President Ennis Chaney stares out the tinted rear windows of the limo, growling to himself. Security has been breached once more, despite Homeland Security’s having changed Dominique Vazquez’s identity three times over the last seven months, and the media has turned the event into Ringling Brothers meets the Second Coming. Terrorist threats, intercepted on-line by the FBI over NREN (National Research and Education Network) have forced the president to bypass the scheduled helicopter ride from Fort Lauderdale airport to the hospital, while a computer virus has crippled Homeland Security, causing the National Guard to be delayed by two hours.

The president rubs sleep from his deeply set owl-shaped eyes as the limo rolls to a stop in front of a police barricade.

Pepper, seated driver’s side, lowers his window.

A cop reeking of garlic breath pokes his head inside. ‘Sorry, pal, this area’s closed. Now turn this boat around and get outta here.’

Pepper holds up his I.D.

‘White House? Yeah, right.’

Chaney leans forward from the backseat and shoots the cop one of his infamous ‘one-eyed-jack’ glares. ‘You need glasses, son, or you just stupid?’

The cop’s complexion pales as he recognizes the heavy rasp. ‘Mister President? Geez, I’m sorry, sir—’

‘Shut up and let us through before we have to shoot you.’

Pepper grins, shutting the window in the cop’s face. The limo proceeds past the barricade and continues north on Route 441 another three miles before turning onto a side street leading to the hospital.

The access road is wall-to-wall people.

Pepper shakes his head. ‘Look at all those freaks. This is worse than one of your damn Republican conventions.’

Chaney leans forward, gazing out the windshield. Up ahead on the right is a mob of protesters, carrying signs that read: KILL THE ANTICHRIST.

‘Goddam Peter Mabus. Salt, clear ’em out.’

‘All of them? Cops too?’

‘All of ’em.’

With a mischievous grin, Kurtz activates the moon roof and stands, his upper torso protruding out the hatch. He scans the crowd, his computer optics calculating distance.

A sixteen-year-old Caucasian male with a blue goatee and a dozen facial piercings saunters over, a fourteen-year-old girl handcuffed to each tattooed wrist. The girls, high on Ecstasy, climb onto the hood of the limo. ‘Hey, Dr. Shades,’ the male calls out, ‘you here to witness the birth of the Messiah Twins?’

Kurtz rolls up his shirtsleeve, revealing his weapon. ‘Yep. Me and the other two wise men in the limo brought the frankincense. Open wide, here comes the mirth.’

Salt fires the cannon, its invisible beam of millimeter waves igniting screams from the crowd. Several dozen fanatics leap into the nearest canal, the rest disperse in every direction, yelping as if their skin was on fire.

The tattooed teen cries out like a banshee as he and his girls tear at their scorching tongue rings and handcuffs.