5. Puppet Master
These dinner meetings are so very boring.
Unfortunately, they’re an important part of the game, a way to schmooze and get others on your side.
Because contrary to the goodwill and belief of the people who vote for us, the work doesn’t get done on the Senate floor or in our offices, but at dinners, parties, and various other events where connections can be made, and who you know is just as important, if not more so, than what you represent.
That doesn’t mean they’re not dull as shit.
I am not like my colleagues, who pride themselves on being family men, loyal to their roots, and having bullshit white-collar backgrounds that gave them visions of grandeur without ever truly getting their hands dirty.
Even now, when the average person thinks of a politician, they automatically assume they’re crooked, that they’re only in it for the money and notoriety.
And sure, that’s true for most…but none of them truly know what crooked means.
Not until they’re holding the entrails of their opposers in their hands, and feeling the blood stain their skin. Not until they’ve sacrificed everything—children included—will they ever understand the true meaning of being a “crooked” politician.
Still, I plaster my election-winning smile on and pretend I’m interested in more than the backhanded deals my fellow senators make, and how much further they can help my cause—both legal and illegal; not that they know that part.
My phone buzzes, and I check it, fury igniting in me in a cold wave as I see the caller. “Excuse me,” I say absently. “I need to take this.”
I don’t care if they acknowledge me or not, already bringing the device to my ear as I stride through the restaurant. “What? I told you not to disturb me.”
“I know, Boss, but…it’s an emergency. The old house has been hit—most of the men were taken out, and it’s been set on fire.”
“Fuck!” A passing server gives me a look at my outburst, but fuck if I care. “Send people to the location…and make sure the other areas of interest are locked down. Those fucking cockroaches…”
“You sure it’s the Council?”
“Who the fuck else would it be? Especially that location.”
“You’re right, Boss. I’ve sent a team over already. Hopefully, they will have an update soon. I will redistribute our forces—maybe we’ll get lucky and catch them before they hit somewhere else.”
I curse again as realization dawns on me. “I need you to meet me at the main supply warehouse.”
“Sir?”
“It’s fucking distribution night. If they’re targeting us…this would be the perfect night to do it. We need to move as much product”—and get rid of some damning evidence—“as we can.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir. You don’t need to come down.”
Fuck that. Too much has gone wrong because I’ve left things up to chance and trusted the wrong people. No. There will be no more fuckups. Not now. “I will meet you in an hour,” I tell him before hanging up, so I don’t have to hear any useless arguments.
Letting out a deep sigh, I work on getting myself under control as I slide my phone into my pocket.
Plastering my smile back on, I return to my table to make my excuses so I can go deal with more important things than who is fucking their secretaries and aides, and how that blackmail can be used in the future.
No, I deal with the real-world shit my colleagues only fantasize about but will never really do.
Part of me is getting tired of the games, but in order to have it all, needs must.
Which is, of course, why I need to deal with the warehouse situation in-person, lest we lose valuable product and information.
Fucking Council. Don’t they know their clock is ticking?
It’d be so much easier if they just rolled over for their betters…
Ah well, they will learn. And I will enjoy every minute of it.