Bill tossed his eggs at the waiter. Well, if he were being honest, it was his eggs, half a slice of bacon and the plate on which it previously rested.

"Do you really expect me to eat that crap!" Bill shouted. "Are you trying to give me high blood pressure?"

The waiter bowed to Bill, his hands shaking at his sides. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, yolk dripping down his chin.

"Not yet, you're not," Bill said. He smiled, wondering what the best punishment for the boy might be. "Go lick salt for five minutes," he said finally.

"Thank you, Mr. Ingram," the boy said, running off to do what he was told.

Bill stood up and tossed his napkin on the table before leaving the restaurant. That was one of the perks of being a walking vaccine; you could do what you wanted, how you wanted, and people thanked you for it.

His two bodyguards trailed him, more for fashion than necessity. No one was stupid enough to harm Bill. Before the spread of the Obama Syndrome (technically the Otis Bannon Autoimmune Maladjustment Syndrome), he was just a guy whose tech support job had been outsourced to India. Now he was the mayor of New Ingram, a town he'd carved out of the carcass of the nation's capital.

And the people didn't like it...tough. That was what was wrong with the country. Too many people wanted things handed to them. Just like the president who'd gotten them into this mess. If he hadn't run the country into disaster and de-funded the CDC, they wouldn't have been in this mess. The plus side was, well, it had weeded out a lot of the liberals with weak constitutions.

Being the real American he was however, Bill's blood held a rare antibody that made him immune and could cure others. And as much as the egghead pharmaceutical companies had tried to replicate it on a large scale, they couldn't. The government couldn't force the cure from him, something having to do with stress or some other sciencey crap that tried to explain what it couldn't. God himself had given Bill the cure because he was righteous, and others only got the cure when he damn well pleased.

So, he'd become untouchable.

Bill walked down the street, ignoring the dead or dying near his feet. Large sections of their skin had gone gray and hard, leaving them moaning on the sidewalks. He could have had them removed, but the reminder of what could happen at any moment kept most people in line. Besides, watching the crows poke at the snowflakes was better than Duck Dynasty reruns.

Besides, they were mostly brown people. Who cared?

Bill had a meeting with Don Wilson, one of those science guys that wanted to take his gift. Don used to be the head of Wilson's Pharmaceuticals, one of the most powerful multinational corporations in the world. Now, if Bill walked into his office and peed on his rug, he could make the man lick it up with a simple nod.

"You killed my-."

Bill rolled his eyes. He got three or four of these a week. Some person would threaten him, give him some sob story and get torn apart by the mob. It was scary the first couple dozen times, but now, it was just annoying. He doubted the boy had bullets in the gun as rare as those things had become.

"You promised my mom," the boy said. "But then you didn't follow through."

"And now she's dead," Bill finished. Same crap, different day. "Don't blame me, blame your mom for...?" Bill scratched his head. He'd used a lot of people when he was bored; moms at first, then dads and now both. He had no idea what this kid's mom did or didn't do, but apparently it wasn't good enough.

"I should kill you right now!" The boy shouted.

"But you won't," Bill said, taking a step forward. "Because one day you'll need me." He took another step closer. "And if you actually shoot me, these people would rip you apart in minutes."

The boy's hand shook, then he lowered the gun, staring at the ground.

Bill walked up to the boy and punched him in the face as hard as he could. The kid dropped to the ground, holding his jaw.

"Didn't your mom teach you any manners?" Bill said. "What do you say?"

"Thank you, Mr. Ingram," the boy said, spitting a glob of blood to the ground.

He walked around the kid and adjusted the collar of his American flag jacket as a mob of people descended on the kid.

He took his time strolling down the street, ignoring the kid's screams. His meeting with Don was in five minutes, so he wanted to be there in ten, just to remind the man who was really in control.

------

"My workers say that we're days away," Don Wilson said. He sat behind his Cherrywood desk, recently polished. He wore a black suit with a red tie, things you wore when you thought you were better than the working-class people like Bill. It was a relic of the old world, a place that wasn't coming back.

Bill glared at his throbbing hand. He should have gotten that kid's name and put him on the no-cure list. Even though he was sure the mob had done his work for him.

"Are you listening, Bill?" Don asked. He pinched a small space between his fingers. "We're this close! Then you and I will be rich, my friend."

Always money with these people. That was the one thing Don was good for, at least.

"You said the same thing last month. And the month before that. What you really mean is that you're," he held his hands wide, "that close from getting rid of me."

Don stood and buttoned his suit jacket, walking next to Bill. "We need another blood sample."

"You'll get it when I'm ready," Bill said.

Don dug his fingernails into his fists, then nodded as if it were his plan all along. That pissed Bill off.

Bill stood from his chair. "I'm the vaccine! You're a walking checkbook that's easily replaced! Don't forget that."

He turned around and left, wishing he'd had more water. This guy deserved a moist rug.

-----

Bill's stomach rumbled as he left Don's office building. That crappy cook had cut his breakfast short and Bill had neglected to go elsewhere. Maybe he should get an early lunch at that nearby diner...

"Hey Mr. Ingram!" a girl's voice shouted.

A little blond girl stormed at him, blue eyes filled with purpose. This was going to be one of those days, it seemed.

