Ft. Harrison: Location Classified

This is Ft. Harrison; named after the famous Harrison patriline, which once put two men in the Grey House. It'll be Fitz's and Ms. Ophir's home until law enforcement finds and catches who's trying to hurt Fitz.

The fort's location is classified...for the Presidents' protection, of course. But Fitz imagines it's somewhere in Northeast North America.

The fort has an archery range-MUCH to Ophir's liking. Still clad in her amazon dress, she fires arrows across the range. She dips a few in oil, and shoots them as they're flaming. She's allowed to shoot a few jars of incendiary liquid...until her protectors tell her not to, because the noise might draw in some hostile ears.

Ms. Ophir's got a fire going. It demands a lot of wood, and releases a lot of smoke. It's plenty humid around here. She's hardly worried about a burn ban...or there being a city nearby, since she and President Grant II are in protective custody.

Some of her protectors bring her some kosher turkey. She takes their word for it that it's kosher, and flame-broils it, like it was damned.

She stews some of it. She ladles some stew into a bowl, and takes the bowl to a concealed location.

Once there, she pulls a vial of Israeli salt out of her rack. She kisses the vial, and empties it into the stew.

The fort entry opens. Fitz is allowed inside. It seals itself shut behind him. Fitz would say "home sweet home," if he wasn't worried about having to spend his time in protective custody cheating on two women at the same time.

Ophir hears him. She stands bolt upright, and turns with her ass to the bowl of stew she's just doctored. It appears she's trying to conceal its existence from him. She straightens her hair, and adjusts the top of her amazon's dress.

Fitz looks around, and sniffs the air. There's still a lot of smoke from her fire. And he can smell the incendiary jars in the archery range. She also hasn't picked up all of her arrows from before.

"Wow," Fitz remarks. "I'm shocked your country didn't find you too primitive to be president."

She chuckles. "The presidency of my country has a literacy requirement, Mr. Grant; not a refinement one." She rubs her own bare arms. "And naturally, all Jews who become president must be able to read the Torah."

"I'd consider them vain if they couldn't. Although that's not to say I'd idolize them if they could."

"You're a President, Mr. Grant. You shouldn't have to idolize anybody."

He nods at the turkey she's cooked. "Is some of that for me?"

She nods. "It's kosher; just so you know. I know you're probably a gentile."

"As gentile as they come; although I am a conservative. That...probably means something different in your country."

"There are at least two different varieties. I won't say what they are, except that their respective religions are Islam and Judaism." She serves Fitz a bowl of her stew. "There's a Catholic one in Malta; but who's counting minorities, anyway?"

Fitz takes the bowl. Ophir stares into his eyes as she serves it to him.

"Interesting," Fitz says, trying the stew. "I could've sworn there was an Orthodox Christian one in Amhara as well."

"There is. But compared to the Muslim conservatives, they're alright. They're probably more like your family...if yours were Semitic."

Fitz chuckles. "Oh, no one in my family's Semitic. You can sure count on that. I don't support the Nazi cause any more than any other man who gets to the Grey House, but I've got some relatives and neighbors back at home who like to drift that way."

Ophir bites her lip, and steals glances at the stray bowl of stew in the shadows she's prepared and salted. "I understand that," she stammers, "I suppose."

"My wife's fine. She's just in a catatonic state."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that. Yeah, some women just don't know how to accept reality for what it is, I suppose."

Fitz chuckles. "Like how your precious Yahweh loves reality so much, that he wrote the Torah just so that he couldn't possibly defy it with the most inhumane of his laws?"

"Hey!" Ophir raises her finger. "I was born into the religion. And I only follow the laws that make me a better person; as you would if you read the Bible."

"Well," he keeps eating her stew, "I must confess that most of the people who voted for me probably wouldn't have done so if they thought I'd never read the Bible in my life. But if you ask me, most of it isn't so hard to figure out on one's own. I STILL don't know why children are taught it. Children can't commit to anything...let alone being good all year, so that Santa Claus won't put them on his naughty list."

