickled through a narrow crack in a slightly gapped window in predawn hours in the District of Columbia.
Yet the external iciness held little sway in his predicament. All the evil, vicious, combatant forces of a modern world and a nearly bankrupt America churned within him. His conscience fought about as effectively as a newborn calf succumbing to a wild destiny in a harsh, soul-eating world.
Adams had never wanted to be a public official. Now President Balboa Boston's long-standing illness-not generally known by the public-and the terrorists' "poor country" war, the moral decay in a Christian society, the huge national debt, the trade deficit, the unfair trade situation, and his wife's adultery with and defection to Secretary of State Benedict Rothschild all combined to thrust Adams into almost complete agony.
This anguish had persisted, had been exacerbated, for almost nine months-ever since his wife Lisa has moved to Rothschild's mansion and had taken their son and daughter with her. Buffeted by Lisa's desertion and threat of divorce, Adams had been rocked by mental devils, when asleep or awake.
Six weeks before, Rothschild had succeeded in having President Boston kick Adams out of his office in the White House.
With no real role in government and without his wife and children, Adams had come to feel that life no longer had a purpose. He was lost without Lisa.
Three weeks ago, when the terrorists' car bomb had destroyed most of Blair House and had killed Adams' secretary and executive assistant, the vice president had holed up in the single undamaged room. He'd moved a bed into the study, which already had a small kitchen. He'd lived on TV dinners, sandwiches, soup, frozen chili, and other prepackaged Mexican food he'd loved since a child in Texas.
Such a diet, he had suspected, had contributed somewhat to his already beleaguered and ever-increasing mental malaise. He knew he'd retreated into a mental state as a defense mechanism. Adams knew that something greater than himself commanded him.
President Boston was an old man, and Adams knew Rothschild and his bunch in the White House-and not the President-really controlled the executive branch. Rothschild was a henchman for international brokers of global economics and was selling out democracy to the interests of world financiers bent on controlling the industrial output and economies of the free world.
As more grenades and rifle fire erupted out there somewhere, Adams' long body listed to the left, then back to the right, as if he rode a strange, half-working rotisserie, which sizzled beneath charred chunks of the terrorists' victims. He grasped a pillow to his chest and folded his legs into prenatal position. He sweated profusely.
"Lisa, Lisa!" he muttered. "I need you. Devils claim me, and they claim America. We bankrupt our country to provide defense for our trade enemies, especially Japan. Why don't we stop Japanese imports if the Japanese won't share free trade?"
He knew he whispered of government when he thought of his wife. He wondered which was more important to him. Yet he knew. Nothing could ever replace Lisa.
Suddenly Adams heard another burst of gunfire, and he quickly rolled and sat on the edge of the bed. With trembling thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he massaged his eyes, then dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.
"Lisa," he whispered, "we give away billions of dollars in foreign aid, but we do not help Mexico, our neighbor and friend. But Lisa, dear Lisa, why have you gone away?"
He tried to force himself to think positively. He lost the struggle. He looked about the room and hoped to find the friendly object. After all, he thought, during these past months without Lisa, he'd had no family to people his house. He'd found himself trying to make friends with the objects, which remained, in battered Blair House. Now he saw many objects left there by previous vice presidents. Spontaneously, he spoke:
"I hear the crying of the terrorists' victims, the wailing of freezing soldiers at Valley Forge, the shrieking of men charging up San Juan Hill, the sobbing of soldiers on the death march in the Philippines, the groaning of Marines and civilians slaughtered in Beirut.
"I hear the buzz of rockets, the clatter of hand-to-hand combat in the jungles of Vietnam and Central America. I hear the plagued whimpering of men with frostbitten feet and hands in South Korea.
"I hear the praying of the dying and their families during World War II and the Holocaust. I hear the suffering of the Blacks in the South.
"I hear the tears rolling from unemployed Americans who lost their jobs as President Reagan and his men permitted a world trade order to subjugate American labor and the American economy to worldwide preferences.
"I hear workers in steel and garment plants groveling for welfare and objecting at America's letting Japan, South Korea, and other lesser nations take over American industries vital to the country and its people.
"I hear the protests of our allies forced to stop selling arms and munitions to Iran while the Reagan bunch did. I hear the appeals of the communist Contras asking for and getting more American dollars to fight the other communists, the Sandinistas.
"I hear the soul of America gasping, struggling to survive."
Rather out of breath after his long monologue, Adams silently berated himself for having been so melodramatic. Generally, he thought but didn't speak in such fashion. But these days, everything was melodramatic to him. Besides, in looking at the objects in his cloistered vice presidential retreat, he lived mostly in fantasies or, if asleep, in nightmares. Lisa and Rothschild had forced him into the haze in his mind.
Why, he wondered, had the United States, with its great affluence and generosity, permitted itself to be sated by Dollar Diplomacy? And why had his country girl Lisa gone to power mad Rothschild?
Stirred by his ever-recurring frustrations and another volley of gunfire somewhere out there, Adams reached to a bedside table, snapped on a lamp, picked up a TV electronic control gadget, and flicked on a large television set two dozen paces across the room.
The tube was emitting an old war movie about Reagan's heroes in Central America back in 1988, and a strange foreboding hit
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