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  “Oh, how nice!” Laurel said.

  Bret returned to his seat.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Bill. “We’re not going to worry about actually solving this crisis, we’re just going to worry about getting the responsibility off of us?”

  The rest of the guests looked at one another, found reassurance, and slowly began to nod.

  “Of course, honey,” said Laurel.

  Bill grunted. “Well, considering we’re all underqualified anyway, I guess that’ll do.”

  “I may be somewhat new to the biz,” Malcolm began, “but I’m pretty sure we’re going to need some charts and graphs to pull this off.”

  “Charts and graphs of what?” Georgina asked.

  “Yes, and how are we going to collect the data?” Melanie followed up. “We don’t know any actual scientists.”

  Malcolm waved them both off. “No, no. Doesn’t matter. A good chart or graph doesn’t need to be of anything specific or have any research behind it. You just have to know how to present it, and then you follow it up with scary images. X-axis, Y-axis, upward slope, scary images. That’s it. No one questions it.”

  The rest of the party looked skeptical, so Malcolm tried another tactic. “Here,” he said, “I need a pen and a piece of paper and I can show you what I mean.”

  Laurel sleepily pushed herself out of her chair and hobbled into the kitchen, and after the sounds of drawers opening and closing, she returned, setting the pen and paper down in front of Malcolm.

  He immediately drew a large circle, sketched some lines through it intersecting in the middle, began shading each section, and then started writing words.

  Everyone stared in wonderment as he cranked out another circle right next to the first.

  “My God,” said Dr. Leinenkugel, “those are the most perfect circles I’ve ever seen drawn by hand. Where did you learn to do that, Malcolm?”

  “I didn’t go to the best state university in Kentucky for nothing,” he replied, wishing his dad could see him now.

  When it was finished, he hurriedly flipped the paper over so that it was facedown on the table, his hand splayed on top of it, his body leaning over it, his eyes scanning the other expectant faces around the table.

  “It’s done,” he said. “You ready to have your mind blown with some pseudo-facts?”

  He flipped over the paper and held it up, pointing to each section as he explained. Frank and Bret leaned forward from either side of Malcolm to get a good look.

  “On this first graph, we have the year 1800. It includes all the women from the hottest climates of the world. So, we have the Hispanics, the Africans, the Arabs, and the Italians.

  “These are by far the hairiest of women in the world. Now here we see what percentage shaved their legs in the year 1800—just this little sliver right here—and the rest is the percentage who kept full-out body hair.

  “In the second graph, we have the same population represented in present day, but now the tables are turned. This little sliver right here is the number of women within that demographic who don’t shave any hair on their body, and this large portion is the percentage of the warm-climated demographic who do shave portions of their body hair.”

  Georgina gasped, but the others weren’t so easily persuaded, so Malcolm added, “What this means is that we’re all going to watch as African children freeze to death, unless we stop shaving body hair.”

  Now Jack and Laurel gasped.

  “We can’t just sit by as children freeze to death,” said Laurel.

  “And we need to help the Africans,” Jack added, almost robotically.

  Gavin looked skeptical. “But what if this is the way God wants the African children to die?”

  “Good point,” Malcolm said. “But you’re wrong. Here. Look.”

  He began another graph on the back of the paper, drawing the X- and Y-axis perfectly perpendicular to one another, then labeling each with such fervency that no one could see what he was writing under his frantically moving hands.

  When he finished, he slapped his pen on the table and held up his new graph.

  “Here we see the X-axis represents the years since God created man. In the beginning, man was without flaw and the world was perfect, just as God intended. That point in time is represented by where the two axes meet, and we’ll just call it ‘Year Zero.’ At Year Zero, there were exactly zero African children freezing to death. As time progresses along the X-axis, we see the line slope up the Y-axis, which represents how many African children are freezing to death each year. As you can tell, it’s been growing exponentially since Year Zero, which means that African children freezing to death can be used as an indicator of how far mankind is straying away from God’s perfect plan, which mostly consists of not shaving body hair.”

