The Last Days of Mr. Right

Seeing this Mr. Right flew around behind the robot as quick as he could and delivered another flying punch into its back, which crumpled just like the chest. The robot toppled into the Reflecting Pool with a tidal wave splash.

The People had made one blunder, but in all fairness, it wasn't entirely their fault. They built their robot out of cheap Japanese steel. Since the policies of the 1980's American steel was hard to come by. Mr. Right knew that if they had built the robot out of American steel he could have never destroyed it. Oh well, I guess it is true. You get what you pay for.

Stupid, cheapskate, fucking Americans.

That didn't matter right now, though. He had to get to the lab and get a fresh transfusion of Juice. He needed to heal and he needed to get his strength back if he was going to face down the People. Robot or no robot, a populace seething with righteous indignation was a dangerous thing.

With a stumbling, limping bound Mr. Right soared into the night sky, heading across the Potomac to the secret nameless lab where he had first received his powers.

Once he had a shot of Juice then everyone would have to get back in line.

If they thought they had it bad before, just wait until they got a load of the new President.

Chapter Thirteen

Arlington, Virginia…

Mr. Right landed on the other side of the river and decided to walk to the lab. He wanted to keep a low profile and give himself as much of an advantage as he could in getting to the lab unobstructed. In the shape he was in there was no telling if he could handle a large crowd. The last punches that took the robot down had done almost as much damage to him as it did to the robot. He kept his broken, mangled hand tucked up high on his chest as if in an imaginary sling. The pain in his lower back was keeping him from lifting his legs up all the way, causing him to shuffle more than walk.

Hanging to the shadows and off the main roads, Mr. Right took a roundabout way to the lab. Any time he heard the sounds of the People looking for him he would duck into any hiding space he could find and hold his breath, hoping they would pass him by. Once he got to the lab and got an infusion of Juice it would be a different story. He would be healed and as strong as ever. But right now he had to be careful. Best to avoid trouble altogether. If he took to the sky he could be at the lab in a few seconds, but he would likely be seen and the People would catch him there before he could shoot up his Juice.

The lab was just a few blocks down from where he was, but between him and his destination were hundreds of traitors, on foot with guns and clubs, or in pick-up trucks, riding around looking for him. He had to be stealthy if he wanted to live to see tomorrow, much less live to run the country for himself.

The tree-lined street Mr. Right found himself on afforded him excellent cover almost all the way up to the lab's front door. It would be a quick dash across a wide open street and parking lot and he would be in. As long as he timed it right everything should be okay. He could see intermittent pick-up trucks cruising up and down the street at the end of the block he was on. The lab stood there at the juncture of the T in the road, enticing Mr. Right to drop his cover and make a break for it. But he had no choice. He had to maintain control and bide his time.

Mr. Right made his way to the corner of the block, concealing himself as best he could behind a large elm tree. From here he could see that there were some lights on inside the lab. Even though he thought for sure that he could shoot himself up with the Juice it was good to know that help was available if he needed it. There were a couple cars in the parking lot out front. Thankfully no one outside of his immediate circle of friends and associates knew anything about this place. There was no sign identifying it as anything in particular and no overt security measures that would attract attention. It was the perfect cover. Hidden in plain sight.

A truck full of patrolling traitors pulled down the street and Mr. Right ducked behind the elm tree just in the nick of time to avoid being caught in the headlights. The truck drove by slowly, but didn't stop. It went down one more block and turned the corner, disappearing from his view. He stepped out from behind the tree, cast a quick look each way down the street and decided to make a break for it.

Then the door to the lab opened up.

Mitchell and Thurman stood there in the doorway, Mitchell holding a little black box in his hand.

Mr. Right ducked back behind the tree.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked himself, under his breath.

Mitchell and Thurman got into the two cars in the parking lot and drove away.

Maybe they had come here to help him. Thurman had always been loyal and he had no reason to expect any less from Mitchell. The man had worked for him for over ten years. Thurman had been with him closer to twenty. And they were both paid extremely well. Big bucks always bought a ton of loyalty. Loyalty to ones own wallet was stronger than loyalty to most anything or anyone else.

Casting another look each way down the street, Mr. Right stepped out from behind the tree and put his head down, making his way across the street, determined. He hazarded a few more looks both ways and he made a hobbling run for the door, no longer able to fight his panic down. When he was most of the way through the parking lot he slowed down a bit, sure that he was going to make it to his safe haven.

When his hand touched the handle of the front door he heard the first explosion.

It came from the back of the building, the part where the Juice lab was.

Another explosion erupted from the building, this time somewhere in the middle of the building. Mr. Right dove away from the door as quickly as he could, seconds before the third explosion blew apart the front of the building.

Bricks and other pieces of debris rained down upon the parking lot, some of the larger pieces embedding themselves in Mr. Right's flesh. The fire had caused very little damage to him, but he lost his breath in the wave of heat and passed out.

He didn't know how long he had been out, but when he came back around he was surrounded by People. They stood at a good distance from him, watching his prone body with anticipation and fear. A gasp went through the crowd when he stirred and began to get to his feet.

Covered head to toe in blood and his star spangled uniform in tatters, Mr. Right rose to his full height, ignoring the pain. He sneered at the crowd, showing them his utter contempt. No one moved. They seemed frozen in place by his gaze. Scanning the faces in the crowd he saw Mitchell and Thurman. They had shotguns pointed at him.

