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Chapter 31
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The Der'Mo in the Morning studio was on the ground floor. The first time Nom had seen a clip of the show, it seemed a rather add place to put a studio. The same could be said for most of the morning shows. But then, most morning shows failed to get a sitting President of the United States as a guest.
It was quarter to three, and the crew was putting the final preparations into the set. The show would not begin for another two hours, but everything had to be perfect for such an illustrious guest as the President. The Secret Service massed all around the studio. To even get in, Nom had to show his still warm company ID and be cleared. Even the coffee boy had to go through a magnetometer and have his caffeinated essence of life x-rayed.
It took a few extra moments for clearance. Nom had not been on the list of preapproved personnel ZLOY had provided when the SS had asked a few days before. Fortunately for him, Kaitlyn had sent in an email adding him on the day before. It seemed that the background clearance had not been completed yet. Still, he was an official employee, vouched for by their contact at ZLOY, and he had been screened for weapons. Nom did not even have to adjust their minds. Five minutes after arriving, he was given access.
The studio was far smaller than he had expected. Unlike its competitors, Der'Mo in the Morning did not use an indoor audience to ham things up. It was a purely functional space. Along two walls, Nom could see out into Rockefeller Plaza. He walked over to an agent standing by the south wall observing the preparations.
"Hi." Nom said, extending his hand.
"Hello, sir." The agent said, taking it. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here from corporate. The show is one of our cash cows, but, as with all things, there is the ever-pressing question: Is there any way we can trim the fat?" Nom said with a chuckle.
"Ah." The agent replied. "Looking for something specific?"
"Nope." Nom said. "Efficiency is a science when it comes to factories and corporate bureaucracy, but not in a case like this. These shows are artistic. Can't crimp down on our artists, or the viewers might notice and slip away." Nom replied.
"Then why did they send you?"
"A bureaucrat thought there might be fat to trim, so I was sent to write a report. I'll draft one, explaining how this show is the most profitable show for its time slot in every major American market." Nom said.
"So, just here taking in the view?" The agent asked gesturing outside.
"Nope." Nom replied. "I'm going to do what they asked. I'll write my analysis, going over all the numbers as usual. But I have to be able to describe how all the money we pour into this show is used. Can't do that without seeing it first-hand. It's a matter of instinct to know what can and can't be cut, not just numbers in an artistic case like this." Nom said with a gleam in his eye. Waxing fake academic on the pedantic was an easy way to lull people's confidences.
The agent grunted agreement, growing bored.
"Hey, I was wondering about something." Nom said.
"What?".
"Well, in a few hours, the most vulnerable man in the world, with the most vigorous security apparatus ever known to our species, will be sitting on that couch." Nom said, pointing to the center piece.
The agent nodded.
"Anyone can see that you people have this studio locked up tighter than a drum head. It's not very likely that a threat would come from the inside. But every time I've watched one of these shows, there has always been a glaring unaddressed risk." Nom said.
"What's that?" The agent said, his voice perking up a bit. The conversation was becoming more interesting.
"Oh, the windows." Nom said.
"The windows?" The agent asked in puzzlement.
"Well. I'm looking out there right now, and you have NYPD securing Rockefeller Plaza as we speak. No one can get close enough to cause a problem. You have salt trucks lining the side of the road, to block would be bombers from ramming a truck in. Cops are pulling out all of the hobos and late night tourists to keep shooters out." Nom said.
The agent nodded. "Yes, it's our job to keep threats away. This is a ground floor studio, we can't take any risks."
"What about snipers?" Nom asked.
The agent looked a little surprised. "You're starting to worry me a bit pal."
"Oh, I'm not making a threat!" Nom said holding both hands up in mock surprise. "I'm just saying that those windows offer a great view of the President of the United States. A view visible from literally thousands of offices and hotel rooms around the square. It was only a few months ago that a shooter in Las Vegas blew out a hotel window and shot up a country music fest. NYC may have strict gun laws, but that doesn't keep a man from field stripping a long rifle, smuggling it in, buying green tip ammo, and going to town out of a window with a bump stock." Nom said in a hurried finish.
"Sir, I cannot discuss security measures for the President. But, since you do seem to be genuinely worried," The agent leaned in. "Not many people know this, but all of these ground floor studios have bullet proof windows."
"Really?" Nom said impressed. "I would have thought they would cost far too much for that. Plus, when I look at the ones they have in a bank, they look thick like an aquarium. These windows look normal and thin." Nom said.
The agent nodded to the window behind the couch. "It's an inch and a half thick. It doesn't look it, but it is. Back in the nineties congress passed a special appropriation for us."
"You mean the Secret Service?" Nom asked.
"Yes. We had a problem securing the morning shows. It is rare for the President to come to one of these studios in person, usually they send a crew to the White House. But we do have a lot of high ranking personnel in here on a regular basis, congress people, cabinet level even. We were worried but the News stations, they had to be political. So, we fortified the studios. None can be approached from the streets, and all have barricades. The buildings are blast resistant, and the windows can take a shot from a fifty-cal BMG." The agent said.
"No way." Nom said dismissively. "I own a BMG. That thing will shoot clean through two inches of aluminum. I blew clean through the engine block on an old Chevy Aveo out at my range with a green tip. If I can punch though solid metal, what challenge will bullet proof glass be?" Nom asked.
"Well green tip ammo is one thing." the agent said. "But the difference is that your aluminum block is solid. Polycarbonate windows are made of hundreds of layers. Hard, soft, hard, soft. Each with the crystal lattice running at ninety degrees to the last. The result is a relatively thin window that acts like a pillow. The hard casing layer holds it together, the soft layer takes and spreads out the blow."
"So, we're not at risk if some nut job goes after the President?" Nom asked.
"You are safe as it can ever be in NYC, when you are in POTUS's presence. It is our job to guarantee it." The agent said with pride.
Nom nodded. "Well, I'll let you get back to it."
Nom walked away from the agent. Over the next few hours, he made a show of observing the studio, the booths, and every aspect of the production. He asked questions, took notes, and did everything a bureaucratic worm looking for a corpse to feed on normally would.
The beautiful thing about his cover was that a stench of career death wafted from him. No one on the staff wanted to be seen with him out of loyalty or been seen avoiding him out of self-preservation. The end result was that the show hummed along as if he wasn't even there.
Tom Glopyy was the first cast member to appear. He was followed shortly by Sunny Torkret. The pair were still yet to don their coats and had makeup paper sticking out of their collars. The blond set of legs Du jour was Kelly Blyad. Females had a notoriously short shelf life on the show. She was the last to arrive. The trio engaged in a bit of banter over coffee along with last minute discussions with the show producer. By five-fifty, they were on their couch. At two minutes to six the studio went silent, as the camera started their live feed to the control room.
Nom found a chair out the way and sat down to watch.
The first fifteen minutes of the show were uneventful. A creative fictionalized retelling of the morning's news, filtered through a heavy mesh of bull shit. Nom had to bite his cheeks to keep from roaring with laughter. Then Sunny Torkret announced that the audience was in for a treat, the most "popular" President in US history would be visiting the studio at the bottom of the hour. Nom felt blood trickling into his mouth. The effort to not laugh at the absurd lies had caused him to bite almost through both of his cheeks.
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