And the Future Will Be Gravy

Joyce Gleason spins in circles in front of a full-length mirror.

“Think President Madrid and the First Lady will be impressed?”

Colonel Benjamin Hotspur, late of the First Northern Army, turns and winks at his fiancé, who is resplendent in a sparkling coral dress.

A stocky 5’ 5” with wavy black hair and a bushy mustache, Benjamin, a nationally ranked wrestler during his college days, is affectionately called “Benny the Bull” because of his tenaciousness. Benjamin began his career as a bodyguard for Birmingham Madrid, then a Northern Province Senator on the fast track to the presidency. Fiercely loyal to Madrid, Benjamin worked his way up to head of his security force.

When Benjamin and President Madrid were inspecting Fort Calabasas, the Southern Province started a war by launching a sneak attack. Benjamin rallied the North’s vastly outnumbered troops to victory. In return, Benjamin was promoted to Colonel and put in command of over 12,000 elite troopers. Today’s ceremony will honor their triumphs.

Benjamin was engaged to Joyce, the 5’ 9” daughter of a prominent Northern senator before the war. Now that the war is over, the couple plans to marry after Benjamin is named commander of the peacetime army. The promotion will make them the most politically powerful couple in the capital city.

“This is like a dream come true,” Joyce says. “You’re going to be a national hero.”

Benjamin adjusts his tie. “This is going to be an afternoon we’ll never forget.”

Sheridan Stadium has been transformed into a patriotic site where 10,000 veterans and their families will celebrate the end of the six-year war.

Benjamin stands ramrod straight next to President Madrid on the dais, his smile as bright as the polished brass buttons on his jacket.

The charismatic, homespun president pins a pair of medals on Benjamin’s uniform.

“I can’t thank you enough for your leadership and bravery, Ben. We never would have won the war without you.”  

“Thank you, sir. Your appreciation means everything to me.”

“To think, all of that devastation and horror started over a tax on soda in the South. We’re going to put this country back together, Ben. It’s going to be bigger and better than before. And the future will be gravy.”

First Lady Rose Nixon Madrid stifles a yawn, weary but understanding of the pomp and circumstance involved in recognizing heroes. Standing to Benjamin’s right, Joyce protectively clutches the bouquet given to her by the president’s young daughters. Captain Luca Dubois, Benjamin’s dashing second-in-command, is behind Joyce, proudly showing his blushing wife his Medal of Honor. Gathered near the side of the stage, the president’s bodyguards quietly brag to each other about the commendations they’ve received.

The band strikes up the national anthem as some of Benjamin’s men, many still nursing wounds, climb the steps to the stage to receive their commendations. Benjamin vigorously shakes each man’s hand but is puzzled by the presence of a sinewy soldier whose pallid complexion seems a bit off.

Benjamin turns to Luca, whispering, “I thought I knew all our honorees. Who is that?”

Observing the soldier’s pointed beard, arched eyebrows, and slanted eyes, Luca searches his memory.

“I don’t recognize him. Must have joined us late in the campaign.”

President Madrid extends his hand. The soldier grabs the President’s arm, pulling him toward him.

The loud report of a gun momentarily freezes the crowd.

President Madrid’s eyes bulge as he takes two bullets in the chest. The president’s blood splashes onto Benjamin’s uniform as the gravely wounded Northern leader falls onto his back.

Screaming hysterically, the crowd scatters in all directions, trampling over one another to get to an exit.

Madrid’s bodyguards are slow to react, the blood draining from their shocked expressions.

Luca rushes to Rose Madrid’s side, pulling the first lady onto the stage and shielding her body.

The assassin holds his gun high, his voice harsh and metallic.

“A TYRANT MUST DIE, SO THAT FREEDOM CAN LIVE!”

Pushing Joyce into a bodyguard's protective grasp, Benjamin dives at the assassin’s legs.

Rolling over, the killer locks eyes with Benjamin. The two men grapple for the gun in the assassin’s hand.

The scent of the assailant’s cologne hits Benjamin as hard as one of his punches. The coconut-scented cologne is so strong it makes his eyes water.

