"I never wanted to be a politician, doc, but I'm a dreamer looking for a chance."

A gong crashed. Smoke erupted. Tinyman emerged from behind a silken curtain.

Johnny Werd loosened his bow tie and let it hang down the front of his tuxedo shirt. He sat in the chair and faced Tinyman in the hotel mirror. Tinyman slumped on the edge of the bed and looked up. Tinyman looked defeated. Werd stared at him, his gaze unwavering, even as he lit a match on his cufflink and held it to a cigarette dangling between his lips.

"Let me tell you what this country is about." spoke Werd softly.

"No" said Tinyman. Tinyman had attention dysfunction.

"Money" said Werd.

Werd pulled on his Lucky Strike. And he picked up his rattling glass of iced scotch.

"Is that it?" Tinyman finally asked.

Werd nodded with confidence, eyes closed, Lucky dangling, then he held up his hand and shook his head no.

"No. There's also classicism. And racism."

Tinyman suddenly stood up. "You're boring me, pal." and with a click he unlatched the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. As if to prove someone's point somehow, an American flag hung flaccid, above the swimming pool. In the pool there was a single swimmer, a powerfully built African American, doing laps steadily.

Tinyman raised his glass to the night but he wasn't holding a glass so he just raised his hand, uselessly, to the night. The Atlanta night responded with a simple breeze.

Werd was fixing himself another drink.

Tinyman was too drunk to fly, but he kept staring down into the pool. As if maybe he could dive into it.