Mat’s a Douglas Orphanage boy. Dropped at the door. Named there. Mathew Douglas. No
second. Father Greg’s a skinflint, he saved on a middle one. A year out, they gave their young
charge to Dory, a baker’s helper. He read at three. He read to her. He made money on the street
at five playing chess with the old men at Styverson Park in the East Village.
A younger older man, Myer Cohen, sat down beside him. Dropped a hundred. Two hours
passed before little Mat, now ten, paid up. First loss. Myer took him home. Asked Dory, if he
could send him to a good school. He did. Mat learned the art of making odds from Myer, NYC’s
biggest bookie.
Two dark PH.D.’s from Harvard before he turned sixteen. Two years later, Myer’s jealous
dumb sons shot their father. Mat shot them. He left for Afghanistan. Colonel McBribe found a
new dark agent. She brought him back. He did dark things, secret things for his country. Things
citizens never hear about.
He’d built a life. A ranch. Adopted his best friend’s ten year old daughter when they died
accidentally. Emily, an agent he often worked with, came to help raise her. They were happy
years. At nineteen his daughter, Nancy, a West Point cadet, won eleven Olympic Gold Medals
riding and shooting.
And then one day, Alex McBride woke him. He kissed his lover. Alex dropped him at the White
House. The President, whom he’d never met, gave him a list, an impossible list.
Mat, now a rather proven dark man, made the first happen. I’m not telling what that was, but
later, watching the news, Mat watched a police SWAT team killing a man they claimed had done
what Mat just did. Moments later, men came to take out Mat, his daughter, his long time
squeeze and Emily, the deep dark agent who helped him raise Nancy.
He killed them. They left America for remote swampy insect infected cove near Nowhere,
Venezuela. He walked the deserted beach. Smoked good stuff with and old dark friend and then
one day, he had an epiphany walking that same deserted beach. He called his lady friend, a
rather outrageously wealthy Israel, a Countess, who just happened to own ABC. Her plane
brought them home.
He announced his run for the Presidency. Where the candidate could hide in clear view. The
government would not take a contender out. Some tried. They died.
Colonel McBride became General McBride. Mossad’s agents were close friends, one slept in
his bed.
The Countess, Amy de la Montaigne, his brilliant squeeze introduced him to John Moody’s
and Hy Fein’s children. They became his close friends and supporters.
Did he win?
It was one hell of a run. Different. A dark agent with dark friends, oh my, gosh golly gee, will
he do what he said he’d do?
Take sip. Pick it up. It’s a dare. Do you?
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