"TRAITORS!" Mr. Right screamed, pointing his finger at as many People as he could without losing his balance. "ALL OF YOU! FUCKING TRAITORS!"

Mr. Right stumbled to his left a little when the twinge in his back turned into a sharp, stabbing pain. Still, no one moved.

"I AM AMERICA! I AM AMERICA! YOU TRAITORS ARE ATTACKING AMERICA!"

Someone in the crowd raised an American flag on a pole, and began to wave it slowly. Another American flag went up, and it to began to wave slowly. Then another. And another. And another.

"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU WAVE THOSE FLAGS! YOU ARE NOT FIT TO EVEN LOOK AT THAT FLAG! PUT THEM DOWN! PUT THEM DOWN!"

Mitchell lowered his shotgun and motioned to one of the People holding a flagpole and they gave it to him. Gripping the base of the pole, Mitchell stepped into the circle and stood before Mr. Right. Thurman moved up behind him. Everyone else held their ground at the edge of the circle.

"Thurman, Mitchell. How could you?" Mr. Right said, disappointment seeping into his voice, even though he tried sounding harsh.

"It's Maxwell, you sonofabitch!" the man known as Mitchell said, raising the flag in the air and burying the point of the pole into Mr. Right's chest. The force of the blow was enough to drive him to the ground and Maxwell stood over him, grinding the pole deeper, trying to push it through the huge slabs of muscle and into Mr. Right's heart. "MY NAME IS MAXWELL! NOT MITCHELL!"

After a few seconds of trying to force the pole through Mr. Right, Maxwell stopped and turned away, leaving the pole sticking up out of the fallen hero's chest. Mr. Right groaned and panted on the concrete of the parking lot, unable to find the strength to lift even a finger. He looked up just as a stray breeze caught the flag and Old Glory billowed out above him, waving majestically.

Maxwell and Thurman made their way out of the circle as it closed around Mr. Right's motionless body and they leaned up against a tree and watched the carnage. Mr. Right may not have had the strength to lift a finger, but he sure had the strength to scream when the People began to tear him limb from limb. The screaming stopped as abruptly as it started. The frenzied crowd raised Mr. Right's torn and bloody body parts into the air with howls of triumph. In a clash of hacking and tearing, Mr. Right was reduced to nothing but meat.

Maxwell turned to Thurman, a look of concern on his face. "Do you think we've really done the right thing?"

Thurman shared his look of concern, but he nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. It seems clear to me that we had no choice. We were obligated, as American citizens, to stand up and protect our nation from its… patriots."

Sarcasm dripped from the last word.

The crowd whooped and hollered for a few more hours, discarding the shredded corpse of Mr. Right, and they left as the sun rose over Arlington, heading home to face an uncertain future with the rest of the nation.

Dawn broke over a new day. A new day where Mr. Right was nothing more than an unsightly stain and a bad memory.

Epilogue

Things went back together much quicker than was expected.

The first thing on the agenda was to hold trials for all the congressmen and senators, to determine if their actions had always been consistent with someone who had the People in mind. Each member of Congress was roused from their beds, or in some instances tracked down with dogs, and brought to the National Mall where a huge gallows had been constructed with the wreckage of the People's robot. Hundreds of nooses hung from the beams that had been welded from the robot's arms and legs.

The voting record of every congressman and senator was read and analyzed, and then voted on, live on television. Those found to be the most self-serving were summarily hung. Some were imprisoned. Some were asked to step down. And a small few were asked to continue serving their constituency with the same dedication as they had previously. Not all politicians are scumbags.

Any hopeful replacement congressmen or senators would have a nice reminder of who it was they were supposed to serve. The People gave them their power and the People could take it away. After the new election, the replacements were sworn in at the base of the gallows.

Dark reminders are sometimes the best ones.

With a few choice updates it was decided to continue to base the new government on the existing Constitution. While not flawless, it was a pretty good document, and it was determined that proper use of the Constitution, accompanied with a splash of common sense, would serve the new United States very well. The big difference was that this time the Constitution would be applied to everyone equally. Quite the novel idea.

Repairing relations with the rest of the world would take a lifetime. Some of the damage done to America's reputation was quite possibly irreversible. The good news was that there was a new government in place with an interest in doing the right thing and with a desire to participate as citizens of the world instead of as an adversary. America would no longer give lip service to freedom for all while propping up any brutal regime that played ball with our government. America would no longer abuse the economies of smaller nations for our own greed. It would take deeds, not words, to prove to the rest of the world that America had turned a corner, but the right people were in place to make that happen.

There were many changes, with many more expected. Americans were now aware that rigidity in our policies had never worked and never would. We needed flexibility to change our path, not stone-faced resolution even when we were wrong. We needed to give ourselves permission to entertain the thought that, just maybe, we were wrong on occasion, and that changing course when we were going the wrong way wasn't a sign of weakness, but of wisdom. And even though we didn't always like it, we had to honor the freedoms of even the most radical Americans.

In time, everything was better. Everything was the way it had been intended in the first place. The Second American Revolution turned out to be just one more growing pain in a great nations journey toward becoming all that it could be.