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"SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes"
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frankz 1024 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Politically Incorrect Guest"

07-31-05, 11:26 AM (EST)
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"SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes"
I love the beach; the smell of the water, the hot sun and sand, the scantily dressed young beauties. I’ve enjoyed my self-imposed, semi-retirement. Living off investments, working odd jobs, blending in here or there so as not to appear conspicuous, with plenty of time left over to catch up on my reading. It’s a relaxing life, contrary to the occupation that made me famous which, I’m sad - or glad to say, has kept me far too busy for the last fifteen years. But hard work pays off, I’m considered the best in the world at what I do and people eagerly open their pocketbooks to get me to work for them. That is if they can reach me. I make it my business to be elusive. But a perfect record speaks for itself. From what my associates tell me, there are scores of desperate clients lining up, clamoring for my services. Tumultuous bidding wars – where often the high-bid exceeds the Gross National Product of more countries than I care to admit - are waged on my behalf yet not a single participant, my direct associates included, knows my name. They only know that if they require positive results, guaranteed, there’s no one else. Blissfully, I remain oblivious to the details of their activities. I can afford to pick and choose and I choose to be picky. My network of business associates, woven together like a spider’s web and consisting of individuals all independent of one another despite their precarious link, act as my buffer from the people who seek my services. There are complex mazes involving various levels of associates one must travel through to get to me. Even then no one person communicates with me directly. A committee of three people, unknown to each other, compares credible requests with a list of demands I’ve created. If the evaluation proves favorable to all three, my associates contact me. In over two years there hasn’t been an offer that meets my stringent guidelines and I’ve lived in splendid isolation. Until three days ago, that is.
I’d been living as a professor from Germany, on sabbatical outside of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands – quite luxuriously, I might add – when I received the message.
One of my favorite and most profitable pastimes is surfing the Internet. From the luxury of my cabana on the San Agustín beach – thank god for wireless communications - I keep up with my investments, read the news and participate in Discussion Boards involving a wide variety of topics, only one of which, the Darwin Awards, remotely relate to my previous profession. I am retired, after all. As I surf the electronic waves, the young, tanned, servers whisk in and out of my tent, silently and relentlessly keeping my glass full and providing entertainment with just the movement of their bodies.
I also love game shows of all kinds and one of my daily website checks is a Discussion Board involving a current popular reality game show. It’s amazing the amount of time some people spend analyzing the most minute details regarding an edited, choreographed television show, in some cases spending more time on-line than a high-stakes commodity trader could ever have the hours to accomplish. I read their detailed reports with amusement and respond to many with my personal observations. I’m one of the regulars there. Perhaps you know me. I call myself Beachcomber.
It would be a waste of both of our times if I tried describing my appearance. Today I’m a blonde, next month I’ll think I might try the close cropped look. Who knows? I can vary my height by up to four inches, be a beach bum in cut-offs or look right at home in a power suit. Are you in a public place right now? Look around, that could be me across the way.
Not without warrant, Interpol cleverly calls me The Chameleon. Everybody has to have a nickname I guess. The Chameleon is as good as any. It describes what they know of me fairly accurately and, on the positive side, having a nickname provides a little continuity to the ebb and flow that is my ever-shifting persona, the anchor that keeps me from sliding into the foamy sea of total anonymity. My direct associates however - whom you can count on one hand and have fingers left over - know me by a nickname of my own choosing, the Panther. That moniker is rarely used but when it is, has serious implications.
My love for stupid game shows notwithstanding, a professional reason exists for my devoted following of these people in their quest for a million dollar prize. In spite of my current employment status – retired and loving it – I have to keep up with business. Daily, coded messages are sent to me via these boards. A complicated process of using the daily message to find words in books yields the decoded message (this week it’s Huckleberry Finn, next week I think it’s Black Beauty). Most are nothing more than routine queries, passing as ordinary debate among cyberpals, but the message three days ago immediately altered my employment status. The Panther had been summoned. It was time to get to work.
______________________________

