"Did we approve your budgets hardly changing a comma, or did we not?"
Why don't you just pull down your pants, see whose dick is bigger and get it over with? The Rainmaker wondered with a sigh.
The CIA man looked around at the unwilling faces; his opinion was not popular. "C'mon, people, he was on double dialysis, for Chrissakes. Nobody -- repeat, nobody -- could survive ten more years in that condition."
"His myth could, and that's what we're about here today," said the White House guy. "We're going to bury it."
The CIA man's forefinger shot forward like a missile. "No. That's the thing, see. You're going to ask us to bury it. And we've been down that road before, haven't we? The heavy boys go in and it turns out he's not there, and then it's our people explaining to the sub-committee why we were all wrong again. Everyone's favorite punching bag again. Think we don't see the play? Forget it. The brass is not going there."
More writhing silence. The Rainmaker put away his pen, took a deep breath, and spoke.
"One man's opinion here, but, " he said in his viscous old Midwestern drawl, all heads turning his way. Of all those present, he was the only one without a title before his blotter. "It's all a question of narratives, isn't it? You're just using the wrong one."
"May I ask who you are and what your agency is?" snapped the White House man, tie wagging as he leaned over the table to get a look at the speaker.
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