Chapter 721: The Abundance Agenda

Chapter 721: Chapter 337: The Abundance Agenda

Leo and Murphy walked out of the Hart Senate Office Building.

The afternoon sun in Washington pierced through the clouds.

Murphy took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“I’m going to contact the team. Tomorrow morning’s meeting is crucial, and I need to prepare some data to handle their questions,” Murphy said to Leo.

Leo nodded.

“Go get ready. We’ll meet back here tomorrow at nine in the morning.”

Murphy walked toward a black sedan at the curb, briefcase in hand.

The car started and merged into the traffic on the main road.

Leo stood alone on the steps.

The rest of the day was his own.

Ever since entering the political arena, he had been constantly on the move.

He dealt with congressmen, wrangled with capitalists, handled strikes, and solved funding crises.

His brain was in overdrive every day.

Now, he had a dozen or so hours of absolute freedom.

He walked down the steps and headed west along Constitution Avenue.

Pedestrians hurried by; the area was full of congressional staffers wearing their passes.

Roosevelt’s voice rang out in Leo’s mind.

“You’re feeling relaxed now. Your nerves have finally settled.”

‘This is a rare break. I don’t have to think about how to scheme against others,’ Leo responded in his mind.

Roosevelt laughed out loud.

“A politician can never stop scheming. Even when you’re resting, you must learn to establish your sense of dominance in your leisure. You need to go get a drink.”

‘Where to?’

“The Occidental Grill & Seafood, next to Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s an old place. Hoover used to eat in a corner booth there all the time. The walls are covered with photos of Presidents and Senators. Go there and order a drink.”

Leo continued down the street.

He walked a few blocks and found the old restaurant.

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

The light inside the bar was dim.

Dark brown solid wood paneling covered the walls, and the brass railings were polished to a shine.

Dozens of black-and-white photographs hung on the walls.

Leo walked up to the bar and pulled out a high-backed stool to sit down.

The bartender was an elderly white man, dressed in a clean white shirt and a black bow tie.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

Leo was about to order a bourbon whiskey when Roosevelt cut him off.

‘Order a Martini. Tell him my recipe.’

Leo had no choice but to speak as Roosevelt instructed.

“A Martini. Two parts Plymouth gin, one part sweet vermouth, a drop of olive brine, and finally, a splash of dark rum.”

The bartender paused in the middle of wiping a glass.

He looked up, giving Leo a strange look.

“Are you sure about that, sir? This recipe is a mess. The sweet vermouth and dark rum will completely destroy the gin’s botanical aromas. It’s going to taste awful.”

“That’s the recipe I want. Just make it,” Leo insisted.

The bartender shrugged.

He turned to get the bottles and began mixing the completely mismatched liquids.

Leo complained internally.

‘This sounds like a biochemical weapon. Why would you drink something like this?’

Roosevelt’s tone was full of nostalgia.

“This was my most famous specialty cocktail at the White House. During World War II, every weekend evening, I would host a ‘Martini Hour’ in the Oval Office and personally mix drinks for my guests.”

“I served this drink to both Churchill and Stalin.”

The bartender pushed a conical glass in front of Leo.

A murky, pale amber liquid sloshed in the glass.

Leo picked up the glass and took a small sip.

The taste was incredibly bizarre.

The spiciness of the gin, the cloying sweetness of the vermouth, and the heavy body of the dark rum crashed against each other in his mouth.

The saltiness of the olive only intensified the jarring sensation.

A burning sensation ran down his throat.

He fought the urge to spit it out and forced himself to swallow.

‘It’s awful,’ Leo commented internally.

“Of course it’s awful,” Roosevelt said, unbothered. “I myself know the stuff is terrible.”

“Churchill took one sip, and his face turned red. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he poured the rest of his glass into a nearby flowerpot. He thought I didn’t see him, but in fact, the plant was dead by the next day.”

“Stalin drank it at the Tehran Conference and swallowed it without a change in expression. He said it was ‘acceptable,’ then immediately turned to a waiter and asked for a large glass of vodka to rinse his mouth out.”

Leo took another sip. He was starting to get used to the terrible taste.

‘If it’s so awful, why did you serve it to them?’

Roosevelt’s voice grew deep.

“Because it was an obedience test.”

“I was the President of the United States of America. I controlled the largest war machine in the world. The British needed my destroyers; the Soviets needed my trucks and canned food.”

“I would serve a glass of incredibly foul-tasting poison to the most powerful men in the world, and they had to drink it with a smile and praise my taste.”

“I forced them to accept my rules, to accept the inferior product I created. By swallowing that drink, they were also swallowing their defiance toward me. This established our absolute dominance among the Allied powers. That is political subjugation.”

Leo looked at the liquid in his glass. He completely understood the logic.

The nuclear power plant project he was putting before the Progressives was, in essence, its own terribly-made specialty Martini.

Environmentalists loathed nuclear energy; they thought the stuff was toxic.

And Leo was going to force them to drink it.

They would have to swallow the risk of nuclear waste in exchange for the political gain of workers’ jobs.