The president-elect was a popular guy. A trite statement, to be sure, but in this case it fit substantially better than OJ’s glove. Jeff Williams loved people and they, often in spite of themselves, loved him. Jeff had a personal magnetism that drew the attention of everyone in the room. He wanted to be with people, talk to people, eat with people, sleep with people. But to Jeff it was not just a political tool used as a façade to get votes – although it generally achieved that objective - it was an ingrained obsession. He could no more be alone with himself than survive without oxygen. Therein lie his and Bob Simon’s biggest problem.
Bob Simon is in charge of the Secret Service detail assigned to the president-elect. Jeff Williams received government protection during the campaign, when he ran as a sitting Governor from a small southern state, but it was a whole new ballgame the day the people spoke. President-Elect Williams – how Bob hated the sound of that, professional ethics notwithstanding – had a deep-rooted resentment against authority figures. During the campaign, Jeff would often disappear for hours at a time, frequently in the company of a young lady or two. Bob’s repeated attempts to curtail the candidate’s dalliances were met with abusive language and threats. Jeff Williams, now the most powerful man in the free world, would “do whatever the ##### he pleases” as he has made abundantly clear on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, it was Bob Simon’s sworn duty to protect the life of this man and his personal abhorrence had to be set aside. He didn’t look forward to the upcoming conversation but he had no choice. After heated debate, it would invariably end with the president-elect suggesting Bob perform a physically impossible sexual act upon himself. But it had to be done. He buttoned his jacket, knocked on Williams’ hotel room door and after a minute’s wait, entered upon invitation.

_______________________________________

It’s been a busy three days since I deciphered the message in my Tenerife hotel. I’ll spare you the details but after wrapping up a few small affairs in the Canary Islands and saying a few personal good-byes, I traveled a circuitous world-wide route with stops in Paris, Munich, Prague, Tokyo, and San Francisco, picking up a few odds and ends here and cashing in a few favors there.
Traveling as a French baker, naturally with the appropriate identification, I arrived in the capitol city last night, landing just after the sun dropped over the horizon. I checked into a hotel in the suburbs and spent the night downloading a variety of documents that will assist me with my latest appointment. I finally got to sleep around 6 AM.
A brisk three-mile run and a relaxing bath started my new day. My strategy is fairly concrete now but, as always, one must be ready for the unexpected. I took the opportunity of the long travel hours to work out the specifics of my actions. All the elements of my plan are in place or easily obtained when necessary and I should have no problem meeting my 6-day deadline, pun not intended.
The lucky prizewinner – I just love euphemisms, don’t you? – can expect a visit from me in a few days. Like Ed McMahon, my special delivery will be entirely unexpected but differs from his joyous message in that mine will be rather unpleasant and will end a life, not start one anew. As always, the decisions of the judges are final.