  Gavin sat slack jawed, eyes wide, speechless. Finally he managed to whisper, “It’s so simple.”

  Jack shook his head. “No, no, no. You had me with the pie chart, but that graph is just complete horse crap. The two don’t complement each other one bit.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Malcolm said. “The two things can contradict each other completely, but you just show them both, and people will pick up on whichever one they identify with. If you throw out enough pseudo-facts at people, a few of them are bound to stick, and people will be so mixed up by all the other ones that they won’t be able to make enough sense out of them to understand that they don’t make sense.”

  “The boy might just be a genius,” said Bill. “If you weren’t a Jew, I’d say you might descend straight from Hitler’s propagandists.”

  Malcolm beamed proudly.

  “I still think the graph is too much horse crap for anyone to believe,” said Jack.

  Bret responded before Malcolm could. “It’s all horse crap, you jackass! The charts, the graph, the part about freezing African children. That’s not the damn point. As much as we all wish we could do the right thing, we’re just going to do the easy thing instead. We’re trying to weasel our way out of a tight spot here, not save the world.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IT WAS DECIDED THAT THE Frank Leinenkugel was the one to talk with Eugene Thornton to try to get him on board the body-hair bandwagon. Mostly this was Frank’s own doing, since he declared that he was best fit for the job, and that if Eugene turned down the request, Frank would likely do everyone the favor of just shooting the reporter and saving the world a little trouble.

  While the rest of the party knew that killing Eugene wouldn’t help their strategy in the least, they all liked the notion enough that none of them would have been too perturbed by such a crinkle in their plans.

  On the point of Frank being most likely to shoot Eugene, Bret raised a stink, saying he would probably shoot the reporter as soon as the man was within range. Frank conceded, but then added, “However, you’ve never killed a man, Bret. I have. Don’t forget about what I did in Bosnia.”

  Bret fell silent at that.

  “What happened in Bos—” Georgina began, before the toe of Laurel’s shoe made contact with her shin underneath the table.

  Frank’s gaze settled on Georgina, though he seemed to be somewhere far away. “What happened in Bosnia involved three hand grenades, two and a half pigs, and one of Milosevic’s favorite balconies, but I’ll spare you the gory details.”

  And so they decided Frank was best suited for the job, not just because of his intelligence, but because of his creativity—the same creativity that left two dozen dead or dying top Bosnian Serb officials covered in pig guts.

  “I hope you can come up with a solid plan,” said Jack to Dr. Leinenkugel, “because Eugene is one of the best at twisting words and exploiting motivations.”

  Frank laughed, allowing a belch to sneak into the mix. “I realize what I’m going to be working with here, and I already have a plan. Guys like Eugene think they’re immortal. Maybe not literally immortal, but they think that their fame somehow protects them. I’ll just have to remind hi
m that he’s a mere mortal like the rest of us.”

  “I remember living a mortal life,” Gavin said, “but now, my spirit is everlasting because of Jesus Christ’s love.”

  “Oh, shut it,” barked Melanie.

  So the plan was all set, prissemetterammention was in full swing, but unfortunately no one could think of an exit-worthy excuse. Laurel realized she hadn’t set an end time, and wished she could kick herself right then and there for forgetting.

  All it would take would be one person to come up with an excuse. That’s all it ever takes. A domino effect of excuses would follow, but not until someone started it all in motion.

  Maybe Trevor will come downstairs, Laurel thought. But then she remembered the hearty dose of NyQuil she’d given him, and that hope was lost.

  “Well, I better get started talking to Eugene,” said Frank. “I know I’ll win him over, but it won’t be easy.”

  “I have a few appointments I had to push back to make it here,” Georgina lied. “I better go get things ready at the salon.”

  “Here, I’ll help you,” said Gavin.

