Inflation. Education. Energy. Trade. And even warm weather!”

That brought down the house. A woman in the front row turned around to face the galleries, and, with exaggerated arm gestures, started up a chant that rolled through the hall.

“Time for a change!” she yelled, repeatedly whipping up her hands for everyone to follow her lead. “Time for a change! Win the future! Time for a change! Win the future!”

King jauntily doffed his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Grabbing a wireless microphone, he went out into the audience, shaking hands as he spoke. Yelling and cursing into their headsets, his security detail scrambled to keep track of him.

“And we’ll create a new kinda politics that’ll transform this country, change the world, and free this nation from the tyranny of oil,” King said. “The rise of the oceans will slow and our planet will begin to heal.”

King clasped the microphone under his arm and used both hands to shake those of his delighted and stunned audience, moving nonstop with the vigor of a much younger man.

“Details to follow!”

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,”

“He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”

“He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,”

“His truth is marching on-n-n-n.”

With considerable gusto, the band played the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” a few times. The conventioneers got to their feet and sang along. Even King marched in place to the beat, saluting the audience as he stepped. When it was finally over, cheers and clapping filled the convention center.

Just outside, a spirited protest was in full swing, held at bay by squads of battle-clad police holding their riot shields in an impenetrable ring around the building’s entrance. Demonstrators with signs marched around in a circle, while others paraded a crude, evil caricature of King; a giant, grotesque paper mache puppet on a stick that they twirled over their heads. They were calling King bad for working families, captured by the special interests, and a warmonger. At intervals, they would tire from their labors and stop for a break. Benson watched it on the monitors. The show outside seemed much more interesting to him than the one inside.

Benson laughed to himself. These soft pansies had been indulged all their lives, filled with a phony self-esteem that had left them mentally and physically unfit. They looked like they hadn’t worked hard a day in their lives. Wars are messy; there’s no such thing as a clean, quick War on Terror. Combatants are captured and tried, sometimes in secret. The worst ones are even executed. There’s collateral damage.

King clasped his hands together in front of his chest, a devout expression on his face. Thousands of euphoric people before him giddily jumped up and down.

“My friends, we’re gonna come together and restore the great American experiment.”

He looked skyward, as though he were about to pray.

“National unity! We’re gonna strive for national greatness, now how ’bout that?”

The crowd went wild. Another chant began rolling through the convention center in waves. “It’s our turn!” they yelled. As the wave hit each section, the conventioneers stood, raising their hands in the air, and then sat down. The effect was of an undulating ribbon going round and round.

“It’s our turn! We deserve it! It’s our turn! We deserve it!”

A blast shook the building. Billowing smoke blew out from the end of the convention center.