I’m not a political person. The process that sets me in motion is complex and irreversible. I’m but a pawn in an enormous chess match. Actually a pawn is a bit imprecise. Due to my past success I have some freedom of movement and am not set up for sacrifice in the opening stages. It is best to protect me and save me until later in the game when it starts to count. Perhaps I compare more favorably with a rook. Not that any of this really matters. Even the King is manipulated by the large hand of the player and lives and dies based upon the aptitude or ineptitude of his puppeteer. And in the end we are all shoved into a box together and put away until next time. The players change, the pieces remain eternal.
I spend no time analyzing the consequences of my success; that is done by others. My role is comparatively simple. I had nine days to kill a man and had used three already. Still plenty of time but with little to waste. In this business you generally do as you are told. Some, like myself, have a little leverage when it comes to rights of final refusal. I can turn down a job if I don’t think it’s right for me but that decision ends my career immediately. At least it doesn’t end my life as it does for so many others. But generally, once you have been picked for an assignment there’s no way out. You succeed or die trying, one way or the other.
The gun would be the least of my obstacles; in America they are plentiful. Truth be told, a gun is easy to obtain anywhere else in the world, you just have to know where to look. Money needs no interpreter, it speaks all languages. My agenda today includes a couple of stops at gun shows where local citizen, Pat Singleton, – the current license in my wallet - will purchase the necessary components needed for that segment. Chris Paxton will purchase clothing and Terry Hansen will peruse bookstores for the necessary books and maps.
The website devoted to the upcoming week-long gala Inauguration Party was kind enough to provide me with a detailed list of my subject’s planned activities. However, at the whims of my mark, the month-long plans and preparations of the Dubuque Rotary club can change in a moment as he decides to wander off into a McDonalds to eat fries with the local high-school kids or disappear for a while with one of their moms. The Rotary Club is often slighted and occasionally completely ignored as he follows whatever impulse possesses him.
Major political events, however, are included in the itinerary no matter what the cost to security may be. My target reluctantly attends these functions, but his punctuality is another matter as he is always late and often leaves early. I will need a window of at least four hours to insure I get a chance at him at one of these events. Blending into the crowd should be no problem, it’s what I’m known for. To date he has not given a speech of less than nineteen minutes. Once he’s at the podium I can expect him to stay there for at least fifteen minutes; plenty of time. My plan’s beginning to take shape but I haven’t ironed out all of the details. I’ve still got six days.
As I mentioned, I’m not a political person. But on the other hand I’m also not a martyr, you don’t last long in this business if you are. The most important aspect of the job is to get away and stay anonymous, my specialty. The cabin servers in Gran Canarie can tell you of some other talents but I’m getting off-track here. The escape is essential. I think I’ve got it pretty well figured out though. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a lot of shopping to do.
_______________________________________________

