Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page A

Everybody says Worthington is a shoe-in to be the next Republican candidate for the presidency.
    â€œTesting, one, two, three …”
    On the other side of the pool, they’ve set up a small raised platform. Dirty Larry, the nationally syndicated potty mouth, is on stage, shaking his shaggy hair and tapping on the microphone.
    â€œCan you hear me, Janey?”
    â€œWhen can I not hear you?” Crazy Janey, our hostess and Larry’s loyal sidekick, screams from over near the diving board.
    â€œOkay, everybody,” says Larry, “before we fill the pool with Jell-O and really get this party started …”
    The crowd laughs. I might’ve joined them except I’m busy heaving another bag of ice.
    â€œI want to introduce a truly great American. Not as great as me, of course. He’s not syndicated in one hundred and twenty-seven markets … .”
    The crowd claps. I dump ice.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to introduce an American who isn’t afraid to speak up for our brave men and women in uniform, maybe because he walks a mile in his son’s shoes every day. A son, by the way, who was wounded in combat and awarded the Purple Heart. Ladies and gentlemen, if you want my opinion, which, of course everybody does, this man should be and will be the next president of these United States. Why? Because I’m too busy to run myself!”
    A few more chuckles. Enough noise for us to start popping champagne corks into towels.
    â€œFriends, I give you the senior senator from the great state of Pennsylvania—Winslow W. Worthington!”
    Dirty Larry signals for the senator to clomp up on stage in those Army boots.
    Everybody claps so I flap flippers like an obedient seal.

    â€œDanny?” says Starky. “Start pouring. It’s almost time for the toast!”
    So, while the esteemed senator rambles on about how happy he is to be here and jabs the air with his thumb like Clinton used to do, we pour bubbly into plastic champagne glasses. Well, I guess they’re not really glasses but you can’t call them champagne “plastics.” Not very classy and, trust me, Crazy Janey is definitely paying the classy rates for this shindig.
    The senator talks some more.
    We pass out the champagne.
    The senator talks even more because that’s what senators do.
    Rita makes her way through the crowd and reaches the stage so she can hand a cup of bubbly up to the senator.
    The eight guys with the sunglasses and earpieces flanking the senator on all sides of the stage won’t be drinking this evening. It’s hard to whip out your Uzi if you’re sipping champagne.
    Finally, the senator stops speechifying long enough to raise his plastic goblet.
    â€œAnd so, my friends, I propose a toast!”
    Everybody raises their glasses when the senator raises his.
    â€œGoodness gracious,” he says. “Words fail me.”
    â€œImpossible,” cracks Dirty Larry, who, unlike the senator, never runs out of words, especially if there’s any kind of microphone close by.
    â€œWhat makes this the grandest summer evening of all?” the senator continues, sounding all choked up. “The answer is quite simple: my only son is here tonight. Oh, yes—he could have come home to his family months ago when he won that Purple Heart Larry mentioned. However, when his wounds healed, my son told me he didn’t want to abandon his other family: the brave men of Echo Company.”
    The crowd applauds. They know a hero when they hear about one.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, my son is here on a brief furlough to savor some of the freedoms he has fought so valiantly to defend. And, to make this night even more special, he’s brought along a few friends!”
    A murmur rumbles through the crowd. I notice that Starky is up on the tips of her toes. The senator swings his arm grandly to the right.

    â€œSon? Come on up here with your buddies