Eyes devoid of pity. The glance always sidelong, never granting direct
engagement with the interlocutor.
Though he likes the phrase, "corridors of power," he knows he operates in a realm subterranean to them. The hidden bunkers where all is preserved in a state of cleanliness and order and where the peeping eyes that pry and may discern some segment of the labyrinth cannot see.
He knows the bombers that hum gray in the night.
His is the joy of Iago. No folksy, cornpone drawl is needed. Leave that to the stammering, pitiful Texan. That lanky draft-dodger is the perfect side show. Such serendipity to be paired with him.
Though he likes the phrase, "corridors of power," he knows he operates in a realm subterranean to them. The hidden bunkers where all is preserved in a state of cleanliness and order and where the peeping eyes that pry and may discern some segment of the labyrinth cannot see.
He knows the bombers that hum gray in the night.
The Vice President. And
he remembers watching the MGM films
on the Roman empire in his youth. His friends longed to be the boldly heroic gladiators and respected the swift, stunning power of the Emperor. He trained his eyes on the cloaked men, those whose faces transmitted neither fear nor pity. They would lean over and gently whisper into the Emperor's ear. Events would transpire and still no change in the gaze of the advisers.
on the Roman empire in his youth. His friends longed to be the boldly heroic gladiators and respected the swift, stunning power of the Emperor. He trained his eyes on the cloaked men, those whose faces transmitted neither fear nor pity. They would lean over and gently whisper into the Emperor's ear. Events would transpire and still no change in the gaze of the advisers.