As unimportant as politics was to The Panther, it was the essence of vice-president elect Morris Weisman’s life. Weisman had a long and distinguished political career, starting as a city-councilman in his hometown and ending up as the senior US Senator from his northeastern state. He now stood a heartbeat – or gunshot – away from the presidency, the first Jewish-American to be in that position.
Weisman knew few details of the convoluted series of events that occurred to put him where he is today. Jeff Williams had chosen another running-mate, Bill Hickman, another southerner like himself, before the unfortunate intimate photos of Hickman were leaked to The National Enquirer. Even in this day of enlightened sexual permissiveness, photos of a fifty-one year old man in bed with a sixteen year old boy do not enlighten one’s political career. Hickman resigned in disgrace and avoided jail time only because the sixteen-year old disappeared before testifying. Morris Weisman was chosen as the new running mate, one month before the election and after it became clear Williams had an insurmountable lead. They handily won the election.
Weisman didn’t know how or when he got involved with the group that hung peripherally in the background and influenced to some extent, his every move. But that was understandable, very few knew. It was early in his political career, while still a State Representative, when he met someone who introduced him to someone else, who had a friend, who had another friend. Favors were accepted and offered, promises were made, understandings were reached. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place like sections in a kaleidoscope, coming together in a dizzying, sliding effect that evolved into a bizarre, distorted picture, much different from the one he started with.
Before long, hints were dropped, suggestions made. Without Weisman realizing it, the suggestions became more frequent, eventually turning into directives. By then it was too late. Whoever these people were, they knew everything he did or was going to do and seemed to influence everyone around him. Weisman had no idea whom to trust.
Years ago, he tried to test the resolve of the group. Weisman used the word, group, for lack of a better name; he knew absolutely nothing about the force that guided and influenced him. It could be one person, or many; he didn’t know and they had trained him not to ask or want to know. He received his instructions always in the same way, via the mail. Of course, now his orders came in the form of electronic messages but back then, before Al Gore found time to invent the Internet, the mailman brought his instructions directly to his door. Was the mailman involved? Back then, Weisman would have laughed at the thought. Today he not only found it plausible, he accepted it as entirely possible. It only took one incident to convince him.
Weisman received his customary letter in the mail. It suggested he support the bill due for a vote that afternoon. Even though he agreed with the bill he was getting tired of the frequent “suggestions” and was determined to see what happened should he defy them. He voted against it but it passed anyway.
By the time Weisman returned to his office, less than ten minutes after the vote, the look on his secretary’s face told him he’d made a big mistake. There had been an urgent call from his wife; he was to call her immediately. And a package had just been delivered. He carried it into his office and placed it on his desk while he dialed his home number.
Abby Weisman answered on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?”
Abby’s voice was toneless. “I have a message for you. Some friends of yours just dropped by for a little visit. They want me to tell you they are disappointed in your vote today. They brought me a box but told me to wait until I had you on the phone before opening it. Morris, what is this all about?”
Weisman’s heart raced. “Are they still there?”
A brief hesitation; long enough for Morris to already know the answer. “Yes, they are here in the living room with me now. They want us to open our boxes. You have one don’t you?”
Weisman looked at the box on his desk. “Yes, it just came. Let’s get this over with.” Weisman cradled the phone on his shoulder and began peeling the tape off the top. He could hear the same thing occurring on the other end of the line. Before he had a chance to completely open the flaps of the box on his desk a scream, piercing through the telephone receiver, interrupted him. It was followed by a loud thud.
“Abby, what’s wrong? Abby, are you there? Abby?”
Silence.
His shouts aroused his secretary who came bustling into the office. “Mr. Weisman, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Ann. Please go back to your desk.”
A man’s voice drifted out from the phone. “Smart move.”
“Hello? Who is this? What’s happened to my wife?”
“Nothing Mr. Weisman, or can I call you Morris? She just fainted. Seems she was a little upset to see the head of your dog, Dawn, in a box. Dawn was involved in an unfortunate accident. We just wanted to pay our condolences. Have you looked in your box yet?”
Weisman tore the flaps open. Inside was a child’s coat.
“That’s your daughter’s coat. It could just as easily be her head. Consider this a warning. We’re going to leave now; Mrs. Weisman will be okay. Please remember this the next time you feel the need to test us.”
And he had, every day since.
Morris Weisman stared forlornly out of the window of his campaign headquarters office, remembering the sight of his daughter’s coat that day. He was peripherally aware of the hiring of The Panther, knowing only that the act was to be committed soon but not when, where, or how. He received a message yesterday informing him he would become president-elect in less than a week. His excitement was quickly extinguished by the realization that his standing was equally perilous. He was taught long ago that his power was ephemeral. He knew he controlled nothing at all, least of all his own fate.
But there was a small sense of satisfaction for Morris Weisman. Jeff Williams was a loose cannon and extremely dangerous. He had the potential of running his country into the ground or elevating it to new heights. His erratic behavior and his endless pursuit of political and personal profit made his loyalty a matter of grave concern and it was simply too much of a chance to take. It wasn’t Weisman’s decision – it never was – but once it had been made he was ready, and waiting patiently.
______________________________________

