Prologue

Bubbling butter hissed in the miniature pot and made Baxton’s eyes widen as he turned to it.  Black rose around the pot which sat on the front right burner.  A blue flame embraced the whole of it causing the chunk of butter to shrink and melt.  Beyond it, on the back right burner sat a much, much larger black pot.  It made the one in front of it look comically small but was far quieter than the other.  Now covered, its clear lid collected steam as the white tuffs of stove-top popcorn cooled beneath it.  The noisy fury that whined from the front pot began to quiet after Baxton turned off the flame completely.  He hadn’t known how long the butter had been sitting out but decided it must have been quite a bit due to the speed it had melted. 

The election had deprived him of many usual pleasures like sleeping in, March Madness, and the occasional adultery.  He didn’t like cheating on his wife all the time, but then again he really did sometimes.  But, “not this,” he muttered as he lifted the small pot.  Careful to coat the center first, he moved the larger pot to the front for accuracy.  Much like his father had done for him in the 1980’s he formed a buttery spiral from the center, out.  Beneath, the searing butter tuffs of popcorn freaked and withered sometimes causing a brief avalanche of popcorn.  That caused higher layers to awkwardly roll inward and under lower layers.  Senator Seamus Grant had withered and caused quite an avalanche of his own, Baxton thought.  Wondering where that drunken idiot had been (whiskey being his boiled butter) now weeks after the scandal had been revealed on Youtube Baxton idly grabbed at an unbuttered kernel.

The fumes of melted butter brought him back to his tasty treat.  Delighted by the prospect he cheated for a taste of the butter itself.  But as his pinky reached the edge of the small pot it took him by surprise.  The sting from the heated metal caused a shriek to ring loudly from his mouth only to be silenced once he began to suck on his pinky.

Mark Marcelli burst through the door startling Baxton a second time.  Without much thought Marcelli would punch, elbow, or tackle any possible assailant.  Although Richard Press, his tactful campaign manager, warned against choosing Mark it was for this reason Baxton had selected the short Italian.  Protection was given to him as of late since a complication occurred in the south.  Death threats reached a peak in March but had plateaued since then.

“Opening a death threat is just like opening a bill but a death threat is free,” he had joked weeks earlier with Press who was more eager for him to have a body guard than he. 

“Though, anyone who is willing to waste money on a stamp may be willing to do so with a bullet,” Press replied.

“Bullets are cheaper than stamps,” Baxton conceded.

“Marcelli I have burnt my finger,” Baxton stated simple enough but when he held up his finger he felt like child displaying a boo-boo.  Marcelli squinted at him and then glanced around the room and back again.

“That wasn’t why I came in.”  Baxton was immediately confused.  His shriek had certainly been loud enough to hear over the quiet hum of the distant vacuum in the hall.  Further, the abrupt and immediate entrance of Marcelli was typical of the body guard.

“Then why did you come?”  Baxton asked defensively.

“Thought I heard something.”  He said meekly failing to match Baxton’s tone or concern but replacing it with his own stern awareness and continued to scan the room. 

“Yes, you heard me howl and I’m quite embarrassed.”  Baxton could see the blatant disregard in Marcelli’s face but continued anyway, “It’s just sometimes this butter is so tempting.” 

Marcelli called over his radio as Baxton finished his explanation, “Anything?”

“Negative,” was the response Baxton recognized as Ahmed Misar or was it Nisar or Nisan?  In any case the voice was distinct and the answer clear.  But what Marcelli thought of it was anything but and as he moved to Baxton’s closet Baxton said,

“What?” louder than he had intended.  This seemed to actually relax his bodyguard.  The massive hands Marcelli threw up in a gesture of surrender made his head look very small.

“Just thought I heard something,” Marcelli said and left the room.  Next to the stove he had felt warm.  The anticipation of the stove-top popcorn and the subsequent burn both had dislodged him from the actual coolness of the room.  Who had opened the window? he thought.  Could the Italian have done so when he first searched the room earlier that day?  No, Baxton thought that grunt hates windows: a precaution Baxton appreciated but would still open them with little discretion.  Maybe I opened it.

                In any case he strode across the room and peered out the window at the city lights.  He followed the building across from the Hilton he was staying in down to where the window pane cut off his view.  He was surprised to see how far up he was.  And, what was that?  Just below him was darkness.  His head breached the unscreened window to examine the aberration more clearly.  He could make out an outline which seemed to form a gargoyle or weathered turret but he couldn’t be sure.  The blackness faded and adjusted with the dark street below.  

Just as he began to feel as bored as he was confused the aberration moved.  Now there was a green light and someone said, “What the?”  Then he heard ‘thwap’ and his head was stinging.  “Ugh” he moaned, backing into his room staring out and holding his head.  Soon the figure came up forming a torso and a head that clearly silhouetted the lights from the building across from the Hilton.  Baxton squinted and realized the figure was holding a gun.  Suddenly he was being pushed back by something.  There were sharp stings in his chest and he had to hurry to double step each time as to not fall.  He’s shooting me!  When he thought to call for Marcelli he only gurgled softly on his own blood and spit up a little.  He fell gently onto his bed.  There was no more figure shooting him or building across the street or popcorn.  There was just pressure in his chest, lightness in his head, and a small pot in his hand.  He didn’t want that right now so he let it go.  The pot slid off the bed and landed quietly on the carpet.