  Melanie was next. “I have to go check on the baby. Cooper has been watching him all day, but he refuses to change diapers.”

  “I need to get back to my house,” said Bret. “There’s been a small gang of unruly teens who’ve been egging houses, and I’m sure mine’s next on the list. I’ve been waiting to catch them in the act and give them a good scare.”

  “My mom is probably waiting to hear from me,” said Malcolm.

  For a second, Laurel was afraid that Jack wasn’t going to jump on this train and might hang around for a few more hours, but it seemed he was thinking about his bed…his comforter…his pillows…just as hard as everyone else.

  “I better go check in and see how the faux-fur protest went without me. Those kids mean well, but organization just isn’t one of their talents…”

  Laurel felt relief wash over her. “Well, then, I guess this dinner is adjourned. Thank you all for coming, and I wish you all the best in your dealings with the media.”

  One by one they left out the front door, entering into the twilight and hordes of microphones while shouting, “No comment!” at the top of their lungs, only willed on by thoughts of comfy beds waiting for each of them at home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “YOU,” FRANK SAID, GRABBING EUGENE Thornton by the wrist and pulling him out of the throng of reporters. “You’re coming with me.”

  Eugene’s head whipped around to find his cameraman, and then he motioned wildly for him to follow.

  “No cameras,” instructed Frank. “Just you and me.”

  Eugene chuckled. “That’s not how it works.”

  “It is if you want the biggest scoop of your life.”

  “Your baiting isn’t going to work. I already have the biggest scoop of my life: Reporter Kidnapped by Crabby, Pseudo-intellectual Mechanic in Bumpkin Kentucky Town.”

  “That’s only a big story if you live to tell the tale. No cameras.”

  Eugene sighed. “Fine, no cameras. I’ll let you believe you have the upper hand for a while, if that’s what you need.”

  They reached the van with the Frank’s Body Shop logo on the side, and Frank opened up the back door for Eugene.

  “You’re going to make me sit in the back?” Eugene said, scoffing. “You really are trying to kidnap me, aren’t you? How cute.”

  “Watch your feet,” said Frank, only a split second before he slammed the door on Eugene’s ankle.

  Eugene shrieked.

  Frank shrugged. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you to watch your feet.”

  When they arrived at Frank’s Body Shop, Dr. Leinenkugel opened the door for Eugene, then grabbed the reporter’s wrists and led him toward the garage doors.

  “You know, you really don’t have to treat me like this. I’m not going to run away.”

  Frank smiled. “But you deserve nothing less. After you,” he said, shoving Eugene through the door to the small office. “Have a seat.”

  He placed a hand on top of Eugene’s head and shoved him into a chair.

  If Eugene was losing his cool, he didn’t show it. “You know, just because you ran me off with a gun once doesn’t mean I’m scared of you. You obviously want me here, so you’re not going to bring out that gun, or else you know I’m out of here.”

  “Right,” said Frank, taking a seat across from Eugene. “You think I won’t shoot you, I get that. So let’s just conduct this as a couple of sophisticated men, like I think we both are.”

  Eugene laughed. “Yeah, very sophisticated.”

  “You have something that the world needs, Mr. Thornton.”

  “Yes, I realize that.”

  “No, you don’t. You think the world needs you because you are some sort of savior, feeding them whatever you believe to be truth, but that’s not quite it.”

  “Then please enlighten me.”

  “The world needs your bias right now, not what you call truth.”

  “Ah, but doesn’t everyone’s truth come from his or her own bias?”

  “Shows what you know. Our bias comes from our truth. Our truth is buried at the very core of us, and in cases like yours, Mr. Thornton, your truth creates a protective shell of bias, a force field that keeps your truth from imploding when something contradictory comes along. Your truth couldn’t possibly have anything less to do with why the world needs you, but your bias, the façade of your truth, that’s what I’m here to employ.”