I’ve decided on a long shot from a rooftop or upper-floor apartment as he arrives or leaves. It seems to be the only way I can guarantee my escape. I need enough time and a clear view to get off a minimum of two shots. Two bullets to the head is my trademark and I do have an image to uphold. I will then escape in the confusion. There are four possible events in the next five days that could work. It all depends upon the circumstances. Flexibility remains the key.
The Jaycees are hosting a fundraiser tonight at the Hilton that he will attend. I’ll go down and mingle with the crowd, probe his defenses and gather as much information as I can. It never hurts to be as prepared as possible. Should come in handy later in the week when I’m no longer just an observer. If all goes well, I’ll be back on a beach by Saturday, retired for good this time. The recent deposits into my Switzerland bank account make me one of the wealthy individuals in the world. I have enough money to live regally for the rest of my life, but I have to exist in total obscurity. I can live with that. I always have.
I got dressed and caught a cab to the Hilton. Passing the security at the door, I maneuvered my way down to a table in the front row and sat back to watch the show.
___________________________________________

Bob Simon had his hands full. His conversation with Williams this afternoon went as expected. Jeff Williams will come and go as he pleases. Simon would just have to work around it. At least he had gotten Williams to concede to a twenty-minute rule. Whenever Williams needed some “personal” time, Simon would allow him twenty-minutes before checking on him. Williams wanted an hour, Simon five-minutes. After heated debate, they eventually compromised on twenty.
Williams’ speech to the Jaycees was long, as was his custom, but uneventful. The Panther stifled a series of yawns throughout the series of promises and demands yet remained focused on the task at hand. The applause had been hearty and Williams was basking in his performance, working the crowd like the master he was. He currently hovered over a beautiful, long-legged redhead and with Mrs. Williams back home coordinating the upcoming move, suggestions were made and Williams and his new friend made plans for later. The newly established twenty-minute rule would come into effect much sooner than either Williams and Simon could have anticipated..
Bob Simon had other concerns at the moment, however. A man had been spotted in the crowd. The observation camera operators noticed the man’s unwavering attention to Williams and, most importantly, his apparent preoccupation with the activities of Simon’s agents. He occasionally wrote in a notebook and spoke into what appeared to be a microphone. Two plainclothes agents were quickly sent down to the floor to get a closer look. By the time they got there, the man was nowhere to be seen. The camera operators tracked his exit but lost him somewhere between the 3rd and 4th floors. The majority of Simon’s agents were combing the hotel for the suspect but, so far, to no avail.
But Bob Simon and his team’s problems were of little concern to Jeff Williams. He had one thing on his mind and he always got what he wanted. He wrote his hotel room and phone number on a napkin – he was staying at the Marriott, across town – and made arrangements for an 11:00 visit. He gave Simon instructions to let the lady with the napkin invitation in when she arrived. Williams grinned. “Don’t forget about the twenty-minutes Bob. I’m going to need every second of it.”
_____________________________________________________

I learned everything I needed to know tonight. It pays to be in the right place at the right time. I saw a lot, learned a lot. I’m not sure why Williams’ agents reacted the way they did back at the Hilton but their movements told me how to proceed. It’s just a matter of time. Williams will be one of my easiest marks in years. Like taking candy from a baby. My bags are already packed and I can almost smell the scent of the mountain air, my destination when this is finished.

_________________________________________________________

At precisely 11:00 PM, across town, the red-haired woman from the Hilton gathering showed her napkin to the guards then knocked on Jeff Williams’ hotel room door. His security agents looked at their watches, noted the time and began their mental countdown. The woman entered the room and closed the door behind her. Williams saw her, smiled and loosened his tie. He never saw the gun she slipped out of her purse and didn’t have a chance to make a sound. She fired two bullets, point-blank into his forehead. The silencer on her revolver and her knowledge of the twenty-minute rule gave her all the advantages she needed.
The Panther opened the bedroom window and slipped out, disappearing into the night.

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  Table of Contents

  Subject     Author     Message Date     ID  
 RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes cahaya 07-31-05 1
 RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes PagongRatEater 08-04-05 2
 RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes syren 08-07-05 3

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cahaya 14104 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"

07-31-05, 02:46 PM (EST)
Click to EMail cahaya Click to send private message to cahaya Click to view user profile Click to send message via ICQ Click to check IP address of the poster
1. "RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes"
I read this from the edge of my seat right from the beginning. The suspense kept me busy with the scrollbar, absorbing every word, every possible clue, right to the end. And what a surprise ending! You write with flowing prose that's easy to read (a "scrollbar mover" rather than a "page-turner"!).

I enjoyed reading this story, and thanks for sharing it. It could easily be expanded into a novel to elaborate on some of the questions still remaining, like "Who's really behind running the most powerful country in the world?"

Excellent, suspenseful writing.


"Timeless at lightspeed"

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PagongRatEater 12927 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"

08-04-05, 04:59 PM (EST)
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2. "RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes"
Loved the story and the twist! Very compelling and, like cahaya said, could certainly have made a full novel out of the storyline.

Thank you!



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syren 5414 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"

08-07-05, 11:05 AM (EST)
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3. "RE: SSC5 (SS) - The Panther Strikes"
Very good story.

Thank you.

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