"Sweetheart, I don't have time for this," Bill said. "It's your mom's own fault."

She frowned.

"Dad's?"

She blinked. "Mr. Ingram, I think you should know, there's a new man in town. Claiming he's got a vaccine for the Obama Syndrome. Says it's from New York."

Freaking New Yorkers, thinking they're the center of everything. Bill hadn't left the New Ingram in years, but he was pretty sure there wasn't a New York anymore. However, another person claiming they had a cure was bad for business.

Every so often, someone did it, squeezing every dime they could from the suckers beneath Bill's gaze. People would flock to the witch doctor, scores would feel slightly better, right before a horrible death. There were all sorts of underground doctors, praying for the end of his reign.

While he didn't care about these nobodies dying, he did care about these clowns believing in something other than him. And heaven forbid if someone did find a cure before Don Wilson. Then these clowns might take actual shots at him.

He kneeled to the girl's level, his knees creaking as he settled to a comfortable position. "Do you know where I can find New York?"

She smiled. "Can you help my mom? She's got Obama."

Bill snickered. "You don't believe New York has the goods, do you?"

She shook her head. "He wouldn't be the first to make that claim. I thought maybe you'd be happy to get an imposter off the streets."

He rubbed her head. "Okay. Take me to him and I'll help her."

Bill was going to help her mom, alright. The girl just seemed so honest and sweet, and there wasn't enough of that around. And if Bill took a few extra liberties with her mom in exchange, well that was his due.

The girl led him three blocks down, ducking into the subway system. They still ran, the common people still working like suckers. Any day they could get Obama, fall over into a corner and suffer for the next four to six weeks, their families disowning them, but they still worked, like nothing in the world had changed.

"He rides the blue line circuit," the girl said. "He'll be wearing a Giants jersey and cargo shorts."

Bill nodded to one of his bodyguards. "Take the girl home and have her mom and dad wait for me at the clinic."

The giant nodded and led the girl away by the hand, leaving Bill and the other to track down the culprit. Most people stayed out of their way, but one jerk bumped into Bill and jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.

Bill shoved him down. "Watch where you're going!"

His eyes widened. "Mr. Ingram! I'm so sorry!"

"Thank your stars I'm busy," Bill said. He hated the subway, it was always too warm and stuffy, causing him to sweat like a pig, but he wanted to find this New York and settle his mind. He fanned himself, it was already starting to get to him.

-----

Bill had every intention of giving it five minutes and going to vaccinate that little girl's mom and dad, but New York showed up like she said he would.

"I got that Pence," New York shouted from the other end of the train car. "Guaranteed to make you forget all your Obama troubles."

Bill nodded to his bodyguard to grab New York. He had a few questions to ask this man. As soon as he caught his breath.

Bill jerked to his right as the subway car stopped. People got off, others got on, but gave Bill his space as was his due. He tried to stretch, his muscles cramped.

His bodyguard returned with New York, the man shaking under his gaze.

"You're the one claiming to have a cure for Obama?" Bill said.

The man straightened up and smiled. "Yeah, this stuff here will get that Obama right out of you. Two pills, once a day for two weeks."

Bill narrowed his guys. "You moron, do you know who you're talking to?"

He shrugged. "Some rich guy?"

"No, snowflake, I'm Bill Ingram, the vaccine here in New Ingram." He sat down, his breath coming harder. "I don't..." He waived at his bodyguard. "Just hit him."

The bodyguard punched New York in the stomach, spilling the man's pills all over the train's floor.

Bill wiped his brow.

"Wait, wait!" New York said, holding his bag forward. "Look, just take it all. It's crap, anyway, you're right."

Bill leaned back in his chair, his breathing improving. Nothing like putting people in their proper place to take the edge off.

The train stopped, the entire car emptying out, his bodyguard dragging New York off to be punished. He started call him back, but that would be too much energy. No matter. One more name added to the no cure list.

"Hey, Mr. Ingram!"

Bill glanced up. Another guy with a gun. Two in a day was a record. "Who in your family has it?" He asked.

The man narrowed his eyes. "You don't even remember me, do you?"

Bill shrugged. "Was it a girlfriend?" He asked. "Listen, kid, we both know you're not going to pull that trigger."

The guy struck him with the gun, a searing pain shooting across his face.

Bill grabbed his chin. "You son of-."

The next blow knocked him out of his seat. He curled up as the man's boots struck his sternum over and over again.

"Too much salt on your eggs!" The man shouted. "Here's some more!"

Bill screamed as grainy powder dug into the wounds on his face and eyes. "Please, no more," Bill begged. "I'm sorry!"

"Oh, you're not sorry, yet. But by the end of the night, you'll wish you could get Obama. Just so it would all be over."

Bill curled up and forced his eyes shut, whimpering under his breath. The assault had stopped, but he couldn't be sure for how long.

"Whatever you want," Bill said. "I'll be a better person, I swear."

The loud thump shocked his eyes open.

The man who'd assaulted him, clutched his right hand in his left, his eyes wide. And the gun he'd beat Bill with lay just in front of him, accompanied by grayed index finger.

Bill lunged for it, pointing it upwards and uttering two words he'd never thought he'd say in this lifetime.

"Thanks, Obama."

Then he pulled the trigger.