"You said he came up with this theme-park restaurant scheme to make a profit off the conviction."
"Sure. Corporations are chartered to make a profit, after all."
"They are," John agreed. "And that's one thing that sets them apart from nations. What are nations chartered to do?"
Barbara looked at him quizzically. "Well, in the case of this one, to secure our rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."
"Happiness was in the Declaration of Independence, but by the time the Constitution was drafted it became property. So, in a way, this country is all about the money."
"No surprise there. After all, the first thing Bush told people to do after the World Trade Center was destroyed was to go shopping. Where are you going with this?"
"That statement of his puzzled me for a long time. It didn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. I mean, sure, telling people to go about their lives is a good idea after a shock like that, but that's not what he said. It's not what his speechwriters had him say, what his handlers wanted him to say. It wasn't normalcy they were after... it was profit. Go shopping. Pay tax on all of it, too. And this from someone who's trashed every single business he's ever been associated with. And had his butt saved every time, too. So, why would they have had him say that?"
Two men in dark suits swept in and flanked John like prison guards. The one on the left glanced at him, and then fixed a gaze on Barbara. "Do you know this gentleman, ma'am?"
She looked around unsteadily for the manager briefly, but then caught a few fragments of excited discussions from several nearby tables, and suddenly straightened. "Yes I do. He's a friend of mine. Do you have a problem with that?"
John nodded his thanks before turning to face the man. "Did you two goons want something?"
"Mr. Wyndt, I'd suggest that in the future, you refrain from posting incendiary rants on your web log. Considering the number of hits you have been getting from overseas, we could treat them as a conduit for, shall we say, sensitive information. That puts it in our ballpark, if you know what I'm saying."
John shook his head derisively. "If what I've figured out is that important to keep quiet, maybe I ought to hire a publicist. Who do you two work for, anyway? Homeland Security?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, sir. But if you don't refrain from distributing lies that threaten the national security, we will turn this over to them. They're a good bit less friendly than we are."
A small crowd had started to gather, as patrons and servers drifted towards the door. The mix of casual and bright yellow faux-prison jumpsuits gave the crowd an unsettling appearance. One of the customers, an overweight man with a goatee, strode to the counter. "Are these two bothering you, Barb?"
Barbara glanced first at one, and then the other. "Depends, Jason. If they came in for dinner, I'll get them a table, and you can keep an eye on them. Otherwise, yes, they're interrupting our conversation."
Jason smiled at the two men. "Table for two, gents?"
