Karl Hosch - Come November: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness -Guaranteed by the Constitution

ISBN: 9781623093471

It is my hope that you are reading COME NOVEMBER to find out how we as a nation, can effect the positive changes that we so desperately need and to give the control of the country back to the people. In doing so, it is vital that we elect a President in such a way, as to guarantee that he or she will be empowered to actually accomplish the goals that are mandated by a presently very frustrated, disillusioned and deceived population.

THIS BOOK WILL GUIDE YOU THROUGH AN EXPERIENCE THAT MIGHT BE ONE OF THE ONLY SALVATIONS OF OUR POLITICAL SYSTEM AS WE NOW KNOW IT, OR BETTER YET, HOW WE ERRONEOUSLY PERCEIVE IT.

COME NOVEMBER IS FICTION, THAT IS POSSIBLE FACT. IT IS IMAGINATION, THAT IS POSSIBLE REALITY. IT IS A DREAM, THAT IS A POSSIBLE TRUTH THAT HOLDS THE POTENTIAL TO PRESERVE AND PROTECT THE RIGHTS, LIBERTIES AND FREEDOMS OF THIS GREATEST OF COUNTRIES AMERICA.

SCRIPT/BOOK VERSION 5/11/12

CHAPTER ONE

The setting for this story could have been in the year 2004, or 2008 or even more likely now 2012. Why? Because the focus of this tale is that of the Election of the President of The United States. This event takes center stage every four years and we again, in 2012, will have the extreme pleasure of being treated to foul play, populace manipulation, out and out lying, intentional deception, utter nonsense, intrigue, character assassination, and every other corrupt, dishonest, wasteful, unproductive, destructive, useless and otherwise banal activities and behavior that have been perfected, polished, honed and turned into a precise science over the last two hundred years, so that we, the American people can again, for the umpteenth time, be further led down the road of self destruction, at the helm of this country we all love so much.

Whew! Now that was said, we need a location to start with. This is a political story, so lets start with Washington, D. C., the scummy cesspool for all who desire to lead, mislead, and make big bucks at the same time.

We open on a winters day. Sometime in mid-January of the year 2012. It is somewhat cold in Washington, and the most recent of a rash of heavy snowstorms, is melting on this day of moderating temperatures and heavy cloud cover. There has been no terrorist attack the night before, as all the monuments are still erect (N.O.W. is still trying to get rid of the Washington Monument), and all seems to be at peace underneath the untold amount of turbulent, seething and distorted plans to triumph in one ill-begotten scheme or another.

It is about ten AM and the local rodents, are climbing out of their lairs in the city and surrounding suburbs, full of a previous night of hot tubs and caviar, having been most likely accompanied by the equally unmoraled "conquest" of the moment, that feeds on the lascivious lusts of the power hungry. The sparse traffic is starting to thicken, as more and more Mercedes and BMWs make their way to the offices, where time is a commodity that is measured in shallow victories over helpless opponents.

Our focus now is an intersection in the office section of "town," if you will. In the distance, a wailing of sirens is heard, signaling the pending approach of Russian missiles, or perhaps in this breather known as the "end of the Cold War," it more accurately signals the nearing of a motorcade carrying some mucky-muck to his appointed rounds.

We are somewhat right on our second supposition. However, this is not just your average motorcade. It is one complete with a motorcycle police escort, a lead car, a huge stretch limo, a follow car and some more motorcycle policemen. The limo is a bit unique, in that, it has the little flags that stick up on the corners of the hood on limos of "importance," and due to the morning breeze and the fast pace of the cars, they flutter with extreme importance and urgency.

What could be up? Peace in the Middle East? Castro joined a golf club in Miami Beach? Whos to say at this early moment. Whatever is up, is producing this spectacle for annoyed motorists who must give way, but is also entertainment for early rising tourists, who are fascinated to see "Washington in action."

The small motorcade makes its way in and out of the maze of streets, seemingly repeating some of the route, just to piss off the lesser strata workers that must arrive at their destinations in Toyotas and Subarus. No one knows who is in these cars, especially the limo. The windows are as black as the snow melting on the curb and the motorcade seems as if it will stop at nothing, since its mission seems to be of vital importance to the well being of mankind. The diplomat plates suggest some international flavor, but are impossible to make out, due to the persistent urgency with which the cars worm their way through the now building traffic.

The motorcade finally reaches a destination. The cars screech to a halt along the curb, sending slush spaying up at the people walking on the sidewalk. The victims do not protest however, because this is a motorcade on a mission. They just brush the wet glop off of their designer overcoats and hurry on, knowing full well that as mentioned, time wasted in Washington, is time that could have been put to use, or more accurately, abuse.

Shortly after the cars have stopped, the lead car and follow car empty out their contents. What is produced, are several trench coated men in Dick Tracy hats, that scurry to the limo and yank open the doors. Out of all this, step two men, impeccably dressed and, by the way they order the other men around, their S.A.T. scores must have been several points higher than the peons that are now trying to clear the muck from the curb, so that the two men in question, didnt moisten their imported leather shoes.

Once this ingratiating ritual is complete, the two men are escorted from the limo by an entourage of the apparent guards. A delivery boy on a bicycle, perhaps bringing some coffee and a bagel to some hung over exec, is toppled to the ground, as the group barges across the sidewalk and makes its way ceremoniously into the nearby building.

We now go to the inside of what appears to be large wooden doors. All is quiet. Suddenly, the large doors burst open and in stomp two of the guards. They surveil the room. They see only one man (Johnson) sitting at a huge oak desk. Johnson looks up from his paperwork and nods to the guards. The guards signal to the outer room and then in march the two impeccably dressed men from the limo. They are Preston and Williams.

Preston and Williams seem like they have been here before and throw their over priced overcoats onto an over priced Corinthian leather couch and walk over to Johnsons desk. Two of the guards close the large doors and stand in military "at ease" inside the office. Johnson gives them a dirty look and waves them off. The two goons instinctively take the hint and leave the room without making a sound.

Now is a good time as any to get to know three of our main players in this story. First, lets look at Johnson. After all, we are in his office. Johnson is, like most of the players in this tale, a White Anglo-Saxon. Actually, his background and specific ethnic origin are unimportant, due to the fact that the average profile of a power broker in Washington these days can be almost anything. A look at the names of the political aides to the Presidents over the last thirty years or so, will read like a "Whos Who?" list of any secret, government anti-subversive agency.

So, we have Johnson. He is a hard line, hard hitting, hard ball player. He doesnt like being on the losing team and makes sure anything he pokes his nose into, has either already won or has the opposition running for high ground. His physical appearance is commanding, in that he must have played some sort of sport in school and probably works out in a gym, which works out perfectly, because he is twice divorced and thrives on getting his jollies out of ogling the babes in the bikini-type spandex exercise outfits, as they thrust and push their young bodies in an almost choreographed sex dance, intent on over-stimulating even the most passive observer into some sort of sexually perverse thought pattern. And, as I said, Johnson is a real player. A player who will win at all costs and who only plays when the odds are overwhelmingly in his favor.