Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Read Free Book Online Page A

washable easel. “Behold, our new business model.”
    They stared in blank thought:
    I T’S THE STUPID VOTE, STUPID!
    Furtive glances across the room.
    An intern dared raise his hand. Veterans gasped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Malcolm pounded his fist on the table. “Everyone tries to get elected by leading. Instead we follow.”
    “Follow what?”
    “The emotions of the people.” Malcolm stood and began pacing. “They’re a massive disenfranchised class out there who feel abandoned.”
    “That’s awful!”
    “Tell me about it,” said Malcolm, spinning at the wall and heading back. “Millions of people across our great land who want nothing more than to be left alone and pursue their own happiness of believing mean-spirited bullshit. Except society has evolved away from ignorance. And that’s where we come in.”
    “How?”
    “We make being shitty feel good again.”
    More glances and murmurs.
    Another hand went up. “What are we supposed to do?”
    Malcolm pounded the table again. “We lie.”
    A junior partner cleared his throat. “But in politics, everybody else lies. That’s what has set us apart.”
    Malcolm smugly folded his arms. “Except they don’t tell the Big Lie.”
    “What’s that?”
    Glide leaned forward and seized the edge of the end of the table. “We don’t simply say something that’s untrue. We make statements so insane that there’s no possible intelligent response. Like arguing with some old fart in a rocking chair who claims we never landed on the moon. Any educated person can only laugh. Meanwhile, we’ve just won over all the non-moon-landing votes.”
    “Example?” asked the same partner.
    “Most of our clients are against health-care reform, right?”
    Nodding again around the table.
    “Get those pens ready and take this down!” said Glide. “Tomorrow we send out this talking point to our top candidates: The government wants to create death panels to kill your grandmother.”
    The table laughed.
    They weren’t laughing long. Next meeting:
    “. . . I can’t believe they bought it . . .”
    “. . . Even Palin’s quoting us . . .”
    “. . . It’s all over Fox News . . .”
    Glide swiveled side to side in his high-backed leather chair and puffed a fat cigar. “Remember you heard it here first.”
    “But how did you know?” asked their mass-mail manager.
    “There’s a new dawn in America! It isn’t enough just to disagree with your opponent anymore. True patriots hate their fucking guts!” Glide got up and kicked the chair out from under a speechwriter. “Anger is sweeping the country! Tea bags from sea to shining sea! Voters everywhere exploding from frustration!”
    “Why?”
    “Because the facts don’t support their beliefs. And we mean to fix that.”
    “But how?”
    “Talk in code.” Glide poured a glass of ice water from a sterling carafe. “From now on, the president is a socialist.”
    “He is?”
    “No, but he’s black.”
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Tons of people can’t stand that the president is the wrong flavor.”
    “That’s racism,” said a pollster.
    “And racism’s not cool anymore,” said Glide. “Even for racists. So we call him a socialist.”
    “That’s nuts.”
    “The people we’re trying to reach will get it,” said Glide. “ Socialist is the new ‘N-word.’ Have that imprinted on some stress balls.”

Chapter Two

    Tampa International Airport
    A cab pulled into the departures lane outside Delta.
    Two passengers got out with luggage, and the taxi sped off before Serge had a chance to pay.
    Coleman jumped back to avoid getting a foot run over. “What the hell was that about?”
    “Beats me.” Serge clicked open the handle on his bag. “He was acting weird the whole way, ever since I hopped in the front seat with him.”
    “I think we’re supposed to sit in back.”
    “And that’s why I always sit up front.” They walked through automatic doors.