  Eugene appeared bemused. “You’re talking gibberish. I have absolutely no idea—”

  “The world can’t see your truth, Mr. Thornton. All it can see is your bias. You have many loyal followers of your particular set of biases, and we need those followers to get on board with our plan.”

  The word “plan” seemed to pique Eugene’s interest. There was the scoop. The decision of the Dinner Summit.

  “All right, Mr. Leinenkugel. I’ll play along. What’s this plan include? I can tell you right now, if it requires any effort on the part of the public, it will absolutely fail before it can even get started.”

  “You’re right about that, Eugene, and that’s why it’s such a brilliant plan. It requires the world to be lazier than it was before.”

  Eugene raised one of his caterpillar eyebrows and began stroking his chin. “I’m listening…”

  “What’s more,” continued Frank, “is that it will in no way have any direct impact on the situation.”

  Eugene’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant! That’s exactly what the world has been waiting for—a solution that allows them to be lazier without actually remedying the situation. Of course! I mean, between you and me, Frank, there’s obviously no solution to a crisis like this, and anything that people try to do to actually fix it will likely only cause things to get worse. A diversion is the only way to go. So simple…”

  “I haven’t even told you what our answer is yet, Mr. Thornton.”

  “Does it even matter?” Eugene said, laughing maniacally.

  “Well, wait just a second, there. You might not like what we’ve come up with.”

  Eugene calmed himself and pulled his attention back to the conversation. “Fine, tell me. I doubt it really matters, but tell me anyway.”

  Frank nodded and ran his forefinger and thumb over his handlebar mustache. “That’s more like it. After quite a bit of the worst conversation I’ve ever had, we came to agreement that Old Carter had already come up with the best plan; the world needs to grow out its body hair.”

  Eugene’s mouth fell open. “That’ll never work!” he yelled. “You can ask Americans to do just about anything other than grow out body hair! What about the ones who’ve had it removed with lasers? What are they supposed to do?”

  “Well, I suppose they’re going to be persecuted for not helping to solve the problem, for being so selfish and nearsighted as to have not foreseen the possible environmental effects of removing one’s body hair p
ermanently. Nothing we can do for them, really.”

  Eugene shot up from his chair and began pacing the length of the office. “Yes, I suppose some victims are unavoidable, some will be persecuted, maybe even rounded up by the government. We can only hope so, at least, because that would mean this plan was really working. Fear, groupthink, nonsense…Ooo! Propaganda posters! Yes, we’ll need some of those. Patriotism. We need to instill a sense of patriotism in everyone.”

  “But this isn’t just an American campaign,” said Frank. He knew exactly what Eugene was working toward, but he thought he would help out anyway by adding the appropriate comments to help stimulate the mental processes.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Eugene. “Americans only keep up with American news. We’ll draw on their patriotism.”

  “What about international campaigns?” Frank asked, barely able to suppress a smile at how eagerly and quickly Eugene was jumping on board.

  “Well, that’s simple enough. The Europeans just need to be told that if they don’t grow out their body hair, African children will freeze to death. A chart! We need a chart of that.”

  “We already have one ready to go. Malcolm Goldman put that together first thing.”

  Eugene snapped out of his scheming daydream. “Goldman? That incapable, blabbering rightwing puppet? He’s going to be pushing the body-hair solution, too?”

  “Of course,” Frank said calmly. “We need everyone in America helping out, not just the blue states.”

  “We don’t call them blue states anymore,” Eugene corrected. “The color blue has an association with coldness. We don’t want the public to believe that liberals are responsible for this weather. It’s not longer blue and red states; it’s progressive and passé states.

  “But that isn’t my point. My point is that I can’t back something Malcolm Goldman backs. If I ever forget what my beliefs are on a given subject, all I have to do is watch one of his reports and believe the opposite to what he says. He’s a complete bigot.”

  When Frank spoke, it was in a low tone. He wished it hadn’t come to this. “I hope you’re not telling me that you refuse to help the cause.”