Fitz would never tell Ophir this, but he LOVES turkey... Kosher or otherwise...

Ophir grins. "Oh yeah; that's an easy part of white people's culture to forget. Yeah, a lot of Jews go to extremes to prove themselves omnibenevolent," she wipes a spot on Fitz's mouth. "But I think that humans should just accept that there's no version of their biography where they never do anything wrong, and just look for a way to use their inner evil for good."

Fitz studies her. "That's an interesting theory." He takes up the bowl of stew she's been trying to conceal. "Would you like to tell me more."

Ophir struggles to grab the bowl, and take it from his hands. "Uh, yeah, I'll...tell you all about it. But first, you look like you could use a break. Why don't you go to your barracks, and dress more comfortably?"

Fitz seems confused...but he goes along with it. "Thank you. I'll be back." He retires to his barracks.

In his absence, Ophir deviously sticks a spoon into the bowl of stew. She leaves the same spice jar hanging from the spoon's end.

The sun sets lower. At Ms. Ophir's command, the fire burns brighter.

They sit outside. He's got a guitar. She's got a sintir; a Tuareg lute. Her country includes Tuareg territory.

They're about to have a picking contest. With luck, this won't turn into the Jew vs. gentile version of "the Devil Went Down to Georgia."

It might be that version of "Dueling Banjos," though... Anyway, you're probably wondering what happens next.

Fitz goes first. He plucks the strings, and thinks to himself while doing so. It's his first impulse to use his left hand to pluck the tune of "Lefty." But instead, he thinks certain musical thoughts to himself as he plucks:

I am a Grant; a son of many mighty Grants

Ulysses is not in my patriline that I'm aware of

But still, they insist on calling me President Grant II

To keep our great grandchildren from confusing me with the bearded Civil War hero

Many men in my patriline have risen

All have fallen; some more violently than others

We've always stood tall for the heffalump,

Including those of us who did so before we could've known

How the heffalump would be incorporated into our glorious lore

We haven't all been leaders, but I have

My father was a pathetic excuse for one, and yet

Somehow he didn't mangle me beyond recognition

Before I could run for the Grey House on the rightists' ticket

I probably looked mangled beyond recognition when I was born

And yet, somehow, my mother didn't mistake me for twins...

In college, I majored in beer and girls

Just as my predecessors always had

I would've looked like a weirdo for pretending I didn't care for hooters

I never once regarded the Seventh Commandment

Although it's still pathetic to me that many of my Christian kin can't even remember which one that is,

Or let alone look up the word "commandment" in the dictionary

Red necks, white socks, and blue ribbon beer

Are the pride of my patriline...if not my family

They'd probably hate me that I'm hopelessly in love with a black girl

I have no idea why black people vote for rightists these days

Now that the end of the slavery issue is as old as Appomattox

I have sex fantasies of Liv being my slave,

And in revealing white lingerie, if she was capable of such humility

But I can't do a damn thing about that, even if she approved

Because then my voters would know I don't love my wife anymore...

"Mr. Grant?"

Fitz stops plucking. He studies her.

"You said something, earlier, about some folk song that you consider a theme for yourself. I believe you called it 'Lefty?"

Fitz chuckles. "Of course. I can't sing, so bear with me."

"I can't either. But even so, I'd like to hear you try to sing it."

Fitz nods, and starts strumming the intro. As much as he would appreciate some steel guitar accompaniment from the Travis Linville cover of the song...his protective custody doesn't have that kind of budget...for some reason... He plays the Chuck Brodsky rendition instead.

Ophir watches him, with an amused face. Fitz wishes she wouldn't...although he's not entirely ungrateful that she is.

He once swore he'd play this song for Liv, after it became okay for him and her to be seen in public...as lovers. But you know, Fitz just can't afford a bad relationship with Afroasia. Many of Ophir's Muslim conservative subjects hate the Union. They probably always will...but if there's hope, Fitz MUST mine for it; for his country, if not for his...love life.