He suddenly saw the difference between them as sharp as ice and nails and the awesome holy obligation of his shrub to drive past the normal bounds of justice into that fearsome place of godly daring do which was the property of prophets, a territory untroubled by moderate and righteous men nursed on the milk of tit for tat ethics. To what ends, Rove didn’t know, but he didn’t have to know. He wasn’t one of the artists of glory, his profile told him that, but was more than a merchant, a direct mail king-maker, for what was a prophet without his civilian strategist reading latent chessboard geometries and orchestrating the prophet’s forecast. And now was the time to bury the board with the salty bodies of Democrats granting succor to the enemy in the undisciplined garden of the pacific pansy planting intelligentsia. Granting succor to the enemy, indeed. Had let loose a bunch of riled up munchkins nipping at shrub’s heels all the way down Downing Street, and Wilson flopping at Rove’s own feet his damned CIA wife again. Infuriating because after all they were every bit as corrupt and pining after the same world just nancy-whining over tactics while letting those with the backbone do the work. Or so he’d thought was the only difference, until his vision. They were loathe to lop off the Amazonian breast of Justice and plate it as their bloody own, scared the bejesus of them, some fetish of wanting the gland attached to the body.
Rove wiped napkin over his mouth, smearing crumbs and oil. Called for his waitress. Paid his tab. No reason to explain to her the why of the ten percent tip, she should know. Pushed back his chair. Time to get to work.