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…in the Naval Observatory, laughing, drinking, sipping Pernod and eating a special pate made from the tortured livers of endangered water fowl.
But where was their host?
A fireplace in the study stands cold and slightly ajar. It is the door to a secret passage and an ancient staircase that curves incessantly down, spiraling step after step into the very bowels of the city itself. Behind it’s walls lie the unrecorded artifacts of history. At 30 feet down, the crumbling remains of a certain Judge Crater, at 50 feet, Jimmy Hoffa. Amelia Earhart’s skeleton, still dressed in flight suit and goggles, lies at 70 feet. Another 30 feet down the rough-hewn stone hides the bones of someone who had been known only to a small group of officials as “The 2nd Gunman”. Relative depth does not recapitulate chronology in this tomb of unknowns for at 200 feet lies the most recent addition, a young man who had claimed to be a certain Mr. Johnston of Wasilla, Alaska. Just beneath him, Lincoln’s dog’s diet doctor, who had threatened ruining the pulp and paper industry with the bestselling memoir of all time.
At the point in this descent where even Dr. Scholl’s feet might tire, there is detectable a humming sound that grows louder at each downward footfall. The steps continue to spiral down, deeper and deeper, and the atmosphere is cold and slightly sulfuric. Finally, a huge metal door appears. It vibrates with the thrumming of whatever vast and terrifying machinery lay beyond it. It opens to a great room, bathed in a harsh green light. Demonic machinery lines the walls, all of it pumping and thrashing, screaming and sputtering as pistons rise and fall, wheels turn and cogs engage and scrape, in a seemingly pointless cacophony.
In the middle of the great room is a large stainless steel table. Surrounding it are intense, bespeckled men in white lab coats. They are government scientists discussing in whispers a matter of great importance, regarding the person lying on the table.
“It’s CY2K+9, I tell ya.” Says one.
“We were warned!” says another.
“And we did nothing… nothing,” answered a third.
“The blame game will get us nowhere!” responded the first scientist. “We know there’s only one way to fix this. We need to convince him that it’s not 2009. But how?“
A computer programmer among them offers “We can initialize the variable. Set it to zero. It’s all here in the specs.” He waves a large, unfolded piece of white paper, bearing instructions in 4 languages.
“But that,” said the first, “that would make him think it’s the year zero. That’s ancient times. He goes up to that party and the only guest he’s gonna recognize is McCain.”
The computer programmer thinks for a second. “If we initialize a subvariable, I think it will just set him back 50 years. He should still be able to convincingly carry on a cocktail party conversation anywhere inside the beltway after that.”
The clock in the main dining room struck 11:58 pm. Assembled guests had finally calmed down after the late arrival of their host caused a crescendo of nervous chatter. The balding, gray-haired gentlemen had just settled into an antique chesterfield and was conversing with his financial advisor.
“It’s all set, “ remarked the financial advisor. “For tax purposes, you’ll receive the assets in the form of annual income of $876,000,000 from various dummy corporations. It’s pretty well locked down like that for 20 years.”
“Eh heh, eh heh,” responded the gentlemen. “That should be enough to keep me in control of several nefarious organizations. Nice work. Eh heh, eh heh.” Recognizing that his client was actually laughing, the advisor joined in.
In that cold green room far beneath them, a computer programmer was hurriedly compiling code. His last keystroke had just been entered, his monitor displayed “CHENEY ENHANCED COLD FUSION-POWERED PACEMAKER… REMOTE UPDATE COMPLETE”, and the clock struck midnight.
The FBI, the Secret Service, Military Police and District Police all filed reports on the early morning of January 1, 2009. Some of the details were in conflict but they all agreed on the main facts:
The alleged perpetrator was enjoying the New Year’s party in his normal manner until midnight. At that time, however, he suddenly froze for a few seconds then ran to his gun cabinet from which he produced a hunting rifle. He then turned to the alleged victim, shouted “Do you realize the fucking income tax rate is fucking 91%!”, chased the alleged victim out of the observatory and shot him dead on...
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