Benjamin is astonished at the assassin’s strength. Grabbing Benjamin by the throat with one hand, the assassin bashes him with the butt of his gun.

Pulling away from Benjamin, the assassin points his pistol at him.

Benjamin reaches for the gun a second too late.

The first bullet goes through Benjamin’s left hand, glancing off his skull. The second hits him in his shoulder, ripping across his chest as he tries to turn away.

Wallowing in his blood, Benjamin manages to rise to his knees.

“STOP HIM! HE SHOT THE PRESIDENT!”

The assassin swats at two bodyguards who attempt to subdue him, knocking them off the stage.

Weakened, and on the verge of passing out, Benjamin pulls out his service revolver, firing at the assassin.

Two bullets strike the assassin, who pauses to grin victoriously at Benjamin,

Shocked that the bullets have no effect, Benjamin passes out before he can fire again.

Jumping off the stage, the assassin disappears into the panicking crowd.

Sobbing into a handkerchief, Joyce says, “You look like you just came from a slaughterhouse, Doctor Wicketts. How’s Ben?”  

The distinguished-looking black doctor wipes the gore from his granny glasses on his white shirt, removing his blood-splattered tweed jacket. “Colonel Hotspur is a brave man. He’s also very fortunate. The bullet that traveled across his chest nearly pierced his heart. And the bullet that ricocheted off his head could have easily killed him as well. He’ll have a dent in his head, and he may lose his left arm, but he’s going to make it. You can see him before we take him to the hospital.”

Luca joins Joyce at Benjamin’s makeshift bedside. The first thing she notices is how small and pale he looks in his blood-drenched uniform.

Joyce carefully removes Benjamin’s medals for safekeeping.

He whispers, “…Is the president all right?”

Luca gives Joyce a concerned look.

“…I’m sorry, Colonel,” Luca replies, his blue eyes welling with tears.

“We were going to make history… He said the future is going to be gravy… I knew there was something wrong with that soldier… He didn’t look right… I could have saved the President if I had acted sooner…”

“He caught all of us off guard. No one could have stopped him,” Luca says.

“…I had him in my grasp… He was so strong.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“…It’s my fault… I hesitated after I shot him…I have to find that man… Avenge President Birmingham’s death…”

Benjamin never regained full use of his left arm. He married Joyce a few months later but continued to blame himself for Madrid’s death. To compound his misery, Vice President Garth Pilcher, who succeeded Madrid, echoed public opinion that Benjamin should have captured the assassin.

Further emphasizing his ill will, Pilcher convinced General Julius Trent not to retire and remain Commander-in-Chief of the peacetime army, shunting Benjamin to the thankless task of overseeing the Northern Army’s redundant reserve force.

Over the next two years, Benjamin was diagnosed with severe ulcers that shaved his once bullish form down to that of a sickly adolescent. Benjamin‘s mental state deteriorated as well. He developed a nervous tick that manifested itself whenever Madrid’s name was mentioned. He also suffered from insomnia, the result of struggling with a reoccurring nightmare that he was within inches of apprehending Madrid’s assassin.

“Not once, even in his dreams, does he capture his nemesis,” Joyce complained to Luca. “The saddest part is for a brief moment after he wakes up, he thinks Birmingham is still alive.”

Artist renderings of Madrid’s assassin were on every block, but yielded few responses, even when President Pilcher begrudgingly agreed to offer a sizable reward for information leading to his capture.

Six months after Madrid’s tragic death, Benjamin posed for renowned photographer Brady Matthews wearing the blood-stained uniform he had on the day the president was assassinated.

“Why put yourself through this torture?” Matthews asked. “It could have happened to anybody.”

“But it happened to me,” Benjamin replied.

Luca watches his commanding officer and mentor crumble a bit more each day but can do little more than tell Benjamin that Madrid’s assassin is still at large.

Benjamin pulls at his thinning hair as he goes over the details of the assassination in his head. “I shot him. I swear it.”

