All Along The Watchtower

In a bar in Washington DC, not far from Capitol Hill, two smart young fellows met one evening and spent a while impressing one another: covertly checking the tailoring and the accessories while the snow fell thick and fast outdoors, turning all the mighty public buildings into bridal confectionery. They had a few drinks, conversation became pleasantly indiscreet. They were both in positions to be indiscreet about great affairs, but Frank could see that tonight the other guy had the good story. Without haste, he drew his friend to speak. Businessmen came and went, beautiful women sashayed by; the neat, discreet waitresses plied refills, and in due course it came out. Lavoisier, the weirdo place. Something about that awful secret buboe on the body politic, which the Pres had been revealing to the select behind closed doors: audiences from which Fred Eiffrich's friends and enemies, both emerged grey in the face and shaken.
These two, along with a few other smart folks around the citadel by now, were savvy on Lavoisier, without benefit of one of those solemn need-to-know sessions. A desert nest of terrorists, Manson family on the edge of going critical with their home-cooked occult superweapon. And the raid, how about that raid…! The FBI and the National Guard were on the point of going in. With a division of infantry, in their chemical suits and their breathing apparatus, deep stealth, full metal jacket, you betcha Bob-
'-Meanwhile these two English guys dress up as cowboys, ride over there on horseback, and shoot up the town!'
'It's hilarious,' agreed Frank: waiting to be told something he didn't know.
'It's a scream. It gets better, bro. We have live coverage.'
At this Frank stared, truly impressed. 'You're kidding.'
'I'm not kidding.' The man with the story shook his head slowly, and leaned forward into the dead space that every one who talks in bars believes can be found, directly above the mid point between their two drinks on the polished mahogany tabletop. 'There is footage. This Baal, the Black Dragon had the town wired, hidden cameras everywhere, and he has the true-life movie of what went down that night. He's dickering with our acquisitions guys right now, from his undisclosed place of detention.'
'Protective custody, mister.'
'Whatever, he's open for business. Detainees' rights are a wonderful thing.'
'What, he had the stuff with him? On an eyesocket chip or what? And our great Homeland Security experts let him keep it?'
'Naw… Not like that. He knows where it is, though. This is the real deal, Frankismo. I can't tell you how, but I've personally seen the trailer. You want to see Mr Ax Preston garroting a poor misguided Gaia-loving martyr? You want to see the expression on our rockstar peacemaker's pretty face, when the kid's windpipe cracks?'
'Jesus.'
'You want to see holier-than-God reformed bad boy Sage Pender dealing with the soft-bellied little geeks at the hideout's back gate? Some of them women?'
'You have to be shitting me-!'
They contemplated the potential mayhem. It was nice.
'You know, Jude,' said Frank at last, measuring his words. 'Joking apart, this could be a serious bummer for that Kill The Evil Research, Ban The NeuroBomb route. This sounds like bad doody for Mr Fred Eiffrich alltogether.'
'Yeah, well. Don't know about you Frankie, but I voted for the other ticket.'
They laughed, immoderately. Then they had one more drink and went their separate ways, as the hour was getting late.