A titan of industry is asked to play the patriot

J. Packington Paco III sat on the balcony of his penthouse suite, high atop Paco Tower, enjoying the cool autumn evening, and savoring a pork barbecue sandwich. Cognizant of the long-running civil war between barbecuists of the North Carolina and Texas factions, J.P. – being, at heart, a peacemaker – had invested in a small meat processor that manufactured vinegar-based pork barbecue (which honored the Carolinians), but made it exclusively from feral Texas hogs (a friendly nod to the Lone Star state). Pouring oil on troubled waters – and profiting handsomely thereby – was a combination of achievements that always gave J.P. a feeling of serene satisfaction.

It was thus in blissful mood that Spurgeon found our stout titan of industry, as that gentleman par excellence of gentlemens’ gentlemen glided to his master’s side.

Spurgeon coughed discreetly. “I beg your pardon, sir…”

“One moment, Spurgeon. I’m watching Chris Matthews, and he’s about to say something stupid.”

“If you’ll forgive me for asking , sir, how can you be positive?”

“He’s opening his mouth, isn’t he? Watch!”

Chris Matthews: “Welcome to Hardball! I’m Chris Matthews, and I’m here with presidential adviser, David Axelrod, who will try to answer a question that has been on everybody’s mind: Is it even physically possible for Barack Obama – Whoa! Be still, my throbbing central nervous system! – Is it even possible for Barack Obama to maintain his unprecedented awesomeness ‘til the end of his first term?”

“There! What did I tell you?”

“Very prescient of you, sir. I regret having to disturb your meal, Mr. Paco, but there is a gentlemen here to see you, a Mr. D.K.”

J.P. smiled. “Spurgeon, if I were not aware of your near-religious adherence to the code of the gentleman’s personal gentleman, I would suggest that you were making sport of this visitor. ‘Decay’, you say? Is he a zombie or some sort of grim-reaperish phantom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, perhaps I expressed myself badly. ‘D.K.’ are the gentleman’s initials. He declined to give his full name. He says he represents an organization called ‘Patriotic Millionaires for Fiscal Strength’.”

“A mere millionaire? Poor chap. Feed him one of these excellent barbecue sandwiches in the kitchen and give him a few dollars before sending him on his way.”

“Actually, sir, he does not appear to have come in the capacity of a beggar. He says he would like to enlist your support in an endeavor essential to the survival of the Republic.”

“Well, shoot him out here, by all means.”

A few moments later, the visitor was shot out, as per instruction. Spurgeon began clearing the table of cutlery.

The man, a slender specimen with receding black hair and wire-rim spectacles, about 45 years of age, was dressed in a denim shirt and corduroy slacks. J.P. instantly sized him up as a high-tech entrepreneur with a computer engineering background who, although now obviously successful, had not entirely quashed his inner geek, as evidenced by his Givenchy pocket-protector. J.P. dipped his sausage-sized digits in a finger bowl, wiped his hands on a napkin, and rose to shake hands.

“Well, well, sir, I’m afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. My man informs me that you are here somewhat in cognito.”

The man smirked and extended a small, listless hand. It gave J.P. the sensation of having stuck his mitt into a bowl of two-day-old calamari.

“Glad to meet you, Jippy!”

Spurgeon, whose distant, but formative, experience in a crack English regiment had given him the kind of fortitude and self-control that had marked the soldiers whose famous infantry squares had broken Napoleon’s cavalry at Waterloo, did not betray his shock by so much as a gasp. Yet, if looks could kill, it is safe to say that, in a few moments, he would cheerfully have been rolling up the body of this interloper in J.P.’s Turkey carpet, with the aim of depositing it in some convenient local marsh. D.K., sensing Spurgeon’s almost palpable hostility, unthinkingly put a chair between himself and this formidable servant.

“Ahm, J.P., I meant to say. Heh. If that’s alright?”

“Quite alright, my boy! Do sit down. Perhaps you would like a bite to eat, or something to drink?”

D.K. cast a glance at Spurgeon, and quickly interpreted the eager gleam in his eyes as a desire on the servant’s part to present him with a dish of fugu, probably prepared by an untalented and careless amateur who’d been hitting the saki, or maybe a plate of dubious mushrooms that had been picked by a nearsighted child not wholly familiar with the differences between Cantharellus cibarius and Omphalotus olearius.

“No, no. Nothing, thank you. I’ll tell you why I’m here, J.P. I belong to an organization called ‘Patriotic Millionaires for Fiscal Strength’. We believe that the government needs to increase taxes on people making over a million dollars per year, and we think that adding your name to the members’ list would greatly increase our influence.”

J.P. was a billionaire several times over, and, while there were indisputably good reasons why he was not known in the business press as “Honest J.P.” or “Paco the Open-Handed”, he was neither thief nor miser. As to the “helping hand” of government, it had always been his experience that the thing was invariably extended palm up, like that of a homeless person on a Friday afternoon, swearing in an alcoholic drawl to his benefactor that he had no intention of spending the money on demon rum.

Therefore it should come as no surprise to the reader that J.P. stared at his visitor as if the latter had suddenly sprouted two more heads, all three now sporting dripping fangs from between which a trio of forked tongues darted.

D.K. chose to interpret J.P.’s silence as deep interest. “So far, we’ve all signed an open letter addressed to the President, Senator Reid and Speaker Boehner. Your name would be quite a catch.” He sighed. “Especially since Warren Buffett seems to have copped out.”

J.P. roused himself from his reverie and asked a question. “And you, sir? You have signed the letter, yourself?”

“I sure have!”

“With your given name?”

The visitor squirmed in his chair. “Er, no. I just used my initials. I mean, some people – namely my customers– might not understand. They might think I’m endorsing Obama – which I do, privately – but it could be…you know…bad for business.”

“And do you make over a million dollars a year?”

“Ah…well…not for a couple of years, now.”

“So you would be immune to the effects of a tax increase.”

“For the time being, perhaps, but I expect my company –and, consequently, my compensation – to improve, eventually. But this is more of a position taken on principle.”

“The principle of paying for expensive government with someone else’s money?”

“Exactly! I mean…no…I mean…”

“You seem a bit confused. Oh, dear me! Your pocket protector appears to have sprung a leak.”

D.K. looked down to see that an ink stain was spreading across his shirt, below the pocket.

“What the…Damned designer pocket protectors! Is there someplace where I can clean this up?”

“Of course! Spurgeon, kindly escort D.K. to…to the downstairs wash room.”

Spurgeon gave his master a knowing nod. “Very good, sir.”

A few moments later, having taken D.K. down in the elevator to the first floor, Spurgeon guided him toward a commercial operation of some kind at the end of the hall. As they approached, the distinct sound of yapping and baying could be heard. Spurgeon opened a glass door on an unholy ruckus being kicked up by a veritable sea of wet dogs. D.K. glanced at the sign on the door: Happy Tails Dog Grooming.

“Say!” D.K. blurted. “This a dog-washing establishment!”

“I believe you will find soap and water in the requisite quantities to address the ink stain.”

Even the most stoic old soldier eventually reaches his limit. “Dickie”, he added.