“You were delirious,” Luca replies. “Even a sharpshooter would miss his target if he was as mortally wounded as you. Don’t let this incident ruin your career.”

“You’ve heard what people call me now. ‘Bungling Benny.’ As for my career, I’m in command of three hundred out-of-shape slackers who’d rather retire than face another revile.”

“It’s been two years. With his resentment toward the South and corrupt policies, Pilcher will never get elected. The next president will most likely be more friendly toward you. But you have to put Madrid’s death behind you. Every time the noise settles down you take another picture wearing that bloody uniform or swear that you’ll see that Madrid’s killer pays with his life. You have to accept that Madrid’s death might never be avenged.”

Benjamin eyes Luca suspiciously.

“You’ve always backed me, Luca. I’ve never heard you sound hesitant or worried. You’ve come across something, haven’t you?”

Luca sighs heavily. “For the sake of your health, for the sake of your family, I want you to promise yourself that you’ll accept Madrid’s death wasn’t your fault. Even if what I’m about to tell you doesn’t pan out.”

Through his field glasses, Benjamin looks at the pristine, one-floor cottage situated deep in the woods.

“It looks so unassuming, so small like someone’s grandma lives there.”

“That’s where the man resembling the assassin was last seen,” Luca responds. “It was over a year ago. He was driving a van toward this location. An older man was with him. Are you sure you’ll recognize him?”

“I still see and smell him every time I close my eyes.”

Holding his churning stomach, Benjamin crosses the cottage's threshold. Two king-sized soldiers have handcuffed a slightly built bald man sporting a handlebar mustache and are pointing guns at his head.

“Where is he?” Luca demands.

“Who? I live here by myself,” the man replies, his voice hinting at a slight Southern accent.

Benjamin studies the bald man. His dull stare suddenly ignites.

“…I know you…”

“Of course you do,” the man replies. “I’m Caleb Tidwell, the man you turned down.”

“Because you were a raving lunatic!”

Tidwell’s wide-eyed, loopy stare turns ruthless. “You were the one who convinced Madrid and General Trent not to listen to me. What happened next is on you.”

“You didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Luca asks, perplexed.

“Before the war, I was a researcher working for the Northern government. I met with President Madrid, General Trent, and Colonel Hotspur to show them a weapon that could defeat any enemy within a week. They laughed at me and threw me out…Lucky for you, Hotspur, the South didn’t listen to me either, at least not until they were defeated…Then they were all ears.”

“What’s he talking about, Colonel?” Luca asks.

“Is there a workshop or an office here?”

“In the back room.”

“Get him out of here and make sure he doesn’t move. If he does, kill him.”

Tidwell lets out a guttural, mad stream of laughter as the soldiers carry him out.

“IT’S ON YOU, BUNGLING BENNY! IT’S ALL ON YOU!”

Benjamin breaks out in a sweat as he walks down the hallway toward the workshop.

He stops short in the doorway, inhaling deeply.

“Smell that?”

“Coconut,” Luca replies.

“He’s here. Birmingham’s assassin is here.”

Both men draw their weapons, circling the small room.

Luca points at the room’s lone closet. Benjamin aims his gun at the door, ready to fire.

Luca yanks the door open. A metallic head falls out, rattling across the floor. A pair of metal arms drop to the floor.

Benjamin picks up the head, rubbing the white makeup on its cheek between his fingers.

He recognizes the pointed beard, arched eyebrows, and slanted eyes.

Luca pulls a metal torso out of the closet.

“Two bullet holes in the chest. If he was human…”

Tears stream down Benjamin’s cheeks “That smell… It was lubricant, Tidwell hired out his android to Southern anarchists who wanted the president dead. He probably tried to sell him and when the robot proved to be too hot, he finally dismantled it/”

The conspiracy surrounding President Madrid’s death was solved, but Benjamin failed to profit from it. As his last outgoing act, President Pilcher announced Caleb Tidwell was the ringleader behind Madrid’s murder but suppressed that the actual killer was an android.

A week after Tidwell’s capture, Benjamin was found standing next to President Madrid’s grave holding a rifle.

When Joyce delicately asked Benjamin what he was doing, he replied, “Protecting the president.”

He was wearing his blood-spattered uniform.

The month Benjamin spent at Holyoake Mental Health Center only reinforced his feeling of guilt. Seeing Luca and his wife pass intimate looks during their visits made him wonder if a more personal problem was developing.

“I got you a job,” Joyce announced upon Benjamin’s release.

“What makes you think I can’t find one on my own? And why can’t I return to the army?”

“You’ve been serving people your entire career. It’s time someone looked out for you. And you can’t go back to your old life.”

“Who’s going to look out for President Madrid?”

Joyce sighs. “The government will look out for him.”

“He trusts me to protect him.”

“But he’s….”

“He’s what?”

“Never mind. You’ll like your new job. You’re going to be Ambassador to the Hinterlands.”

“No! It’s cold and desolate there,” Benjamin whines. “All they do there is eat cheese and herd goats. I’ll be too far away from the president.”

“The president insisted you take the job.”  

“And what will you be doing?”

“What do you mean? I’ll be with you.”

Benjamin scoffs. “You’re going to divorce me, take my daughters away from me, and marry Luca.”

Joyce pushes Benjamin’s wheelchair into the lobby of the Hinterland Hotel. Luca and the couple’s twin daughters follow close behind. A group of guests notice their arrival and begin whispering to one another.

Benjamin has been in and out of a fugue for a week, ever since the family boarded the liner Hoagland for what was supposed to be a restful cruise to their new home.

Joyce adjusts Benjamin’s oxygen mask.

A Hinterland officer and his wife signing in at the front desk recognize Benjamin.

“It’s the Bungling Benny! I heard you were being exiled here!”

“Please, we’re just staying here until our chalet is ready, not to be cross-examined,” Joyce says.

Luca kneels in front of Benjamin’s wheelchair, looking into his dead eyes.

“Do you think he knows where he is and what’s happening?”

“I’m afraid he does. That’s why he’s sinking. Maybe we’re making a mistake.”

Benjamin’s accusatory stare bounces between Luca and Joyce.

“You and the girls need a fresh start. Needless to say, so does Ben.”

“But he’s gotten worse. He’s only said one thing today: ‘Is the president all right?’”

Luca rolls around uneasily in his bed.

A dozen years after the assassination, Benjamin’s facial tick runs rampant, and his kidneys, eyes, and heart are failing. He yells at Joyce, refers to Luca as a cuckold, and has made numerous embarrassing political decisions.

“Loyalty is one thing, but these past few years have been torture,” he says aloud.

Luca has spent his free time in the guest room or the guest house since his wife died from cancer eleven years before. Out of respect, Luca has declined to tell Benjamin that what he’s long suspected is true – that he’s in love with Joyce and wants her for his own.

Earlier in the evening, Luca told Joyce how he felt about her while they were having a frank, cognac-inspired conversation and Benjamin was fitfully slumbering from an IV-induced drip. Joyce admitted that after so many years together, the feeling was mutual.

In the morning, Dr. Wickets will sign the papers committing Benjamin to a convalescent home.

The sound of creaking floorboards wakes Luca from the most pleasant sleep he’s had in a dozen years,

Still groggy, Luca thinks he hears a sad voice whisper, “…And the future will be gravy …”

Luca turns on the light.

Benjamin is wavering by his bed, pointing a gun at him.

“You're not getting away this time, android.”

Dr. Wicketts leans over his patient.

“Hello, old friend.”

Strapped to his bed to lessen the effect of his seizures, Benjamin looks up at Dr. Wicketts with hollow, unrecognizing eyes.

“Poor fella. He’s our longest-living patient,” the nurse says. “He’s been here ten years. Used to be somebody important. I heard he shot his assistant and his wife. Then he turned the gun on himself, but he’d run out of bullets.”

Benjamin’s lips quiver as he struggles to speak.

Dr. Wicketts leans closer to listen.

“What did he say?” the nurse asks.

“Is the president all right?”